When Varama lifted the dead officer’s signet ring close to the lantern light, Sansyra saw her smile. Seeing the alten so pleased was a rare thing, and the squire barely contained the urge to pull out her battered sketchbook. Knowing her superior would find the activity a distraction at best, Sansyra instead strove to memorize the expression on her features. She noted again the sagging and darkening of the skin beneath the clever eyes, as though Varama had aged years in the last few days.
All of them were under pressure, though, even those who never left the tunnels beneath Alantris. They lived under the constant threat that their hiding place would be discovered by the Naor and that their hundred-odd force would be rooted out and destroyed by enemies renowned for their cruelty. The stories reaching them about rapes, dismemberments, beatings, and random slayings alternately disgusted, infuriated, and depressed. Every man and woman in the Resistance longed to aid their people, but immediately dislodging the Naor yoke when they were outnumbered more than eight hundred to one was an impossibility, no matter Varama’s brilliance.
And if those factors weren’t the source of enough tension, they’d learned a few hours before that the second Naor army was due to arrive in only a matter of days. Accompanying that force was an infamous blood mage—grandson of Mazakan no less—who was sure to order massive organized “sacrifices” of Alantrans to fuel his dark arts.
Circumstances Varama commented upon with a dry frown as “less than ideal.”
Yet now she smiled. Seated, Varama’s height wasn’t so readily apparent, but her leanness was, for she was built on rangy lines, rather like the racing hounds of the Storm Coast, save that their fur was usually black, and Varama’s skin held a faint blue cast, even by lantern light.
The folk of the realms boasted many different skin tones, but a smaller number were truly unique, like the healer in Sansyra’s home village who had rounded horns upon either side of his head, or Kyrkenall the archer, whose eyes had no whites. These few blessed by the Gods with distinctive appearance often carried extraordinary abilities as well and were more often found among magical practitioners and elite warriors. Varama could be mistaken for no other person in all the five realms.
Her mentor lowered the ring. “This should provide us with some entertainment.” She looked up sharply, and Sansyra wondered if she had guessed her mind was wandering. “Did any of his men get away?”
“No,” Sansyra answered proudly. She’d led the ambush against the little Naor patrol herself.
“And how long ago was this?”
“No more than a half hour.” She’d followed Varama’s instructions absolutely. Over the last few days, she’d repeatedly quelled her subordinates’ confusion and complaints about missions with less obvious purpose. Most of the squires and all of the Alantrans were unfamiliar with Varama’s foresight, and a few of the locals even grumbled anxiously at the series of tasks she’d set Sansyra to accomplish almost from the moment Rylin left.
That first night in the tunnels, Varama had still been a little slower in her speech, though her mind had been razor keen as always. First Varama had set a team of volunteers to sewing expensive silky fabrics liberated from the temple above, promising that the strange patterns would prove useful in the coming week. Then she had dictated detailed instructions to Sansyra: “I require several dozen intact glass bottles and a great quantity of spirits.”
Sansyra had thought that a little challenging, although not impossible.
Varama had continued: “Send parties to city gardens and recover all the bee canopy plants, leaves and blossoms, and a good quantity of lark stem. Sketch them to show the squires what the plants look like.”
Sansyra had bobbed her head. The bee canopy plant was known for producing a toxin useful as a numbing agent in small doses. In the days since the plants had been acquired, Varama had rigged a clever distillation system to concentrate alcohol from the spirits, then extracted the poison from enormous quantities of fan-dried plant parts. Sansyra guessed what her mentor planned to do next, although she had no idea how Varama would transport the bottled poison past sentries and down dragon gullets.
Varama had relayed even more orders, though. “I need two buxom female volunteers proficient at both sword and shield for an especially dangerous and unusual duty. Lastly, I’ll need the signet ring of a high-ranking Naor officer whose death won’t immediately be discovered.”
That last had been the most challenging assignment of all, and Sansyra had handled it personally. Now she watched with profound satisfaction as the alten set the ring down on the old desk with a muted clunk, the rough oval symbol pressed with the ring’s twin spears facing outward. “This is ideal.”
Sansyra loved those rare moments of praise from Varama, or the suggestion of it.
They had precious few supplies with them in the long tunnels beneath the city, but they’d discovered ink and paper in the desk in the cool gray room Varama used as her headquarters. By the light of the single lantern suspended from the ceiling hook, Sansyra watched Varama retrieve them from lower drawers.
“Let me see his orders again.”
Sansyra unfolded the papers she’d taken from the dead man’s belt and handed them over. “What are you planning, Alten?” She’d been curious for days.
Varama answered without looking up. “The Naor are going to give us the remaining supplies we need to kill their dragons. I’m going to write some orders. Then we must move with speed. See that I’m undisturbed.”
Of course her explanation wouldn’t be detailed. It would have to serve, for Varama hated repeating herself. “Yes, Alten.”
Sansyra stepped to the door, ready to intercept any attempt at interruption. Varama herself stared unblinkingly into space for prolonged moments, tapping her long blue chin. Then she bent to examine the sloppily worded orders, penned in their looping script. She pressed the paper flat to the right side of the desktop, stared at it a final time, then dipped the pen into ink and set to work, scratching quickly across the paper. With her choices made, she acted without hesitation or even pause, as if she’d completely worked out what she’d write before she set to work. Probably she had.
Some squires disliked Alten Varama because of her odd habits and awkward mannerisms, and accused her, to each other, of being arrogant and brusque. Sansyra preferred her direct manner of speech. She had never actually witnessed arrogance, only certainty, borne up by Varama’s thorough understanding of her own strengths and limitations. Sansyra delighted in anticipating Varama’s needs, carrying out her brilliant schemes, and occasionally offering a suggestion that her mentor found useful.
Though she’d have never wished it, the situation in Alantris was somewhat of a reprieve for Sansyra. Before much longer she’d have to decide if she wanted to apply for her sixth brevet, or leave the corps. Not only were sixth rankers supposed to venture widely, acting much like junior Altenerai, she’d almost certainly be shifted to another post, nominally under supervision of a different alten. And she didn’t want to leave Varama’s service. Once the alten saw them through their current difficulties, Sansyra would have to decide whether to accept the promotion that was almost certain to be offered, or to ask Varama if she’d consider using a civilian adjutant—after all, Varama worked with talented craftspeople and engineers who weren’t in the corps, and who couldn’t be promoted away from her, so perhaps she’d consider an assistant outside of the military structure.
Sansyra shook herself out of reverie as the alten finished with a flourish and motioned her over. The squire hurried to take the paper, blotting it dry with a rag she’d brought as Varama began composition of an entirely new letter. Over the next few minutes she drafted four sets of orders, sealing each with wax stamped by the ring. By the time she’d finished, Sansyra was ready to succinctly confirm her understanding of what must be done. She then departed to send messengers in captured Naor uniforms hurrying to deliver the forged documents and organized all the other tasks required to further their plans, afterward grabbing a few hours of sleep. Though excited by what lay ahead, she was experienced enough with Varama’s irregular habits to take sleep when it came, even if she delayed a few minutes to sketch Varama smiling.
Sansyra was roused deep in the night to don a leather cuirass with reinforced metal studs, favored by one of the Naor tribes, then led her similarly outfitted force through the deserted streets, stopping just shy of the cross street where Alvor’s Oak thrust its great thick branches toward the bright stars. It stood near the canal ringing the rise to the second tier, in one of the city’s innumerable garden spots that the Naor hadn’t gotten around to destroying yet.
Varama was waiting for them in the shadows with a small force of archers that included the young warrior Denalia, niece of the late governor, Aradel. Their taciturn commander made no mention of the first part of their mission, which had obviously been a success, for they now possessed a cart, horses, and more Naor uniforms. Of the Naor who’d followed Varama’s forged orders to deliver these supplies there was no sign, though Sansyra could easily guess their fate. Their bodies had been dragged into a deserted house where the words “N’lahr will come for you,” or something similar, had been written in blood upon a nearby wall. With the Naor, primitive threats seemed to work better than any other and Varama had encouraged this tactic whenever opportunities arose.
Sansyra motioned her people carrying the bottles full of distilled bee canopy toxin forward, and Varama took each and carefully applied them to the foodstuff packaged in five large baskets on the cart.
The alten wore a Naor officer’s get-up from the Ferasht tribe, complete with fur ruffle and feathered helmet. At close range she’d never be confused with a Naor man, even with darkness cloaking her distinctive features, but by the time a Naor was as near her as Sansyra he’d either be dead or Varama would have activated her semblance. The alten couldn’t afford to leave the magical disguise active all the time; there simply wasn’t enough power within the tool. The energy currently filling this one had been painstakingly donated by the mages among them, a little bit from each, a little at a time. Their hours of effort had resulted in only a few useful minutes of energy. But even a little moment of illusion might make all the difference.
Varama handed Sansyra a helmet. “Squire, here’s yours.”
Sansyra slipped on the captured Naor helmet earlier prepared for her use, oversized and fuzzy with its ridiculous horsehair beard and mustache, anchored in place by the cheek guards.
Varama checked over the soldiers, quietly reiterating instructions. Though she disliked repeating herself, she tended to do so whenever she was uncertain that important information was thoroughly absorbed by her listeners. Sansyra had noticed more repeating in the past two days than at any other time in their acquaintance.
The squires Iressa and Nereal were the only two among them not garbed in armor. Instead, they wore Alantran dresses and head scarves. They packed shields into the bottom of the cart, along with their weapons. While Iressa adjusted a dark rumpled blanket over them, Nereal fussed with her dress front, pulling down on the cloth to reveal generous cleavage.
“No Alantran woman goes out without an undershirt,” Denalia scolded as she stepped in close. “And your scarf is done up wrong.”
The blond squire squirmed a little, jiggling. “Goodness, am I too scandalous? I’d hate for the Naor to become distracted.”
Curvy, fine-featured Iressa joined her. “Quit shaking those around before someone gets hurt.”
Denalia pointed at their skirts. “Alantran women don’t slit their dresses like that.”
“I don’t think the Naor soldiers will care,” one of the Alantrans muttered from the side. Sansyra recognized him as Tevrik, an archery officer.
“Shouldn’t you be on guard?” Sansyra asked.
“I’m testing the distractibility of the lures, here. Good job, Squires.”
Iressa smiled slyly at him.
Sansyra was getting ready to mouth a rebuke, but Denalia stepped forward. “At least let me help with the scarves,” the young officer said. “You’ve both gotten the front folds wrong. And Nereal, you have too much hair showing.”
“A little more alacrity if you please,” Varama said.
Denalia fussed for only a moment before stepping back, still looking dissatisfied, but Varama ordered them under way. The alten marched at the column head, immediately followed by Sansyra, who led the cart. Iressa and Nereal came after, shadowed by Tevrik, pretending to guard them. The archers ranged at the rear in two semi-orderly columns, as they’d noticed Red Feather bowmen tended to march.
They passed shuttered houses. No lights shone from within, and no cookfires sent smoke from chimneys. Some few refugees probably hid within portions of the city, but most Alantrans had been forcibly moved from their homes and were kept under guard in larger spaces, when not directed to prepare food, care for animals, labor on Naor engineering projects … or other tasks that no one wanted to visualize.
Apparently the Naor didn’t see the defensive utility of a staggered gate system, thus walls and homes were coming down for the construction of straight throughways from the outer gates to the city’s heart. They passed near one gaping rent, astonished by the wanton destruction of the ancient wall and nearby houses, now nothing more than wrecked timber piles or empty foundations.
The city was mostly quiet. The wind rustled herbage and creaked abandoned doors. Every now and then a dog barked, which was unremarkable. The outbreak of terrified screaming from somewhere west of them, abruptly cut off, was not. Were these ordinary times, they’d have immediately diverted to investigate. This night, though, they had a vital mission more important than seeking evidence of another of the innumerable tragedies visited on the people of Alantris by their occupiers.
As they advanced they passed within a block of a dully glowing square, but no one turned to look. This was the source of a continual greasy smoke that clung to surrounding structures, a special fire fed not only with wood, but the flesh of the blood-drained vanquished. Sansyra shuddered to think about the ash that fell upon her and feared what she might smell, but the scent of burned timber overwhelmed all else.
They marched over bridges and streets and presented themselves at a checkpoint, receiving only rudimentary examination. The “prisoners” Nereal and Iressa drew the male gaze just as readily as Varama had intended. It wasn’t just their distraction at work, though. The Naor hadn’t imagination enough to suppose the Resistance would walk freely into the most heavily guarded sector of their captured city with a wagon and two “helpless” women.
They passed through two barricades before they arrived finally at the outskirts of the flat field in the outermost ring of the city where the dragons lay.
The buildings that had once housed the farmers who’d worked these fields had been cleared away over the past three days, apart from one home to the far northwest and another to the southeast. A crude sentry platform had been erected upon the roof of each. More than a half square mile of slapdash wooden fence now sealed off the field and presented only one entrance, which they approached. The outer wall beyond was a black slash defining the horizon, ominous and threatening now that it lay under enemy control.
Their escort of archers fell back in the shadow of the last line of houses. Their moment would come.
Only Tevrik stayed with them, behind the costumed squires walking with downcast eyes, miming the part of downtrodden citizenry. Varama donned her semblance as they drew close to the sentries at the dark dragon field’s entry point. The alten had transformed into a slim young man with a wispy beard. She arrogantly pushed back her shoulders as she stopped before the Naor guard.
Four of the six Naor had been playing dice, but rose with their commander to receive the wagon party. Lanterns hung from nearby poles ruddied their beards and hair and the one in charge carried himself as though he hated his job and personally blamed them for being stuck with it. He bade them halt in a gravelly voice and saluted with a hand to head.
Varama returned the salute. Sansyra noticed the soldiers glance briefly at her and Tevrik, but the men’s eyes slid over to the comely squires and settled there.
“I am Dragon Lord Torzhek,” Varama said in a reedy voice, and passed over more of her forged papers. “I have supplies for the dragons.”
The sentry officer took the papers and stepped closer to a lantern to read them.
Sansyra knew what was written there—a terse set of lies about Torzhek’s imaginary arrival from General Chargan’s army to assist with the dragons, authorization to access the beasts, and the command that his orders regarding them were to be obeyed without question.
The sentry folded the paper and handed it back to Varama. “Everything looks in order, Dragon Lord. Is that more food? They were just given a bunch of uncooperative Alantrans a few hours ago.”
Sansyra’s lips curled beneath her scratchy faux beard.
Varama answered coolly. “A spell has been worked into this food to make their scales tougher. Let us through, while the magics remain potent.”
The sentry officer turned to two of his men. “You heard the dragon lord. Get the gate open.”
“And,” Varama said, as if it were an afterthought, “I’m supposed to convey this pair to the general when I’m through. Would you like to keep them here or shall I take them with me?”
One of the guards whistled appreciately.
“You’ll keep hands off,” Varama snapped. “They’re for the general alone.”
“It’s not my hands I want to touch them with,” the guard joked in a low voice, and he and his comrades laughed.
“Silence that,” the officer snapped, then nodded to Varama. “They’ll be safe with us,” he promised.
“See that they are.” Varama raised her head. “Come,” she told Sansyra, then advanced past her without looking. Sansyra led the cart after her. She feared little for Tevrik and the lower rankers. All the squires had to do was distract the sentries for a few moments as the archers came up.
Soon they were in the fields where artichoke and fennel had been stamped flat. Sansyra could imagine no reasonable explanation for ruining crops that could just as easily have fed invaders.
A lane that had once separated fields from vanished houses still ran past the space in front of the clear spot where the dragons rested. While the darkness hid the dragons themselves, it could not hide the huge awnings thrown over them yesterday. She felt exposed and vulnerable in the flat empty space as they made their way toward the monsters.
She wasn’t aware that Varama had shut off her semblance until she heard her speak quietly, in a rare attempt at rapport. “Things are going well enough so far.”
“Yes,” Sansyra agreed.
“If we are challenged on our way out, remember that many of these are young men out on their first foray. The last war did not leave the Naor many veterans.”
She’d said something similar in a brief speech several days earlier, and Sansyra appreciated the reminder, although their edge in skill would only count if they could keep clear of the overwhelming enemy numbers.
As the cart rumbled forward, their proximity revealed the outline of their monster targets at last. The five great beasts lay beneath individual awnings, arranged some forty paces apart, with their snouts a few paces back from the edge of the lane. The outer wall was only a few hundred feet beyond the last. There was no missing the silhouettes of watchers on the wall and towers. Sansyra spied four of them making their rounds. “What will the men on the walls think of us?”
“That we obviously belong here because we passed through the gate.” She must have been keyed up because she elaborated. “Those are sentries charged with watching for the terrible fae cavalry. They are apt to be both nervous and bored, but all of their suspicions will be focused outward, especially after yesterday’s incident.”
From what little they’d been able to glean about life beyond the walls, some uncaptured Alantran cavalry were bedeviling the Naor. Yesterday they’d reined in at extreme range and unleashed a volley that cut down two Naor sentries and wounded three more. A liberated work gang of Alantrans had been elated to pass on the news they’d overheard from their slain minders.
Sansyra risked a glance over her shoulder and calculated that they were a quarter mile from the gate and the sentries. She hadn’t heard a sound from them, and that was probably a good sign. Maybe the archers had already finished off the Naor behind them and assumed command of the sentry post.
Varama drew to a stop beside a stinking wooden trough near the first dragon’s head.
The dragon itself was still. The resistance scouts reported that the beasts moved little, except when food was deposited in their feed troughs, at which point they lurched to life, so eager to eat that they’d once snared one of the slaves forced to feed them.
Two evenings previous, Sansyra had considered them from a hiding place high on the second ring. The dragons were broadly similar in that their central bodies stretched on for at least twenty horse lengths, their tails longer yet. But each was different. One with a greenish hue had a variety of added spikes upon nearly every leg and shoulder joint. Another had a beautiful, almost iridescent sheen, like an insect’s wing held up to the light, and Sansyra had found that such a stark contrast to its brutal outline she’d later sketched it from memory. The ugliest, though, was a deep blue with a heavy jaw and especially large spikes, and this was the one they neared first.
The horses shied as they stopped in front of it, and Varama stilled them with a word and what Sansyra sensed was a brief magical force. Surprisingly, the winged lizards smelled like very little at all, or perhaps their scent was completely disguised by the reek of blood-soaked soil.
Varama hung a lantern on a pole standing up from the corner of the cart, then unshuttered it to narrowly direct its beam toward the rectangular trough. If not for the dull light gleaming on the cobalt scales of the dragon’s snout, the creature would have seemed black. It lay with eyes closed, spiky head between its massive front feet, dark wings folded along its sides.
While Varama watched, Sansyra hurried to the back of the cart, hefted the first basket, and carted it to the trough. Her eyes locked upon the dragon’s features as she upended the raw meat, heavily soaked in poison, and sent it sliding into the container. The dragon did nothing. Sansyra stepped back, glanced to her commanding officer.
“Stand watch,” Varama said. “I’m going to wake it.”
Varama seemed no different than usual; distant onlookers would only have seen her staring at the great lizard. Her mentor was one of the least demonstrative spell casters Sansyra had ever encountered. Likely at this very moment the alten was deeply enmeshed in a weaving, connecting her mind to whatever mind the dragon possessed.
Sansyra noticed nothing along the wall. Back at the gate the guards were no longer silhouetted by their lanterns.
Torchlight reflected upon the whites of the dragon’s huge open orbs. Sansyra swore softly in surprise.
Varama stood absolutely still even as the beast craned its neck within a few feet of her and lowered its maw toward the poisoned food. It tipped in its head, bared its knife-sharp teeth, and dropped in a black tongue to slurp up the meal.
Sansyra smiled triumphantly. One down, assuming that such a creature could be killed by the poison Varama had harvested from flowers.
After it had lapped up the food and, for better measure, licked the wood where it had rested, the dragon stared past them, closed its eyes, and slowly lowered its head. A function of Varama’s spell work, Sansyra knew, for she recognized the alten’s concentrated look.
Sansyra only realized she’d been holding her breath when she let it out at the same time as Varama, who relaxed and turned away. “Let’s keep on,” she said.
Sansyra looked back to the first dragon, discovered it with its head between its feet. It didn’t seem at all troubled. “Did it work?” She spoke softly as she led the horses forward, fearful that her voice would carry far in the vast still quiet.
“I’ve no way of knowing, yet,” Varama answered. “It doesn’t seem to register pain or contentment, as I understand it. But the creature clearly has a stomach or the Naor wouldn’t feed it. And we just fed it enough atropa to kill forty horses. So assuming it’s physiology is not too dissimilar from other vertebrates, we should learn the answer to your question in approximately eight minutes.”
“How hard was the dragon to manipulate?
“There was some challenge,” Varama admitted. “There’s little mind there with which to link; more a series of impulses. You can set one in motion and it moves, almost automatically, as though it has a memorized pattern. I think it would be very challenging to alter that pattern.”
Sansyra scanned the ground ahead as well as the walls. In moments they’d stopped near the trough of the next beast, the black one with the thinnest body. She noted its eyes, too, were closed, then slid a quantity of pig meat into the wooden container. The dragon woke with a start and lunged at the meal. Sansyra let out a gasp of surprise and darted back.
Fortunately, the monster seemed only interested in the bloody meat. Soon, it too had downed the poisons, and under Varama’s guidance, resumed its slumber.
As they moved on toward the largest of them all, the green, Sansyra felt tension building within her. Each roll of the cart wheel, each hoof clop, she imagined like the sound years made as they swept away. How much longer before someone grew worried about what they were doing?
“Two baskets for this one,” Varama told her as they came to a stop.
Sansyra nodded as she remembered their preparations, but she said nothing. Varama usually only repeated orders to those who seemed unable to keep up with her train of thought, and Sansyra had long since sworn she would prove herself more reliable than that. It was oddly reassuring to note her mentor was nervous too.
This biggest one slept more deeply, and Varama had to force it awake. Still, once it scented the meal it was just as eager as the others, and gobbled up the food.
As they neared the fourth dragon, she felt a stab of remorse, for the torchlight winked upon the dragon’s brilliant wing scales. Its appearance shouldn’t have mattered, but it troubled her both that they had to slay such a unique specimen and that the Naor were capable of fashioning something with a hint of beauty even if it was likely accidental.
As Sansyra headed to the rear of the cart, she heard the rush of feet behind her and whirled. Her hand went to the place her knife was usually belted, then switched higher when she realized she’d attached it differently on her Naor armor.
A moment later Nereal sprinted up to them and drew to a halt, only a little winded. She sketched a salute to Varama then reported quickly: “A Naor mounted patrol came by. They left, but Iressa believes that they were suspicious.”
“And your belief?” Varama said.
“I think her right, Alten. The officer hesitated too long, and they didn’t complete a full round before they returned the way they came.”
“As though they got to thinking about it and were returning to check in with a higher-up,” Sansyra suggested.
“Yes,” Nereal agreed.
Almost at the same moment, a deep horn call sounded from the nearby gate tower. Sansyra recognized an alert when she heard one.
So did Varama. “Empty the last basket. Nereal, uncouple the horses. Hurry!”
Sansyra slopped the next-to-last dose of poisoned meat before her favorite dragon. Earlier she’d regretted having to kill it, now she was sorry that they wouldn’t have a chance to slay the next one as well. She heard Nereal cursing and stepped away to assist her with a knot as Varama concentrated on spell work.
The horn calls were repeated to the south, and then from somewhere in the second ring. Sansyra knew a stab of fear, for the Naor could pour into this area by the hundreds. Or thousands.
A flash of red light caught her attention from the left, and Sansyra looked up to see the roof of a building aflame on the second ring. A moment later there was a flash of fire from far off in the west.
Varama’s backup plan was already underway. Two small additional teams had been deployed with orders to light a barracks building and a Naor stables afire if the Naor blew alert calls during the midst of the dragon mission. Varama had commented that the odds of their escape improved somewhat if there was confusion as to the reason behind any alert calls.
She and Nereal untethered the horses, then, while Sansyra grabbed the cart’s hidden shields and javelins, Nereal outfitted them with bridles.
A wordless Varama leapt astride the darker of the two animals. Sansyra handed up a shield and three javelins even as more horn calls rang through the city. Closer by, she heard the whinny of horses and the clash of arms.
Sansyra had ripped off her distracting disguise beard and mustache and climbed onto the back of her horse, urging Nereal to hurry after she’d passed over the second shield and javelins. The squire clambered up and grabbed her about the waist.
Either Varama had a better horse or she was a better horsewoman, for hers surged immediately forward. Sansyra’s was fairly unresponsive to heel or reins, which was understandable in a cart horse. Unfortunately, there was no time to be understanding. Reluctantly Sansyra dipped into her small supply of magical energies. She was but a minor weaver, with the ability to cast a handful of spells before exhausting herself. She preferred to reserve all her energies for life-threatening emergencies, such as spears headed straight for her. It annoyed her to have to expend effort to get an untrained animal into useful motion.
She briefly linked her will to that of her mount and set it following its companion. Varama was already several horse lengths ahead, and she was the first through the barrier. A male scream rang through the air and was abruptly silenced.
Just this side of the fence, they passed a lumpy pile that hadn’t been here before—the bodies of the Naor sentries, dragged here after the archers had secured their exit. In the road beyond Sansyra spotted a riderless horse cantering away. A Naor warrior impaled upon a javelin crawled feebly after it.
By the light of scattered torches, she saw even more details as they advanced. A dozen warriors charged at them from the right, roused from bed to fight unhelmed and unarmored. Denalia’s archers had retreated to the nearby line of houses, from which they launched a devastating volley. The Naor cried out as they fell.
She kicked her horse again after Varama, nearing the archers as they diverted into the lane that was their planned exit. They were only a few lengths along when she spotted a small Naor band, just visible by the glint from helms and spear points.
Varama hefted a javelin as she kicked her animal into gallop. Sansyra saw Varama’s throw, and knew momentary disappointment as it arched past the two Naor in front. And then the weapon transfixed a rider behind. He plummeted stonelike from his saddle.
Varama shouted back to her: “Take the one on the left!”
Sansyra used more of her dwindling powers to coax her heavy mount to speed. Two horsemen had galloped past the Naor on foot, and one pitched a spear. Sansyra saw it begin its arc, made a split-second decision, and veered right. She felt the passage of the weapon past her cheek.
Marksmanship had never been Sansyra’s great strength. But Nereal was a natural. She gripped Sansyra’s shoulder with her off hand, then let loose. Her javelin took the charging Naor in the shoulder.
It stuck in his armor. He rocked in his saddle, then cast it savagely away and pulled his sword, shouting in fury as he closed. Varama was already exchanging sword blows with the man’s companion.
Sansyra parried a slash that almost tore the sword from her fingers. Nereal left her second javelin buried in the warrior’s thigh, his shout of pain almost drowned out by the squire’s exultant war cry.
Then they were past the riders and heading straight on for what must have been two full troops, with two more mounted horsemen and at least four dozen on foot.
Varama donned her other semblance and set her ring to shining. “For Alantris!” she shouted.
But it was not her voice, even if it came from her lips, and as Sansyra came up beside her she saw it was not Varama’s image revealed by her azure ring, but that of a dark-haired man with a narrow face. Sansyra had never seen N’lahr in person, but knew his image from the many paintings and statues and the relief upon his tomb. The Naor already gaped, and to ensure they all understood, Varama flourished her blade and cried out theatrically: “I am N’lahr, returned from the dead to drag you down to hell!” And with that her horse curvetted. The alten sent forth a burst of fear, and fully half the Naor soldiers bolted into a nearby alley. Those struck motionless with fear were wide open for the next volley from the archers, who’d run up from the side.
Varama shouted in fury and spurred toward the enemy, sword extended. She galloped one warrior down and sliced another’s arm off and then she was into the horsemen.
Sansyra’s beast was again slower to answer. Varama was already engaged with one of the mounted officers. The other cast forth a stream of glittering motes into Sansyra’s path. She swung up her shield and heard one of the metal things clang against it. Something sharp slashed through the leather of her boot. The horse screamed and Nereal gurgled and suddenly slipped from the saddle.
Years of training kicked in and Sansyra threw herself clear of the collapsing mount. She tumbled as she hit, the air filled with her horse’s screams. She staggered to her feet and whipped up her sword, saw the horse struggling to rise. Nereal was slumped on the ground, moving fitfully and with no real purpose, her throat a terrible red gash.
A voice in her head told her to still her movements. It was a very reasonable, commanding voice, and no matter how much Sansyra shook her head and repeated the mantra she’d been taught, throwing up her own meager magical energies to counter, the enemy mage’s command grew ever more authoritative. Dully she was aware of others closing, of footfalls, of shouts.
Her lip curled and she showed her teeth, but the voice in her head was telling her to stop the nonsense and she was wondering why she shouldn’t.
And then the voice was stilled and Varama was there in her N’lahr semblance and the Naor mage who’d thrown the shining weapons slipped headless from his mount.
“Take his horse!” Varama shouted. And so she did. Iressa and the archers caught up Nereal’s limp body and they all stole into the night.
Over the next quarter hour they sometimes pretended to be Naor patrol and sometimes advanced more stealthily around large Naor search parties. Eventually they abandoned their animals, moving over rooftops and through alleys and secret ways until they reached, at long last, the safety of the tunnels.
After a healer had slipped sharp shrapnel from her calf and sewn the wound shut, she sat in Varama’s office. She was trying to draw the dragon rather than the image of Nereal she kept seeing as Varama listened to reports. Then she learned that Varama’s other forged orders had yielded success: the Naor themselves had delivered armaments to a deadly ambush site and a Naor cavalry patrol had been dispatched beyond the city and promptly vanished, almost surely cut to ribbons by the Alantran cavalry. Other missions had sown additional chaos. Virian, a wiry third ranker, had infiltrated a barracks and slain every soldier on lower bunks while they slept. Other lower rankers had written N’lahr’s name in red paint in prominent places that would be seen come dawn.
As important as the donated weapons were, it was the last report, delivered just before dawn by her friend Lemahl, that excited her most. He and a small team of masons and weavers had worked a hole through a secluded spot in the outer wall, and Lemahl had set out to find their allies in the countryside.
With his large, knobby nose and square face, Lemahl wasn’t the handsomest of men, but his good spirits were indefatigable. He flashed his winning smile as he entered Varama’s office.
“You made contact,” Varama said.
“Yes, Alten. And I brought a guest.” Lemahl looked to his right and raised his voice. “Enter.”
The door opened on the instant and in swaggered a short, dark-skinned woman with straight black hair. Like Varama, she wore a khalat and a sapphire ring, but the resemblance ended there, for where Varama’s face was rectangular, this woman’s was round, and while Varama’s nose was long and thin, her counterpart’s was short and flat. Varama stared as the newcomer grinned and opened her arms.
She was Enada the Swift, mistress of horses.
“Hail, Alten!” she cried. “I’ve brought my cavalry. I hear you have some Naor to slay!”