Meriwether stood atop what might have been a nice taverna, if not for the dead milling in the courtyard out front. To his left, a woman with dead-white hair glared hate at the risen below. To his right, Sight of Day stood with a bow, arrow nocked, but no apparent desire to use it.
It wouldn’t make much difference. There’s a thousand dead below, and he’s got maybe thirty arrows.
White-Hair sniffed. “You want to go in there?” She pointed at the bank, around which most of the dead’s attention focused.
“Want? Hell, no. Need? Yes.” Meriwether flexed his hand. It felt strained after smashing the Feybrind control device. Won’t kill me, though. “We just saw a Champion enter. I’m going to help.”
“And you want us to lay down covering fire?” She held up fingers hooked into claws. Arcs of electricity danced between her fingertips.
“No, I want you to lay down covering fire and avoid burning me alive.” He gave an encouraging nod. “Thin their numbers. We’ll need a way out the front door, so maybe focus on that.”
“Don’t be stupid!” she called after him, but he was already slipping off the roof to land amid the risen in the courtyard.
Be like them. A life of hiding in plain sight made Meriwether a better actor than any troubadour. He didn’t spring to his feet; instead he lurched up with a raspy groan. Dead eyes passed over him, then focused on the bank.
It wasn’t hard to make out. The bank was raised atop steps, and if that wasn’t enough, lights blinked in the windows. Am I sure about this? I’m going into a fight between people using the Storm. Mortals can’t stand against the Tresward.
Geneve can’t use the Storm, and she’s in there. He shuffled across the square. The throng pressed close, and he smelled old blood, shit, and fear. The fear was his; the rest belonged to the bodies. No rot, but it didn’t look like these had been dead long.
Eyes down, idiot. A semblance of curiosity sparked in a man’s eyes to Meriwether’s right. Meriwether groaned, gnashed his teeth, and lurched on as the man’s eyes slid away.
In normal circumstances it’d be tricky to push through a crowd this large, but each of the risen lacked intelligence. They shuffled, shambled, and ambled, but none dropped the elbow, barged, or scuttled low. Meriwether did, guilt-free because there were no witnesses. Well, aside from the cat, but he figured the two of them were past that. He hoped Sight of Day marked his progress through the throng.
Sure enough, when a clammy hand grasped his elbow, a dead mouth opening into a slavering maw, a feathered shaft sprouted from the thing’s head. It slipped from Meriwether’s side. The ones about him turned to the taverna, a few heading back that way.
Hurry up. He dropped his shoulder unto a woman’s back, and unashamedly kicked a small boy aside. The kid was already dead, so the usual rules didn’t count.
The sky rumbled, then a massive pillar of lightning slashed the ground. Dead bodies blew apart. Some turned to ash instantly. Those on the periphery of the strike burst into flame. Meriwether risked a glance back. The taverna’s roof held White-Hair, her hands raised in supplication to the heavens. Another bolt of blue-white smashed the market square, tossing bodies like sand.
A wizard atop a clothier’s touched fingers to brow, saluting Meriwether, then clapped his hands together. Wind swept from the sea, not rising gently but howling into the market with the wail of a hungry typhoon. It carried ice and the smell of old salt. The ice flensed the dead, shredding flesh from bone, and bone from sinew, destroying the bodies where they stood.
These are the echo of powerful sorcerers. The Tresward beat them all. Herded them to nothing. But the Tresward have gods at their beck and call. The Storm beats this every time.
While the magi culled the dead, Meriwether went back to the task of getting inside. The risen were thinnest on one side of the bank, so he headed there. Screw going in the front door. That’s a portal to suicide. He ambled between two women, one who looked to have eaten everything ever, and one who looked starved. They were reaching for the bank’s boarded windows. The thin one cawed, then twisted her head on a creaking neck to face him.
Arrows thunked into her eye sockets, a one-two punch, and she dropped. Meriwether took her place at the wall, peering inside.
The Knights were well into it. Vertiline was on the ground, bleeding out, or perhaps dead. Geneve rushed the black-armored witch. Meriwether wiped rain and salt from his eyes. I’ve got to get in there!
Too fast for him to see the specifics, the witch carved her name in Israel’s chest. The Knight Valiant fell, and by some magic Meriwether couldn’t tell, a shockwave blasted from his fallen body. Did the magi on the roofs strike inside? Meriwether couldn’t see exactly, because he was torn from his feet by the larger woman.
He would have screamed, but the wall shook, bricks showering the alley. The large woman took about forty in her back, stumbled to the ground, and—Three be praised—loosened her grip.
Meriwether got to his feet. The dead were everywhere. They lurched inside, and he was drawn on the current of their passage. Inside, he cast about for Geneve. Meriwether saw a tousle of red hair chalked by dust and ran for her.
The mages inside burst from the back room. They hurled fire and ice at the dead. A chunk of stone nicked Meriwether’s cheek. Another chunk hit his knee. Armitage was at their head, a massive club in his hands. He swept it like a broom, giving the mages room. Dead swarmed the Vhemin, and the monster laughed. Gleeful, delighted to die this way. Meriwether ignored all of it, falling to Geneve’s side.
Her eyes were open, staring. He touched her face. “Geneve!” Nothing. He winced, then slapped her face. No response. Is she dead?
He wanted to bend an ear to her lips, but the storm of magic as wizards fought the dead wouldn’t allow it. Meriwether could barely hear his own thoughts. He twisted, looking for a solution, and locked eyes with the black-armored woman.
She was embedded in a wall but creaked her way free. Her face was partially ruined, cheek crushed, but no blood ran from her face. She arched her back, then smiled crooked, broken teeth at Meriwether.
The enchanters blasted dead back outside. They slung lightning and flame like whips, leaving a burning trail of limbs as they pushed the dead back. Armitage roared his defiance, keeping them safe from stragglers trying to flank. The Vhemin bled from a hundred cuts and bites but didn’t look like they bothered him. They fought on, taking the battle outside.
Leaving Meriwether alone with a Knight Champion.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! Meriwether fumbled through chalk dust and rubble, fingers coming against cold metal. He raised Geneve’s borrowed sword, then stood, feet astride her body. “Come get some.”
She chuckled, a broken sound like fractured clockwork. “You’re the sinner?” Nicolette drew a length of steel from a back sheath. It was a simple dagger, ordinary metal not glass, but Meriwether had no doubts. She might have the smaller weapon, but she had years of service to three relentless gods on her side.
“We prefer the term, ‘gifted.’” Meriwether turned as the Champion walked a circle.
She shored up at Israel’s body. Nicolette nudged him with a boot. He didn’t respond, but she bent, sticking him over and over with her knife. Job done, she straightened. “Where’s the other one?”
Meriwether cast about, spying Vertiline not three meters from Geneve. He’d missed her in all the excitement, but possibly also because her skin was the same color as the chalk coating her. The giveaway was the red paste her blood made of the dust.
He stepped between Geneve and Vertiline, blade ready. Meriwether saw how the point wavered, mirroring his fear. “She’s not for you.”
“And who’s to stop me, little one?” Nicolette felt in her mouth, and with a pop, straightened her jaw. “Not you.”
Meriwether frowned. “Are you … dead? Is that what’s going on?” She nodded, smile even wider now her jaw was settled. “Is that why you couldn’t get into the temple?”
Nicolette shrugged. “I don’t know how the ancients worked. I could get in, then I couldn’t.” She tossed her knife from hand to hand. “How do you want it? Head or chest? If you like, I could make sure you never saw it coming.”
“Don’t you want the Ledger?” Meriwether felt his breath coming faster and faster, fear speeding everything up. “You know, the book.”
She considered him. “I think we can get you to give it to us after you’re dead. Death isn’t the end, sinner. It’s the start of so much more.” Nicolette took two steps forward, then stopped, her eyes wide.
Meriwether felt strong fingers on his hands. He startled, turning to the side, but was disarmed effortlessly. No, not effortlessly. Perfectly. Geneve took her sword back. “You came.”
“Hah. I mean, sure.”
She nodded, something sad and relieved in it at the same time. “You stood when all else didn’t. Step back, Meri. I’ve got this.”
“But … the Storm,” he said. “You should run. Get away, while you can.”
Her eyes glinted gold. Her smile was warm, like the dawn. Geneve swung her sword in a three-strike flourish. The first time, her blade glimmered with Cophine’s pale face. The second, ash-gray light seeped from the metal. On the final, Khiton’s dark light rippled down the blade. “Oh, Meri. I didn’t believe Sight of Day. But he saw it, from the first day.”
“Saw what?”
She faced Nicolette, sinking into a ready stance. “I’m a daughter of the Three, and there’s a Storm inside me.”
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