I turn. She hasn’t moved, still facing the other way. Daughter cradled in her arms.
“Make it matter.”
I nod, unseen, at her back.
Head for the temple doors.
LXXVII
I PRESS PAINFULLY THROUGH FIRE AND RUBBLE ANDscreams against a flow of bloodied, glassy-eyed Octavii so terrified that they barely even notice my growling alupi as we pass. Another explosion to my left causes me to shield my face as it shatters the warehouse there, massive stone chunks of façade landing dangerously close to Diago and me. More Will shells. Imbued, hollowed-out stone containers filled with an explosive mixture developed a hundred years ago by the Sytrecian University. Simply transported through the air by Will as far as desired, and then dropped. The smashing of the container releases the Will back to the imbuer, and the explosion kills anyone nearby.
A weapon not used in open conflict, to the best of my knowledge, since Birthright was established fifty years ago. They are brutal and indiscriminate and effective.
Especially for an enemy who is trying to draw attention.
The way ahead provides a clear view down to the burning harbour. The dark shadows of noiseless ships stream through the darkness, smaller silhouettes leaping off their decks and sprinting up wharves. Hundreds of them. Many will be Septimii, surely; I doubt Redivius will have committed too many Sextii to his distraction.
Still. The fighting in the streets is about to get bloody. A fifth of Laurentius’s legion has been secreted not far from the docks; the plan is to allow the initial response to appear feeble, ensure that Redivius believes his attack to be a surprise and that we will be rushing reinforcements here. And then—as his diversionary forces push farther in—to surround and crush them.
A plan which, it seems, also included not warning the men and women working through the late hours, loading and unloading goods in the harbour. I see a man walk past with an absent stare. Calm, almost distracted. His arm ends in a bleeding, blistered stump.
I don’t stop. There’s nothing I can do for him, for any of them. I check my sense of the armband I imbued for Baine and angle down a nearby alley, flinching again at another scream of torn masonry behind me. Eidhin is farther to the east. The edge of the assault, I think.
I hear the roars of attackers and the cries of those they cut down, but I slink along back ways, keeping to the shadows; Diago being here will help, but if I come up against a group of Sextii—or honestly, in my current condition, even just a couple—then I will be in trouble.
I push more Will into my legs. My fury has hardened into something colder now but I still use it, more than anything else, to embrace their aching discomfort. I’m getting better at adjusting the scaffolding that allows me to walk, more agile and moving with less thought. Kadmos’s tea continues to do its work and should until past dawn, numbing the grinding, digging pain of edged metal and broken bone.
The next half hour passes in a blur. Walking, jogging, hiding, fighting. The air buzzing with near-invisible projectiles imbued with Will, my only advantage that if I concentrate fiercely, I can sense them as tiny pulses in my head before they get too close.
At one point I see Octavii fleeing a half dozen Sextii and force myself to do nothing, watching from the shadows as they are cut down. Heart pounding. Drenched in sweat that feels icy against the night air. Silently watching the slaughter, and cursing myself for cowardice, and waiting until Redivius’s legionnaires have moved on before doing so myself.
Twice, I am forced to fight. Once to take down a single crazed Sextus who seems to have run far ahead of his comrades. Bloodlust lights his eyes, a fierce grin on his face as he chases terrified Octavii past the darkened alley where I hide. I almost let him go too, but can’t. My armour disintegrates into a cloud of spinning metal blades that I send at his back. His dying screams haunt me as I stumble on, ignoring the grateful shouts of the men and women I leave in my wake.
The second time, it is a dozen Septimii who sprint around a corner before I can conceal myself. They see me alone but approach smartly, cautiously, so that when my blades arrow toward them they are able to mostly absorb the attack, the triangles embedding in the wood of their shield wall.
It’s a good tactic; usually stone chips upon impact and the imbuing is lost. It’s especially true for Praetorians’ razors.
Unfortunately for them, metal has no such issues.
The Septimii realise they’re outmatched too late, their fear only exacerbated as Diago crashes into their line, snarling and knocking two of them over from the sheer force of his attack. One man’s throat is ripped clean out and as another goes to thrust his blade into my alupi’s side, I take him in the neck witha spinning shard. The remaining Septimii break, retreating. Diago kills another. I finish the rest.
It’s over in less than a minute. No time to consider. Bodies strewn. Blood coats the triangles as I bring them back to my chest. Bile in my stomach, but it was them or me.
I end the groans of the last surviving man, and press on.
I SEE SEVERAL MORE SKIRMISHES OVER THE NEXT FIFteen minutes. Sharp, visceral sketches of violence and panic and desperation painted a fiery red, each one a vital delay in getting to my friend as I’m forced to skirt them. The horror of what I’m seeing, the ache of my legs, the agony of what happened to Aequa only a few hours ago—it all recedes into a dull, thumping constant, an oddly detached concern when compared to the need to stay alive and find Eidhin.
Some distant part of me recognises that the toll of it all will be heavy, when I am finally forced to confront it. But right now I keep forcing it back, and focus on the beacon of Will in my mind that draws closer, and closer, until finally it is only one street over.
Quieter, here. Fewer Octavii working, less resistance. Whether through design or fortune, Eidhin has chosen well.
I hug the shadows as voices drift to me. Low and urgent. I peer around a corner to see a half dozen men swiftly walking up the street.
My friend is with them. Marching grimly, black eyes scanning the surrounding buildings for any sign of danger.
I focus on the imbuing of his armband, and tug it toward me. He makes no outward sign of there being anything wrong, but after a few seconds he signals to the man next to him. “We should check these buildings are clear.”
“We need to hurry,” argues another immediately.
