The wind caught a tendril of flame, engulfing one of the bodies in the belfry. A man’s scream pierced the night.

  “Damn it! Damn you!” Tarana pushed up the sleeves of her tunic. She drew her shortsword, aiming blackened steel at the heart of the conflagration.

  “What are you doing?” Bilal asked, a hopeful glint in his eye.

  “Preparing to be heroic. What does it look like?” Tarana shook her head. “No, don’t answer that.” She reached out to the flame on the tower, embracing its power. The wind that had been carrying the fire upward died as the flames retreated, falling in on themselves like a flower blossoming in reverse. A few moments later it disappeared into smoke.

  She heard cheering from the belfry, but it was short-lived. A trio of cries followed as a lanky woman leaned out, pointing toward the city wall. “Over there! Something’s happening at the gate!”

  The feeling at the edge of Tarana’s senses crescendo-ed as an explosion burst the night, filling her vision with white light and assaulting her face with its heat. She blinked rapidly in an attempt to banish the spots from her vision.

  “I don’t think that timing is coincidence,” Bilal growled. “We have to get out of here.”

  Tarana scowled at him. “I thought you wanted me to help!”

  “I never said that. I said there was nothing you could do.” He looked away from her. “Besides, this is different. This isn’t a fire or lightning or anything to do with Calamity. This is a situation that calls for sword-work.”

  As if to punctuate his point, a squad of foot soldiers wearing Tevulun yellow rushed past the pair, readying lances and swords. A man roughly Bilal’s age stopped, frowning at them. “Fighting’s gonna be here soon, sir. You and your companion may want to beat a swift retreat.”

  Tarana focused on the man, noting the insignia on his uniform marking him as a sergeant. “I don’t think so, sir. I’m not done being heroic yet.”

  The sergeant shrugged, turning to follow the rest of his men, who had continued on toward the gate. They joined a hasty line at the next intersection, under the still-smoking belfry.

  “Not done being heroic?” Bilal asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Whatever my family has in store for me, they’re still my family.” Tarana thought of her sister and father. If Vicrum fell, they’d be destined for execution. Her father might have been in on the decision to replace her, but Cora… she was sure Cora was innocent.

  Raising her voice in a battle cry, she charged toward the line of Tevulun soldiers. The Ma’isans swarmed toward them, making the hasty Tevulun line bulge until holes started to form. Tarana made for one of the holes, lunging forward to stab a man who was busy fighting the sergeant they’d spoken with earlier. Her sword slipped between ribs, biting deep.

  Another man stepped forward as he fell, raising a broadsword high. Bilal appeared in front of Tarana, his own sword meeting the strike with a metallic ring. He side-stepped around the Ma’isan’s guard, landing a cleaving strike across the man’s back that made him crumple.

  Another group of Tevuluns joined them, filling in the remaining gaps in the line as Tarana engaged a pair of men. She parried strike after strike, dancing over a low sweep from the shorter of the pair as they pushed her back. Her motions driven by a subconscious piece of her mind, she thought of little else beyond the next blow. The taller man’s axe swung from her left and she ducked under it; she tried to close with him, only to be met with a kick to the chest. Her wrist flicked, nicking his leg as she fell to the ground.

  Tarana rolled out of the way of another blow of the axe. It produced a horrible scraping sound as it tore into the cobblestone. She raised her shortsword in a defensive stance, eyes flicking between her two attackers.

  A blade skewered the breast of the taller man, lifting him a half-pace into the air before withdrawing. The body fell, revealing a grim-faced Bilal. Tarana took the opportunity to scramble back to her feet. They faced the remaining soldier, who started to lower his weapon. Bilal lunged straight for his heart; the man tried to speak, but all that came out was a gurgle.

  “He was surrendering!” Tarana said.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “He lowered his weapon!”

  His eyes snapped to her, narrowing with a burning rage. “Your second-guessing is going to get us both killed. Come on, we’ve almost managed to stave off this charge.”

  Over his shoulder, Tarana could see the truth of what he was saying. The Tevuluns had formed a line two men deep, and they’d pressed the Ma’isans back to a narrow section of road ten paces ahead. It would have been a happy development if not for the seemingly endless tide of green-clad Ma’isans flooding through the hole where the gate had been. The flow had been stemmed where they were, but the road from the gate branched west as well. New soldiers entering through the breach were heading in that direction, moving too swiftly to indicate much resistance.

  “I don’t think we managed to stop them,” Tarana said.

  Bilal shook his head. “No, we only redirected the tide.”

  For a few seconds, Tarana was lost to the pointlessness of it all. The Ma’isans on the street ahead were holding their ground, seemingly content so long as those behind had an avenue through which they could enter the city.

  Movement at the tower drew her attention; a door had opened at its base, allowing a quartet of peasants with soot-stained faces to filter out. She looked up at the belfry, wondering what had happened to the man who’d been swallowed by flames. Had they left him to be buried in rubble when the weakened tower inevitably fell? Or had they stowed him on a lower floor? The questions made her throat constrict.

  Her eyes shot to the middle of the tower, inspiration striking her. It wasn’t smoking anymore, but from what she’d felt before it had to have been badly damaged. She sheathed her sword, leaning down to pick up the blunted axe of the Ma’isan Bilal had killed.

  With renewed purpose, she ran for the tower door. Inside, she bounded up the steps two at a time until she’d reached the weakest section; the fire had eaten through most of the supports, leaving a single vertical beam.

  “What are you doing?” Bilal asked, panting as he caught up with her.

  “You’ll see. Be ready to run.” Tarana raised the axe, sinking it deep into the remaining post. After the second blow they heard groaning from above; the beam splintered as it strained to hold up the wood and stone. With the next strike it collapsed, snapping like a twig as the groaning grew into a chorus of cracks.

  Tarana pushed Bilal back down the stairs; once he saw what was happening, he turned to sprint ahead. They reached a perpendicular turn as the top of the tower began to fall, showering them with dust and debris. Tarana fought back coughing as they reached the bottom floor and burst onto the street.

  They arrived in time to watch the tower land, a sonorous boom coming from the attached bell. It landed close to the gate, flattening a score of men and blocking off the route to the west.

  A combined snarl rose from the Tevulun troops; they surged forward, gaining ground step by step. Tarana and Bilal joined the back of the throng, getting in blows where they could. The fighting was bitter as the front of the two sides’ ranks ground against each other; Tarana stepped over a mix of yellow- and green-clad bodies, grimacing at the sight of their dozens of mortal wounds.

  Soon enough, the Tevulun ranks had ground down enough to bring Tarana and Bilal to the fore. A thin man in green stepped toward Tarana, but he didn’t have time to raise the sword in his hands; Bilal grabbed him roughly by the forearm, pulling him close. Before Tarana could register what had happened, the man was face-down, his blood leaking onto the ground.

  “For Calamity!” Bilal shouted. “For the king!” A chorus of shouts echoed the words from behind as he plunged into a group of Ma’isans.

  Tarana’s eyes widened at the sight of a hammer falling toward his shoulder. She leapt forward, charging the bearer. Her elbow caught him on the jaw, knocking him down. A swift flick of her sword ended the threat.

  A trio on the left – who had been about to fall on Bilal – moved toward her instead. She side-stepped a spear thrust, yanking the haft toward her. Its owner stumbled, falling into the path of a strike from one of his allies. The momentary surprise of the other two allowed her to slip past their guard, clearing them from her path with three slashes of her shortsword.

  The grisly work continued, as each fallen enemy was replaced by two more. She missed some of their attacks; more than once, a Tevulun soldier came to her aid in the nick of time. Usually that soldier was Bilal. And usually, they were too late. She found herself bleeding from a hundred cuts, the wound in her abdomen throbbing as her world spun.

  Despite their assistance, the tide carried her on like a ship caught in a tempest. It was all she could do to stave off death, blocking only the attacks that seemed deadliest. They reached the threshold of the gate, but still she felt the bodies pressing her from behind.

  “Footmen, hold!” a voice ordered. A moment later, the pressure pushing Tarana forward ceased. She glanced toward the source of the order, a slight-framed woman with black hair pulled back in a tight braid. The woman stood on the roof of a nearby building along with at least two dozen other archers.

  “Loose!” the slight-framed woman shouted. Bowstrings sang, raining arrows into the thickest part of the Ma’isan force holding the gate. Tarana felt arms pulling her back; her body fell slack as she was dragged past line after line of Tevulun soldiers. They stared as she went past. Many of them nodded respectfully; a few even reached out to try clasping her shoulder or arms, their fingertips coming away bloody.

  She didn’t realize Bilal was the one dragging her until he set her down on the street corner. He stared at her in silence for several seconds, shaking his head. “What in the name of the immortals was that?” he finally asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That,” he repeated, nodding toward the gate.

  Tarana groaned as she lifted herself up on elbows. “I don’t know. You charged forward first. I was trying to keep you from dying.”

  “Keep me from dying?” He bore his left forearm, displaying a deep gash. “I got this one saving you from a spear. I got this one –“ he pointed to a cut above his eyebrow “—deflecting a dagger aimed for your neck. Why did you have to put yourself in so much danger?”

  “It wasn’t like I made a decision. It kind of… just… happened.” Tarana’s vision swam with the last words as she felt tendrils of pain coming from her injuries. Her legs burned; she traced one of the most pressing back to its source and was surprised to see a gouge in her calf leaking blood.

  “We’ll need to do something about that,” Bilal said. A door opened behind him. “Either a surgeon or a fire. Else you’ll keep bleeding.”

  “Agreed.” The slight-framed archer from the rooftop appeared at the door behind Bilal, bow clutched in one hand. “Commander Fevre Geere, at your service.” She gestured to a man behind her. He set a satchel down beside Tarana, pulling out a long needle and thread.

  Tarana’s eyes widened at the commander’s name. She glanced at the nearby satchel, trying to play it off as a reaction to the surgical instruments.

  “Bilal. Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Bilal said. “You saved our lives back there.”

  “To the contrary. From what I hear, you two saved all of our lives. You bought us time to muster the footmen, and a few of the less worthless city guardsmen in the area as well. My rangers to the west are mopping up what’s left of the Ma’isans you stranded by knocking over the tower. It’ll take some time to secure the gate, but the city remains ours.”

  Bilal nodded grimly. “Good. It’d be a shame to see it fall so soon into the siege.”

  “Mmph.” Commander Fevre’s eyes locked on him. She studied him closely, letting silence take over the conversation. “I think you’ll find,” she finally said, “That this city is not so easily taken. My rangers will make sure of that, with or without a relief army.”

  The man at Tarana’s side began working, using a pristine knife to cut the right leg of her breeches open. He pushed the fabric away, studying the wound for a moment before setting to work.

  A flask appeared in Tarana’s sight, making her look up. Commander Fevre shook the open flask, bidding her to take it. “Trust me, you’ll be needing this once he starts. Mer’s the best surgeon around, but flesh sewing’s a painful thing.”

  Tarana took the flask and downed several swallows. “What was that about a relief army?” she asked as the surgeon – Mer – wiped away dried blood from her leg with a piece of linen.

  Commander Fevre sighed. “You didn’t hear this from me. Officially, it’s nothing more than a rumor. They’re saying War crushed Finn Tevulun’s army up north. Two Tevuluns dead to every Ma’isan; if you ask me, it sounds more like a slaughter. Again, not official news. But that’s the rumor.”

  “What about Prelate Gratianos’ army?” Tarana asked before she could stop herself. A cry of pain escaped her as Mer started his work on the gouge in her leg.

  “Don’t know,” Commander Fevre said. “If I were him, I would’ve made for Vicrum the moment this damn siege started.”

  No, Prelate Gratianos would have gone north either way, Tarana thought. He would never have left my uncle to die.

  “The men will want to know who to toast tonight,” Commander Fevre said. “What name should I give them?” Her eyes latched onto Tarana’s, making it clear the question was meant for her.

  Tarana considered the question in silence. Commander Fevre was high enough in the ranks for Tarana to have heard of her; most likely, that meant she was high enough to recognize Tarana by name, if not by appearance.

  Bilal answered for her. “Names can be powerful things. Tell them to toast to Blacksword instead.”

  “Blacksword,” the commander repeated with a wry smile. “Very well. Though the blade looks somewhat more red than black at the moment.”

  The bite of Mer’s needle made Tarana’s gut clench. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to look away from his work. “Don’t know why everyone is so obsessed with this damn sword,” she said, rolling the hard pommel in her hand. “It’s bound to shatter soon.” With a sigh, she relented. “But I suppose Blacksword’s as good a name as any.”

  “For those who consider names to be powerful, at least,” Fevre said. “Well, Blacksword, my men and I are in your debt. If there’s anything we can offer, you have but to ask.”

  Bilal seized on the offer immediately. “As it happens, we’re in need of a place to stay. If you have room in your barracks, we would appreciate a couple of cots.”

  Fevre nodded sadly. “We can offer more than that. One of my officers was lost in the fight. You can have their quarters.” The sound of footsteps made her eyes jump to a point above Tarana’s shoulder.

  Tarana tried to twist to look at the approaching group, but a warning growl from Mer kept her still.

  “Fevre,” a man said, “Good to see you.”

  “Captain. I see you’ve picked the right moment to appear, as usual.” Fevre’s icy tone was matched by her slitted eyes, a scowl she directed at the captain. “How many times must my rangers bear the brunt of protecting your city?”

  The same voice as before answered. “We have a whole city to protect, Fevre. My men can’t go running every time your rangers hear a mouse in the walls.”

  “Except it wasn’t a mouse! Was it?” Fevre gestured toward the hole where the gate had been, voice rising. She closed her eyes, and when they opened her voice was deathly still. “Never mind, captain. You say you have a whole city to protect. Withdraw your men, then. My rangers will protect the breach.”

  “What if someone gets through?”

  Mer looked up from his work, pausing mid needle-stroke. “No one’ll get through, sir. If Commander Geere says we’ll do a thing, that’s what happens. Look to your other gates; this explosion was not the work of those outside the walls.”

  This time, it was the captain’s voice that rose. “How dare you imply that—”

  Fevre cut him off. “He’s not implying anything. He’s saying it outright. As will I. There are traitors in your midst, captain. Find them, and fast. We’re going to be tied down here for a while; no more using my men to mop up your messes.”

  A man stepped into Tarana’s view. She could see the glint of a mail coat beneath his golden sleeves. “That’s a nice uniform,” she said, feeling an immediate wave of distaste for the man. “Crisp and clean. Not a speck of blood on it.”

  His head swung down to glower at her. “And who might you be?”

  “That’s Blacksword,” Fevre said, her chest swelling with pride. “She’s one of ours. Now, better be on your way, captain. Don’t want to dirty that pretty uniform.”

  The man’s face was a mask that promised murder; he focused it on Fevre for several seconds, taking another step forward to stand in front of her. Side by side, Tarana could see Fevre didn’t even come up to his shoulders. Fevre held her ground all the same, matching his expression with hardened indifference.

  The captain glanced away, breaking the contact. “Damn it, why do you have to be so difficult? If you and your men want to spend your lives holding this damn gate, good luck to you.” He turned on a heel, making a sign for his men to follow him away from the square.

  “I’m beginning to think,” Mer said as he tied off the last of the stitches, “That man doesn’t like you, Commander.”

  Fevre snorted. “I don’t know, I think I’m growing on him. Are you done with Blacksword, then?”

  Mer stared at the red splotch staining Tarana’s shirt, where the wound at her belly had reopened. His fingers touched the silken hem, raising an eyebrow as if to ask if it was okay to raise. At a nod from Tarana, he lifted it enough to be able to assess the injury.

  His grimace told Tarana all she needed to know. He leaned in, sniffed at the wound. “This is bad, Blacksword. How long ago did it happen?”

  Tarana shrugged. “A couple weeks or so.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Really? It seems to be months old.” Shaking his head, he continued, “It’s not infected, but it’s spent a long time without attention. I don’t think it would be possible to close at this point.”