Shield and Crocus (32 page)

The hall of the City Mother was large enough to fit a congregation of three hundred, with fifty priests and another hundred acolytes in the rafters.

When he was a child, he’d come to take part in an homage service.
I felt something change there, felt Her presence in my heart
. He’d watched the thread of devotion wind up from his heart and towards the giant gem, matched by an emerald thread from the City Mother herself.

This time, instead of a congregation, priests, and acolytes, First Sentinel was alone with Magister Yema and his warlock Guard. Yema snapped twice, and the warlocks formed into two ranks, between the Magister and the Shield.

“I didn’t believe the rumors when they said you’d be here, not at first. I just decided to reschedule my monthly visit, on the happy chance that I could rip out your heart. Thank you so much for being obliging.”

“No, thank you, Yema, for obliging me. This will be infinitely easier with you here.”

Now it might even work. But I can’t do it with all these guards running around.

First Sentinel’s mind spun, trying to plan how to fight a hundred guards while being assaulted by the Magister’s sorcery.
And with my bag of tricks running on empty.

Yema gave the order to attack, and the first rank charged while the second rank fired over their backs.
Think fast, old man. Or it all comes crashing down.
The Shields couldn’t risk climbing the tower just to claim his body for the hall of Broken Shields. Aegis would try, and they’d have to hold him down until he came to his senses.

First Sentinel’s hand dropped to his belt and drew the grappling gun from its holster. He shuffled back and fired the hook into the rafters. The hook landed on target, and he pushed the button that whipped him up to the side of the tower and into the intricate rafters.

Yema bellowed at his warlocks as First Sentinel soared out of range. “After him! If you let him escape, I’ll feed your hearts to the sewer rats!” They scrambled for the ladders, and the handful of warlocks already in the rafters started to converge.

First Sentinel pulled himself up onto the walkway. It was wide enough for two to walk shoulder-to-shoulder, but only just. It would limit their numbers in any one position, giving First Sentinel a chance to deal with them one or two at a time. The old Shield rushed the nearest guard, who couldn’t quite keep his footing on the shaky planks. The warlock attacked with a knife coated by crackling energy. First Sentinel parried the blow with a shock glove, sending the knife spiraling out towards the center of the room. First Sentinel grabbed the warlock’s arm and threw the man off the side. He screamed all the way down as First Sentinel continued on towards the next ladder.

Five layers above, there was a winch with hundreds of feet of rope, positioned directly above the emerald.
If I can get up there, then maybe I can even the odds.

The air around him was thin, smelling of sawdust and unfinished wood. First Sentinel stepped onto an abutment that jutted out towards the center of the room, forming a quarter-circle with the pathway leading to another set of rafters.

At the corner was a trio of Yema’s warlock Guard, holding a tight formation. At top, a tall Pronai held a spear at the ready, standing over a waiting Ikanollo woman who held a femur wand and a crouched, Full-blood hedgehogkin Millrej, bristling with blades as well as spines. Behind them were another few guards scattered along the far side of the rafter.

First Sentinel checked the struts under the far part of the rafter and wondered if it would stay up with the corner blown out, fingering an explosive. First Sentinel decided against it, slipping the small bomb back into its pouch. The warlocks from the ground level were working their way up, cutting off his retreat.

The corner was his best path up.
Unless I want to try the grappling gun again and risk the guards at the far side cutting my line before I can scale up to the platform.

No, it had to be straight through or not at all. No time to go around. But explosives weren’t his only tool. He drew one of his fighting staves and the last flash stone. First Sentinel palmed the stone as he charged the trio of warlocks, spinning the fighting staff to draw their attention.

The Ikanollo let loose with her wand, shooting yellow bolts that matched the threads of fear that sprouted from the trio’s chests. Yema’s control kept them loyal, made them stand their ground, but it couldn’t keep them from fearing First Sentinel, the unkillable rebel.
Reputation has its rewards.

First Sentinel ducked and rolled under the blasts, feeling the rafters wobble and creak beneath him as he came back up to his feet and tossed the stone. First Sentinel covered his eyes, waiting for the flash.

The Pronai called, “Flash!” but the stone went off before First Sentinel could see how the others reacted. First Sentinel removed his hand just after the flash, watching through his shimmercrab goggles. He’d gotten in range of the spear-wielder. The warlock had one hand on the end of the haft, the second a foot up for balance. With his grip back that far, he had little tip control and less leverage. First Sentinel beat the blade aside with his staff and closed. The Pronai had protected his eyes, but the Millrej hedgehog-kin was scratching at his eyes with a moan.

First Sentinel waved the fighting staff in front of him in a defensive pattern to ward off the spear as he kicked the Millrej in the face. The hedgehog guard fell half-off the platform, his upper body dangling off the side. He flailed, toe-claws digging into the planks for stability.

The Ikanollo fired another blast from the femur wand, catching First Sentinel in the leg. The magic tore away his leggings and the top of his boots, searing flesh just inches below the still-healing wound from his fall after killing Nevri.

The pain dropped First Sentinel to a knee, then to his belly as he forced himself down to keep from falling off the platform. He pushed back up and spun on his back, holding on with one hand as he tripped the Ikanollo.

The Pronai warlock dropped the spear and pulled a knife. The Pronai cut down toward the Shield’s neck, but the distance was long enough that First Sentinel leaned to dodge the strike. He put the Ikanollo warlock between himself and the Pronai.
One at a time, thank you.

She scrambled back to her feet and got in the Ikanollo’s way while First Sentinel found his footing. The platform bobbed up and down as the blows and crashes stressed the rope supports.

Faster, now, they’re catching up to you.
First Sentinel stood as far up as he could without leaning on his wounded leg, whipped the fighting staff into the Ikanollo’s side, then pushed her at the Pronai again.

There’s no way I can make it the rest of the way crawling. Get up, old man. Keep going.

First Sentinel pivoted on his good leg, grabbing for the Pronai’s wrist as he caught the first twitch of the blow. The Pronai was fast, and the two fell into a clinch. The Pronai flailed and they both started wobbling.

First Sentinel wrapped the Pronai in an arm bar, then dropped him to his knees with the pressure from the grapple. First Sentinel pushed and dropped the Pronai off the platform.
Two down, keep going.
First Sentinel fell on the Ikanollo again with the butt of his fighting staff, cracking her sternum.

First Sentinel stood with a grimace and moved along the other side of the platform. He clashed with the next handful of guards while the warlocks closed the distance behind him. His left leg was dead weight, so he fought around it.

What I’d give to have Aegis here, or Sapphire.

At the lip of Ghost Hands’ weakening force field, Protean rolled off from the inside wall of the vault and slammed Weja to the ground. It morphed its fingers into claws and dug them into Duma’s side. Sapphire heard the cracking of bones, and then Duma gasped her last breath as her ribcage cracked open like a book. For a moment, grief overcame Sapphire, her blood-bound sister’s pain and all she could think about was having to explain to Yara that her mother was dead.

Weja cried out in wordless sorrow, diving on top of Protean and punching with incoherent rage, channeling the anger and pain of loss.
Animalistic fury is good against Protean, but when three Freithin can’t hold the shape-shifting beast, how can two?
The Freithin tumbled on the floor, trying to get a grip on the ever-shifting Spark-touched.

If she had the rest of the team, she’d try to bring a building down on Protean, or trick it into becoming small enough to enclose in a magically-reinforced container enchanted by First Sentinel, any of the things they’d done to stop it in the past.

But she had only Ghost Hands and Weja by her side and no free escape routes. Blunt fingers shifted into claws as Protean pressed Sapphire, cutting a gash through her ear. She kept punching, kicking, trying to bruise Protean’s mass into immobility and fatigue, the only tactic she saw left to her, save for bringing the whole city block down on their heads.
Not my idea of a good end to the evening.

A crossbow bolt clattered off the far wall of the vault, inside Ghost Hands’ field. Then another. One caught Protean in the back, and yet another punched a hole in Ghost Hands’ cloak before the rest of the volley was knocked aside.

The Qava’s voice rang in her mind, strained and tired. [
I can’t hold on much longer. We need to get out
.]

Sapphire landed a punch square between Protean’s two bulbous eyes and the slits left for breathing. [
You’re right. I’m going to toss another batch of the explosives onto the guards. We duck behind the vault opening, then make a break—right turn out of the vault. Relay the order to Weja.
]

Ghost Hands responded, [
Of course. On your mark
.] Sapphire saw Weja narrow her eyes, no doubt listening to the voice in her head. She threw a kick to Protean’s shifting center of mass, and then pushed off. Sapphire reached into the crate and plucked out two mid-sized explosives. She set one timer to two minutes, the other to five seconds.

[
Mark
.] Sapphire pulled out the shorter explosive, tapped the silver button, then hauled back and tossed it overhand into the ranks of guards. She dove to the side, watching the explosive bounce. The boom echoed around the corner of the vault wall, and Sapphire was back up, shouting, “Go!” as she tackled Protean off of Weja. Ghost Hands flew above and to her right, and Weja scrambled out of the vault, breath heaving with effort.

Protean speared a sharpened pseudopod through Sapphire’s gut. Sapphire grit her teeth as she pulled herself off the protrusion to flee with her teammates. The handful of survivors from the guard squadron were scrambling to their feet.

Ignore the pain. Just run.

She broke into a full sprint, cracking the tiles with her heavy strides as she raced down the halls to catch up to Weja and the flying Ghost Hands. Rapid padding footfalls followed her, maybe two seconds behind. Sapphire reached into her belt and tossed a flash stone behind her. She saw the light bounce off of the walls, and the rapid footfalls slowed, a pace or two farther back.

Sapphire shouted in her mind. [
Protean’s right on my tail. We’ll need a quick fade once we get free of the building or it’ll tail us all the way back to the safehouse.
]

Ghost Hands’ response was strained, as if out of breath, though Qava didn’t breathe. [
I don’t think I have enough in me to do anything drastic
.]

[
You’re far too skinny to make a good meal, it’s true
.]

Ghost Hands chuckled. [
I bet my brain is juicy
.]

Sapphire caught a claw across the calf, but didn’t break stride. [
Can we concentrate on getting out alive?
]

[
Just saying. You’re going to have to catch me, all right?
]

[
What?
]

Ghost Hands turned, hovered in the air, and two slabs ripped off from the wall, smashing Protean between them. The mass toppled to the ground and Ghost Hands dropped out of the air like a sack of coffee beans. Sapphire slid to a stop to catch the falling Qava. She was limp as the stuffed doll Sapphire’s brother had made out of scraps back when they were in the pens.

Sapphire and Weja ran for the entrance, broke open the door, and ran out into the lamp-lit evening.

“Safehouse, now,” Sapphire said, and they bolted down the street towards the alley that led to their rendezvous point. She tried to rouse Ghost Hands, but the Qava woman was out cold, her mind silent.

We made it. Some of us. I wonder if Aegis did. Or First Sentinel. It’s in their hands, now.

As Sapphire turned the corner towards the alley, the mint went up in a cacophony of explosions, red and yellow plumes blossoming up into the sky. The trio disappeared into the corner and sought refuge from the watchful eyes of the city.

First Sentinel had scaled three levels of rafters, followed by a long stream of warlocks behind and several groups ahead. The winch was still two stories up.
One level up and I can make a jump for the end of the rope and the crane.

Magister Yema was a bald yellow spot down below, waving his arms, the burgundy strand between him and the emerald contorting and twisting. The threads smothered the City Mother’s brilliant light, but First Sentinel could see cracks through the ribbons. If he could just get an unimpeded shot at the emerald, he might be able to end this whole thing.
I bet Yema would bring the rafters down if it wouldn’t mean risking damage to the emerald.

First Sentinel reached another group. He baited a warlock holding a sickle, stepping into her range just long enough for her to take a swing. First Sentinel dropped back and let the warlock follow-through, sending her off balance. The warlock stumbled forward to regain her balance, and First Sentinel leaned back in and cracked her across the jaw. Warlock and sickle fell from the platform.

The other two lunged forward, determined to not be picked off. One wielded a sword, the other reached out with hands that sucked away the light from the air around them.

I don’t want to find out what that does first-hand.
First Sentinel stepped sideways, away from the dark hands, and when the swordswoman reached out, he swung into her blow, sending the blade across to block her compatriot.

First Sentinel shuffled forward and pulled the swordswoman by her cloak, sending her tumbling into the dark hands. He watched the warmth drain out of the woman’s face, paralyzed by pain. She didn’t even have the energy to cry out, as her life was drained away in an instant. Dark hands was lost in ecstasy, his face flush.

Not wanting to risk suffering dark hands’ power, First Sentinel pushed past the two of them and kept going.
Just a little farther.
he jumped and climbed up another ladder, seeing the blades thrusting down the hole at the bottom of the next level.
This’ll be interesting.

Yema’s voice rang clear through the wide expanse of the room, and a shiver rushed all the way down First Sentinel’s body.
Not good.

His vision blurred into a mass of red, and the ladder crumbled in his grip. First Sentinel fell, spinning, the emerald rushing up towards him like a long-forgotten lover.

Don’t die yet, old man.

First Sentinel shook off the daze and reached for his grappling gun as his longcoat whipped around him, threatening to tie him up into a straightjacketed corpse-in-waiting.

Fifty feet above the emerald, then forty, thirty. The gun came up and First Sentinel fired at the far side of the ramparts, praying for his luck to hold. The hook found purchase, though First Sentinel’s arm threatened to stay behind as his trajectory curved down and away from the emerald.

Not fast enough.
The rope tore, or was cut. First Sentinel didn’t know, couldn’t tell. He fell again, but instead of the gem, the ground reached out to catch him and he collapsed in a cracking crashing roll.

First Sentinel snapped his head up even though his vision was still shaking, his head pounding. He thought he’d sprained his ankle, maybe fractured something in his once-good leg. His grappling gun had clattered to the floor out of reach, his legs were useless, and the warlocks were right there, Yema laughing behind them.

The warlocks closed, but Yema called them off. They formed a circle, surrounded the two men with a wall of steel and magic. Yema strode through the crowd and stepped into the circle.

“If only the rest of them could see you like this. Broken, beaten, useless.” Yema smiled again, revealing ivory-white teeth with sharpened canines. “Well, perhaps not useless.” he reached into his cloak and pulled out a jewel-encrusted dagger with permanent bloodstains in all colors marbled up the edge of the blade. The pommel was ruby, carved into the shape of a heart.

He’s not just going to kill me. He’ll take my heart and use me against the other Shields, a puppet, a powerless witness to the betrayal he’ll force upon me.

A burgundy thread unfolded from Yema’s cloak, reaching out for the Shield, trying to slip through the weave of his threads: Gold threads for his brother and sister Shields, a broad thread of brass reaching out towards the City Mother, supplicant, dimming strands of hope flailing for anything to hold onto.

First Sentinel’s mind raced as his heart screamed in fear, feeling the thread of domination reaching out.

I can’t. I won’t. Not them, not my friends. Not my son. Not Selweh.

The guilt of aria’s death and his folly weighed on him, threatening to flatten him with its weight as the burgundy thread fought its way through the weave of his emotions, seeking purchase.

I’m sorry, Aria. I’ve held onto this guilt like a drowning man and his last broken plank. I couldn’t help you without breaking us, and then I failed you again. But if I die here, Aegis and all of the others will be next. I promised, and I won’t fail you again.

First Sentinel sloughed off the guilt like a snakes’ skin, felt it fall away from him, freeing his hand and his heart.

He reached out for the burgundy thread, tore it from Yema’s chest, and tossed it aside to wither and die. Yema recoiled, clutched his chest.

“What? I thought you…”

It had been nearly thirty years since the last time he used his powers to save aria. To lose aria. His heart raced, blood pumping so fast he feared he would burst. He’d inadvertently pulled out several other threads as well, and saw them squirm on the floor, shriveling up like sun-stained grubs.
It still works, but I’ve as little control as ever. Focus, old man.

Yema cried out in wordless rage, and then reached forward for the Shield again, stabbing the dagger at First Sentinel’s throat. They tumbled to the floor.

We’re just two puppet-masters vying for control of the soul of a city. Two sorcerers, two leaders. Two stubborn old men, refusing to give up, incapable of yielding.

They struggled over the dagger with wordless snarls and grunts. As First Sentinel grabbed hold, he pushed the dagger towards the thick braid of threads linking Yema to the distant building where the warlock Guard’s hearts were kept. First Sentinel pushed their hands, using the dagger as a focus to saw through the threads binding the warlocks to Yema’s control, drawing again on the power he’d forbidden himself out of guilt and fear.

Threads tore by the thousand. They frayed, strained, and then snapped free, flying around the room, searching for a heart to cling to. The thickest threads were red rage to First Sentinel and the burgundy control to the City Mother. First Sentinel hacked at the burgundy thread and watched it snap along with the others. There was no going back. Not after Blurred Fists, after the Shield-bearers, after Nevri, after the Soulburner.

This has to end, now.

The shifting, shouting, waiting crowd of warlock Guards went still, enraptured. The only sounds in the room were the two men’s struggle, each scrambling for control. Yema regained the dagger and found his feet, wobbling to a shaky stand. The magister backed away and started to chant a spell. Behind him, the black-cloaked crowds murmured, some still dazed, some panicking, others yawning as if waking from a long sleep.

“Please, help me!” First Sentinel shouted.
Please, snap out of it.
he tried to find his footing, and then fell flat on the ground as the fracture deepened and his ankle gave way. First Sentinel reached for his belt, but Yema pounced again. He twisted away from the blade, so instead of the heart, Yema stabbed through First Sentinel’s shoulder, the edge sliding across his clavicle.

All he could do was scream. First Sentinel curled up, trying to protect his vitals, but Yema was on him, stabbing again.

City Mother, help me. This is your true son, Wonlar Gonyu Pacsa, Shield of Audec-Hal. Can you hear me? This man has held you captive for fifty years, used your power against your children. I will die here today, but don’t let him keep on controlling you. For the sake of my son, I cannot let guilt stay my hand. Yema and the others are strangling the life from this city bit by bit.

First Sentinel opened his eyes, reaching out for the City Mother. He took a deep breath, and pulled with all of his being.

He pulled himself along the brass thread he’d kept and tended for fifty years. He pulled with fifty years of fighting, hoping, and planning, his thread tended diligently and tirelessly, like the crocuses aria held dear. Every battle, every meeting, every invention, and every impassioned speech had brought him to that point, made the thread wide, the weave strong and tight.

The burgundy thread frayed an inch at a time, then faster, and faster, unraveling Yema’s power. First Sentinel hauled at the thread and it tore. He pulled once more, ignoring the pain from Yema’s dagger, ignored his screams of rage, and just pulled. He saw through the burgundy to the brilliant facets of her emerald. He stretched out and pulled with his last breath.

And something reached back. First Sentinel heard a voice in his head, cool but heartening, old but ageless.

[
I see you, my son. Finally, I see you. You and your people have removed the veils from my eyes, layer by layer over the years. Today I can see clearly. Now it is my turn to help you
.]

Yema reared up for the kill, once-ivory teeth stained with blood. First Sentinel was frozen on the floor, looking up at him and at the emerald beyond, which glowed as bright as it had when he was a child. The anchorless mass of burgundy threads shifted colors, lightened. Burgundy was replaced by deep emerald, arcing out across the whole city.

I’ve done it. She’s free.

The dagger came down, but Yema’s hand was stayed by a waifish Pronai woman in a black cloak. She twisted the blade out of his hands, and she was not alone. The circle shifted, closing around Yema, and a mass of blackcloaked figures fell upon the sorcerer like a pack of wild animals, stabbing, slashing, biting, screaming their vengeance and retribution.

The frenzy continued, stretching out as First Sentinel saw the red threads of hatred twirl from the distant tower, intermixed with the emerald that bound every citizen to the City Mother, no longer choked out by the burgundy.

When they were done, the former warlocks cast aside their cloaks, piling them atop Yema’s lifeless form. They gathered around First Sentinel dressed only in tunics and undergarments. The former warlocks helped him up and the whole group walked to the emerald.

The City Mother spoke to First Sentinel again, her presence in his mind as comforting as trace memories of the womb. [
Yema will never take another heart, my son. But there are others who still hold the reins of control over my children
.]

First Sentinel coughed, tasting blood in his mouth. “I know. They’re next. The Smiling King, COBALT-3, Omez. I won’t stop until they’re all gone and your Senate is restored.”

[
But first, you need to rest. Start now. Your friends are coming for you
.]

The world went dark, but it was the comforting dark of sleep, of rest, of the last dark before the dawn. As sleep took him, he smelled crocuses, freshly-bloomed.