Somehow he managed to catch a carved balcony railing on the way down. With both hands he clung on for life. Smoke boiled around him, and debris pattered down on his head and back, some of it big enough and falling hard enough to knock the breath out of him. He nearly fell again.
When he could see-if not breathe-he looked down and saw Velmont clutching fast to the glass-lined scabbard of Acidtongue. The Helstrovian was pulling him down, and Malden considered kicking Velmont away, kicking him to his death.
No. He was better than that. Using every ounce of strength he possessed, he got one elbow over the balcony, then pulled his chest over the stone. That freed up his hands enough that he could reach down and help Velmont clamber up beside him.
Neither of them could talk. They could do nothing but cough and wheeze. Malden broke through the stained- glass window that opened on the balcony and threw himself inside, away from the falling detritus.
He found himself inside the arsenal, on a gallery overlooking racks of old polearms and crossbows whose strings had rotted away. Down on the ground level a dozen workers had been busily polishing and scraping rust off old iron blades. They stared up at him now as if he was a demon come to claim their souls.
There was no time to reassure them. Once he had a good clean breath in his lungs, he grabbed Velmont’s arm and hurried him down a flight of stairs to the level of the street. Outside, the cobbles were thick with dust and ash. He raced toward the university just as a second blast rocked the entire city on its foundation.
One whole wall of the cloister had come down. Inside, in the courtyard, he saw nothing but fire and destruction. “Slag!” he called. “Anyone alive in there! Call out if you hear me!”
The smoke was so thick it made him gag on his own words. It stank of rotten eggs and brimstone-the breath of Sadu Himself.
“Lad,” he heard someone call. The voice was weak and distant, and he realized he could barely hear anything other than his own heartbeat. The noise of the explosion must have partially deafened him.
He raced toward the voice and found Slag buried under broken stone, only part of the dwarf’s face and one arm visible. Malden grabbed Velmont’s arm and pointed, and together they began clearing the rubble away. When Slag was mostly clear, Malden pulled at his body to get him out of the wreckage.
The dwarf’s left arm came off at the shoulder as he came free. It had been hanging on only by a shred of skin and then it was gone. The rest of Slag wasn’t in much better shape. Malden cradled the small, skinny body in his arms, certain the dwarf would die at any moment. Slag’s face was scorched and his beard was burnt away. His eyes were yellow and red and gelatinous tears clung to what remained of his eyelashes. Blood slicked down the entire left side of his body.
“Lad,” the dwarf croaked, “I finally got the ratios right. Fucking
… right. It works! It works! It will fucking serve!”
And then the dwarf started laughing, laughing for joy.
Chapter One Hundred Three
Croy rode at the head of an army of two thousand men, of which only one in a hundred could understand his orders. It did not matter. The Skilfingers had provided excellent translators. They were used to this arrangement.
The Northern Kingdoms were perpetually at war with one another, their borders shifting back and forth a few miles every year. The territories changed hands so fast the cartographers could not keep up, and a map could only show shaded areas where each kingdom’s power was the strongest. Yet the wars had gone on so long, these combats had become formalized and played out by very strict rules, and so any given kingdom was fighting only a month out of any year. The cost of keeping, paying, and feeding standing armies was extraordinary, and Skilfing defrayed the expense by hiring out its soldiers as mercenaries to any nation that required them.
That meant the Skilfinger warriors behind Croy were well-trained, well-disciplined, and carried the best arms available anywhere on the continent. He had no doubt they would be a match for an equal number of barbarians.
The best estimate he had, though, was that eight thousand barbarians had surrounded Ness, forming an enormous camp all around the city. Among them were perhaps seven hundred berserkers-and even a heavily armored Skilfinger knight would have trouble standing against those mad warriors.
Sir Hew was correct. He had been wise to think Helstrow the better choice for demonstrating their newfound power. What could be accomplished by attacking Ness was an open question.
Croy did not care.
Cythera was in danger, and that was all that mattered.
Hew had given him no trouble at all. He was the regent now, and for all intents and purposes he would be the king of Skrae for the next four years. Hew obeyed his every command without question. If the look on Hew’s face sometimes betrayed his true feelings, Croy could learn not to meet the knight’s eyes. Bethane, however, proved less pliant. She had insisted on going with him when he marched toward Ness.
“It isn’t safe,” he told her.
“The only place I am safe is near you,” she said.
He had stood firm. As regent, he could command even her, though he was required by law to couch his orders in terms of perfect courtesy and protocol. He sent her north with an honor guard of ten Skilfinger knights. She would winter in Skilfing Town-the capital of Skilfing-as a pampered guest of the king and his court there. Come spring, it remained to be seen where she would go. Or even if there was a place for her to go.
Croy and Hew marched southwest toward Ness, giving Helstrow a wide berth but otherwise taking the most direct route. It was slow going. They had plenty of horses for themselves and the Skilfinger knights, but that was only one-tenth of their contingent. The rest were footmen, retainers of the knights, and they could only march twenty miles a day. Less, sometimes much less, when they had to march through heavy snow. There was a reason armies did not move much during the winter. Croy pressed them for twenty-five miles a day whenever possible, knowing full well that would leave them exhausted and less effective when they arrived.
He called very few stops. Hew advised him over and over that he must give the men a day of rest or they would be in no shape to fight, yet still he pressed on. When he was only fifty miles from Ness, though, only two days’ march away, he ordered the column to stop atop a barren hill overlooking wasted farmland.
He had heard a sound of distant thunder that rolled along the hills. In the distance he saw a column of smoke splitting the sky in half.
“It could be anything,” Hew told him, his voice for once sympathetic.
“It’s Ness.”
Hew sighed. “The barbarians could have put a village to the torch. It’s impossible to say how far away that smoke is-it could be right down the road. It could be nothing. Perhaps they set fire to the manor house at Middleholt.”
Croy watched the smoke rise into a perfectly placid sky.
“It’s Ness,” he said again.
The whole city could be burning. The barbarians might have taken it, and razed it to the ground. Cythera could be dead, she could be-she could be He closed his eyes for a moment only and prayed. He begged the Lady to let him see Cythera once more. If only for a moment before he died.
Then he opened his eyes again.
“There will be no day of rest,” he announced.
Sir Hew did not argue. The translators called out the order to the captains, who relayed it to their serjeants, who passed it on to the men in words they could understand. There was probably a great deal of grumbling back there but Croy didn’t have to listen to it. That was one advantage of being the man in charge.
“March, double time,” he said.
Behind him, drums began to beat, and a fife made a good attempt at playing a rambunctious tune.
