Percepliquis

CHAPTER 23

The booming thunder continued shaking the walls and the floors beneath their feet as the metalsmith hammered the last rivet into the helm. The old man’s face was etched with deep lines partially hidden behind a mass of gray bristles, a beard he had no time to shave away. “There you are, lad. As fine a helm as you’ll find. It will take care of you. Protect that noggin of yours right well. War is upon us, my boy, but don’t worry-that’s only thunder yer hearing.”

“It’s their thunder,” Renwick replied.

The metalsmith looked at him curiously for a moment; then Renwick saw fear cross the man’s face as he put the pieces together.

“Yer the boy, aren’t you? The one who warned us? The one who rode up ahead of the elven army. You’ve seen ’em, haven’t you?”

Renwick shook his head. “Not me, but yes, my friend did.”

“Did he tell you what the devils look like? Rumor has it anyone seeing an elf turns to stone.”

“No, but I wouldn’t turn an ear to their music.”

“You’re Breckton’s squire now, eh? Aide-de-camp to the marshal-at-arms?”

Renwick shrugged. “I don’t even know what an aide-de-camp is.”

The old smith chuckled, wiping the sweat from his face with a filthy cloth as overhead an especially loud roll of thunder boomed. Renwick felt it in his chest.

“An adjutant,” the smith told him. Renwick shrugged again. “You’re like his butler, messenger, and squire all rolled into one, except you’re more like an assistant than a servant, which means you’ll get some respect.”

“But what am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever he says, lad-whatever he says.”

Renwick placed the helm on his head. It fit snug around the forehead and the thick batten felt soft and cushioning. He banged his head with the heel of his fist. The helm absorbed the blow. He felt almost nothing.

“It’s good.”

“You’ll be all right. Now get back to Breckton. I have more work to do, as I suspect you do too.”

Outside, the streets were wet; warmer air had melted some of the snow. Icicles dripped, sounding like rain, as overhead the sky swirled and thunder crashed.

He jumped a large puddle but did not account for the added weight of the armor. He had never worn any before. It was only a breastplate and helm, but with the shield and sword added, it was enough to throw off his balance. He came up short and splashed in the middle, soaking his foot with ice-cold water. He felt foolish holding the shield as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. The other soldiers wore shields slung on their backs. He paused in the street, examining the straps and trying to determine how to do that, when a flash of lightning arced across the sky and he heard a terrible crack. People on the street ducked into doorways, their eyes skyward. This got him moving again and he jogged the rest of the way to Imperial Square.

Men filled the open area. Soldiers and knights sat on the dry sections of cobblestone or stood in puddles. He worked his way in, trying not to hit anyone with either his shield or his sword. Renwick felt conspicuous. Men with missing teeth and scarred faces glared at him as he picked his way through the crowd. He felt a heat building on his skin, his face flushing with embarrassment as he realized how ridiculous he must look. Renwick knew he did not belong there and so did they.

“Renwick! Over here, lad!” He heard a familiar voice and saw Sir Elgar waving from the center of the square. Never before had he been happy to see him.

“Make room!” Elgar bellowed, and kicked Sir Gilbert and Sir Murthas until they shifted over. Renwick quickly sat down, trying to become invisible.

“Here, lad.” Elgar took the shield from him. “Carry it like this.” He pulled his arm out roughly and slipped the long strap over his shoulder. “A lot easier that way.”

“Thanks,” he said, making sure his sword lay flat behind him and was not in anyone’s way. Suddenly he felt a jolt as Elgar struck him hard in the chest with his fist like a hammer. Renwick rocked back and looked up, stunned.

“Good armor!” The knight grinned at him and nodded.

A moment later Murthas drew his dagger and hit him hard with the pommel. The sound rang and again Renwick rocked back, shocked, but unharmed. “Excellent.”

“Stop!” Renwick shouted, looking at them fearfully.

The two laughed.

“Tradition, boy,” Elgar told him. “It is good luck to have new armor tested by friends before enemies. Just praise Novron we’re sitting down!”

“Aye!” Sir Gilbert said. “When I got my first helm, Sir Biffard rang it so hard I passed out, but I woke up in the care of Lady Bethany, so I can attest to the good luck of a sound beating on new armor!”

The knights all laughed again.

“Who is this pup?” the man seated across from Renwick asked. His blond hair came nearly to his shoulders, his blue eyes as bright as sapphires. He wore ornate armor inlaid with gold designs of ivy and roses. Over his shoulders he wore a purple velvet cape, held by a solid-gold broach.

“This is Renwick, Your Highness,” Murthas replied. “I don’t know if he has any other name. He was a page in the palace until recently. Now he is aide-de-camp to Sir Breckton.”

“Ah!” the man said. “The fearless rider!”

“Indeed, Your Highness-the same.”

“You’ve done a great service for us, Renwick. I shall be pleased to fight beside you.”

“Ah-thank you-ah-”

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” he chuckled, and the rest followed him.

“This is Prince Rudolf of Alburn, son of King Armand,” Murthas told him.

“Oh!” Renwick said. “I am honored, Your Highness.”

“And well you should be,” Murthas said. “There are precious few princes willing to fight beside their knights these days, much less sit with us before the battle.”

“Ha!” Rudolf laughed. “Don’t flatter me, Murthas. I’m here only to get away from the smothering chatter of women and children. There’s a stuffiness to the castle these days. She has them filling the corridors, packed like sausage. You can’t piss without a child or woman passing by. And they don’t appreciate fine liquor!”

The prince drew forth a crystal decanter of amber liquid, which he sloshed about merrily. He took the first swallow, smacked his lips loudly, then passed it to Sir Elgar on his right. “From the empress’s private stash,” the prince told them in an exaggerated whisper. “But I hear she doesn’t drink and I’m certain she will not begrudge her knights a bit of warmth on this day.”

Elgar took a mouthful and handed Renwick the bottle, which he held but did not drink from.

“Ha-ha!” Elgar said, looking at him. “The lad is afraid of getting drunk before his first fight! Drink up, lad, I guarantee that won’t be a problem. You could down two such bottles and the fire in your belly would burn up that liquor before it ever reached your head.”

Renwick tipped the bottle, swallowed, and felt the liquor burn its way down his throat.

“That-a-boy!” Elgar cheered. “We’ll make a man of you today, that’s for sure!”

He passed the bottle on to Murthas as overhead huge black clouds swirled and the sky grew dark until it appeared as if dusk had fallen at midday. What light remained cast an eerie green radiance. Lightning continued to flash and thunder cracked. Yet sitting shoulder to shoulder among the stable of men, smelling their sweat, listening to their carefree laughter and the sounds of their belches, curses, and dirty jokes, Renwick felt safe. The liquor warmed him, relaxed him. He placed his hand on the grip of his new sword and squeezed. He thought they could win this battle. He felt that they would win, and he would stand among the victors.

“Hide the bottle!” the prince shouted, and Sir Gilbert guiltily stowed it under his shield with a comical look on his face just as Sir Breckton arrived and walked into the center of the circle.

“So there you are!” he said, spotting Renwick. “Got your armor and sword, I see. Good.” He raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “Men! I have called you together here on behalf of the empress. Everyone take a knee!”

The soldiers made a loud shuffling of feet and swords. Renwick saw the small, slender figure of the empress Modina dressed all in white enter the mass of men like a flake of snow amidst a mound of mud and ash. She stepped up on a box placed at the center and looked around her, smiling. Several of the men bowed their heads, but Renwick could not; it was impossible to take his eyes off her. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld and he still felt the kiss she had left on his cheeks. Before that day, he had seen her only once, when she had addressed the city from the balcony. That day he had stood in awe like the rest, marveling at her-so impressive, so powerful. Now, like in the fourth-floor office, what he saw before him was a woman. The picture of innocence wrapped in a pristine white dress that hung from her as if she were bathed in light. Modina wore no coat or cloak. Her unbound hair, glimmering like gold, fell to her shoulders. She appeared so young, not much older than him, and yet in her eyes was the aging from years of pain and hard-won wisdom.

“The elves are coming,” she began, her voice soft and faint against the wind. “Reports tell of a host moving up the road from the south. No one has yet provided an accurate number or assessment of troops.” She looked to the sky and took a breath. “We are the last stronghold of mankind. You are the last army, the last warriors, the last defenders of our race. If they should take this city…” She hesitated and a few bowed heads looked up.

She looked back as if taking in each face.

“None of you know me,” she said, her voice changing, losing its formal tone. “Some have seen me on a balcony or in a corridor. Some have heard stories about me, of me being a goddess and the daughter of Novron-your savior. But you don’t know me.” She raised her arms out at her sides and slowly turned around. “I am Thrace Wood of Dahlgren Village, daughter of Theron and Addie. I was but a poor peasant from a family of farmers. My brother Thaddeus-Thad-was going to be a cooper until one night I left the door to my home open when I went to find my father. The light…” She hesitated and the pause gripped Renwick’s heart. “The light through the open door attracted an elven monster. It ripped my home apart and killed my family. It killed the boy I hoped that I might one day marry. It killed my best friends, their parents, even the livestock. Then it killed my father-the last reason I had to live. But it did not kill me. I survived. I did not want to. My family-my life-was gone.”

She looked out at them and he watched as her soft chin hardened as she gritted her teeth.

“But then I found a new family-a new life.” She held her hands out to them and tears glistened in her eyes even as her voice grew stronger, louder. “You are my family now, my fathers, my brothers, my sons, and I will never leave the door open again. I will not let the beast in. I will never let it win again! It has taken too much from me, from you, from all of us! It has destroyed Dunmore, Ghent, Melengar, Trent, and Alburn. Many of you have lost your homes, your land, your families and now it comes here, but it shall go no farther! Here we stop it! Here we fight! Here we face our enemy without running, without flinching, without bending. Here we stand our ground and here we kill it!”

The knights cheered; the soldiers rose to their feet and beat their swords on their shields.

“The enemy comes, Sir Breckton,” she shouted over the clamor. “Sound the alarm.”

Breckton waved a hand and men on the roofs of shops stood up and blared fanfares of long brass horns. The sound was repeated throughout the city as other horns echoed the call. Soon Renwick could hear the bells of the churches ringing. People in the streets quickly heeded the signal and headed for the shelters.

“To the walls, men!” Breckton ordered, and they all rose.

Lightning cracked again; this time Renwick saw the crooked finger of light strike the grain silo on Coswall Avenue. There were a flash and then flame as the roof exploded in fire.

“Everyone into the dungeon!” Amilia shouted, standing on top of the wagon in the center of the courtyard as, overhead, lightning flashed and tower roofs exploded.

Only minutes before, a strike had hit something not too far behind her in the city. She felt a strange tingle on her skin and her hair rose as if lifted by dozens of invisible fingers. There was the taste of metal in her mouth; then a blinding light was followed instantly by a deafening crack. Something exploded and nearly threw her from the cart. Shaking, like a bird on a rock in the middle of a surging river, she remained on the wagon, shouting to the throng of people exiting the castle. She pointed them toward the north tower and the entrance to the old dungeon. They all had the same expression, terror imprinted over bewilderment. Poor and rich, peasant and noble, they filed out pushing and crowding, heads tilted toward the sky, cringing with each flash, screaming with each boom of thunder.

“Inside the tower! Move to your left! Don’t push!” She swept her arms to the side in frustration, as if this would somehow move the crowd where she wanted them to go.

The attack came all too suddenly. They had expected horns. They had expected drums. They had expected to see an army coming up the road. They had expected plenty of time to move the population of the city underground-they had never expected this.

At least Amilia’s family was already in the dungeon. They had all been lingering in the courtyard, having just seen Modina off to her troop address, when the storm began and the alarm sounded. But now she worried about Modina and Breckton. The empress would be gone only a short time, she knew, but Breckton would be going to the fight. She ached the moment he had left her side, and she worried for his safety all the time. Even while they were together, even when he had stood before her father asking for her hand in marriage, there was a shadow, a fear. It hovered and spoke to her of dangers that awaited him-dangers she would not be allowed to share. Fate had a way of making men like him into heroes, and heroes did not die quietly in bed while holding their wife’s hand after a long and happy life.

Crack!

She cringed as a flash blinded her. The silver necklace-an engagement gift from Sir Breckton-buzzed around her throat like a living thing and then the roof of the south tower exploded. Chips of slate rained on the ward, the tower became a flaming torch. A sea of screams surrounded her as people scattered or fell to their knees, throwing hands over their heads and wailing at the sky. Amilia watched a young boy collapse under the push of the crowd. A woman, struck in the face with a slate shingle, fell in a burst of blood.

All around the city, lightning struck as if the gods themselves made war upon them. Smoke rose and flames terrified people who struggled to reach the safety of the shelters.

“Amilia! It’s no good!” Nimbus called to her as he forced his way with a pair of soldiers against the human current, pushing out of the tower toward her. “The dungeon is filled!”

“How can that be? Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, all those refugees, we didn’t account for them. The cells and corridors are packed solid. We have to send the rest back inside.”

“Oh dear Novron,” she said, and began waving her arms over her head. “Listen to me! Listen to me. Stop and listen. You need to go back inside!”

No one responded. Maybe they could not hear her, or maybe it did not matter as they continued to be swept forward by the current. Another loud boom of thunder sounded and the people pushed all that much harder. A thick forest of bodies pressed up against the tower and the stables. She could see women and old men being crushed against the stone.

“Stop! Stop! ” she cried, but the mob was deaf. Like a herd of mindless sheep, they pushed and shoved. A man tried to climb over the woman in front of him in an attempt to get past the mass of people. He was thrown down and did not come up again.

Bodies pressed against the sides of the cart and shook it. Amilia staggered and gripped the side in fear. A hand grabbed her wrist. “Help me!” an elderly woman with bloody scratch marks down the side of her face screamed at her.

A trumpet blared and a drum rolled. Amilia spun to look back at the courtyard’s gate. There she saw a white horse and on it was Modina in her equally white dress. She was a vision, riding straight and tall. Her hair and dress billowed behind her. Arms reached out of the swarm of bodies with fingers pointing and Amilia heard shouts of “The empress! The empress!”

“There is no more room in the dungeon,” Amilia shouted to her, and saw Modina nod calmly as she urged her mount forward, parting the crowd.

She raised a hand. “Those of you who can hear my voice, do not fear, do not despair,” she shouted. “Return quietly to the castle. Go to the great hall and await me there.”

Amilia watched in amazement at the magical effect her words had on the mob. She could feel a collective sigh, a relief pass across the courtyard. The tide changed and the herd reversed direction, moving back into the palace, moving slower, some pausing to help others.

“You should come inside too,” Modina told Amilia, and soldiers helped the empress dismount and Amilia climb down from the wagon.

“Breckton? Is he…”

“He’s doing his job,” she said, handing her reins over to a young boy. “And we need to do ours.”

“And what is our job?”

“Right now it is to get everyone inside and keep them as calm as possible. After that, we’ll see.”

“How do you do it?” Amilia slapped her sides in frustration. “How?”

“What?” Modina asked.

“How can you remain so calm, so unaffected, when the world is coming to an end?”

Modina smirked. “I’ve already seen the world end once. Nothing is ever as impressive the second time around.”

“Do you really think it is coming to an end?” Nimbus asked as the three of them moved-far too slowly for Amilia-toward the palace doors, where the last of the crowd disappeared.

“For us, perhaps,” Amilia replied. “And just look at that sky! Have you ever seen clouds swirl like that? If they can control the weather, call down lightning, and freeze rivers, how can we hope to survive?”

“We can always hope,” Nimbus told her. “I never give up hope, and I’ve seen that spark perform miracles.”

The lightning storm that ripped through the city stopped. Even the wind paused, as if holding its breath. Renwick stood on the battlement of the southern gate between Captain Everton and Sir Breckton at the center of a line of men with armor glinting in shafts of light that moved across the wall. They stood bravely with grim faces, holding shields and swords, waiting.

“Look at them, lad,” Sir Breckton told him, nodding down the length of the wall. “They are all here because of you. Every man on this wall is prepared because of your warning.” His hand came down on Renwick’s shoulder. “No matter what else you do today, remember that-remember you are already a hero who has given us a fighting chance.”

Renwick looked beyond the battlements to the hills and fields. In his left hand, he held on to a bit of wax he picked off a candle at breakfast, which at that moment felt like a month earlier. He played with it between his fingers, squeezing it, molding it. He could still taste the liquor on his tongue, still smell it, but the warmth was gone.

Outside the city the world was melting. The road was dark brown even though the hills remained white. In the stillness, he could hear the drizzle of water. Streaks of wetness teared down the face of the stone and soaked into the earth. Water streamed in the low places, gurgling in a friendly, playful manner. On the trees, buds grew large on the tips of branches. Spring was coming, warmer days, grass, flowers, rain. In another month or so, they would welcome the first caravans to visit the city bringing fresh faces and new stories. A few weeks after that, vendors would open their street stands in the squares and farmers would plow the fields. The smell of manure would blow in, pungent and earthy. Girls would cast aside their heavy cloaks and walk the streets once more in bright-colored dresses. People would speak of coming fairs, the new fashions, and the need for more workers to clear the remains of winter’s debris. Renwick found it strange that he had not realized until that moment just how much he loved spring.

He did not want to die that day, not while the promise of so much lay before him. He looked at the line of men again.

Are we all thinking the same thing?

He felt comfort in their numbers, a consolation in knowing he was not alone. If they failed, farmers would not plow their fields, girls would not sing in the streets, and there would be no more fairs. Spring might still come but only for the flowers and trees. Everything else, all that he loved, would be gone.

He thought of Elbright, Brand, Mince, and Kine back under the holly tree in the Hovel.

Do they wonder what happened to me? What will they do once Aquesta is gone? When I’m gone with it? Will they remember me?

Movement to the south broke his thoughts and Renwick looked out along the road. A column of riders approached slowly like a parade-no, a funeral procession. He spotted only glimpses of them through the shutter of dark trees and gray stones, blue and gold on white horses. Accompanying them was the sound of music.

“Wax your ears!” Breckton shouted.

The command relayed down the line and everyone, including Renwick, stuffed the soft substance in his ears. Breckton turned to him, nodded, and smiled, sharing their secret.

Renwick smiled back.

The troop of elves came into full view and fanned out in the field before the southern wall. Mince had been right about them. The elves were dazzling. Each rider wore a golden helm in the shape of a wolf’s head and carried a golden spear. The foremost riders bore streaming silver banners. They wore strange armor-shirts of leafed metal that looked light and flexible and greaves that seemed no more than soft satin, all of which shone brilliantly beneath a column of sunlight that followed them.

They sat on animals that Renwick called horses because he had no other word, but they were unlike any he had seen before. These noble creatures pranced rather than walked. They moved in unison with such grace as to mesmerize and bewitch. They wore bridles and caparisons of gold and silk that glistened as if made of water and ice. They formed up and waited with only their banners moving in the breeze and Renwick wondered if they made the wind for just that purpose.

Renwick counted a hundred, no more. A hundred in light armor could be defeated.

Perhaps they won all their other battles by putting their enemies to sleep.

Renwick’s heart leapt at the possibility, but as he watched, trying to look into their eyes, he saw more movement on the road. Another column was coming, foot soldiers with heavier banded mail, large curved shields as bright as mirrors, and long spears with strange hooked blades. Their helms were the faces of bears. These troops moved in perfect unison. Like a school of fish or a flock of birds, they banked and turned. Their movements were graceful beyond anything Renwick had ever seen of men. They formed up in rows, and once in position, not one shifted or so much as adjusted a helm or coughed. Three deep they stood in a line that ran the length of the wall, and still more came. These new troops, in light armor like the cavalry’s, wore bows with tips that swirled like the tendrils of ivy, and strings that glimmered blue when the sunlight touched them. Their helms were in the shape of hawks’ faces.

Still more issued into sight, and even with waxed ears, Renwick could feel the march of these new elements drum against his chest. Great beasts the likes of which he had never seen approached. Powerful animals twice the size of any bull or ox, with horns on their heads. They hauled great devices two and three stories tall, built of poles and levers of white, silver, and green. Ten such devices emerged from the brown bristle tops of barren trees to take position at the rear.

When the last troop was in place, there were at least two thousand elves waiting before the wall. Then more riders appeared. There were no more than twenty and yet to Renwick they were the most frightening yet. They rode black horses, wore no armor, and were dressed only in shimmering robes that appeared to change color. On their heads were masks of spiders. Behind them came twenty more riders. These wore chest plates of gold and long sweeping capes of rich purple. Their helms were the heads of lions.

As Renwick watched, those on the black horses raised their arms in unison and all made identical motions of a complicated pattern that seemed like a dance of arms and hands. He stood fascinated by the fluid gestures. The dance abruptly ended as the twenty clapped their hands, and even through the wax Renwick heard the boom.

The ground quaked, and a tremor shook the wall. He felt it sway and saw the men beside him stagger. Cracks formed, fissures opened, chips of stone splintered and fell. Beyond the wall, trees shook as if alive and the earth broke apart. Hills separated from each other, one rising, the other lowering. Great gulfs appeared, ravines forming, jagged cracks that sundered the land and raced at them.

Another jolt struck the wall. Renwick felt the stone snap, the shudder shooting up his legs, making his teeth click. More cracking, more tremors, and then, between the fourth and fifth towers, the curtain wall collapsed. Men screamed as they fell along with thousand-pound blocks of stone into a cloud of exploding dust. The tower to the left of the southern gate slipped its footing, wavered, and toppled, raining stone on a dozen men. The tremor, having passed through the wall, continued through the city like a wave. Buildings collapsed. Streets broke apart and trees fell. Imperial Square divided itself in two-the platform the empress had recently stood on was swallowed by a jagged crevasse. In the distance, the imperial cathedral’s tower cracked and fell.

The shaking of the earth stopped but the elves did not move. They did not advance.

“We need reinforcements on that shattered wall now!” Sir Breckton shouted down the line as he reached for his horn, his voice muffled, sounding like Renwick was hearing it underwater. “Wave the red flag!”

Renwick turned to see Captain Everton lying dead, crushed by a block of stone. He did not think. He took up the flag dropped on the stone and waved it above his head. Beside him, Breckton blew on his trumpet until another flag responded.

The mist of dust had only just begun to settle when Renwick heard a cry that no amount of wax could block out. The screech came from overhead and he felt a burst of air as a great shadow flashed across the ground. Looking up, he caught sight of a horror that seized him with fear. A great serpent beast with a long tail and leathery wings flew above him. Clearing the wall, the creature dove with claws that cleaved roofs and walls; then, like a barn swallow, the monster swooped upward, hovered for just a moment, and as Renwick watched, let loose a torrent of flame that bathed the homes and shops below. The creature was not alone. Renwick spotted others; dozens of winged serpents swept out of the swirling clouds and descended on the city. Like a swarm of bats, they swooped, banked, and dove, crushing, clawing, and burning. Within minutes, the whole city was ablaze.

Renwick felt tears on his cheeks. Smoke filled his nostrils, and even through the wax, he could hear the screams. Breckton’s hand grabbed him roughly and shoved him back hard. He cried out, but it was too late. Renwick lost his balance and fell off the battlement, plummeting and crashing through the thatch roof of the guardhouse stable. He hit the soft, manure-warmed ground on his back, and every bit of air was driven from him. He could not move or breathe. The wax was out of his ears and sounds flooded his head. The hammering of hooves and the cries of horses were the loudest. Farther away-screaming, snapping, splintering wood, cracking fire, and always the screeching shrieks from the flying beasts.

Renwick managed short shallow breaths as he worked to fill his lungs again. His arms and legs moved once more, and he rolled carefully to his side. It hurt. His head throbbed, his neck ached, and his back was sore. Just as he got to his knees, the stable’s roof was ripped away and three horses were stolen from their stalls. They were pulled into the air by two great talons.

He ran, his feet struggling to stay out ahead of him. Fire was everywhere. He was looking toward the gate, searching for Sir Breckton and his post, but everything was gone-the entire southern gate was missing. Only rubble and a shattered bit of slivered wood remained. Under the pile, he saw hands and feet.

The massive stone wall that had ringed the city was gone. Renwick stood on the street, looking out at the elven forces, feeling naked. Then the front row of hawk-helmed archers bent their bows and the sky darkened with a flight of arrows.

It felt like someone else controlled his body as his hands reached behind him and pulled his shield free of his shoulder. He slid one arm through the straps and raised it over his head. The sound was like hail as the arrows peppered the ground, glinting off the cobblestone around him and lodging in the wood of buildings. Three punched through his shield, safely caught, but one went through the back of his hand. He saw it before feeling the pain. Blood sprayed his face. He stared at the shaft protruding through his palm as if it were another person’s hand.

“You’re alive!” Sir Elgar shouted, his hulking frame casting a shadow over him. “That-a-boy! But get your ass up. This is no time to rest.”

“My hand!” Renwick screamed.

Sir Elgar looked under the shield and grinned. Without a word he snapped off the arrow’s point and pulled the shaft out. The pain made Renwick’s legs weak and his breath shudder. He fell to his knees.

“Up, boy!” Elgar shouted at him. “It’s only a scratch.”

As absurd as it seemed, Renwick nodded, knowing Elgar was right, and marveled at how little it hurt. Pushing off the ground with the edge of his shield, still ornamented with the four white-feathered shafts, he got to his feet.

Elgar’s own shield held two similar decorations. Another arrow was embedded in the knight’s shoulder and Renwick grimaced when he saw it.

“Ha-ha! A bee sting is all.” The knight laughed. His right cheek bled from a deep gash along the bone. “Murthas, Rudolf, Gilbert-all dead. The wall is gone. There’s nothing for it. It’s back to the palace for us. We have but one task remaining, one defense left to make.”

“Breckton?”

“Alive.”

“Where? I must go-”

“His orders are to defend the empress.” Elgar grinned and drew his blade. “Break that stick off me, will ya?”

Everyone in the great hall sat looking up, watching the progress of the crack that formed along the ceiling of the room. It started at the eastern side and rapidly traced a jagged path to the west. Bits of plaster fell, flakes and chips; then whole clumps dropped and people dove aside as the pieces shattered on the marble floor, scattering white chalk in all directions. The robin’s egg-blue sky was falling.

Modina ignored the ceiling. She moved slowly through the crowd, taking note of each person, each face, making eye contact and offering a reassuring smile. Mostly women and children were there. A few peasant families, like the Bothwicks, sat on the floor in small packed groups. They rocked and prayed, whispered and wept. All those who did not find room in the dungeon gathered around the great chamber, where only a few months earlier knights and ladies had dined on their Wintertide meals. Tables that had once served venison and duck for kings now provided protection from falling debris for cobblers, midwives, and charwomen. Even the man and his goat found a space under one of the oak tables. The castle guards, servants, and kitchen staff also came when the tremors began.

Knights and soldiers entered the hall torn and bloody, blackened from fire, telling tales of destruction and flight. Duke Leo of Rochelle was carried in on a stretcher by the viscount Albert Winslow and a man called Brice the Barker. They set him down before the duchess, who took her husband’s hand and kissed his bald forehead, saying, “You’ve had your fun, now stay with me. Do you hear me, old man? It’s not over. Not yet.”

Brice pushed through the crowd to his family, huddled near the statue of Novron, and joined them with tears filling his eyes. His wife looked up, searching the crowd. Her eyes met Modina’s but she was not who the woman looked for.

The Pickerings, Belinda, Lenare, and Denek, sat with Alenda and her maid Emily as well as Julian, the chamberlain of Melengar. Not far away, Cosmos DeLur and his father, Cornelius, sat against the east wall under the tapestry of ships returning from a voyage. The two fat men sprawled in their fine clothes and jeweled rings. A group of thin gangly men circled them, crouching like nervous dogs at the foot of their master’s feet during a thunderstorm.

Modina walked by a cluster of women in low-cut gowns. Their tears left dark trails through heavy makeup. One looked up with curious eyes and nudged another, who scowled and shook her head. It was not until Modina was several steps past the group that she recalled the faces of Clarisse and Maggie from Colnora’s Bawdy Bottom Brothel.

She returned to Allie and Mercy, who sat with Amilia, Nimbus, Ibis, Cora, Gerald, and Anna. They formed a ring within which the two girls sat. Mr. Rings was taking shelter on Mercy’s shoulder, while Red, the elkhound, sat beside Ibis, the big cook holding him close.

“Will they kill me too?” Allie asked.

“I don’t know,” Anna told her.

“I don’t want to be left,” the little girl said, burying her head in Anna’s lap. Sir Elgar and Renwick entered, both bleeding. Amilia spotted them and stood up, looking beyond them toward the door.

“Sir Breckton?” Amilia asked as they approached. “Is he…”

“Alive the last I saw him, milady,” Elgar replied. “The wall is gone, the line broken, Your Eminence,” he said to Modina. “A whirlwind ripped apart the flanking cavalry Breckton had hidden to the north. I watched it throw a two-ton stone around like a feather. Then the elves came. They moved like deer and struck like snakes, blades swinging faster than the eye could follow. The encounter lasted just minutes. They even killed the horses.

“Then the flying beasts came, and the arrows. Our troops are mostly dead. Those that live are scattered, wounded, blinded by smoke, and blocked by fire. The elves already have the city. They will be coming here next.”

Modina did not respond. She wanted to sit-to fall down-but she remained standing. She had to stand. Around her, everyone was watching, checking to see if she was still with them, still unafraid.

She was afraid.

Not for herself-not a thought of her own welfare crossed her mind. She could not recall the last time she worried for her own safety. She worried for them. The scene was all too familiar. She had been here before, with a family to protect and no means to do so. A weight in her chest made it difficult to breathe.

A loud boom thundered outside, followed by screams. Heads turned toward the windows in fear. Then, from across the room, near the glowing hearth, an elderly woman with gray hair and a torn dress began to sing. The song was soft-a lilting lullaby-and Modina recognized the tune immediately, although she had not heard it in many years. It was a common tune among the poor, a mother’s lament often sung to children. She remembered every word, and like the others in the hall, she found herself joining in as a hundred whispered voices offered up the prayer. In the dark, when night’s chill cuts Cold as death they climb the hill Breaking door and windowpane They come to burn, slash, and kill. Shadows pounding on the door They beat the drums of fear Place your faith in Maribor And loudly, so he hears. Waves they crash upon the bow Of withered ship at sea Wind and weather rip the sails There’s little hope for thee. Shadows pounding on the hull They beat the drums of fear Place your faith in Maribor And loudly, so he hears. Within darkling wood you walk So foolish after all Footsteps follow, catching up You run until you fall. Shadows pounding on the path They beat the drums of fear Place your faith in Maribor And loudly, so he hears. When man stood upon the brink Novron saved us all Sent by god above he was In answer to our call. Shadows pounding on the gate They beat the drums so near If your faith’s in Maribor He’s with you, never fear.

Another tremor shook the room. The marble floor snapped like a thin cracker splitting as one side rose sharply and the other fell. The room exploded with screams. The maid, Emily of Glouston, fell over the side of the forming chasm and was caught at the last moment by Lenare Pickering and Alenda Lanaklin, who each managed to grasp a wrist. Another shudder rocked the hall and all three slid toward the edge. Tad and Russell Bothwick lunged out, grabbing ankles and pulling back, hauling the ladies to higher ground.

“Hang on to each other, for Novron’s sake!” the Duchess of Rochelle shouted. Cold air was blowing. Modina could feel it against her cheek. A great fissure had ripped apart the windowed side of the hall. The wall wavered like a drunken man.

“Get away!” Modina ordered, motioning with her hands.

Bodies scurried as the partition collapsed amidst cries and screams cut horribly short. Stone and ceiling came down, exploding in bursts that cracked the floor. Modina staggered as she watched thirty people die, crushed to death.

Those nearby pulled the wounded from the debris. Modina saw a hand and moved forward, digging into the rubble, scraping at the stone, hurling rocks aside. She recognized him by his ink-stained fingers. She lifted the scribe’s limp head to her chest, wondering painfully why it was by his hand and not by his face she knew him. He was not breathing and blood dripped from his nose and eyes.

“Your Eminence.” Nimbus spoke to her.

“Modina?” Amilia called, her voice shaking.

Modina turned and saw everyone watching her, the room silent. Every face frightened, every pair of eyes pleading. She stood up slowly, as she might within a flock of birds. Panic was a moment away. She could hear the frantic breathing all around her, the cry of children, the tears of mothers, the hum of men who rocked back and forth.

She took a deep breath and wiped the scribe’s blood on her gown, leaving a streaked handprint. She faced the open air of the missing wall and walked the way Nimbus and Amilia had once taught her to, her head up and shoulders back. Modina waded through the room of stares, like a pond of murky water. Only the sight of her checked their fear. She was the last remaining pillar that held up the sky, the last hope in a place that hope no longer called home.

When she reached the courtyard, she stopped. Half the great hall was gone, but the courtyard was in ruins. The towers and front gate lay on the ground like so many scattered children’s blocks. The bake house and chapel collapsed along with one side of the granary-barley spilling across the dirt. Oddly, the woodpile near the kitchen was still stacked.

Without the outer wall enclosing the ward, she could see the city. Columns of fire rose from every quarter. Black smoke and ash billowed like ghosts across the rendered landscape. Men lay dead or dying. She could see bodies of soldiers, knights, merchants, and laborers lying in the streets. Missing buildings formed gaps across a vista she knew so well, old friends once framed by her window-gone. Others stood askew, tilted, missing pieces. In the dark air, familiar shapes flew, circling. She saw them turn, wheeling in arcs, banking like hawks, coming around toward her. A thunderous shriek screamed from above the courtyard and a great winged Gilarabrywn landed where once there had been a vegetable garden.

She looked behind her.

“Do you believe in me?” she asked simply. “Do you believe I can save you?”

Silence, but a few heads nodded, Amilia’s and Nimbus’s among them.

“I am the daughter of the last emperor,” she said with a loud clear voice. “I am the daughter of Novron, the Daughter of Maribor. I am Empress Modina Novronian! This is my city, my land, and you are my people. The elves will not have you!”

At the sound of her voice, the Gilarabrywn turned and focused on her.

Modina looked back at those in the great hall. Russell Bothwick had his arms around Lena and Tad, and Nimbus had his arms around Amilia, who looked back at her and began to cry.