Gabriel staggered as he made his way back across the broken gates and twisted ironwork surrounding the Bracken estate. Flames and smoke poured out of every window by then, so that he joined Thomas and Sanjin with the world on fire at their backs.
Ahead of them, they could see roads filling with marching men. Gabriel looked at Thomas, who seemed wild, his eyes gleaming. Sanjin was a different matter. His wound was terrible.
‘Let me heal you,’ Gabriel said to him, though even the thought brought a wave of sickness. He’d used almost everything he had just to keep himself from death. For the first time since entering the city, he felt they were overmatched.
Sanjin sidled up to him, his gaze on the streets around the Bracken house. Despite his own pain, Gabriel placed his hand in the bloody mess that was Sanjin’s face and concentrated. He felt the flow of blood ease and the gash seal itself. A scar appeared under his hand, as if he drew it with a finger. With a grunt, Sanjin pulled away.
‘Little bastard tagged me while I was distracted. Those green things …’
He did not need to explain. Gabriel unwrapped the Bracken Stone as Sanjin spoke. They all looked to it as it was revealed, seeing the depth of purple, flecked in gold.
‘Can you take more?’ Gabriel said.
Sanjin put out his forearm in response and he pressed the stone to it, edging the gold discs into place with his fingers until Sanjin gasped and closed his eyes, breathing like a woman in labour.
‘There it is …’ Sanjin whispered.
Gabriel and Thomas watched the ranks assembling. The last of the green warriors had been borne away by its owner. He could not sense another stone in the area.
‘We could get away,’ Gabriel said.
Sanjin’s eyes opened and he removed the Bracken Stone, fixing it like a leech to Thomas in turn.
‘To where?’ Sanjin said as Thomas stiffened. ‘They know this city better than we ever could.’
‘I don’t know – to hide, to heal. Somewhere. We came for more stones and we have this one. I can’t feel another … wait … over there.’
He pointed to the right of the assembled ranks, to the rear. He could see a man dressed in black, carrying a leather bag as he climbed down from a carriage of the same colour. For Gabriel, it was a smudge across his vision, as if a spot of grease had appeared on the lens of his eye. He could feel the presence of a stone, as perhaps it was aware of him.
‘Power calls to power,’ he murmured. ‘They’ll come to us.’ He had no desire to see what other artefacts the city of Darien had created for its defence. All he wanted was the stones themselves.
Thomas waved his hand and Gabriel pressed the Bracken Stone to his own arm once more. He had only closed his eyes for an instant when he felt it pouring into him, filling him with light and life and raw power, to be turned any way he wished. His healing accelerated, so that he felt bones knit and muscles grow where they had snapped. He breathed more easily.
‘Tie it on, brother,’ Thomas said, looking at him.
Gabriel raised his eyebrows.
‘You are sure?’
‘You can use it – better than the man who had it before. All three of us have the Aeris Stone in our blood. We can call on the others, but I want to survive long enough to see the rewards.’ He looked at the soldiers marching down the road towards them and shook his head. ‘We are not meant to be in this world, Gabriel. I think to stay here, we have to fight, to cling on with teeth and nails and everything we have. So spend it all. Let there be no limit. We stand here and we break these people. Or everything we’ve done is for nothing.’
Gabriel put out his hand and Thomas shook it. Sanjin laughed, cracking his neck in his hands.
‘I know my choice,’ Sanjin said. ‘I will burn this city to ashes before I go back.’
Gabriel tore a piece of shirt and wrapped it round his arm. He felt the stone against his skin, trickling power into him. He nodded to Thomas.
‘Very well. Let’s take them on.’
Walking with a Sallet Green had its advantages, Tellius thought. The armoured warriors were legends in Darien. Marching ranks got out of the way for one of the massive Sallet artefacts. Even the patchwork one. The workshop men of the Sallet estate called it that for the shifting colours of green and grey. Ever since it had been drained and then burned two years before, the suit had been too badly damaged to use. Yet with two others fit only for scrap, it meant that Lady Sallet’s people had ruined suits to work on, for the first time. They’d understood so little of how the suits were made that at first they’d been like children in a workshop, not daring to touch the machines for fear they’d destroy them. They had learned a great deal from taking them apart. The patchwork suit was not as powerful as the others, but the day green had bloomed again along its panels had felt like a victory.
Tellius looked back to the thing following him, feeling like a child himself as it towered over anyone else in the road. He did not know who Bosin had been before his healing. The man he was at that moment was utterly focused on the task at hand – learning how to use the armour. Tellius had thought he would have to persuade the Shiang swordsman, but Bosin showed no indecision or fear of the thing. From the first moment he’d seen it waiting for him, he’d been coldly appreciative.
As Tellius looked back, he saw Bosin rotating the wrists and lifting the legs high, so that he stamped and twisted at the waist, a hundred different movements to mimic his own. The green panels flickered, so that he sagged for an instant. Before Tellius could do more than curse, the man was up once more, jumping in place with enough force to crack the stones of the road. The green sword on his back was still there. In one huge gauntlet, he carried his own sword, the long blade of a master.
Tellius could see flashes of light and drifting smoke ahead of them. He fretted as he walked. The street was full of the militia forces, all pressing forward. There was no sign yet of Sallet guards, nor the only one he wished was nowhere near that place. If he could have forbidden her presence, Tellius would have done it. Yet Win was the head of the house and her guards, even sensible men like Galen, would not refuse her orders for those of her beloved companion, regardless of him being constantly, continuously right. It was infuriating.
Tellius breathed in relief when he glimpsed Sallet colours ahead, though his expression became sickly as he saw the Bracken house burning. The sun was going down and the short winter’s day was coming to an end. Yet flames and heat bathed them all. He caught his breath when he saw Lady Sallet standing with Hondo and Captain Galen. Tellius went forward in a rush then, relying on the presence at his back to clear the path.
Lady Sallet glanced up with all the others. Her eyes widened.
‘You brought Patchwork?’ she said.
Tellius smiled tightly. He did not like her using the term as a pet name for the thing. The Sallet Green may have been damaged, but it was not a faithful hound, nor a child’s toy. It was still an artefact of extraordinary offensive ability – and if it had its weaknesses, well, he had put a Mazer swordsman inside it, a man trained from childhood in every aspect of combat. He’d worried Bosin would be too big to get inside, but the suit had adjusted as it had for others, settling ten thousand rounded metal heads against his flesh. As he moved, they moved, and the suit amplified it all.
Tellius felt his eyes widen as he took in the carnage around the Bracken estate. Two Sallet Greens were down and the one nearest him was still leaking blood from the man inside. As he watched, Galen’s men brought a flatbed cart and began loading the armour onto it. They made no attempt to remove the man within, not then, with too many eyes around to report their secrets.
Facing the street, Tellius saw the same three men he’d seen entering the city. As he watched, they stood close together, clearly discussing tactics like any team about to face another assault. He reached back and patted the patchwork armour on its arm, not that the man inside could have felt it. The huge figure at his side seemed to lean forward and the armour creaked threateningly.
‘Hold here,’ Tellius said. ‘Wait for my order.’
Bosin stood like a statue then, peering over the flames and scattered bodies. Tellius kept a wary eye on him as he looked for Captain Galen and Win.
Hondo came through the crowd of Sallet soldiers. They parted for him as they would have done for Bosin, and Tellius understood why as the man stopped in front of him. Hondo was marked in blood and soot from head to toe. He’d rolled and dodged and been struck hard any number of times. Tellius saw he held two swords and he gaped as Hondo bowed and presented one of them to him.
The hilt of the Yuan sword was filthy, the red and black sharkskin ruined. Yet the blade was perfect, a silver length unmarked. Tellius raised it in awe.
‘I saw this last … when my brother wore it. Can you believe that? Before his son. It is like looking into the past.’
‘Stand back, salads!’ a voice came.
Tellius looked to the source and raised his eyes as he saw Lord Regis approaching, surrounded by a hundred or so of his soldiers in dark red. The man carried the Regis shield on his left arm and wore a short sword on his hip. Tellius was interested in the shield, but he found the man himself unbelievably irritating.
‘Be polite, Tellius,’ Lady Sallet murmured at his shoulder.
‘There you are,’ he replied as quietly.
He reached over without looking and touched her hand for the briefest of moments before they let go. Lord Regis was bearing down on their position and Tellius braced himself. Win never seemed to notice the barbs Regis managed to include in every exchange. ‘Salads’ was just one example.
‘Evening, master consort,’ Regis said. He frowned at the patchwork armour looming over them all and bowed to Win. ‘Lady Sallet. Bit of a fracas! Thought I’d help out.’
The man was red-faced, broad of chest and loud, but Tellius was convinced he only played the part of a brash and stupid man. No actual idiot could have managed to get under his skin so effectively, he was almost certain.
‘Defending the city, my lord, yes, as you agreed you would, in council. You are very welcome, of course. I …’
‘Brought De Guise here,’ Regis said over him, as if he’d wearied of Tellius already. ‘Old Geese and his sword. Your fresh salads can stand down, I should think.’
‘These men are very powerful,’ Tellius said. As much as he would have enjoyed seeing Regis brought to his knees, the shield was an asset that could be useful, even if the man who carried it was a moron.
‘Those three dear young maidens?’ Regis said, peering into the flame-light around the Bracken estate. The evening darkened further every moment and Tellius wondered how he would prevent the invaders just disappearing into darkness.
Regis did not look particularly impressed at what he saw.
‘I’ll block them with the shield. De Guise will bring up the sword in my shadow and that should be about it. Anything else I need to know?’
Regis seemed to be preparing himself to attack. He edged away, glaring at the three enemies. Tellius spoke quickly before the lord could rush off.
‘Hondo, you’ve fought them. Advise Lord Regis, would you?’
Tellius was furious at the sense of rush that had been forced upon him. Regis gave the impression of being the most impatient man alive, as if everyone else was just kicking their heels against a wall, while he was the only one who wished to act.
Hondo bowed and Regis raised an eyebrow at the state of him. The sword saint had bandages wrapped right around his head, supporting his jaw. Every part of him that could be seen was scraped or gashed. One eye was almost completely red and he had lost some of his teeth. He spoke carefully, slurring the words.
‘One uses air somehow – to choke and tighten. Or as a shield. Two of them seem able to produce fire without fuel. I think they burn the air, though I could not see how it was done. They are all fast – faster than me, or any other man I have ever fought.’
He was panting and took deep, ragged breaths as he stopped talking. For once Regis was silent, perhaps out of respect, or awe at the man’s injuries.
‘They are not particularly agile, nor skilled as swordsmen,’ Hondo went on. ‘I would say they are merely competent, though their other gifts make them hard to engage. Nor are they invulnerable. I saw one of them shot with your guns, more than once. He bled, though he did not fall and seemed to heal himself. They are clearly … allies and will rescue or defend one another if they are overmatched. Yet the one who stands in the centre now is the leader and commands the others …’ He trailed away, rubbing grit from one of his eyes as it streamed.
Some of the bounce seemed to have gone from Regis at the exchange, Tellius noted. Those marching to battle never enjoyed the sight of those coming away from it. Yet even as Tellius had the thought, he saw the lord’s chest swell, his confidence return. Regis didn’t learn from the experiences of others. How could he, when he was always proved right in the end? It was infuriating, but they still needed his shield – and perhaps a fearless man to carry it.
As Tellius watched, Regis clapped Hondo on the shoulder.
‘You kept them busy while we gathered, sir,’ he said. ‘The house of Regis thanks you. Well done.’
Regis brushed past them all. His moustache seemed to jut further forward in his eagerness to reach the enemy. When he turned and filled his chest with air, Tellius put one hand over an ear.
‘Regis! On me, Regis!’ the man bellowed.
His voice was like a crack of thunder close to, and his men pressed in around him. Every one was of powerful frame and many of them had the same auburn hair and pale, freckled skin, as if they were cousins or bastards of the lord they followed. Tellius turned from them as Regis bellowed instructions.
‘Can you go in again, Master Hondo?’ Tellius said. ‘I would not ask, but the shield and the De Guise sword are the greatest weapons of the city. If they fail, we all go down.’
‘If you order it, I can fight,’ Hondo said.
Tellius saw the acceptance of death in the eyes of the other man. He said nothing for a moment as he failed to find words. In the end, he merely nodded.
‘I put your companion in the last set of armour, the one we call the patchwork. It isn’t as fast as the others, but I thought, with him in it …’
‘Yes. Bosin is a fearsome opponent,’ Hondo said. He looked up at the armoured green giant standing behind Tellius. ‘Can he hear me?’
‘Of course,’ Tellius said.
Hondo bowed his head in reply. The effort to speak clearly cost him, each word wrenched from ruin.
‘Master Bosin, Je is dead, gone to join his brother. You and I alone remain. And … and I am sorry for what we did to you.’
The gaze of the green and grey armour was like glass as Hondo stood before it. Regis was already moving and Lord De Guise had swung across to join him. Tellius could not wait any longer.
‘Galen! Take Lady Sallet out of danger,’ he said.
Lady Sallet snapped her head around.
‘Captain Galen will do no such thing,’ she said.
‘He will, Win, because you need to live through this. Who else can … counsel the king? Go with him, please.’
He heard his love swear under her breath and almost smiled. If Lady Sallet refused, he would not go in with the others, but instead remain at her side.
‘My lady?’ Galen said.
He and Tellius had discussed any number of scenarios over the previous months, ever since the Forza prophecy. One was simply what might happen if Tellius feared Lady Sallet would be killed, when there was a threat so great he thought they would not win against it. He had made Galen swear he would disobey her orders in that event, that he would risk his own neck and smash his career to pieces rather than allow her to be hurt. In that, he and Galen were in perfect accord.
Lady Sallet saw the determination in Galen’s face and understood what it meant.
‘I will not go far, Tellius,’ she said firmly. ‘Just out of this crossroads and up to the roof of one of the buildings. Do not presume further on my good will.’
Galen waited for Tellius to nod in agreement, which would cost the man later, if they survived. Tellius saluted with the sword he held, bowing slightly to her as she walked through the ranks of men, her head held high.
‘Good man,’ Regis called back to him. ‘Keeping the lady safe. Geese and I have the measure of these three.’
Tellius blanched, hoping Win hadn’t heard that bit.
‘Sallet guards!’ Tellius called. ‘Advance on those three men. Ready guns for step volleys. We will advance on my mark and hold position at the boundary of the yard while Regis and De Guise engage the enemy. On my mark! Advance!’
A hundred green-coated men tramped forward towards the Bracken estate. Alongside them came Regis soldiers in red and De Guise in black and grey. They approached the strewn rubble and bodies around the Bracken estate yard, while flame poured like liquid from every window, lighting the night. Huge cracks had appeared across the front of the house, showing gold within. It looked like it could fall at any moment.
The three men who stood watching all their preparations seemed unafraid, for all an entire army had come to that place to destroy them. Tellius marched with Hondo on one side and Bosin’s massive steps shaking the ground on the other. Tellius carried the sword his brother had worn and that was an intimacy of a sort. He swept the air with it as he walked. If there was the slightest chance to bury the thing in the neck of one of the three men who threatened everything he loved, he would take it.
Regis rather enjoyed the company of De Guise. The chap admired him, which was always gratifying. Young dog, looking to the old one for how to bark, sort of thing. The current head of the De Guise family was twenty-two and was delighted by the world he’d found around him. Of course, in private, Regis thought the man he called ‘Geese’ was as ruthless a killer as his father had been. The line ran true, as it had to when it came to the Twelve Families. They had not floated gently to the top of a city like Darien by feeding orphans and whatnot. No. Regis and De Guise had been two of the twelve founders of the city on the river, so it was said. According to the family records, the first men of that name had been friends for thirty years. Perhaps that sort of thing meant nothing to some, but Lord Regis believed in tradition as an almost holy thing. In time of war, when a De Guise called, a Regis always answered – and vice versa. He could never have been the first to let the side down, after Goddess knew how many centuries. That sort of infamy survived a fellow. Far longer than bothering other men’s wives, or arranging murders. Being shy in the face of a threat was about the worst thing Regis could imagine.
‘These are tricky sods, as I heard it,’ he called behind. ‘I’ll be ready to block whatever they throw, Geese. Use me as cover and take one of them off his heels. Dealer’s choice which one.’
He felt the younger man’s hand rest on his shoulder and they went forward as a pair, with the long red shield held before them. It gleamed as if alive, shining with the colour of war, rage and blood. Regis did wear a sword, but the shield was his first care and greatest weapon. He hadn’t even drawn a blade and didn’t expect to.
‘Company in good order!’ Regis bellowed. He’d always had a fine voice for the field. In that place, it echoed back from the houses around the crossroads. ‘Now do keep up, lads. I can’t do everything.’
His men grinned as they readied weapons and shields of their own. Regis was utterly against the idea of the common citizens of Darien being armed with the new pistols. That did not mean he rejected their use. Each of his lads carried two guns in a belt or in holsters, as well as sword, shield and dagger. Most wore mail or limited armour that protected chest, back and neck and left the arms and legs free to move quickly. They clanked as they ran. Regis chuckled at the sound. He saw the three interlopers cease their private chat and turn to face the threat.
‘Ready, Regis! Ready, De Guise!’ he roared at them. ‘Clear shots only, gentlemen. If you can’t see the enemy, don’t take the shot. Do not shoot me in the back.’ They’d lost a few men in training before that rule was well established, unfortunately.
Regis raised his shield a little higher as he went forward. The three men didn’t look like much, he thought. Yet he could see the broken remains of two Sallet Greens lying on the rubble, one of them in pieces. For all he’d always disliked those green monsters, it was hard to imagine anything that could take them down.
‘Ready, Geese?’ he said over his shoulder.
One of the three was gesturing to the green armour, as if … Regis swore. Limbs or panels of green metal were rising into the air, spinning in silence with a cloud of rubble.
‘Hit him, Geese!’ Regis yelled.
A hail of metal and stone accelerated towards their advancing line. Regis sensed the crack in the air as De Guise did whatever he did to trigger his black sword. He roared as the leader of the three was smacked flat by the impact. Rubble and armour dropped as if strings had been cut. Only a few rattled against the Regis lines.
‘I can do this all day, son!’ Regis yelled. ‘Gunners! Supporting fire!’
He held position as the ranks of guns swept up, rather than risk wandering across the line of fire from those behind. It was unnerving, even so. The thought that just one of his men with a grudge would mean being killed or crippled always crossed his mind and made him sweat, though he did not show it. A nobleman had to lead, his father had always said – and a leader had no fear, no weaknesses. No crisis of faith in the middle of a battle. Regis could imagine the old man’s derision all too easily. He had experienced it many times before putting him in the cold ground.
The front rank knelt to fire, so that bullets poured out in a rolling hail from two ranks. They swept the Bracken yard with shot. Grey smoke billowed, making De Guise curse.
‘Stop shooting! Hold position!’
With only three targets, the young lord cursed the smoke that drifted across. He needed to be able to see, to hit. De Guise caught a glimpse of a shadow and stepped out of the cover of the shield with his sword held straight before him. Something black and impossibly fast smashed across the yard from that blade, as if an eclipse had sprung out in a single line. Rubble sprayed into the air and then the young lord De Guise sensed someone standing by his shoulder. He began to turn, but Gabriel cut his throat in one swift move. The De Guise sword fell to the stones with a clang that reverberated a long way.
Regis turned in shock. They moved so fast! He was still bringing his shield round as the man flickered his sword out to kill again. The Regis shield rang like a bell, but Gabriel vanished backwards and Regis was up and after him in an instant. He’d known what would happen – the shield reflected blows, doubling their force. No normal swordsman could … He felt the air thicken around him, so that suddenly the sounds of the yard died away. Sound was carried on air, he remembered weakly. When the air became still, it was as if the entire city had been muffled. He tried to turn the shield to face the furious mage coming slowly closer, but he was held like a fly in grease, for all he struggled.
Thomas dragged one leg, where it had been broken. The pain and sense of sickness was appalling, but he recognised the shield-bearer and swordsman as the main dangers in that place. Gabriel had been sent tumbling and some sort of black bar had knocked Thomas head over heels into rubble. He’d seen his ankle catch and his leg twist until it snapped. It was not even a clean break. Shards of bone were already poking through to the surface and blood leaked in spots along his shin. He needed Gabriel to heal him quickly before the pain made him pass out.
Thomas saw the Sallet Green coming, turning to it in dismay as it clambered over rubble and bodies to launch itself against him. He saw its panels flashing grey as well as green, and yet it was still horribly, sickeningly fast, like a spider that could jump.
As the patchwork Green reached him, it swung a silver sword. Thomas dropped his control of the red shield to protect himself, thickening the air so that the monster was trapped and held. His leg was jolted by the turn so that it sent a fresh spike of agony, like white light through him. He felt dazed and ill, but they would not let him rest. With a grunt, he began to turn the flickering grey head slowly round as if he held it in a vice, waiting for the crack.