Zehnsdee, the 20th of Frost, 768 A.E.

  For half a Wayke Genero and his team of thirty – counting himself – had waited in the icy slopes surrounding Aetheline. Corydon had stressed very plainly that he wasn’t sure exactly what Dee Anthea and her companions would arrive, but they had to be there before them. They had pushed the pair of large Fliers to their limits, draining the batteries during the night – though the moon helped maintain the charge to some extent – and recharging during the Dee.

  They had not even stopped in Choraeyn over Elegian lands to resupply and recharge. To not do so was to flirt very dangerously with Nelius, who was always looking to claim the lives of the foolish. All they would have needed was an exceptionally cloudy night and they’d have had to set down or crash, possibly right into the Inner Seas, which had constituted more than half of the terrain beneath them during their journey.

  During those fourteen Dees in the air, Genero had never once bothered about battery charges. Yet if he didn’t bother with the batteries, his men did. The handpicked Dark Aurean Guardians of Corydon had begun exchanging nervous glances in the nights that the moon was barely enough to trickle charge their batteries. Once or twice, they might have even neared running out, but Genero’s reply had always been the same: keep on going and stop for nothing.

  Some might see their survival of such a dangerous trip as fortuitous, but Genero put no thought to that either. If the Gods had truly favored him, he’d not have been caught up in this whole mess to begin with. Corydon’s mad plans had no determinable end. He would light the world on fire given the chance, of that Genero had no doubt, and he had been drafted in as one of the man’s captains.

  Already Maethlin was a whirlwind of change. Stone structures and fortresses that rivaled anything the Elegians or Aynglicans could build in a Yarres’ time had been thrown up in the space of but a Munth. Fortifications had been built, raw materials refining stations had been set up, and roads had been blazed. Something like two thousand Dark Aureans were carving up the island and changing it to become the headwaters of the flood of Aurean culture. It was a flood that would spread into the world, not so much like as a force of progress and change as a foul, corrupting taint that would crush whatever resisted it.

  Genero grimaced and looked once more at the pictoimage of his wife Cerelia. The mezzotint engraving had been filled with subtle pigments in dozens of shades of colors that made her stand out in almost lifelike quality. There was even a hint of three dimensions to the two-dimensional representation of his wife. Yet even such a wondrous and lovely thing had a greasy feeling to it.

  After all, it had been a parting gift from Corydon, as if to remind him that his wife’s safety depended entirely on his accomplishment of his delegated duties – not that this was a fact that had ever escaped Genero. That was why he was camped out in a circle of crummy little tents that had been thrown up around the pair of landed Fliers. They’d covered with whitewashed canvas and snow to hide their presence, but that wouldn’t stop someone who walked up from seeing them.

  They’d approached at night, relying on the uneven light of the moon to point out a safe landing spot instead of using their own lights. The first two times they’d tried to set the lead Flier down the ground had given way too much, the second time even starting a small avalanche. The third time had proved to be the charm, and many Aureans saw the number three as a strong number, nearly as strong as ten.

  Genero found himself wishing at one point that they’d been swept away in the avalanche, so he’d not have to slave out his life for a man he despised so greatly, but he had not been granted such a boon from Gandahar. Even Haestos and Maletos could have failed them as they flew here, but they too had granted them their blessings in the form of enough light to survive the trip. They could have at least let him die so one of the survivors could be responsible for this entire mess.

  No, for whatever reason, the Gods seemed to want this meeting to occur. Perhaps it was another test to prove Anthea’s worthiness in the grand scheme of things. Surely, he was beyond redemption though. He closed his eyes once more and pillowed his head on his palm after touching his middle and forefingers to his forehead as he whispered prayers to Haestos and Maletos for salvation. His elbow rested on the cold surface of his desk in the stateroom of his Flier.

  Why was this happening to him? Munths ago, before he had even heard of Orestes, a disgraced and antisocial Guardian Captain from Yarres back, he had been living his life to its fullest with his wife and son.

  Now though, the safety of his mate and his son rested in the hands of a man who had no concept of life’s value. He was willing to do anything to thwart Maletos’ curse of their people. Cities had already burned and families had been put to the sword or arc-lance. And that was before they had turned the Farsight Outlooks into terrible weapons that could cook men where they stood and boiled the seas. But even before the use of what some called the Darksight Outlooks, the Kerathi had been able to only feebly resist the onslaught of the Dark Aureans.

  Time and time again their long rifles had proved ineffective against Arc-Lances and Arc-swords, which were not clunky to reload and unwieldy in combat like the Kerathi firearms were. This is not to say the Kerathi had not caused casualties when their cities fell. They had indeed, killing two or three score in the taking of Fjorlen alone and half that in Norsjalde. Granted, this was not a prime showing of their skills, as they were usually taken unawares and slaughtered in their homes before they could put together an organized resistance. Many of them had scattered into the hills and woodlands, where they still waited and preyed on the unwary Aureans that wandered past them, but the ratio of casualties was still very heavily against the Kerathi.

  In addition to the slaughter in the cities, an estimated thousand or more had died off the coast of Maethlin too, victims of the Darksight Outlooks. More were killed every Dee as scout Fliers combed the lands from the air, looking for encampments of resistors who could not be forced into laboring for the Aurean cause. That number was sickeningly high, since the only ones who seemed to allow themselves to be forced into work gangs were the ones who had some hope of raising a sword against their captors when their allies came.

  A knock on the door of his stateroom made him raise his head and open his eyes, but he wasn’t sure that it was the first knock. There had likely been others. “Come.” He said with a bit more irritation at his moments of reflection being interrupted than he’d like to have shown.

  A Guardian in a white cloak and grey vest permitted himself to enter. Their change in attire from their standard Bronze or Gold armor and helmets had been for covertness. Attention from Aetheline was something they strongly wished to avoid, and as of yet they had no sign that they’d been spotted. Of course, the cynic in Genero realized, there was a definite chance that they were just biding their time to see what he and his men were planning to do.

  “What is it?” Genero demanded curtly when the Guardian did not speak right away.

  “We’ve spotted them. Six people are approaching from the north, taking the stairs as you said they would be.”

  “Of course they are.” Genero replied offhandedly, but his mind was whirring as he tried to decide who the extra people in Anthea’s party might be. There had only been four last he had seen them. “Unless they sprouted wings, the only other ways up are the stairs and scaling these mountains. Which would you choose given that choice?”

  “The stairs, sir.”

  “Then we see things in the same way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, now lets prepare their welcome. You will lead the first sortie with nine others, and I will follow afterward.”

  “I see.” The Guardian replied, obviously none too happy about being sent against the quarry that had already slipped away from Aureans at least twice, and not without exacting casualties each time. Anthea’s exploits weren’t exactly a secret among the Guardians.

  “I needn’t remind you that we must do this with the minimal amount of disturbance, or the Aethelines will be upon us. After our beloved leader Corydon’s distribution of his stirring propaganda messages, I am prone to believing that Anthea and her companions would be more welcome in Aetheline than us.” Genero said wryly. His face twisted into a smile as he added, “In fact, they’d probably get a seat at the Grand Helion’s table so he can talk to them himself and figure out why they’re valuable enough to stir up such a mess.”

  “With as little disturbance as possible. I understand.” The Guardian nodded.

  “Good. Now watch for the Kerathi. He is rather good with his rifle. Anthea must survive so take care around her. The others are of no consequence. What happens to them matters not. You must provoke her into using an enchantment though, or else we cannot capture her.”

  “She can only do one?”

  “That is our understanding. After one she is supposedly weakened to the point of unconsciousness.”

  “Understood.”

  “Also, be forewarned that the Ox-Man is durable. It will take a concentrated effort to kill him since his fur and tough hide seem to make him resistant to arc-lance and arc-sword fire.”

  “I see.” The Guardian replied, liking his job even less with each new piece of information.

  “Don’t worry, I will have another five Guardians ready to aid you the moment your party begins to falter. I will arrive after with my nine men after you’ve caused her to waste her enchantment. The other five men will be with the Fliers.”

  “And the Fliers, sir? Will they be used to support us?”

  “One might be. It will be on standby. It all depends how poorly we fair against them. I think that if we take out the Kerathi rifleman first and then the Ox-Man, all will fall into place.” Genero answered.

  “We cannot simply surround them and hit them with thirty arc-lances at once?” The Guardian asked.

  Genero frowned at the suggestion that he had not thought of such a basic tactic. “What you don’t realize is the strength of an Ox-Man’s nose. Were you to try to get behind them, he’d smell you, and the element of surprise would be lost. I chose this location because we will be downwind of him, so only the sight of your men or hearing them approach will alert them. That is why you must hit them first, and we will follow in with the Flier and more men. By then, what they hear or see won’t matter because they will be too busy engaging your men.” He sighed impatiently. “Is there more, or are you and your men ready to go?”

  The Guardian nodded, understanding all too well that by ‘men’ Genero really meant fodder or bait to distract the enemy. “I’m ready. I just wanted to make sure I knew what my job was.”

  “You may go then. Strike them as they near the bend around the mountain where I showed you.”

  With a look of intensity and determination, the Guardian bowed and backed out of the room. Genero laughed when the man was gone. He laughed at his own misfortune and then stood up to ready himself to face off against the biggest obstacle to his life with his family. He told himself repeatedly that he would just have to finish this and he’d be free, but deep down he knew Corydon owned him and that there would always be one more task waiting for him.

  Anthea walked quietly and stiffly, her head down and her shoulders hunched against the cold winds that lashed at them from all angles. The worst gusts were the ones that came down at them from the mountainsides above, because they brought with them crystals of ice that stung at her face and eye. The only thing she couldn’t complain much about was that the heated stairs they walked up made sure that her toes never went too numb, but then again numbness might have been preferable to soreness.

  They’d been climbing for three full Dees, and they were working on their fourth. Everyone was tired and cranky, so they’d stopped even bothering to talk, since it would just lead to squabbling and complaining. Even Bedros had gotten to the point where he just laid down and slept when they reached a wayhouse somewhere just before or shortly after arriving. After sundown any ambition they had to keep pressing on just faded. They all knew that anyone could be watching and they just didn’t exactly look forward to their arrival, so why bother to push on when they were tired? It’s not like they knew what to do when they arrived at Aetheline anyway.

  They had discussed what to do when they got there numerous times, but never had they reached anything conclusive. They all agreed they must get there, but what they would do once they got there was up for debate. Sneaking in was pointless if they didn’t know where to go once they were inside, and foreigners would be blatantly obvious in a city of only Aureans. So, they basically had to walk up there, announce themselves, and hope for the best. The fact was, no one liked that idea in the least, but they couldn’t come up with a better plan in the mind-numbing cold.

  It was around the turn of the fifth Ouer of the Dee, and they already had just over two Ouers under their belts. Sundown was about at seventh hour this late in the Yarre, especially with the mountains blocking off the sun so early, so they were almost exactly halfway in their Dee’s journey. Anthea had a strong suspicion that they would come within sight of the city before they halted for the night.

  She wasn’t exactly sure how far they’d gone each Dee, and any attempts at counting steps and estimating linear distance from there were guesswork anyway since they never had an accurate count and none of them had recently looked at a map that had the exact location of Aetheline mark – if one existed that is. All she knew is that they must be nearing the city, because the air was thinning back to what she had been used to just a couple Munths before.

  What had seemed like a relatively straight course had taken a number of turns after the first Dee. The stairs snaked through the mountains, occasionally stretching for a Kilome or more horizontally without steps. Occasionally they even had to go down steps to reach the next portion of the ascent, but that was only when there had been gaps too wide to safely bridge without going down a bit first.

  It all seemed so long ago that she had breathed air like this, and if she found the thin air more natural for breathing, her companions certainly did not. Makan, who was most used to the thick tropical air of the Mueran Belt, struggled worst of all. Even if the air was too thin for them, Rolf was used to the cold during the Saysuhn of White, and so were Nishan and Sagira to lesser extents. Bedros’ fur and familiarity with mountaintop climates made him perhaps best suited of all of them, yet he also lagged by the end of each Dee.

  Bedros grunted, and Anthea lifted her head from the stair she was about to climb to look at him. His large eyes gazed ahead through the dancing wind devils that tossed flakes of snow about and pushed around the haze that accumulated above the steps like children playing a game. His ears perked and his jaws worked anxiously like he was trying to grind his anxiety between his flat molars.

  “What is it?” She called to him.

  Makan stopped alongside her, his breathing heavy but reassuringly even. “Who knows what he sees or thinks he sees in the midst of all this? I can hardly see past the next dozen steps most the time, and when I do, I’m not sure if my mind is playing tricks on me.”

  “Vorcinth is afoot. We’ve looked at the same scenes for too long and our eyes are seeing things not there.” Sagira agreed, her dark skin a strong contrast with the whiteness around them.

  “Why are we stopped?” Rolf demanded irately. He had pushed on strongest of all of them lately, but Anthea suspected that the chance of vengeance looming ahead warmed his blood and fueled his feet.

  “Bedros heard or saw something.” Anthea replied, nodding toward Bedros.

  Rolf nodded. “Yeah, snow, ice, and a formidable amount of stairs between us and a warm wayhouse.”

  Bedros grunted again, unlimbering his mallet from across his back between his shoulders. His massive knuckles slid around the hide-wrapped handle. His hooves spread to a more even stance, scraping the stone as he stood to face whatever he saw.

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  “I don’t see anything.” Rolf insisted.

  “There’s something!” Makan shouted as he pointed ahead, uncharacteristically loud for once.

  Shapes slid strangely through the snow-laden winds fifty Mayters ahead, white shapes that seemed to hug the mountain wall as they moved. Yet they didn’t move like anything that walked would. Unless you really watched for them, it was easy to miss them altogether, for they just looked like part of the backdrop changing in the winds and shifting light.

  “Let’s warn them off. If it’s just an animal, it’ll spook away. If it’s not, we’ll know.” Rolf suggested, readying and loading his long rifle.

  “Wait. I want to see if it’s some of my people first.” Anthea told him.

  Rolf grunted in a Bedros-like fashion. “Why? If they’re your people, why are they sneaking around? They can’t mean any good. Besides, when was the last time someone besides us was nice to you?”

  Anthea shook her head and held her gloved palms up to him. “Remember what I said about just reacting instead of thinking? I want to try this the other way. They might be coming to make sure we don’t mean them ill.”

  Yet even as Anthea said those words, an arc of bluish silver sliced through the winds toward them. It was almost beautiful to watch the way the winds suddenly shifted around the hot air that surrounded the arc fire.

  The bolt drifted past her and slammed into Rolf’s shoulder. Anthea watched his mouth open into a large, surprised O as it threw him backward down the stairs. His rifle clattered along with him as he tumbled four or five steps down the way they’d come.

  Bedros charged forward with a large, exhaled huff, his muscles forgetting any hint of tiredness as he surged up the stairs toward the enemy. Anthea stood there helplessly as Makan and Nishan charged up past her. They fell into a single-file line behind Bedros so that he would absorb the oncoming arc-lance fire. Makan remembered all too well the streets of Norsjalde and he knew that he could not survive the kind of arc-fire that had struck Bedros there, even if he had his Seaskin clothing on under the heavy furs he wore to stay warm. Nishan, sensing that Makan knew what he was doing, followed the older man. His arms seemed to lengthen as the curved kerambits slid out of his sleeves and his fingers looped through the holes.

  Sagira grabbed Anthea’s shoulders and shook her. “Go help Rolf.” She ordered.

  Anthea looked from Sagira down to where Rolf lied. “What can I do?”

  “Just make sure he’s not dead. We’re going to need him and his fancy shooting in a few Saycunds here, I think. Do what you must.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m better at the close-up work, Anthea.” Sagira answered, almost apologetically as she turned and ran after the others.

  It was strange, she thought, how it occurred to her just then in the midst of everything that going downstairs was easier than going up. It was such an obvious observation and not one to be made in such serious times, but it came to her nonetheless as she moved to kneel beside Rolf. “Rolf?” She asked quietly.

  Rolf lay on his stomach, but his hips were twisted so that his legs lay one on top of another. Smoke or steam, she wasn’t sure which, rose from beneath him, coming out from around his neck and shoulder, but that arm was underneath him. She couldn’t see how badly he was wounded, but there was something helpless about they way his long hair and beard flapped limply in the wind that moved her almost to tears. The way he laid made him look like a carelessly discarded children’s toy.

  “Rolf!” She shouted, shaking him this time.

  He twitched under her hand and rolled away, groaning in pain. As he lay on his back then, his eyes flickered open only to register pain and a possible concussion. His eyes wouldn’t appear to focus. “Is it over?” He asked groggily.

  Shouts and flashes of arc-fire light from ahead told her it was not. “No, she replied. They need you.”

  “Get me up then.” He said angrily. “Let it not be said that a Kerathi was laying down when there was fighting to be done.”

  But the fact that he asked for her help told her how wounded he was. She took the hand of his good arm, trying not to look at the mess of blackened flesh around the arc-fire wound that seemed to have disabled his left arm. Even when he was standing again, the left arm hung uselessly at his side.

  “My rifle.” Rolf ordered, pointing up at the next step.

  He walked behind her as she ran to collect it, and when he reached the step, she held out her free hand to pull him up. They moved that way, just a little bit faster than a walk as she tugged him up the steps toward where their friends were fighting.

  As she pulled him up one of the steps, Rolf looked her in the eyes and said, “Anthea, I cannot feel my left arm. When we get there, I will need you to reload for me, okay?”

  Anthea nodded, swallowing hard. She hazarded a glance over her shoulder. Through the swirling smoke and fog she could just make out Bedros some thirty Mayters ahead. His bulky form seemed to move in slow motion though she could make out the glint of the head of his mallet as it swung around and spelled death for those who strayed too close. Any other shapes, of which there were a few, were indeterminate. She willed that three of them were Nishan, Sagira, and Makan.

  They went four more steps before Rolf went down on one knee. At first, she thought that he was swooning, but he was not. He propped his dead arm’s elbow on his thigh and got in a kneeling shooter’s stance. Anthea held out the rifle to him as he tied a loop in one of his ammo belts that went from his left hand back around his shoulder so that his arm would stay in the correct position. The rifle slapped into his unfeeling palm, and he sighted in a target through the snow and wind.

  “Do you know what you’re shooting at?”

  Rolf pulled the trigger without answering. A cloud of smoke kicked up from around the barrel. “Reload.” He ordered, drawing one of the hand pistols on his thigh.

  She’d watched him do it before, and he’d actually had her try it a few times during idle moments when they had been on the Ula, but having to do it when people’s lives are at stake is a different matter entirely. She fumbled with the ramrod and the bags of powder, and the silk wadding that went in around the slug.

  Rolf emptied his two hand pistols, dropping them at her feet. He held out his hand expectantly and shouted once more, “Reload.”

  She dropped down to her knees beside him and tried her best to keep up, but she was simply not practiced enough at the process to do it quickly. Occasionally he would fire, but she didn’t watch where his slugs went. She could sense his impatience as she struggled to keep up.

  “You packed it too tight.” Rolf said curtly, shoving the rifle at her as he took one of the hand pistols from her, the only one she’d managed to reload.

  He fired that and dropped it beside her, its barrel still smoking. “Reload. Faster!” He shouted.

  “I can’t!” Anthea shouted in reply, angry tears beginning to obscure her eyes.

  A white shape hurtled toward them through the winds and snow. She’d have missed it if she hadn’t looked up to see if Bedros was still standing. She turned to say something to Rolf, but he was already standing. He shook his shoulders quickly, loosening his left arm from the belt loop that had held it. Then he drew his sabre, grinning at the ringing noise his sword made when leaving its scabbard – Cainel’s Music to his ears. He stepped forward to meet the man.

  Somehow in the whirl of everything that happened, she was able to clearly see that the man before her fighting her Kerathi companion and meaning to kill him was an Aurean. He was one of the sorts of Aurean that had attacked them in Norsjalde, the strange ones that had only looked half Aurean.

  Rolf was at an obvious disadvantage with one arm and lower ground, not to mention a recent head trauma. So, when the white-cloaked Aurean attacked, Rolf was quickly driven toward the cliff’s edge of the stairs, his sabre flashing in the middee light as he backpedaled. Even if the stairs were wide, perhaps ten Mayters, it didn’t take long for Rolf to reach the end of his space. He dug in then and wouldn’t give ground. If he did, he’d have tumbled off the stairs and down the mountainside.

  Anthea fumbled with the hand pistol, trying to finish loading it before she was forced to witness a reenactment of what had befallen her father in their escape from Cenalium, only she’d been fortunate enough to not have to watch that death. Her cold and clumsy fingers couldn’t seem to work fast enough or well enough though.

  She looked up once more in horror as the Aurean cut at Rolf and caught him across the back of his hand. His sabre clattered from his hands, and when he was off balance, the Aurean buried his knife into the muscle of Rolf’s upper arm.

  The Aurean drew back, perhaps half expecting some kind of registering of pain or to see the Kerathi tumble from the mountain. Instead, Rolf flicked his right wrist to free his belt knife from its catch on his hip, caught the knife, and drove his blade up under the man’s sternum. The Aurean gasped and his arms flailed about as Rolf stuck out a leg and drew the man past him and off the stairs.

  She hurried over to Rolf, dropping the hand pistol. The Aurean knife stuck right through his arm. He reached over and nonchalantly drew it out with his right hand and regarded it curiously. He seemed entirely unworried about the deep cut across the back of his hand as he regarded the knife.

  “I couldn’t feel it.” Rolf remarked with a slight grin upon seeing her worried and slightly disgusted expression.

  The dull whine of Flier engines filled the air, cutting off any reply she might have had.

  “Anthea,” Rolf shouted at her to get her attention, “we’re going to need your flowers. You’re going to have to do an enchantment if they’re bringing a Flier.”

  “My flowers?” She said dumbly, looking ahead at where Bedros was still fighting.

  “Yes! Your flowers, where are they?” Rolf demanded of her.

  “With Bedros.” Anthea answered. Then she took off running toward the fight, leaving Rolf behind.

  She could hear his worried calls from behind her, perhaps even calls for her to come help him get there, but she didn’t have time. Rolf’s usefulness would be minimal if that Flier got there before she could deal with it.

  Already she could see it, and it was only a hundred Mayters away, maybe not even that. As she ran, she vaulted over a dead body that she knew wasn’t one of her friends only because the body had been wrapped in a white cloak.

  Ahead, Bedros was already limping, his whole body steaming from a combination of his hot sweat and smoke from being hit by so many arc-lances. The air smelled a bit of burnt meat. A few broken bodies, their innards or pieces of pulverized muscle and sinew spread about them, lay in a rough circle around Bedros. He was moving toward his next victim, who wisely kept his distance.

  Makan and Sagira fought side-by-side, Makan’s spear keeping enemies back while Sagira hamstrung them with her curved yataghan knives. The enemy wasn’t as weary as the two of them were, and they were each leaving trails of crimson on the ground as they fought. Nishan worked alone, his claw-like black kerambits lashing out like an angry lion’s claws. Only his nimble feet and acrobatic fighting style kept him from being skewered on the ends of much longer weapons. He slid between enemies, seemingly in a dance to a song that played in his head. But all three of them struggled to keep things at melee range, lest they sting them from afar with arc-fire.

  Ahead, the bubbled pilot’s windows of the Flier glowed like a fly’s wicked eyes. It’s too close, she realized, even as it began to target her companions with its seven heavy arc-lances. A scream erupted from her lungs, not so much an attempt to say anything, as it was a cry of fear and remorse for what she was about to see. She’d come too far to let it all end like this, and she’d foolishly let herself be separated from her flowers.

  From thirty Mayters away, hovering some ten of twelve Mayters above the stairs, the Flier opened fire. Concentrated fire from seven heavy arc-lances twined together into a glowing reddish-purple band of heat that struck Bedros in the middle of the chest.

  His fur burst into fire immediately and the flesh underneath seared. He howled and stumbled, driven back by the force of the hammer-like blow. His body shook with the force of so much continuous current running through him. They mean to burn him alive. They’ll burn a hole all the way through him Anthea realized, already sobbing, but she couldn’t hear her sobs over the hum of the arc-lances.

  Bedros’ horns glowed with current and heat that discharged from them into the air as he threw his head back impossibly far, his neck bending back in a way it wasn’t meant to go as he writhed in agony. The last of his fur burned off his back and arms as his skin blistered across his body and he shivered as his nerves were seared with deadly arc-lance fire.

  Yet he still stood, like a mighty tree that would not topple even before the winds of a mighty storm. His hands came together in front of him, bringing the mallet he somehow still held into the direct stream of the current. An aura surrounded Bedros, gathering about him as the current filled his body and the special ores of the deepest mines that had went into the making of his mallet, the same metals that arc-lances were made from.

  Everyone had stopped what they were doing, turning to see the sight of the glowing Ox-Man, though they all had to shield their eyes as he grew to a brilliant white. A deafening crack of air sounded when Bedros shrugged his shoulders forward and thrust the mallet ahead.

  A ball of white-hot energy cast aside the feeble fire of the arc-lances, dissipating them as it hurtled toward and then through the Flier. Metal, flesh, and the other materials of the Flier yielded before Bedros’ counterattack. When the light faded, there was nothing left of the Flier, yet Bedros stood.

  “Bedros!” Anthea cried, the first to recover from what they had all witnessed.

  She had taken no more than two steps toward him when he fell over backward. She saw then what it had cost him. His entire front was seared black and his skin sizzled like cooking meat on a grill. His eyes had gone white and his horns had burned off, leaving only charred nubs. His chest shuddered as he still managed to take breaths.

  “What have you done?” A voice called out in High Elegian, the first High Elegian Anthea had heard since they’d been attacked on Maethlin.

  Anthea looked for the source of the voice. It came from a man with nine more white-cloaked Guardians at his side.

  “I have done nothing, yet.” Anthea said, hurling her words at him in High Elegian.

  “How is it the Gods have favored you so that you can cast ruin about my every effort to restrain you?” The man said woefully, nodding to the surviving engagers from the earlier attacks to join him.

  Four Guardians, one moving quite slowly because of multiple wounds he’d incurred, backed away slowly to join them. Nishan, Makan, and Sagira let them give ground slowly, but not enough that they would have room to fire their arc-lances. Nor did they let the retreating men step aside and expose them to their comrades’ arc-lances. They kept those four between them and the ten men waiting behind them.

  “I care not for your troubles, stranger. You have brought pain upon my friends and me for the last time. You will all die here, on Maletos I vow it.” Anthea promised, touching her middle and forefingers to her forehead. Her companions might not have understood what she said then, but they could all hear the threats in her voice.

  “Are you hiding your flowers in your pockets then? Your father’s friend Corydon said you would have a nice silver box with your flowers in it, but I don’t see it.”

  Anthea’s eyes went again toward Bedros, who laid fighting for every breath. Their baggage was crushed and burned beneath him. Even if the flower box had survived, she would not be able to get at it.

  “Oh, was it with the beast?” The man laughed darkly. “Your mother told me she gave it to you. Did you know it was a gift from Corydon to her before your father took her as his wife?”

  “Mother?” Anthea whispered to herself. Then she shouted at him, “Who are you, and what is this you say of my mother? She’s dead.”

  The man bared his head to her, lowering his cloak. She recognized him immediately, though she had seen him only very briefly in Norsjalde through the window of the inn they’d been attacked in, but she did not know who he was.

  “I am Captain Genero, Corydon’s unwilling puppet.” He announced regretfully. “As to your mother, I spoke with her before I left. She’s Corydon’s sweetheart now you know, and the mother of his cause.”

  “Lies, all of it. You are his willing accomplice in his evil deeds, I can smell Porceth’s taint on you and all your ilk.” Anthea cursed at him, using the Dark God of Misfortune and Ruin’s name.

  Genero shook his head and eyed her wistfully, her curse rolling off his shoulders like water. “I serve him only because of my wife and child. He will kill them if I don’t do what he bids.”

  Anthea glared at Genero with open disgust. “Better they die then, if this is how you preserve them.”

  “No, better you die, and take me with you!” He shouted, raising his blade and surging forward with his five men at his side and the other five who had already been fighting in front of him.

  Fourteen men against three was hardly a fair fight, even if four of those fourteen were tired and wounded. Nishan, Sagira, and Makan gave ground quickly. Sagira felled one right off the bat, but Makan nearly took a lance through the chest when he stumbled backing down a step. Even as Nishan tore the throat out of a man and cut another across the ribs, they were being hedged in for the slaughter, and once more Anthea had to watch people she cared about get lined up to meet Nelius.

  She clenched her fists in fury and looked around for some way to help them. Bedros’ ruined mallet would have been too heavy for her to lift anyway, but there were arc-swords lying next to some of the dead Guardians. When she knelt to pick the nearest one up, her fingertips brushed the soft petals of a weak little flower that grew in the cracks between two steps. She hadn’t seen it before she touched it, but touching those velvety petals gave her a shiver.

  Never had she found a flower that had grown for a specific purpose like this one had been. The thin roots tore free from their moorings with her gentle tug, and the flower seemed to lunge into her palm. She raised it before her eyes and the words began to tumble from her mouth with scarcely a thought. She didn’t even notice that Makan had killed another of them. She was too focused on the flower.

  Edelweiss, pride of mountain heights,

  Restore our strength;

  Vanquish our foes and take away our woes.

  For this you grew, for us stay true.

  As it always happened, the flower flashed with brilliant light, but it was a pure light, not one of agony like Bedros’ light had been. From the round white central buds of yellow and white, a burst of gold struck each of her companions. Then, the blade-shaped white petals shot out flares of a similar pure white that each found a heart of a Guardian, stopping it where they stood. Nine men, dead on their feet, dropped to the ground.

  Genero stood there, unable to believe what he had seen. His flagging enemies, about to die before him, had just won. He alone remained alive while all his allies, each of them handpicked by Corydon himself, had died. The first wave of ten had all died, as had the extra five backup soldiers. Three had died in the Flier. He had just lost nine more. Other than himself, there were only the two left in the second Flier.

  Genero’s arc-sword clattered uselessly at his feet. He had lost, but he could not stand to see Anthea’s smiling face, so pure and lit up with hope when she had just robbed him of all his. His second arc-sword swung from a hidden fold of his cloak and with a blur of motion he began to whip it toward Anthea. He would take her to stand before Nelius with him and let Corydon choke on both of their ashes when he could not have her. He howled in fury as his arm went forward.

  Makan, Nishan, and Sagira flinched back, each of the expecting the attack to come at them, but it was not meant for them. Just as Genero’s wrist was about to descend, he felt a sting in the middle of his forehead and then he felt nothing. With a smile on his face and a bullet in his head he died.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Rolf announced cheerfully, enjoying everyone’s eyes on him or at least the smoking hand pistol he held. “You packed that one just right, Anthea. It shot right and true, guided by Aaren and Cainel I think.”

  Anthea looked from him to each of the other faces around her, and finally at Bedros’ horribly burnt body. Her enchantment seemed to have healed each of them to an extent, but she feared that Bedros was beyond hope until she saw his chest move to take air once more.

  “What do we do now?” Nishan asked, breaking the threatening silence.

  “I don’t know.” Anthea replied. “We will do what we must I suppose. We must get Bedros somewhere he has a chance to heal. Aetheline is the only thing close.”

  “Then Aetheline it is.” Nishan said with a nod, though Anthea thought his golden-brown eyes and expression were too serious for face, which was meant to smile.

  “Aetheline.” Makan agreed reluctantly. Todee’s events had not done anything to endear the Aurean people in his mind, but he was willing to do what he must for Anthea and Bedros.

  They went to work then fashioning a litter that they could use to drag Bedros to the city. Urgency fueled their actions, for the Ox-Man’s life hinged upon the quickness their actions.