A bolt of fire raked the side of the train and Tarragon screamed as it tore their car from the tracks. She knocked her teeth together, and tasted blood as the cabin rolled. Earth and sky changed positions in rapid succession. They trammelled across the ground, the screaming of metal accompanying the car as it tore a mighty furrow in the earth. The train shed speed. A final lazy roll of the cabin as the train set its useless maglev feet on broken ground.

  She hit her head. Broken glass and blood.

  They were here.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  This day is not getting better. Amir scrubbed dirt from his hair, then pulled his shirt by its collar, freeing more dirt. The dirt, no stranger to gravity, descended. Rather than making its way to the ground where its friends lived, some made its way into his pants.

  He rolled his shoulder. He’d come down on it, hard, but the training had kicked in, and he’d rolled. After a lot of earth-sky-earth-sky, which a man could get tired of very quickly, he’d hit the welcoming side of an embankment. Wreckage fell about him. It was strange inner machinery from the ancients’ track carriage, and all of it was burning. It peppered the ground around him, casually tearing a Vhemin soldier in half in the process and dumping hot dirt into Amir’s shirt.

  Also, he was surrounded by fire.

  Amir drew steel, checked the blade for balance, and gave it a flourish to remind himself of the balance. It sang as it cut air, the blade sharp as metal could be. His backup blade was lost, so he checked about for a shield, and found one on the arm of a soldier come to reinforce the first. Amir stepped forward into a power stance, the ground trembling beneath him, his blade shining with Light, and dismembered the soldier in four quick strokes, saving the shield arm for last. He caught it as gravity took hold, shook out the spare arm from the cinches, and strapped it on.

  I remember my teacher of the platinum hair. I remember another woman with skin like honey. He oriented himself on where he thought the High Justiciar and the once-fairy had travelled and set off through the enemy fortifications. They were well done, good workmanship all around, and would have created a barrier to entry if he hadn’t been tossed over the top of all that hard work.

  Blood dripped from his forehead and into his eye. I didn’t even know I’d been cut. He dabbed it with a finger, the digit coming away grimy red. Sound came to him, a lot of yelling of orders and the firing of cannons at Three knew what, and it was then he realised his hearing hadn’t been with him over the last spell. With sound’s return came ringing, and he winced. Shook his head, got a little dirt out of his right ear. A woman, Feybrind and angry, rounded a trench corner, leaped to the ground five metres away, and raised a spear.

  He held up his sword arm, fingers out, in a hold up gesture. Amir spat grit, then said, “Who are you with?”

  The woman threw her spear, which Amir swayed to avoid, giving it a gentle bat with the shield, then impaled her at the follow-up jump, her outstretched arms going slack just as they found his throat. He shook the Feybrind from his blade, looking away from staring emerald eyes.

  Cannon fired again, and he saw lances of light flying overhead. He gazed in that direction but saw nothing but cloud and smoke. Was it Myryntir? Or Evanne? He’d have to square the cannons away if the dragon were to be much use. I think the bard is out for the fight, though. She had no control of that armour.

  He found Tarragon first. The once-fairy was atop a small rise and surrounded by dead troops. She held the burning blue-white brand of Requiem before her in a two-handed grip, her hair streaming in the smoke- and char-laden wind. Her eyes moved to Amir, then away—a flash of recognition, then back to guard. He saw in her something foreign to himself. It was how her face set. She would make a good Tresward. Better than I; she feels the calling, not for the sake of power, but of service.

  “What news?” he called.

  “Everything’s shit,” she said. “The train blew up. There are a lot of soldiers trying to kill me.”

  “Me, too.” He frowned at the collection of ten or so bodies between them. “Well, not a lot if we’re comparing tallies. I had two at least, though.”

  “Do you know of the others?”

  “The High Justiciar went that way,” he pointed north, toward the castle wall. “She was tossed quite high and may be injured.”

  Tarragon gave him a little side eye. “She is the High Justiciar. She’s not going to be injured by a little fall.”

  Amir gazed at the sky, as if measuring the distance. “She seemed small to my eyes. Perhaps two or three hundred metres up.”

  “Piece of cake,” the once-fairy assured him. “Have you seen Evanne?”

  “Not since she blew through the roof. I thought she went south.”

  “Aye.” A cautious nod, Tarragon’s elfin features showing a hint of worry. “If the Three are merciful, she’ll keep going south. This is not a fight for her.”

  “She is handy with the machete.”

  “She is the woman I love, and knows the way of people’s hearts, and seems a warrior true. But her own heart is gentle, Knight Adept. She is not made for killing.” Tarragon pointed with her chin to behind Amir.

  “I have no argument to offer.” Amir turned, decapitating a man who’d snuck up on him, then shook blood from his blade. “Thanks.”

  “No trouble. There’s a lot of noise. Head on a swivel.” She bounded down from her hillock.

  Amir waited for her. “You’ve done this before.”

  “I was a spy.”

  “You were no spy. You are a warrior born. Although by all accounts, in the wrong body to start with.”

  “I liked my body.” She looked away for a moment, and he wondered what she thought of. Loss? Regret? Or satisfaction she was now on an even footing? “I like my body still. It’s Big, but I can kiss Evanne, and that’s enough.”

  Amir unstrapped his shield. “How sweet.” He wound up, then tossed it, a disc of burning yellow-white Light. It impacted against the chest of a massive Vhemin woman leading the charge of a small cohort of five. The shield went through her, and the two men behind her, showering the remaining two in smoking gore. They slowed their run, looked at each other, then ran away.

  “We should get after them.”

  “They’ll come to us soon enough.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “If we run after them, we’ll just get tired. This way, they’ll spend all their effort closing the distance.” Amir pressed his lips into a line, considering. “I don’t want to die tired.”

  “Do you think today is the day you die?”

  “Hmm.” He thought about it. “I think so.”

  “You don’t seem sad.” She looked at him from beneath her hair.

  “Regrets are for the living, and I have plenty enough to want to set them aside for a while.” Amir headed toward his smoking shield. “Let us find the Justiciar.”

  They found Vertiline in classic low guard, her blade held two-handed, a mirror of how he’d found Tarragon. Vertiline’s stance was perfect, her shoulders just-so, her arms held at the right angle, feet not so much in a stance as owning the ground. Amir felt the power radiating from her. Golden Light glinted on her steel and haloed the air about her. Every so often Light dripped like molten metal to smoke and hiss against the ground.

  She was at the bottom of a small crater, the sides steaming and hissing. There were many, many dead soldiers about her. They were a carpet leading to a clear centre: where she stood, ready for more. The High Justiciar glanced at Amir and Tarragon as they reached the top of the crater. “I thought about finding you, but knew you’d spend the effort to get to me. Why die tired?”

  Amir gave Tarragon a glance. “See?”

  The once-fairy ignored him. “Evanne?”

  “Not here.” Vertiline shook her head once, curt, but Amir detected relief in the gesture. “I can’t see what the cannons are firing at through the smoke and cloud. I hope it’s not her.”

  The cannons fired another volley on cue. They were now closer to the main battery. It was perhaps two hundred metres north. The noise was immense. It was a force that pressed on Amir’s skin, not helping his hearing recover at all. “The dragon is up there.”

  “Seems a lot of fuss to go through for one little dragon.” Vertiline glanced north. “But we should clear them out so Myryntir can land.”

  Amir faced Tarragon, feeling an explanation was in order. “It’s okay to move to the guns, because they can’t run to us.”

  “I get it,” the once-fairy assured him. “Running is for fools.”

  “Except if we must run,” Amir said. “But here, we shall walk.”

  “Of course.” Tarragon turned away, a slight growl of exasperation escaping her. “We must make it safe for Evanne.”

  “And the dragon,” Vertiline said. “Because the dragon is more likely to arrive than my wayward child.”

  Amir squinted at his commander. “Did you do something, High Justiciar?”

  “No.” Vertiline tossed a small cylinder to the ground, then crushed it underfoot. “I did nothing at all.”

  Tarragon’s mouth worked for a moment, no noise coming out, then she said, “You took the synergy buffer? So her armour wouldn’t work?”

  “If that was a synergy buffer, and it was in her armour, and I wanted to keep my child safe from harm, I might have taken it. But only because a mother wants to keep her child from a war zone.” Vertiline looked away from Tarragon’s stupefied goggle and met Amir’s eyes. “Shall we astonish our foes by reminding them of the Three’s justice?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Meriwether groaned as weight lifted from his chest. The load was heavy, made of metal and dirt. As it let his lungs take in more than a teaspoonful of air he gasped, then coughed as what felt like a mountain of shale went down his throat.

  “He’s alive.” Amber stood on one side of the metal sheet he’d helped lift from Meriwether’s chest.

  On the other side stood Jade. “He doesn’t look it.”

  The siblings tossed the metal aside, and Amber offered Meriwether a hand. Taking it, and feeling all his years at once, the Holomancer let himself be helped up. “I’m not really sixty. I just look it.”

  Jade gave him a once-over. “You look more than sixty.”

  “Jade!” Amber brushed down the front of Meriwether’s shirt, then leaned close. “Perhaps sixty-five, but not a day older.”

  Meriwether looked from one to the other. “I’m, uh, about thirty-five. I guess, anyway. Time doesn’t … feel the same on the other side. Sometimes I have trouble when I realise I gave years of my life paying the Three’s price to solve a problem I didn’t make, so people could stand about telling me how hard living has cost me my looks.”

  “It’s cost you more than looks,” Jade assured him.

  “She’s just scared, because we’re armed with provisions, not swords, and all the people who know how to fight are not here.” Amber peered at him. “Do you know how to fight?”

  “Me? Hah!” Meriwether stepped past him and toward a Vhemin soldier. The man had emerged from behind the ruined back half of the caboose. Meriwether swayed sideways to avoid the highly predictable spear thrust, then slipped in nice and close. The Vhemin used a short spear, none of that pike nonsense. It was perfect for a close dance. The Vhemin smelled of old sweat and new wine. The sorcerer reached a hand inside the Vhemin’s guard and placed it atop the haft, and his other hand outside and below. He grunted, gave a twisting heave, and used torque to disarm the Vhemin.

  Stepping back, he continued the momentum and let the spear haft connect with his enemy’s jaw. He felt the crack run through the wooden haft, kept a grip, and tossed the weapon. It spun, thrumming, and connected with the nose of a Vhemin woman arriving to support her comrade.

  The Vhemin man hit the ground, joined a heartbeat later by the woman. Meriwether brushed his hands off. “I’m terrible at fighting.”

  “If that’s terrible, what are you like at things you’re good at?” Amber nudged the nearest Vhemin with a toe. “They’re out cold.”

  “You have to go for the head. They shake just about anything else off.” Meriwether tugged his ear, then winced. I’ve pulled something in my shoulder with that last stunt. Being old sucks. He parked the regret almost savagely, because the years had paid for something priceless. “Where is everyone else?”

  “Not sure.” Amber pointed toward the castle, an impressive off-white edifice that chose that moment to spit light and fire at the cloudy sky. Thunder rolled toward them. “I think that way.”

  “That way looks shit,” Meriwether said. “It looks like there are soldiers and cannons.”

  “I don’t make the rules,” Amber said. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  “Fair enough.” Meriwether retrieved his borrowed spear and examined it with a critical eye. The head was poorly made, blunt, and looked sure to give a savage infection to anyone who took a hit and tried to walk it off. He put the head against the ground, then kicked the haft, snapping it off. “Perfect.”

  “You just broke our only weapon.” Jade looked at him like he was an imbecile.

  “Two things.” Meriwether leaned on the spear. “First, I needed a walking stick. This spear is too poorly made to be a good weapon.”

  She eyed him, then gave a cautious nod. “The second thing?”

  “Another weapon will be along soon.”

  “Shall we be off?” Amber hefted a pack onto his shoulders.

  Meriwether gave the castle a critical glance. “Any horses around?”

  “Are you afraid of walking?”

  “I’m sixty-five, remember?”

  “I thought you were a sorcerer,” Jade said. “Can’t you sorcerer something up?”

  “I’m not that kind of sorcerer.” Meriwether rolled his aching shoulder. “I’m the broken-down, used up kind. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The slender blade of grass survived despite the odds. Sight of Day watched it from a mere hands’ breadth distance, the left side of his face against the churned earth, the right side open to the sounds of violence and slaughter.

  The stem was slender, pale-green in colour, and twisted to the north as a gust of wind tickled it. He let his golden eyes roam that way. He saw Armitage, the Vhemin enraged, bloody gore down front and back where a spar had gone clean through him. His body was laced with what looked like a hundred cuts, but Sight of Day expected that was merely his concussion talking. The monster collected a slender man hiding behind a shield, stomped the hapless fellow to the ground, hooked fingers under his chin, and tore his head from his shoulders.

  Sight of Day didn’t want to look at that, so he let his eyes wander further still. Yes, his feet were still there: pointed to the castle, as if they were trying to set him on the right path. I don’t want to go that way. There will be more dying, possibly involving me. He also saw the piece of steel going through his abdomen, and tried not to think about it, because it hurt quite a lot, and there was blood leaving him in a steady flow to soak the ground. Perhaps it will water another blade of grass, and more things will grow here because I’m gone.

  The Vhemin shouted something that sounded like get that fucking cat up, but that couldn’t be right. Armitage knew Sight of Day was mortally wounded, dying, and unable to move, let alone fight. Dead weight, and Sight of Day knew that out on the crucible of the sands that forged his mighty friend, there was no room for sentiment. He knows he can’t take me. I have little time left, and nothing to give. But if I stay here, I will water the earth, and a new blade of grass will grow. That is something. It is better than nothing.

  Who was Armitage shouting at? Oh, yes. Sands Apart. The woman of the People who’d been taken by a warped man and twisted to a hateful purpose. I am good at making things. I hope I remade her the way she wanted to be. I wish her to be happy. She must grow, like this grass. And like the grass, she can only do that with my passing.

  Ochre eyes came into his field of view. The woman was coated in blood, and some of it might even have been hers. But the People were strong, forged by a hateful race in a detestable time. Their gemstone eyes were able to see the long years behind them, the cost the first Feybrind paid to exist, and the narrow path ahead. A step to the left or right and we fall, lost to time and memory. The world would turn on without the People, their gemstone eyes, and their wonderful creations.

  Will anyone miss us?

  Sands Apart shook his shoulders, and Sight of Day felt himself flop in response. There was no strength left in his long, lean limbs. Oh, dear. Not long now. He put a hand on hers, an effort that felt harder than lifting his first blade in war. {Dear heart, you must go. There are others who need your strength, courage, and wisdom. They are lost on me.}

  She shook her head. Her teeth bared, not in anger, but fear and confusion. Her fingers trembled for a moment. Behind her the giant Armitage beat three men back using what looked to be the leg of a Vhemin, blood spraying from the stump with each swing. {You are the only one who understands their worth. You are the only one who understands the worth of anyone.}

  Sight of Day thought about that for a few weak beats of his limping heart. {I think you see it too.}

  Her teeth clenched, ochre eyes going hard like sheet metal burnished by the forge. {I didn’t want to. How will I see what must be obvious to the golden eyes when they aren’t there anymore?}

  {Golden eyes are just eyes.} He reached a trembling hand to touch her chest just above her heart. {This is all that matters.}

  Sands Apart shook her heard a violent no. {You matter. You matter to all of us.}

  {This grass will not grow if I live. Who am I to say whether I am more important than it?}

  She opened her mouth in a soundless cry, then grabbed the steel running through his middle, and tore it free. The pain was bright, so very bright, like looking into forgefire just after the bellows had brightened it enough to bend and shape the hardest metal. He gasped. The pain of her binding him with cloth was almost a relief. She grabbed the front of his jerkin, hauled him upright, and slapped his face. In Sight of Day’s view, she hit him unnecessarily hard. {I say.} She pointed to the spot he’d touched, right above her heart. {I say you are more important.}