There wasn’t any time to dwell on his response, as Tarana made her way through the surging crowd of rangers to arrive at the base of the wall. She sprinted up the steps two at a time; past her own breathing, she heard the hinges of the city’s main gate groan as it slowly opened.

  She arrived at the parapet in time to see Prelate Gratianos’ men – nearly surrounded – cheer at the sight of the gate’s opening. Their flagging strength gave way to a renewed push, further into the bulk of the Ma’isan forces.

  Up on the wall, Tarana cloaked herself in the powers of Calamity. All the rain and lightning that had been gathering for months awaited her command, too much to take on without losing herself. Her hand shot out to grab a passing guard by the collar.

  “You,” she said. “Why aren’t you down there?”

  He blanched at being addressed by Calamity herself. “The captain wanted us to stay on the wall. He –”

  “Alright. I don’t give a damn what Captain Okal wanted. You have one job now, and only one. If lightning starts landing inside these walls, you need to slap me. Hard. And keep slapping me until it stops. Got it?”

  His face paled; although he nodded, Tarana doubted he would do as she said. But there wasn’t time to find anyone else. She turned back to the scene on the fields outside of the gate, sensing what was happening through the threads of Calamity as much as through her own eyes and ears.

  Tarana pointed at a trio of tents diagonally behind Prelate Gratianos’ force. A white burst pierced the helm of a Ma’isan officer who’d been rallying his men to strike from the flank. It leaped between several more, dwindling after the fifth jump.

  By the time it had begun to die out, Tarana’s focus had already shifted to another spot near the center of their enemy’s army. The driving rain poured down on them, so thick they couldn’t see; in the space between Gratianos and Bilal’s charge, the downpour abated, leaving the way clear as a wave of Tevulun-yellow foot soldiers crashed into soldiers in Ma’isan green.

  There were almost no cavalry to speak of, but those on the ground fought with such ferocity as to make the deficiency meaningless. They tore through the first line of Ma’isans, casting them aside like a torn raiment on their way to the middle.

  “Channel! Channel, channel!” someone called. She imagined it was Bilal. The combined group of guards and rangers formed a pair of arcs, forcing the Ma’isan army apart until only a line of men three bodies thick stood between Gratianos’ force and freedom.

  Another lightning strike from Tarana landed amidst the line; she’d meant to hit a tall man who wore no helm, but he moved at the last second. As a result, the blow was largely ineffectual, but many of the green tunics scattered all the same. A trickle of soldiers in battered, stained coats made their way through, turning to attack from the other side.

  The hole widened, and soon enough it was too large for their enemy to stem the tide. As Prelate Gratianos’ men rushed through, the Tevulun back line held off the bulk of the enemy forces. A woman with two axes batted aside the point of a spear, replying with a vicious riposte that left her attacker bleeding out on the ground.

  A thin sword pierced the armor at her shoulder, causing her to drop one of her axes. She turned to face the man who’d done it, hammering at his helm with her other weapon. The first time, it showed no signs of damage; the second, it bent slightly; with the third blow, the axe head buried deep inside.

  Before the woman could retrieve her weapon, a dagger dug into the space between her helm and gorget. An imagined gurgle played in Calamity’s mind – the woman’s arm swung without a weapon, one meaningless final attack.

  Others fell to either side, giving their lives so their friends could escape through the path Bilal and the Vicrum force had opened up. Calamity summoned thunderbolt after thunderbolt, doing her best to relieve them, but it wasn’t enough to prevent the inevitable.

  The joined Tevulun forces formed a jagged line, with Gratianos’ soldiers in the center serving as the backbone of the counter-attack. Calamity withdrew the rain from the line of fighting, teasing it back so it stayed – as much as possible – on the Ma’isans only. The effort wore on her mind, a white-hot dagger scrambling everything but the task at hand.

  A horn blew at the top of the hill that Prelate Gratianos’ and his men had appeared over. Black spots crested into view, clanging weapons together like harbingers of death.

  Tarana shook her head. No, not black. Through the fog and heavy rain, she managed to make out a single dark green cloak. The man was sprinting full-speed at the battle, joined from behind by a seemingly endless stream of allies.

  Panic gripped Tarana as she loosed rippling chains of lightning at the center of the Ma’isan forces. For each group she managed to fell a dozen more joined, stepping over the bodies of their dead comrades in the hunt for blood.

  The joined Tevulun forces’ momentum stalled. They began to lose ground, backing away toward the gate. Flashes of white played a silent song of colors, falling indiscriminately amongst the fighting.

  The rain crawled back from the Ma’isan camp, fleeing like the Tevulun soldiers as the clouds that had carried it ran dry. All that remained was the rain inside the city, the lightning striking a guard tower on the wall.

  Her mouth dry, Tarana struggled to summon more. The hollows of her bones burned, yielding a bolt that did little more than knock over one man. It wasn’t until her eyes opened that she realized they’d been closed.

  To her left, she saw a fire burning in the nearby guard tower. The man she’d grabbed before stood a few paces away, eyes wide with shock.

  “How many?” Tarana asked, her voice raspy as burnt paper.

  “H-how many what?”

  “How many times did it strike the city?”

  He swallowed visibly, steeling himself to answer. “Three, I think. The first two were relatively harmless, but the last one…” His eyes trailed to a burning tower.

  Tarana nodded to herself. She closed her eyes, summoning the little strength she had left to regain her feet and turn back to look at the battlefield. The bulk of the Tevulun force appeared to have retreated through the gate, leaving less than a hundred to hold the line as it eked closed.

  Her gaze searched for a recognizable face among those left, but she didn’t see any. Whether that was a good or bad sign, she couldn’t say. There was more green than yellow amongst the bodies littering the fields. The sight should have relieved her, but it only left her feeling emptier.

  It was a long time before Tarana was able to descend the steps from the wall. She was met by an assembled group of soldiers, their uniforms stained with crimson and brown mud. Two figures stood at the head of the force: one man whose face was covered in mud, and one with shoulders slumped as if he’d just been relieved of a heavy burden. She instantly recognized the latter as Prelate Gratianos, but it took her longer to recognize Bilal.

  Prelate Gratianos shook his head in disbelief at her arrival. “Our savior.” He tried to fall to one knee, face straining with the effort.

  Tarana waved him off. “That’s alright, Prelate. No need to bow. Having your men with us is enough.” As she said the words she studied him, one question at the forefront of her mind: You tried to have me killed once before. Will you try again?

  Bilal ran a hand across his face to scrape away the mud, leaving behind a trail of red and brown that had worn itself into the creases of his face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with the holding force, Blacksword. The rangers dragged me back in.”

  “Damn right,” a man behind him said. Tarana recognized him as the same one who’d stood up to Captain Okal earlier. “Turns out you’re a halfway decent leader. We lose you, there’s no telling what kind of halfwit we’d be stuck with.”

  A wave of exhaustion swept over Tarana, threatening to take her then and there. She clenched her teeth, nails digging into her palms. “You’ve done well. All of you. Someone find Captain Okal and inform him Commander Fevre is to be released from custody immediately. I want her and Prelate Gratianos and Bilal to meet me in one hour’s time to discuss plans for our next counterattack against the Ma’isans.”

  The men cheered at that. A few of them even tried patting her on the back as she stumbled away, her numb mind searching out the quarters where she and Bilal had been staying.

  As if summoned by her thinking his name, she heard Bilal’s voice from behind. “Blacksword, a minute?”

  She paused, straightening as well as she could. “What is it? I need to rest.”

  “I know. I can see that. We all need to rest, but that’s the reality of war.” He sighed. “Death will be coming for you, sooner rather than later. Maybe even this very night. He knows you exhausted nearly all the power you’ve been saving over the course of this siege; everyone in the city saw that. And now he knows who you are, with or without Mer’s help.”

  Tarana placed her back against the wall, sighing at the cool touch of the brick. “What are you saying, Bilal?”

  “I’m saying we should attack the priests before they have time to react to what’s taken place. Catch them off-guard.”

  “How do you propose we justify that? They’ve been feeding the city this whole time. We can’t just attack them out of the blue.”

  “Oh, people will hate you for it. No argument on that.” He frowned. “Unless they don’t know you gave the order. Tell them it was me, that I staged a coup while you slept.”

  The offer hit her like a gut punch. “Bilal, you’re too loyal. Too loyal by far. I don’t deserve this.”

  “Of course you do. Without you, I wouldn’t be here. My family would be dead, along with everyone I’ve ever known.”

  Tarana’s eyes closed. It wasn’t me, she wanted to say. I wasn’t the one who saved your family. But the words died in her mouth. “I need to find a bed. One hour. Then we’ll talk about what to do.”

  Chapter 23

  Micol

  Wolves lined the street in front of their compound, standing in their best imitation of a soldier’s parade stance. Micol made a hissing sound at one of his men who had moved out of line to fuss with his belt. The man waved him off, cinching it tighter around his waist before falling back in.

  Vasha stood at the head of the next group down; he locked eyes with Micol and shared a questioning look. Micol responded with a shrug. All he knew was orders had arrived for the three of them – Micol, Joji, and Vasha – to gather every Wolf at their command. While his own men were far from the discipline of a military unit, he had to admit they were better than Vasha’s; the other group hadn’t even managed to form uniform lines, milling around in smaller groups of three or four that chatted amongst themselves.

  Maybe it’s time for another raid, he thought. He’d lost count of how many estates had been plundered by the Wolves – he’d only been on two since the escape from the dungeons, but he knew Vasha had led at least a half-dozen more than that. They hadn’t hit the Soto estate yet; Micol allowed himself to hope they would be the target of this next raid.

  A trio of newcomers turned onto the road from Micol’s left, dressed in the rags of peasants, although their bearing gave the lie to their true nature. He spotted Visala at their head, flanked by Gwynn and Jeshan. The pair bore several satchels across their shoulders – Gwynn noticed his eyes on her and shared a grim smile.

  “You,” Visala said, gesturing at Micol. “With me.” He fell in behind them as they walked past Vasha’s group, and then Joji’s group. She ordered both of the other men to join her as well, continuing past the assembled Wolves until they were beyond earshot.

  She turned to face the trio. “Thank you for assembling your men. As you’ve likely guessed, we have a new mission for you. One that will take your full strength – and even that may not be enough.” Her eyes shifted from Vasha to Joji, and then to Micol. “Calamity has revealed herself. We’re going to abduct her and bring her to our master. Tonight.”

  “What?” Micol asked, incredulous. “Why?”

  “Do I really need to explain? It’s a problem that Calamity shares blood with the king.” Her brow drew down. “As long as this is the case, the Aspect of Calamity will never be capable of serving the people. Calamity and her fellow aspects – except for Death – are the root cause of every injustice in this world.”

  Vasha was nodding thoughtfully. That, Micol could understand. What he didn’t expect to see was Joji nodding in agreement as well.

  “So we’re killers now?” Micol asked. “I mean, that’s the main purpose of this mission, isn’t it? There’s no grain to retrieve, none of our own to rescue. It’s death, pure and simple.”

  “It’s a hard world,” Visala answered with a surprisingly hard edge in her tone. “And we need to harden ourselves to stand a chance of crafting something better.” She inhaled and her expression softened. “I’m sorry if you thought your hands could remain clean, Micol. For what it’s worth, our spies have reported that War has arrived to the gates with a force double the size of that commanded by Prelate Faris. If we don’t seize the power of Calamity, it will soon be claimed by the Ma’isa family.”

  Micol swallowed hard. The thought of setting out with an intent to kill made his stomach turn, but he couldn’t deny Visala’s reasoning. Maybe this kind of darkness is what’s needed to bring us back into the light. He nodded his compliance with the orders.

  “Very good,” Visala said. “We’ve confirmed she fights and bunks with the rangers; their second has provided us with the location of their stronghold, as well as the layout. Your three groups will split up from here, taking separate paths through the city so as to not draw too much attention. Vasha, Jeshan will travel with you to guide your force. Gwynn will be with Joji. And Micol –“ she locked eyes with him, “– I will be your guide. Our group will take the longest route, and therefore arrive last.

  “Oh, and one more thing. Micol has the command. Each of us priests are here only to guide and help remove any barriers that may arise – magical or otherwise. When it comes to the actual seizing of Calamity, we leave it up to your expertise.”

  “’Expertise,’” Joji spat. “Seems to me if you wanted our expertise, you would have shared the routes beforehand. We need to know the layout of that base if we’re going to have a hope in high water of fighting our way clear.”

  “I understand. Gwynn will share what she knows with you as you travel. Same for Jeshan and I. Unfortunately, there isn’t enough time to sit here and discuss a plan. We need to strike before they have time to hide her from us again.”

  “Okay, but I still don’t like it.” Joji folded his arms across his chest. “Sailing a ship into a storm is one thing if you’re already at sea; quite another if you’re safe in port.”

  Visala sighed. “Your misgivings are noted. Now, I suggest you return to your men. We have a long day ahead of us.” To Vasha she added, “You should head out as well.”

  The four – Vasha and Joji and their assigned priests – moved away from Micol and Visala, Joji muttering to himself until he was out of earshot.

  “So, that leaves us,” Visala said. “You should know I pushed Death to give you command tonight. He wanted to select Vasha.”

  “Why?”

  She blinked away confusion. “Vasha’s men have been the most active in raiding the noble estates. Aside from the very first raid – and the rescue at the dungeons – you have seen relatively little of the fighting.”

  “No, I understand that. I meant, why did you push for me to be given command instead of him?”

  “Because.” Her gaze slid away from him, watching as Joji’s men began to move out. “Because I believe you have a gentle heart. Out of all three, I trust you to make the right decision if a hard choice is to be made.”

  “Well, I promise you this: I won’t lead our men into a suicide mission. If it seems like we wouldn’t have a way out, I’ll give the order to withdraw.”

  A small smile tugged at her lips. “I was hoping you would say something like that. The official orders from Death are to proceed at all costs. Unofficially, I’ve grown attached to this little band of misfits.”

  She turned to face the group of Micol’s men, the only one left on the street. “With any luck, things will go smoothly and we won’t have to deal with my master’s wrath. Now, let’s share the orders with your men and move out.”

  The march to the rangers’ compound lasted a little over an hour. In accordance with her promise that she and Micol would be taking the longest route, Visala made several turns; at one point she saw something that spooked her, and forced the group to make several crisscrossing turns that brought them in a rough circle. As a result, the other groups seemed well settled by the time they arrived at the meeting point.

  To the left, Gwynn leaned with her back against one wall of the compound. Micol guessed Joji’s group was around the corner. Past an intersection far to the right, he could see Jeshan and Vasha, trailed by four dozen or so men.

  “Remember,” Visala said, her voice little more than a whisper. “They’re the distractions. We wait for two explosions, then through the front door.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Sorry. I’m getting anxious. Talking about the plan helps calm me down.” She held out a shaking hand as if to demonstrate the effect on her nerves.

  Micol’s own hand found the hilt of the officer sword at his side. “That’s alright, I get it.” He turned at the sound of an explosion to their left; Gwynn was nowhere to be seen, but he could spot tendrils of smoke and dust climbing above the wall. Moments later, they heard shouts and the sounds of steel striking steel.

  Waiting was agony. Micol wanted nothing more than to draw his weapon and join the fray. He thought of Asoka to focus his mind. The memory of his friend brought a kind of clarity to his limbs, like being doused with a bucket of cold water.

  Another explosion reverberated through the street, coming from the other side. More fighting followed; Visala’s hand clasped his wrist, although he couldn’t tell whether it was to steady herself or hold him back.