ASH
Once the battle begins, there’s enough distraction for me to steal closer to the frontline where Zostar and his young prisoners have advanced.
“We can do this voluntarily or we can do it the other way,” the old man barks, holding up a leather mask I remember from the testing – various scents would be funnelled through until we were breathing nothing else but his concoction of vile smoke.
Among the older ones, Mish pipes up. “This is not something we are resisting through fear or rebellion.” She looks around, gestures to the green-yellow haze, coughing for emphasis. “I think it’s the smoke.”
Since I first smelled it, the sulphur-stink reminded me of the night at the temple when I made the mistake of letting Rakel try to remove my curse. There was something in the smoke that made things … not more controlled, but less powerful. A kind of dampening. Is this what’s happening to the others?
My theories are interrupted by the world exploding.
Or at least that’s what it sounds like. A roaring wall of noise that impacts my ears like it had solid substance.
A few heartbeats later, there’s a tremor underfoot. I crouch lower behind the wagon I’d been keeping between me and Zostar. I’d think it a groundshake like the ones Aphorai is plagued with. But this is different. The ground vibrates in waves, as if it were ripples on a pond that someone had dropped a stone into miles away. If I were to wager, I’d say they were coming from the southwest, not from Aphorai.
Some of the rearguard soldiers, waiting for their turn to engage, have dropped to the ground, as if under attack. Others look around with wild eyes, seeking the source. More than one of the mercenaries flees, only for Zostar to order them cut down by Rangers.
Finally, everything stills again.
What in Kaismap’s far-seeing name was that?
The green-yellow smoke still obscures most of the battleground, but the sounds of combat continue. The explosion clearly didn’t come from the field of engagement. What could have caused it?
There’s no time to investigate.
Because Zostar orders the nearest Blazers to roll another wagon forward.
“The other way, then,” the white-haired physician grates.
One of his men throws a lit candle into the cart’s bed. I have no idea what is in there, but it soon begins burning, sending up columns of black smoke.
And, as the dark, acrid cloud eddies upward, a hundred amorphous shadows rise to join it.
The children’s faces are blank, eyes unblinking, mouths slack. The old man raises his arms. Again, like the conductor of the palace orchestra urges the players to stay with each other, the shadows seem to keep time.
I don’t know how he’s done it. But it’s like he’s in control of their curses. When I left them behind underneath Ekasya Mountain, I feared they would become like me.
This is much worse.
They are but a madman’s instruments of destruction.
Then the guards roll the burning wagon further on to the battlefield. The children follow. For the first time, I dearly hope Nisai found his ancient weapon. Because otherwise, I have no idea what might bring them to heel.
Except, perhaps, me.