“The mine’s collapsing,” Samson said, panic spearing down his throat.
He called for his flames and heard in the music of their voices the intoxicating glow of the ore, slowly growing brighter. He could not pull them back now even if he tried.
They descended the tunnel and finally found the metal door of the barracks, the guards gone, their posts abandoned. More concerned about their own lives than the Sesharian ones that lay beyond this door.
“Open the door, Akino,” Samson said.
But as seconds slipped away and Akino cursed, floundering with his pod, Samson felt time tighten its noose around his neck. “Akino.”
“I can’t!” he said. “The Jantari have taken control of the system.”
Fists slammed against the door. Muffled shouts, pleas. Samson felt each snip the threads of his heart until he felt frayed, beaten.
“Akino,” he pleaded.
But the master of arms was shaking his head, his mouth pinched, eyes red.
Samson swore and tore out his urumi. He’d burn down the door if he had to. He swung the blades, but then pain, sharp and acute, splintered down his arm and he cried out, dropping his urumi. He stared at his hand. Tiny blood spots began to appear. It took him a moment to realize his nose was bleeding, and then, that the cold had returned, that insidious, cruel reminder of his own limitations. He tried to summon a flame, found he could not.
“General,” Akino said as the pounding increased.
“Help!” a voice keened behind the door. “Let us out!”
Suddenly, a squeal pierced the air, like metal grating against metal. They whirled around. Two metal gates, one at the entrance of the tunnel from where they entered, the other at the adjoining corridor, slowly began to slide out.
The Jantari were closing off the mines.
“Mother’s Gold,” Akino swore. He threw himself against the silver door with a roar. Again and again, each attempt as futile as the one before.
Samson could only stare, listening to Akino’s choked curses and the muffled cries beyond the door. He could not leave his people trapped. He could not let them die as caged animals. What kind of Prophet would that make him? But he knew, as deeply as he knew his own Agni, that he needed to leave. They had the ore. Their work was done.
The gates groaned. His victory slipping by, second by second.
Samson clenched his urumi, his knuckles turning white. Before he could stop himself, he stepped back. He pushed himself away from the silver door before Akino realized what he was doing. But his officer saw him.
“General,” he began. Samson could not meet his eyes.
Every step broke him. The glint of the silver door blinded him. But he could not stay. Freedom for Seshar did not lie within these tunnels; it lay above, in the luggers Chandi kept in wait.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice full of grief. “We have to go.”
Rocks tumbled from the ceiling. One as big as Samson’s head slammed between them and split apart.
“I’m not leaving,” Akino said.
“We must.”
“Look me in the eyes and say that.”
But Samson was already turning around, already striding toward the achingly slow door. Perhaps if it closed faster, it would save him the misery of hearing the biting accusation in Akino’s voice.
“Samson!”
As he stepped through, a pulse blazed by his head. Samson whirled around in surprise. Akino held the pulse gun, his arm trembling, tears dripping down his chin. Samson should have felt guilt then. He should have felt thick, bitter shame burning down his throat.
But when he finally met Akino’s eyes, he found only pity. He could see a sliver of Akino’s bloodied cheek, the terror on his face.
“I hope you live,” he said.
