Shipwright glances across at Shroudweaver. ‘Are you OK? Your hands are shaking.’
He tucks his hands into his robes. ‘It’s nothing.’
She frowns. ‘Were you always this bad a liar?’
‘It’s nothing I can’t handle.’
She shakes her head. ‘Still not convinced.’
The square rapidly fills with the body of Hesper’s army, Arissa at the head, still on that horse.
Shipwright eyes her. ‘She’s got style, I’ll give her that.’
Shroudweaver makes a noncommittal noise. ‘A stylish target.’
His head’s racing, trying to find a trace of the Empire’s army. Something keeps pinging his consciousness, like drops in a well, but the ripples and echoes are just too refracted for him to do anything about it.
And she’s right. He’s not well. Bindings held too long. The shake in his muscles threading his nerves. His ribs jittering with the run of small souls trying to find a way out. He clamps down, hard. It’s not the time for it.
Where the hell are they? Where is the Gem, if nothing else?
The marines continue to take up position, working their way slowly outwards, building by building. They don’t have the bodies to cover a city this size. It’ll slow them down. Perhaps that’s the plan. He laughs to himself. How would he know? This isn’t his world.
Shipwright’s hand on his shoulder makes him start. She smiles. ‘Sorry. Deep in thought?’
He nods. ‘If I don’t find them …’
She hunkers down next to him. ‘Do you always pile everything on yourself like this?’ She gestures. ‘There are hundreds of people out there. We’ll find them.’
‘None of them are me,’ he mutters.
She snorts. ‘Wow. That’s a nice ego.’
He smiles. ‘It’s not that, it’s just this magic, it’s … familiar.’
A thunderous noise interrupts him as the ground shakes. Brimlicker’s curse peels from above, loud and violent, followed by screams.
He rushes to the door in time to see the remains of the square melt and fall into a widening sinkhole. The men and women inside tumble one upon another, Arissa’s horse reeling back from the edge as the stones shudder into the ground.
A shimmer like a heatwave and the first thing he hears are the harsh harmonies hauling the earth down into the pit. Another stark singing woman, half-twin to the one on the field, but older, a flare of silver in her hair where age hasn’t brought it down to salt. And in front of her, suddenly, the ranks of the Empire, roaring down the spokes of the square, the dead at the front, the living with those wicked spears bringing up the rear.
One of Brimlicker’s crew curses, and his crossbow twangs. The bolt takes the silver-haired woman in the throat and her song gurgles into blood. The ground stabilises.
The remaining marines form up around the edge of the pit and take the brunt of the first charge. Shields and bones splinter. Their line buckles, holds, barely.
Shipwright is already moving, a blur as her spinners whine into action.
Shroudweaver follows her, for lack of a better plan, reaching a hand towards the distant body of the silver-haired woman. Her soul is just loose enough for him to snag it, sliding it free past the slick bolt. He lets it shudder down his forearm and releases it to take shape inside the front lines of the advancing dead.
It forms a figure, for the barest moment. Made of light and fury. A new god, that exists for a second amid a tangle of limbs and teeth, before it dies in a detonation of gold light. Limbs rain down upon the marines who flinch backwards. A little slice of Shroudweaver’s heart yelps with glee.
Then, for some stupid reason, his legs are taking him towards the front line. He sees Shipwright arrow off towards another breach, and briefly wants to follow her, until the momentum of hammering feet pulls them apart. He’s thrown into a gap in the shield-wall and suddenly he’s among the press. A hand pulls him forwards, a face yells for help, and he’s in the middle of it all.
Bodies thick on either side him. His movement completelybound to the shift of their muscles, the ragged push of their breath.
Men and women cursing, spitting and gouging.
The space he stands in was created by the woman at his feet. She’s holding her guts in, barely. Her wet eyes meet his for a second before her comrades drag her back behind their lines. He chokes down a rising panic that tastes like bile.
