The Garden of Stones

chapter TWENTY-SEVEN





“Ambition can make stones of us all. Heartless, with neither compassion nor mercy, we roll only in one direction.”—from the Maxims of the Poet Masters, 156th Year of the Awakened Empire


Day 325 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation


Corajidin looked on while Yashamin buried her head in paperwork. She was angry that he had decided to spend the night watching over Thufan and catching up on the myriad duties he had forgone in his illness rather than in her arms. Resigned to her husband’s attention being elsewhere, Yashamin had joined him on the couch and tersely discussed all that must be attended to.

Yashamin ignored Corajidin as he dressed. She kept her back to him, fingers stained with ink, as he enfolded her in his arms. Her ink brush continued to move across the page while she responded to the mountain of correspondence that arrived daily. He leaned down to smile into her hair. His lips lingered in a long kiss there, breathing in her scent. Even her perspiration smelled good.

He bade her a quiet farewell, though she maintained her disapproving silence as he left the room. He would make amends when he returned from the Rōmarq.

Belamandris waited for him in the courtyard, along with the twenty best warriors of the Anlūki. Belamandris was resplendent in his armor coat of ruby scales and cuirass of polished black kirion. Tragedy’s scabbard gleamed like lacquered blood. His Anlūki were little more than shades in their black-scaled hauberks and suede over-robes. They stood guard by a plain-looking carriage and two large covered wagons. The Spools on each of the contrivances spun slowly, the mother-of-pearl nimbus a flare in the gloom.

Wolfram lurched down the stairs, Brede in his wake. The old man looked his years. He leaned heavily on his staff, his knuckles white. The witch’s skin was sallow where it could be seen through the mat of hair that hung from his high brow or above his long beard and mustache. The calipers supporting his legs creaked more than usual, as if the rickety old witch was about to collapse at any time. Corajidin had demanded Wolfram do whatever he could to heal Thufan. It seemed the witch’s efforts to satisfy his demands had taken their toll.

“Thank you,” Corajidin whispered so the others would not hear.

“He lives.” Wolfram’s beautiful voice sounded brittle. “Though he’ll thank neither you nor me for the gift.”

“What did you—”

“Whatever was necessary,” Wolfram said flatly. Brede assisted her infirm master into one of the wagons, where they both sat, pale and drawn.

Corajidin cast a quick glance at the sky. It was still dark, though there was a smoldering glow on the eastern horizon. Many of the workers of Amnon would have risen from their beds, bakers, butchers, fishers, caravaneers, and drovers, ready to labor for another in a long line of days. Some would see the wagon and the carriages slowly ply the city streets, yet none would ever think the Asrahn-Elect would travel so plainly. Corajidin hoped to have returned to Amnon before any were the wiser.

“Will Mari be joining us?” Belamandris asked as he walked his father to the carriage. He opened the door and gestured for his father to climb aboard.

“Not for this.”

Belamandris gave the order for the troop to move out. The young warrior-poet swung into the carriage as he pulled the door closed behind him. It was a quiet ride through winding streets to the north of the city. They took the Kondyan Viaduct across the inlets to the skydock, with the looming shadows of the skyjammers in port. Corajidin saw the lamp-lit shape of a smaller wind-skiff, a crescent moon of polished wood and bright metal bobbing at the end of mooring lines in the stiffening breeze. A Spool rotated slowly halfway along the keel, flickering with gelid light. The Anlūki carried chests of various sizes under Brede’s watchful eye. One chest was larger than the rest, almost two meters in length and so broad it took six men to carry it.

Belamandris took the helm of the wind-skiff and ordered the lamps extinguished. With a deft hand he steered the vessel from the dock, then out across the Marble Sea. They flew, a shadow among the gulls and kestrels, over the choppy waters and far out of the way of fishing vessels and the merchant galleys that had docked overnight in deeper waters.

Dawn came as they soared across the sun-and-shadow quilt of the Rōmarq. In the distance the half-buried ruins were little more than a charcoal smudge, but within minutes stone towers stood out among the trees, circular windows like forlorn eyes in black stone faces. Small plumes of smoke drifted upward, to be snagged on the morning breeze. They flew over supply tents and makeshift barracks, coming to a small dock where a handful of skiffs and a privateer galley were moored amid tall weeds and water lilies. Rough wooden crates lined the stone finger of the pier, which was stained with mold and tide shadows. The sharp strikes of hammers, picks, and mattocks echoed below. Leaning over the bow, Corajidin inhaled the pungent scent of damp vegetation, wood smoke, rampant honeysuckle, and the musk of Fenling bodies. Belamandris guided the vessel to a courtyard near to where Ariskander and Daniush were held.

Corajidin paid careful attention as he and the others were escorted by Brede to where the rituals would take place. He felt overly sensitive to everything around him: the pressure of the damp air against his skin; the prickle of sweat on his scalp, a single drop trickling behind his right ear; the grainy residue of time that clung to slick black stone; the constant throb that pulsed through the soles of his feet. The air was redolent of cypress trees. Paspalum stalks nodded their seeded heads in the sultry breeze. At the edge of hearing was the distant toll-tick-grind of vast, unseen engines, which none of Kasraman’s people had ever been able to find. Those who had gone looking had not returned, as was the case in so many other areas of the city.

The group came to a wide circular plaza, surrounded by a round, columned building of reflective black stone. Corajidin’s breath caught in his throat as he looked at the tall columns, smeared with the debris of the ages yet almost whole for the millennia they had stood. Windows, some still with panes or jagged shards of orange, yellow, and red glass, stared down impassively, their threat vague yet present nonetheless.

In the center of the plaza, within a filigree-domed gazebo of green-tinted bronze, was a device made from wheels within wheels within wheels of tarnished black metal. A pitted amber orb slowly spun at its center. Corajidin would have had difficulty encircling the orb with his arms. The various wheels that surrounded it, fourteen in all, were marked with hard, angular glyphs and studded with smaller spheres of metal. Some of the small spheres also had wheels circling them, likewise dotted with one, two, or sometimes three other small orbs. Stars fell in the metal: white, blue, orange, red, and even black, a rain of radiant specks of dust.

“The Star Clock,” Wolfram said covetously. Brede likewise looked on the artifact with awe. “As far as we know, it’s the only one of its kind, made in the latter years of the Haiyt Empire of the Time Masters.”

“What does it do?” Corajidin was tempted to touch it, though a powerful sense of self-preservation stayed his hand. He was disturbed by the thought of the minds that could conceive such a device, let alone engineer it.

“If only we knew, my rahn,” Brede murmured. “The Rōm didn’t leave much by way of writings for us. When they disappeared, they took all they knew with them. We’ve pieced together what we know, but it isn’t much.”

Brede led them past hard-eyed guards, then into a chamber whose lofty ceiling vanished into what appeared to be dark, roiling murk above. It was the same place where Kasraman had studied and cataloged their treasures. Much of what had been found had already been crated and shipped, either to Corajidin’s palace in Erebesq or to the villa in Amnon. Kasraman himself would be en route to Erebesq even now aboard one of their few wind-ships, the dismantled Torque Spindle in his care.

Corajidin looked upward at the random swirl of lights that flared and faded in the deep clouds that obscured the ceiling. It was like watching colored lanterns in a swirl of silty water. Hundreds of slightly blurred gray-white columns stretched upward and away in neat rows.

In the center of the unnerving chamber were two oblong frames with thick straps crisscrossed within. Both frames and straps glinted with ribbons of silver-and-gold wire. Each frame had a manacle at each corner, to which Ariskander’s and Daniush’s wrists and ankles were bound.

Corajidin looked upon his prisoners. The two men were streaked with grime. Their naked skin was marked with the myriad raised bites of marsh insects, where it was not marred by welts, open sores, or long cuts left to fester in the damp heat. The captives reeked of sweat and their own filth.

Ariskander’s unconscious face was a mask of serenity, though his closed eyes were bruised. There were old wounds around the corners of his mouth. His lips were cracked, and his skin seemed stretched too tightly over his skull. Daniush, perhaps a third Ariskander’s age, also showed signs of abuse. His wrists and ankles were abraded almost raw from his attempts at escape. His battered face was ample demonstration of the rewards for such behavior. Daniush eyed the newcomers from between narrowed lids.

Brede directed the Anlūki where to set down their various burdens. A fat black-and-brown spider reared as the Anlūki carefully set the chests in place. One of the men danced back quickly. In Shrīan it always paid to be cautious given how much of the fauna was deadly. Brede cast a pale eye at the creature, then growled a single guttural word. The spider scuttled away speedily to lurk under the frayed edge of an ornate tapestry rug.

The sight of the rug gave Corajidin a sick feeling. The memory of the strange creature that dwelled in the carpet in Wolfram’s chambers came unbidden. What if, in trying to change his destiny, he had made its words come true? Perhaps if he adhered slavishly to what they promised, he would forfeit the opportunities he might have otherwise won in his ignorance?

From the corner of his eye he saw the spider crawl toward his boot. He raised his foot from the ground. The spider reared once more. Its fangs were impressive for something so small. It was a perfect killer, quiet, deadly, with neither conscience nor remorse. With deliberate malice Corajidin stamped on it.

Wolfram gestured to his apprentice, who opened the chests to remove a number of smaller boxes, which in turn were opened to reveal porcelain jars, glass bottles, gleaming needles, several small books, and the large, ornate box of colored woods that held the Angothic Spirit Casque. The largest of the chests had the side panels removed to show the obsidian-and-gold bulk of what Corajidin knew to be a Sepulchre Mirror.

“Did your newfound allies give this to you?” Corajidin asked.

Wolfram nodded. “They thought this a sign of their good faith and their support of your newfound friendship. For my part, it seemed an appropriate place to keep the last rahn of the Great House of Selassin. I thought you’d appreciate being able to hang his reflection upon your wall, where his soul will wait out eternity. After all he, with all Vashne’s memories, can’t be allowed his freedom.”

Corajidin did not respond, though he stared at the tall mirror with sick fascination. Its obdurate surface gleamed sullenly, refusing to show a reflection of any kind. Corajidin waved his hand before it, but the polished obsidian stole what it saw without giving back.

He wrenched his gaze away to see what Wolfram was doing. With some ceremony the witch rested his hands upon the box that contained the casque. He chanted in a fluid, compelling language Corajidin did not understand. The witch pressed with his fingers in several places, and the sides of the box fell away to reveal a baroque visored helmet made from amber, heavily decorated with ornate designs in blue-green witchfire and gold. A single diamond, almost two centimeters across, was set into the forehead. Corajidin was reminded eerily of the black mindstones given to Sēq Masters that they, too, affixed to their brows. Light clung to the Angothic Spirit Casque. It licked the dark-yellow amber. Caressed the blue-green and yellow of the precious metals. Yet the eye sockets and mouth remained dark, the diamond lusterless.

Brede took a syringe from a brass box and removed the stopper from a porcelain vial, measuring out a careful dose of cloudy fluid. With swift purpose, she jabbed the needle first into Daniush’s neck and then into that of his father. Returning the syringe to its box, Brede then wound a handle on each frame. Both frames clattered upright to leave the men hanging from their wrists.

It did not take long for the chemical to have effect. Daniush bucked in his restraints. A low moan escaped from between his clenched teeth as he thrashed in his bonds. Veins protruded from his neck and forehead as the skin of his face flushed. Much to Corajidin’s disappointment, Ariskander’s reaction was nowhere near as severe. The old rahn’s eyes snapped open. He clenched his jaws against the hiss of pain that trickled out of him. Muscles moved beneath his skin like twisted lengths of rope. After several minutes both men settled. Their eyes rolled with fear when they saw the Sepulchre Mirror. Ariskander swore when he saw the Angothic Spirit Casque, finally showing his fear, straining against the straps that held him until the abrasions on his wrists and ankles began to weep again.

Corajidin clasped his hands together as he moved forward. Already the pain had returned. The lesions on the backs of his hands had started to color. The new drug was already starting to wear off. His breath shortened in his chest in a combination of fear and excitement. He raised his hands to his mouth and chewed on one of his knuckles, eyes wide.

“It’s not too late, Coraji—”

Corajidin’s fist stopped Daniush’s words. Blood sprayed as the young man’s head snapped to the side. Corajidin looked down at his hand, where the skin around his knuckles had split. Daniush glared at Corajidin, then hawked and spat a glob of blood on Corajidin’s expensive doeskin boots.

“Your father would have ruined us, whelp.” Corajidin grabbed Daniush by the hair. “For centuries we have been governed by a parliament of fools, more intent on appeasing petty foreign governments than making their own people strong. It is too late for you. Perhaps not for the country.”

“You suppose yourself to be the leader of a new Shrīan?” Ariskander spat. “Vashne, myself, and others, we—”

“All you ever did was talk.”

“We all want Shrīan to be strong, Corajidin,” Ariskander snapped. “Don’t be so arrogant as to think you’re the only one who sees we need to change, or that your change is the only way. We accept that the Teshri in its current form has outlived its purpose. Yet you would walk us closer to a new Awakened Empire and damn the consequences. You’d flout the promise the Iron League made when the Shrīanese Federation was formed! They’ll attack us, and we’re not ready. There are other ways to greatness for our people!”

“How?” Corajidin snorted. “By opening our doors to other nations? By importing new ideas, new skills, younger…weaker blood? You would have us marry our Avānese daughters and sons to Humans, or the Seethe, or the mongrel people of Kaylish who have mated with who knows what to make them what they are?”

“There are almost no pure-blooded Avān left in the world, Corajidin. Most of those families who are dwell in Mediin. Most of us have Human blood running in our veins from somewhere or other. In your arrogance you forget we were made from Humans to begin with.”

“Mediin? So, perhaps we should all follow in the footsteps of Näsarat fe Malde-ran, eh? Let the Empress-in-Shadows, that heretic, be our moral compass and not only throw away our love for our Ancestors and descendants, but be selfish enough to deny the call of the Well of Souls and exist forever?”

“We need to change if we’re to survive as a people.”

Corajidin leaned forward and rested his hands on Ariskander’s shoulders. “I have allies, Ariskander. Ancient and powerful allies, who remember the greatest of days. Change is coming. You, however, will not live to see it.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Wolfram, put the damned casque on him.” Corajidin folded his arms. He looked down on Ariskander as the man thrashed in his bonds. Faced with the immediacy of his doom, Ariskander struggled until the restraints dug further into this skin. “You have had years to listen, yet you chose not to. Had you given up the secrets of Awakening, we would not be here now, you and I.”

Ariskander’s grin was fierce around his fear. “Even had I told you what you wanted to know, my life was forfeit. Even now, your Ancestors turn their backs on you because of what you’ve become. Though I die here, I relish the thought we’ll both be imprisoned by circumstances and isolated from our Ancestors…except unlike you, one day I may be freed.”

Corajidin took a few steps back, face flushed. He turned to Wolfram and snarled, “Do it!”

“One day you’ll be beholden for all you’ve done!” Ariskander yelled. “By the blood I shed here, I curse your soul to rot in the deepest shadows of the Drear, forever cast from your Ancestors’ sight! May all you know and love perish in shadow!”

Wolfram and Brede raised the Angothic Spirit Casque over Ariskander’s head. Brede fastened the straps around his chin. All the while Ariskander locked his wrathful gaze on Corajidin’s, to the point where the Erebus rahn was unable to look away. For several moments after the visor was snapped closed, after Ariskander’s face had vanished from sight, Corajidin felt the man’s eyes boring into him. Felt the weight of his last words, his bitter curse. In days past, the great rahns had called down terrible blood curses on their enemies. Did Ariskander have the power to make his come true?

“I want to kill him!” Corajidin raged. His voice was so high-pitched it almost cracked. Pain, so blissfully absent for too short a time, bloomed in his head. He felt weak at the knees as the powerful urge to retch came over him. “I want to be the one who steals his soul. Tell me how!”

“You’ve neither the skills nor the training, my rahn.”

Corajidin turned on the witch, fists clenched. He wanted to strike the crooked man down. To beat him senseless with his own twisted staff of splinters and rusted coffin nails.

“Spirit Casques are not to be trifled with by the uninitiated.”

“Ancestors damn you to perdition, witch!” He drew a trembling hand across his brow. Wolfram reached out to touch Corajidin’s forehead, but the rahn irritably slapped the witch’s hand away.

“I’m Human.” Wolfram drew himself up to his full height. “I don’t share your…colorful beliefs. Your fury aside, you can’t do this thing.”

“So you have said!” Corajidin felt Daniush’s eyes on his own. Blood still poured from the young rahn’s mouth. “The Sepulchre Mirror is for you, Daniush. Your line ends with you, boy. We will drain your soul from your body, and your death will make way for somebody with a broader view of the Avān’s place in the world.”

Wolfram had begun to croon words in his arcane language, while Brede chanted in counterpoint. The air cooled. Corajidin’s breath came in plumes from his mouth. His flesh prickled. His knees trembled. He felt like ice water trickled down his spine. Ariskander’s body became speckled with frost, tiny patches of white where the perspiration on his skin froze. The blood on Daniush’s chin solidified rather than scabbed.

The Angothic Spirit Casque tolled, a leaden sound. The diamond on its forehead glimmered, brightened, then shone like the sun against an amber sunrise. The visor turned liquid, flowed over, and settled in the shape of Ariskander’s screaming face. It became solid once more. Ariskander’s body spasmed in its shackles before he gave a final, strangled gasp, then was still.

“It’s done—” Wolfram’s sentence was disrupted by the sound of battle horns outside. The faint sounds of shouts, the squealing shriek of the Fenlings, and the deep roars of Tau-se split the air. The bell of metal was a discordant clamor. The Anlūki formed a cordon around Corajidin, weapons drawn.

“Hurry!” Corajidin yelled over the din. “Daniush. The Sepulchre Mirror!”

Daniush gave a ghastly laugh, all bloodied teeth and spittle, before Corajidin saw the man bite down hard. Daniush’s eyes widened in surprise or pain. More blood flowed from his mouth, a torrent from a fresh wound. The young Selassin rahn’s head rolled back as he let out a wet, gargling noise.

Wolfram lurched forward and pried open Daniush’s mouth. A torrent of blood flowed from between the man’s lips, carrying a lump of dark-red flesh. Wolfram swore as he thrust his fingers into the man’s mouth. He swore again as Daniush bit down on his hand. The witch gazed down at the young rahn, his expression caught between irritation and approval. He snapped an order at Brede to pack their belongings, then unbuckled the Spirit Casque from Ariskander’s head and handed it to his apprentice.

“The mirror?” she asked as she took her burden. She slipped the casque into a stiffened leather bag.

“Leave it!” Wolfram growled as he looked toward the doors. “I doubt we’ll have the time to complete the ritual before we’re overrun. The Sepulchre Mirror is much more complex to use. The boy is determined, if misguided. Biting through your own tongue is not a sure way to die. I’d imagine it was quite painful, though.”

Corajidin ground his teeth in frustration at losing his prize. Brede hurriedly packed everything else away. The ancient witch looked with regret at the mirror. Even Corajidin had to admit it was too unwieldy to take with them.

He drew his blade. Corajidin could not help the savagery that overtook him as he lifted the weapon high. Brought it down in a fast cut. And again. He wiped the blade before he sheathed it and reached down to take Ariskander’s and Daniush’s severed heads by the hair. Wolfram gave Corajidin a speculative look, yet made no comment.

They fled the chamber. As they exited they encountered a bloodied, dust-covered Belamandris and a handful of his Anlūki in the plaza of the Star Clock. Blood flowed from a cut on his son’s cheek, and a long-shafted arrow protruded from the folds of his over-robe. His sword and armor were bloodied.

“Father!” he said. He looked nervously at the Spirit Casque slung across the apprentice’s back. Corajidin saw his son suppress a shudder when he saw the grisly trophies in his father’s hand. “This place is compromised. I must escort you from here immediately.”

A cacophony of shouts, screams, and thunder rolled into the plaza. Corajidin could see figures in motion, arms swinging. Bodies ducked and wove. Light reflected from armor, from swords, from spears and shields. He shook his head. “We are not leaving until we can retrieve the remainder of the relics we have discovered.”

Belamandris looked over his shoulder at the melee, which drew closer with each moment. “We’ll be overrun. You’ll need content yourself with what you’ve taken from this place already.”

“Who has done this?”

“It’s Dragon-Eye!” one of Belamandris’s Anlūki said, voice rotten with fear. “He has an army of Tau-se with him—”

“Father,” Belamandris urged, “I can’t guarantee your safety here.”

Corajidin’s gaze fell to the pack with the Angothic Spirit Casque on Brede’s back. At least it had not all been in vain. He nodded to his son to lead the way.

The sounds of combat followed them through the maze of lanes and streets. Once, as they rounded a corner, the Anlūki to the fore were mowed down under a withering hail of Tau-se arrows. Belamandris leaped in front of his father. Tragedy was a humming blur in his hand as he cut down arrows in midflight, arrowheads ringing from the nearby walls and stones beneath their feet. Arrow shafts got snagged in his red over-robe, as well as his hauberk. They rattled like quills as he moved. Blood from a dozen or so wounds flowed over ruby scales or made wet red tracks down the furrows and ridges of muscle in his hands.

Tau-se bounded forward, towering bodies armored in blue and gold, manes bright with the metallic glitter of fortune coins. Their long-bladed spears and khopesh wreaked havoc among those who defended the ruins. Avān warriors trembled in the face of their deafening roars. What few Fenlings were present were cut down, their fallen bodies fought over by their cannibalistic brethren.

Brede sped forward. Her blade seemed to fly into her hand. She gestured once. Two of the Tau-se crumbled to their knees as blood erupted from their noses and mouths. She sprang, seemed to remain in the air for longer than was possible. As she landed her blade flickered like lightning. Blood geysered. Hands, feet, blade, and elbows dealt horrific damage when they struck. She shouted, and Tau-se were flung high into the air like stuffed toys. Everything she did killed. She became carnage incarnate.

Wolfram slammed the butt of his stave into the ground. Dark words poured from between his lips. Pieces of broken masonry, dust, and gravel rose into the air. He pointed his stave in the direction of the Tau-se and his apprentice. The debris quivered, then flew down the alleyway like bolts from a hundred crossbows. Brede dropped to one knee, an angry red corona burning around her. Though the debris did not touch Brede, it scourged any of the Tau-se who did not take cover.

Brede rejoined her fellows as they plunged through dark laneways, across sheltered courtyard gardens, to where the wind-skiff was moored. Arrows fell. Bolts from a storm-rifle ricocheted from the stone. One gouged Corajidin’s leg. He swore with pain as he limped forward. Corajidin looked back down the narrow lane they had traversed. Three of the Anlūki urged Wolfram’s ruined body to a greater speed, while Brede looked adoringly at her master.

They scrambled aboard. A rain of arrows fell. There came the sharp crack of impact, like hail on a metal roof, as more arrows and bolts struck the wind-skiff. The Anlūki stood about Corajidin to make a wall of their scarred shields.

Corajidin breathed a sigh of relief, breath stuttering from the pain in his leg. He extended his hands in an open gesture for Brede to hand him the casque, like a father who wanted to hold his child for the first time. Her expression was bland as she reached for the shoulder straps.

Just then, the wind-skiff careened sideways, as if slapped by a giant hand.

Eyes wide, Corajidin saw Indris leap, improbably high, over the rails. He swept two of the Anlūki aside with a gesture of his hand. The armored men slid across the deck, bodies twitching. Indris’s left eye burned with orange-and-yellow fire. Corajidin felt the heat of it even from the distance where he crouched.

Belamandris rose from the pilot’s chair, Tragedy rasping from its sheath. He stepped toward Indris.

“No!” Corajidin yelled at his son. He pointed at the pilot’s chair. “You need to fly us away from here!”

Swearing, Belamandris returned to his seat, hands and feet manipulating the array of levers and pedals. The wind-skiff began to turn about.

Brede surged forward, sword low in a vicious cut. Indris parried, blade snarling. Wolfram bared his teeth in feral glee, hands white-knuckled around his staff. With disbelieving eyes Corajidin watched as Indris’s blade changed. Both blade and hilt stretched within spiraling fractals of mother-of-pearl light. The weapon seemed to sing as it lengthened, its serpentine shape stretched into a pole arm more than two meters in length. Corajidin had read of such weapons used by the mightiest Sēq Knights of the Awakened Empire, but had thought them lost to history.

Wolfram and his apprentice attacked Indris. The Sēq sidestepped Wolfram, the heat from his eye causing the witch’s hair and robe to singe. He slammed the ancient witch against the rail. Wolfram grunted with the pain as the rail bit into the small of his back. Brede’s blade licked the air mere moments after Indris had passed by, the butt of his weapon slamming into the deck where her feet had been.

Serill shards buzzed through the air, taking some of the Anlūki in the eye or the throat. Corajidin swore at Indris’s Seethe comrade, balanced precariously on an outcropping of stone. Her hands moved rhythmically, the blue-tinted blades seeming to appear wherever her hands were at the time. At one point it seemed as if there were knives tumbling in the air about her. She would snatch one and hurl it with deadly accuracy. An elderly man in tasseled deerskins knelt at her side, his storm-rifle peppering the Anlūki with bolts.

Other Anlūki tried to interfere, without success. Indris moved between them so they could not strike at him without possibly harming their own. Brede had no such consideration. If an Anlūki got in her way, she cut the warrior down.

Wolfram steadied himself. Carnelian light spun like a tiny star in the cage of his fingers. The witch hurled it forward. Indris caught the ball of flame with his weapon, which pealed in protest. Sweat beaded the scholar’s brow as he flung the fireball into the prow of the ship, where it exploded, igniting the wood in a gush of red flame and black smoke. Soldiers scrambled from the blaze, clothes smoldering.

Teeth bared in a snarl, Wolfram leaped forward. Corajidin was surprised to see the old witch so quick in his calipers. He twirled his staff about him as expertly as any warrior Corajidin had ever seen. Brede joined the attack on Indris, her own blade a blur humming through the air. Nacreous light flickered from all three weapons as they struck and parried. Indris danced back and forth, used both haft and blade to keep his assailants at bay. Despite his skill, Indris was driven, step by step, toward the burning prow.

Indris spun, kicked Wolfram hard in the face. The witch teetered, then fell into the incendiary ruin of the prow, shrieking in pain. Brede snarled. Her blade cascaded with arcs of black lighting, which she flung at Indris with a flick of her wrists. The lightning enveloped Indris. Lifted him from the deck and hurled him overboard amid spiraled pillars of smoke from below. Brede went to the rail.

Corajidin yelled with joy. He dashed forward to relieve Brede of the Spirit Casque. There was nothing more he wanted than to hold it in his arms. He reached out to Brede, who turned to face him.

He felt the warm, wet spray and spatter across his face. A salty tang on his tongue. Brede’s expression went blank. A red hole marred her forehead.

She pitched overboard, the Spirit Casque still strapped to her back.