I run onto the south dock. Four trollis already man the others’ ropes. I hurry to the chest and find the smallest harness, stepping into it and clipping it in place with practiced ease. Azmar is at the closet, pulling out belts and sheaths and knives. The ground shakes again. He hands one belt to me, then takes the liberty of securing another over my shoulder. I grab a rope, and he takes the other end.
“I’ll spot you.” He ties his end around his waist and looks at me directly. “Be careful.”
He doubts me. I can read it in his face, his posture. But he’s giving me a chance. It’s all I could possibly ask of him.
With my rope secure, I step off the dock onto the footholds. I grip the handholds tightly with my clammy hands and climb. The bruises on my legs and back fire in protest, but the higher I climb, the more numb they become. The four other monster slayers’ ropes lead upward, following a wet trail. Slime?
I reach for a higher handhold and grasp it, but as I pull myself up, I scrape my bruised hip. A startled cry escapes me. Gritting my teeth, I push strength into my limbs, imagining my arms are as thick as Azmar’s. Imagining I’m safe in a lift. Reminding myself that if I fall, he’ll hold the rope. Azmar will not drop me.
The city shakes in regular bursts under my hands, forcing me to hold steady and press my body into the outer wall. The monster runs. A strange sound, like a mix between a crow and a cat, tears through the air. The slime gets thicker. The ropes of my colleagues shift.
I groan through my teeth as I pull myself up a steep part of the wall, trying to keep my weight on the footholds. My head raises just high enough above the next lip that I can see the monster in its entirety. It’s enormous, at least fifty feet long. Its skin is black and porous, its limbs thick and ending in reptilian feet with massive claws. Its eyes are so dark I can barely tell them from its black skin, its head the shape of a spade. A sharp beak glistens around its mouth. I recognize it from my studies: lecker.
I spot Unach. The city slopes in such a way that she only needs one handhold, and she’s looped her rope through it so she has better mobility. She’s immediately below the monster’s shoulder and slashes at it with her great curved sword. Every time the beast dances away, the city shakes. I readjust my hold, fear making my hands even slicker. Troff sidesteps near the monster’s tail and slashes it with his own blade, spilling black blood. The other two shuffle on the other side.
I grip the lip of the city and haul myself up, hissing against my bruises and the sweat dripping into my eyes. A gust of hot wind rips past me, as though trying to peel me from the city. I grip tighter and pray to the stars to hold me there.
When I look up again, I see what the others do not: a second monster, dark and sleek like the first, coming up the canyon wall, slow and silent. If the monster can jump, it will be on them in seconds.
Fear bursts from my heart and powers my arms. I haul myself onto the lip and press myself to the city wall. I’m able to stand here, but one good shake, one strong gust, and I’ll topple over. I wedge my foot into a crevice where the walls connect and grab a handhold over my head.
The second monster leaps.
I push everything I have at it. Every goose bump, every shudder, every clatter of teeth. My hurt, my pain, the terror that both fuels and stiffens me. Every memory of fear I can muster, and I have many.
I lock my gaze on the beast and terrify it, and in the process my knees buckle and my vision darkens. My body heaves with the fright, but I squeeze the handhold until the skin over my knuckles splits. I know fear. Unadulterated fear, without a wielder, cannot hurt me.
Here, I am the wielder. I am the weapon.
The monster screeches, alerting the slayers, if not the entire city, to its presence. It wrenches in midair and lands on its side atop the city, then rolls down toward me.
Shrieking, I duck low, wedging my toes into the crevice. The monster’s body bounces, jarring the wall, and flies over my head into the canyon below. The first monster screeches and scurries in the same direction, blood dribbling from its neck. Unach must have gotten in a blow when its companion distracted it.
All of Cagmar quakes as the creature pads down its side, leaps to a cliff wall, and flees into the shadows.
My bones quiver. My blood feels thick as honey, but I have enough wits about me to reach into the belt around my hips and yank out a sling before the slayers’ attention shifts from the monsters to me. Carefully, knees weak, I stand, still gripping that single handhold. I meet Unach’s startled gaze and hold up the sling.
“Lucky sh-shot,” I stutter. My heart thumps so swiftly I can’t tell one beat from the next. But it will subside. Fear always does.
I drop down, sitting on the lip of the city, giving my spent body a moment of reprieve. But in truth, I want to make myself less visible.
I don’t want to see the stinging suspicion etching lines in Unach’s face.
Chapter 8
Unach is unharmed. She was born a Montra, but she deserves every bit of the title.
It’s late. Very late. The sun sets before I finish climbing down to the dock. I sit there for a long time, cold and weary. Unach and the others say nothing, only pull off their harnesses and set about their normal tasks, as though we’d just had a regular evening of scouting.
Azmar looks more curious than suspicious as he listens to the story of what happened, regarding me nearly the entire time.
Unach glances my way. “Did it with a sling. Never seen her use one before.”
I manage to shrug. “Haven’t had a reason to.”
Azmar offers to carry me home, but my body still buzzes with uncomfortable energy, so I walk.
When we reach it, Unach controls the lift and deliberately passes my floor. A silent invitation—or, more likely, a demand.
She lights the fire in her apartment and starts boiling water for that spicy drink she and Azmar like. I settle on the floor near the flames to warm myself. That, and I don’t want to get too comfortable with their few pieces of furniture. I’m earning my place, yes, but I do not yet feel I have won it. I settle on the floor by the fire, relaxing as the heat soothes away the near-constant gooseflesh that Cagmar’s chill breathes onto my skin. Azmar flops down on an overlarge pillow across the room, laying his head back and rubbing his eyes. Unach slips into the kitchen, returning with a single mug. Grabbing one of two wooden chairs, she drags it toward the corner where my pallet used to be and sets the mug on it.
To my dismay, she then pulls a sling and a hard bead of iron from her pocket, which she brings to me.
“Do it again.” It isn’t a request.
Keeping my face smooth, I play innocent. “Do what?”
Unach drops both sling and bead into my lap. “Hit the cup off the chair.”
Azmar lifts his head.
“I . . . I’ll break it,” I protest.
“I don’t care. I’ll glue it back together.” She grasps my upper arm and hauls me to my feet, then jerks her chin toward the opposite wall. “Let me see you hit it. It’s not far. Should be easy, right?”
My mouth dries. In truth, I’ve never used a sling in my life. I’m not sure I can get the iron bead close to its target, let alone hit it. And I’m certain Unach knows it.
“Lucky shot, Unach,” I press, tensing.