She retaliated with a hammering blow aimed at the enemy who’d tried to stab her. He raised his sword to block, resulting in a dull ring as the two weapons met. Tarana repeated the motion again, and again, and again. Each time the man’s blade fell a few hairs; she hammered two, three, four more times, gripping her shortsword with both hands for extra force.

  He stepped to the side, maneuvering his sword for a thrust. Judging it would bring him within striking distance, she let it through. Her breath wheezed out all at once as cold steel pierced her. For a moment, her swimming vision was all she could focus on.

  Teeth grated against the pain, she swung her sword at the man’s throat. The blow struck true; his sword slid out from her torso as he fell.

  Another barrage of arrows flew overhead. In the distance, Tarana saw a rush of yellow coats coming from alleys on either side of the street. They overwhelmed the Ma’isans, granting Tarana and the others at the front a temporary reprieve from the battle.

  “Fall back!” someone shouted. “Orders from Commander Geere! We make our stand at the docks!”

  Tarana’s chest heaved with each breath as she stepped away from the conflict, joining those around her in a measured withdrawal. The group of Tevulun soldiers that had come from the alleys appeared to be ignoring the order; either they hadn’t heard, or didn’t care.

  Regardless of the reason, they made no effort to disengage. Tarana tore her eyes from the fight ahead, grateful for the distraction of the pain in her torso to keep her from dwelling on what she was leaving behind.

  “Blacksword?” someone called out ahead. “Blacksword?” His eyes landed on her. “Blacksword! There you are! I can’t believe I found you. Commander Fevre sent us all out –”

  “Where is she?” Tarana asked, interrupting the young man.

  “Organizing the defense of the docks. I can take you to her if you’d like.”

  “Lead the way.”

  The man nodded, pushing through the throng of soldiers retreating to the docks. Tarana followed closely behind, worried about losing him in the press of bodies.

  The crowd only thickened as they approached, until it felt like a constant force was pushing in on Tarana from all sides. She could hardly see where they were going, but the man in front of her seemed confident in his sense of direction. Eventually, they reached the entrance to a tower and slipped inside.

  She breathed a sigh of relief at escaping the chaos, if only temporarily. Her guide ascended the tower steps at a jog, pausing every few steps to wait for her.

  He reached the top of the stairs. “Commander. I found Blacksword.”

  “Thank the immortals.” Fevre’s eyes followed Tarana as she finished her ascent. “It’s good to see you again. My men have informed me your sister boarded the galley from the Synod a little while ago, so I take it your mission was successful?”

  “Partly.” Tarana looked past the Commander. Shutters had been opened on all sides, providing a decent vantage of the docks below. A few civilians were left out in the open, but most of those gathering wore the colors of Tevulun soldiers. “The king is dead.”

  “Not completely surprising,” Fevre said. “Still, I’m sorry for your loss.” She shook her head. “There’s been a lot of that today. Loss. I have to keep reminding myself our goal here is just to buy time. Every moment we resist is a victory.”

  “But it doesn’t feel like it.”

  “No, it doesn’t feel like it. The family I have served for two decades is in ruins, the city I called home will fall before the sun sets, and bodies of our dead outnumber those that survive. And also, this: my men tell me there’s not enough room on the ships in the harbor by half. So which half do we save?” Fevre’s eyes turned downward in a rare display of weakness. “No, don’t answer that. I’ve already made my decision. We can’t unload the civilians, but we can fill the hold of Death’s ship with soldiers. Rangers first, then whatever remains of Gratianos’ army, and then Okal’s men. The historians will call me heartless, but it’s the right call.”

  Tarana struggled to find the right words to say. “It’s not heartless. Wherever we end up, we’ll need the best soldiers available. It’s practical.”

  “Yes,” Fevre spat. “So very practical.” She sighed, her shoulders falling. “I’m sorry. This is a bad time for us to be squabbling. I will stay here and ensure you and your sister can make a clean getaway. If Captain Bilal recovers, tell him command of the remaining forces is his. If not, Zo can serve in his stead.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “You just explained why you need to come with us,” Tarana said. “Like you said, we’ll need the best available. I passed Gratianos and his holding action a while ago; he’s either been killed or captured by now. I haven’t seen Captain Okal since Prelate Gratianos’ return – not that he was ever of much value as a commander. And Bilal might not recover. Which means you’re the only leader we have left who’s worth a damn.”

  Fevre’s jaw set. She worked her tongue around the inside of her mouth. “I’ve made up my mind to die here, Blacksword. Don’t rob me of that.”

  “Of course you have. Dying is easy. Surviving – when we don’t have anywhere to go – that will be much harder.”

  “Don’t you dare accuse me of cowardice.”

  “Well, if the boot fits.” Tarana squared her shoulders, preparing herself for an attack from the other woman.

  Fevre’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I won’t abandon my post.”

  “Then don’t. The three oaths of service tie you to kingdom, Calamity, and the chain of command. My sister’s next in line for the throne after my father, which makes protecting her your primary responsibility. And I – Calamity – am telling you we’ll need you by our side in the battles to come. Which leaves chain of command. A distant third. Your post, commander, is with us.”

  “Damn you.” Fevre’s frozen gaze lingered on Tarana, as if she was trying to manifest powers of her own. After a moment, she relented. “Fine, I’ll do as you ask. But the day may come when you regret forcing me to do this.”

  “I’m sure it will. Now, let’s get on those ships before they fill up.” Tarana turned halfway around, leading the way down the stairs.

  “Taking a spot from someone who actually wants it,” Fevre muttered. “Course, anyone who actually wants to get on those ships would have to be half-mad.”

  They exited the tower, joining the madness once again. The scene on the docks had become desperate as the crowd clawed at each other. From the small staircase outside of the tower door, Tarana watched a fat man attempt to rush the spear line and wind up skewered for the effort. She let out an inaudible gasp, shaking her head in a vain attempt to banish the image from her mind.

  Bodies pressed thicker and thicker as they approached the pier, jostling Tarana until it felt like she was trying to pass through a river of stone. With each step, she forced those in front apart, only for them to close ranks the moment she was through.

  “Let us on!” someone chanted. “Let us on!”

  The crowd picked up the chant. “Let us on! Let us on!” Many of those joining in were guardsmen – Tarana saw one in particular that was surrounded by three children and a woman she assumed was his wife. The woman hugged him tightly, tears running down her face.

  The air seemed as ash to Tarana, the wind as smoke. Who are we? she thought, fighting the urge to fall to her knees. Who are we to condemn this crowd to die?

  “Blacksword!” Ran’s voice came from the spear line; he bore bandages around his waist, fresh linens that had already been dyed wine-red by his blood. Regardless, he had improved since the last time she’d seen him. “Commander!”

  Tarana broke through the last of the crowd, passing through the first line of spears. When she looked back at Fevre, she saw the other woman scowling at the crowd, her face lined with sympathy.

  “Commander!” Tarana said. “We have to get on the galley! Then we’ll see if there’s any room left for them.”

  Fevre pulled her eyes away with obvious effort. She stumbled past the crowd, joining Tarana in front of the spear line.

  “There isn’t,” Ran said, his voice a pained whisper.

  “Isn’t what?” Tarana asked.

  “Any room left. We tried, Blacksword. We really did. But there are only so many ways to peel an onion. We can’t conjure up space that isn’t there.”

  “So… what? What can we do?”

  He shook his head.

  Tarana’s gaze swung back to the crowd they’d left behind. She saw green coats at the edge of the docks; the Ma’isans had arrived, and they were tearing into the crowd from behind. The Tevuluns weren’t putting up much of a fight, with almost all of them facing the pair of docked ships.

  “You see now?” Fevre said. “You see why I wanted to give my last here? Those who perish on the docks will be the lucky ones. Surviving this… won’t be survival.”

  Tarana grasped her by the wrist, pushing through the line of spears. They ascended the gangplank to the galley, where she saw the truth of what Ran had said; the deck was teeming with people, standing shoulder-to-shoulder as they stared in morbid silence at the massacre.

  “Calamity’s aboard!” a voice called out. It took Tarana a moment to place it as belonging to Zo. “Commander’s aboard! Pull anchors!”

  “Pulling anchors!” someone responded. A group of men in sailor attire jumped into motion, untying ropes. Two of them retrieved gangplanks while others passed down orders to those below.

  “What about Ran?” Tarana asked.

  No one answered her.

  Their escape was a slow, painful one. The trader ship sliced backward out of the bay, leaving their ponderous galley behind as oarsmen struggled to turn it around.

  On the land, the crowd broke into panic. Those closest to the pier ran for the spear line blocking access to the pier, falling to their allies’ weapons until their numbers became too much for the dozen soldiers to deal with. First one spearman fell, then the man next to him; Tarana could only watch in mute horror as Ran was forced to drop his spear, striking at a woman with the butt of his sword to keep her at bay. Another woman grabbed him from the other side, causing all three to tumble to the ground.

  With nothing left to hold them back, the crowd trampled bodies of the fallen in a mad sprint to the edge of the pier. The galley had managed to travel a couple dozen feet away, but that didn’t seem to stop them; when they reached the end, they dove into the water. Tarana watched one man in a mail coat dive in without pausing to take it off. She stared at the spot where he’d gone under for several seconds, but he never resurfaced.

  A child’s cry echoed over the water. Tarana sought out the source of the sound, her blood freezing when she saw it belonged to a boy barely old enough to walk. The boy hugged his mother’s leg, pressing his face tightly against it as if he could shut out the reality of what was happening. His father – the same guardsman she’d seen when pushing through the crowd – had drawn his sword to cut away any others who came too close.

  Those closest to the Ma’isans had recognized the truth of the situation; many of them had turned to face their attackers, either falling to their knees in surrender or finding weapons to join the rough line of resistance attempting to slow them down. Whichever option they chose, the result was always the same.

  Tarana heard a thud next to her. When she looked, she saw Fevre on her knees, tears falling freely from her eyes. Her expression was mirrored in every face Tarana looked at – an army paralyzed by horror.

  Who are we? she thought. Despair grabbed her like a hand blackened by fire, forcing her to look out on those they left behind.

  A gasp escaped her at the sight of Ran’s face. His words carried out over the water. “Fight, you cowards! Stand and fight! Not for kingdom, not for glory! Fight for vengeance against those who will steal your lives from you!”

  Impossibly, his words – or perhaps the growing distance between the galley and pier – had an effect on those around him. Many of them picked up weapons and turned to face the approaching army. The civilians pushed children and their mothers forward toward the pier.

  Those who had weapons formed into a tight cluster in front of the children, shields raised in front and backed up with two lines of spears. The first of the Ma’isans to reach the line faltered. Those behind pushed them ahead, only to fall victim to the coordinated defense.

  For a moment, Tarana allowed herself to hope – not that the meagre force would win the day, but that they would hold their ground long enough to allow their attackers’ blood to fall. And then perhaps, to negotiate a rational surrender.

  Archers came forward from the Ma’isan side, lining up on the piers to either side of the defenders. As the galley picked up speed, the swish of the oars was the only sound to interrupt mute horror.

  The first volley struck, catching guardsmen and civilians alike in the deadly crossfire. Tarana cried out, her arm reaching out to them in an ineffectual gesture. She felt for the thread of Calamity, pushing through the sickness enveloping her in a vain attempt to find something that might save them.

  A wave answered her call, water rising the height of two men; it rushed toward the docks, sweeping over Ma’isan archers and tossing them aside like dolls.

  She collapsed against the ship’s railing, holding on as if her mere witnessing of the tragedy would be enough to stop it. Dry heaving wracked her body, but still she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

  The waves receded, revealing a broken line of defenders. The Aspect of War – in armor black as night – strode among them, his great sword delivering death like a reaper’s scythe.

  Who are we? Tarana thought as the oars took the docks out of sight. We’re the survivors.

  She fell beside Fevre. The other woman pulled her close; they sat staring at the rough wood of the deck as the waves rocked them into oblivion.

  Chapter 29

  Itan

  Itan clawed his way to the forefront of Ponto’s consciousness, coming awake in the darkness. He rolled onto his hands and knees, dry-heaving for a full minute before he felt strong enough to climb to his feet.

  Thudding steps like blacksmith hammers crashed through the forest. Moments later, a man appeared who was nearly as large as Lord Goran had been. “Master!” the man said. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, I’m quite fine,” Itan lied. The servant had to have been Elysa’s doing; in their two weeks on the road, Ponto had come to the surface less and less. And even when he did, he seemed to have lost the will to move. More than once, Itan had given up control to the boy, only to regain control in the exact same position.

  The boy was losing his will to live. Itan didn’t blame him. Had the two of them been the only inhabitants of the body, he liked to think he would have given up control to save his protégé.

  But Elysa lingered in the background, sharing the control with Itan equally. Although he was loath to admit it, she’d been responsible for most of the distance they’d managed to travel toward the lands of the Synod, finding a horse and supplies that had carried them nearly to the edge of the Ma’isan Protectorate. He preferred not to dwell on where the supplies had come from, and he dared not ask – any direct conversations with Elysa took a significant amount of concentration, leaving the body of Ponto rife for a takeover.

  Apparently, he could add this hulking man to the list of provisions Elysa had procured. The man stared at him, a frown growing on his face. “Master,” the man said tentatively, “Where do you find moss?”

  It’s a test, Itan realized. To determine if I’m Elysa or not? Yes, that has to be it. Fortunately, it seemed the simpleton had chosen an easy question to answer. “On the side of a tree that faces the sun. In this part of Accalia, that would be the south side.”

  The heavyset man sighed. He took a lumbering step toward Itan, scooping him up in both hands. Itan kicked, struggling against the man’s strong grip, but it was useless. The man tossed him onto the ground, pressing a knee to his back as he wrapped ropes around his arms and legs.

  Once Itan had been trussed like a hunter’s prize, the man rolled him over. “Mister Crane said you might be coming out. He said I should tell you it’s over: from now on, whenever you’re the one in control, I’m going to tie you up like this until you give up. And I’m not to let you out until you can answer the questions correctly.”

  Itan scowled at the larger man. He rocked his hips back and forth, but it was pointless; the ropes had been tied too tight to have a chance of wriggling free.

  “Best get some sleep, Mister Death Priest,” the large man said. “No use in struggling.”

  Itan stilled, his breath coming out in heavy plumes. In the back of his mind, he heard a cackle that only served to stoke the flames of his anger. He jerked like a fish caught in a net, alternating between straightening his limbs and curling into a ball. He managed to travel nearly three paces that way before striking his head against something hard.

  An iron taste filled his mouth, causing him to still. Okay, so I won’t be able to escape this way.

  The panic that had gripped his mind was slowly subsiding, allowing him to size up the situation more appropriately. They were in a forest clearing, surrounded by knee-high grass with the pale moon overhead. It was nearly full, providing plenty of light to see by.

  On the other side of the clearing, he saw the horse Elysa had procured, as well as another he assumed belonged to his captor. Although there were several jagged rocks he might have been able to use to work through the ropes binding him, none were close enough for him to shimmy to without revealing his plan.

  As far as he could tell, he was well and truly stuck. But I’ve been stuck before, he thought. Lord Goran thought he had me cornered, but I managed to survive. And Elysa thought she had me cornered in Jaruna, but I managed to survive.

  His resolve strengthened as he shifted his thinking – rather than try to escape, he focused on the tools he had available and what he could do with them. There was Ponto’s body, of course; a child who was too weak to fight his captor directly, but otherwise healthy enough. There were the ropes binding him, provided he could find a way to escape them.