Empire of Bones (28 page)

Cyrus shook his head.

Niffy stared at him. “It was an Avengel’s oath, no common promise. Sworn over the bodies of the fallen.”

“He’s not dead,” Cyrus said. “Not unless you saw it happen. Not unless you were there and he said, ‘I’m dead,’ and you felt his pulse stop. I won’t believe it.”

Niffy shrugged. “Then he has broken his oath and matters not. Better men than he fell today, and I will not let my anger cool to grief. We strike now, together. Or I strike alone.”

Cyrus’s shirt pocket shook again. He dug his hand in and pulled out the tiny ball of water. While he watched, it sparkled silver and flattened in his palm. Niffy turned, staring while it fluttered up into a small, sharp silver liquid version of Arachne’s head.

“Cyrus.” The small water voice was barely a whisper. “Where are you? Where’s Rupert?”

“Ashtown.” Cyrus lowered his own voice to a whisper without thinking. “I don’t know where Rupe is. We lost the plane. Phoenix’s Reborn attacked.”

Niffy crouched behind Cyrus and leaned in over his shoulder.

“Always love a chat,” Niffy said. “But we’re off to the battlefield. Must run, love. The bloody murdering Brendan himself is waiting to die, so if you don’t mind …” He slapped the water flat on Cyrus’s palm and stood back up.

Cyrus jumped to his feet and faced the monk. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Avenging my brothers,” Niffy said. “And your Keeper, like as not. You can ring your spider-witch back later. Right now I need a guide. Which rooftop road do we take?”

Cyrus turned toward the lake and the row of statues, which overlooked the grass slopes that ran down to the airfield and the water. The statues were distant enough to be only dark shadows against the background of the moonlit lake, but he’d been in the Brendan’s rooms before. He knew those statues were just outside his walls of glass.

“That way?” Niffy asked. “Grand. Are you armed?”

“You can’t just go murder the Brendan,” Cyrus said.

“Why not?” Niffy spat. “His allies murdered my brothers and my father.” His voice wavered. “As my heart beats, I am at war with him, his vile people, and any who do not stand against him. The whole O of B can go burn with him if it likes.”

Churning air beat against Cyrus’s face and a shape shot above him in the darkness. Niffy drew a black-bladed sword out of the neck of his robe and dropped into a crouch. Another shape shot past, and the two huge dragonflies wheeled together in front of the moon and darted back toward Cyrus and the monk.

A sharp whistle pulled them away just as Niffy began his swing. The dragonflies darted around and through the statues and away toward the shape of a man jogging stiffly along a roof peak, hopping on and over chimneys.

“Ha!” Cyrus said. His whole body loosened, and he exhaled relief. Worry that he had denied and ignored washed away. The shape was Rupert’s—broad shoulders, narrow hips, thick neck, easy gait—and it was running toward them, dropping cautiously onto the glass roof.

“Niffy!” Rupert hissed as he approached. “Now or never, Irish. They know we’re up here. We move now!”

“Rupe!” Cyrus jogged toward him. “Man, I’m glad you’re alive.”

Rupert froze. “Cyrus?” He looked straight up at the stars. “Good God above, I’m a lucky fool.” Looking back
down, he smacked Cyrus’s head. “You had me more than worried. I can’t ever have that conversation with your mum, do you understand me? Never. Nor with Antigone. Outlive me, lad. Please.”

Cyrus smiled in the dark, but Rupert didn’t look good. His right sleeve was burned away, and his arm looked gruesome all the way up to his bare shoulder. He’d strapped on a gun belt with one revolver, and the long handle of an Asian sword peeked up over his shoulder.

“We have to get out of here,” Cyrus said. “And you have to do something with Niffy. He wants to murder the Brendan.”

“Not murder,” Rupert said. “Execute.” He pointed at the monk waiting behind Cyrus. “We spoke about this.”

Niffy nodded. “You’re here now, mate. Let’s get on with it.”

“Wait …,” Cyrus said. “What?”

“The blood is mine to shed,” Rupert said. “The life is mine to judge. Stay as close as you can and do as I say. If I say nothing, do nothing. Hang back. No questions.”

Rupert moved quickly away between the statues and onto another rooftop. Niffy and Cyrus stayed with him, jogging along the peak. Rupert dropped between roof peaks into a wide valley densely packed with leaves. A tiny aircraft, the size and shape of a hang glider, was tied to a chimney. It had a single black cloth wing, anchored
to sandbags at both tips, and a small aluminum frame below the center, holding one seat perched between what looked like a pair of small silver rockets.

Cyrus stopped beside a small chimney steam-spewing stink.

“I heard Sterling was back,” Rupert said. “He always had his rat routes in and out of this place. But I never thought his routes had wings.”

Cyrus followed Rupert past the little flier, scrambled up a low wall, and stopped beside his Keeper. Niffy jumped up beside him.

From where they stood, the roof sloped gently down all the way to the final edge, where the last row of statues posed in silence and glass skylights glowed yellow. Invisible in the distance, Cyrus could hear the dragonflies patrolling the rooftops for Rupert.

The three of them crouched low and moved with quick soft steps down to the first glowing skylights. Rupert held up his hand, and Niffy and Cyrus hung back.

Slowly, Rupert leaned out over the glass, looking down. A moment later, he moved to the next one. And the next. Finally, when he’d nearly reached the extreme corner of the building, he signaled for Cyrus and Niffy to come.

Beside his Keeper, Cyrus looked down into the corner of a room where he had once faced the old Brendan, brother to Phoenix. Oliver had been there, too. Oliver, who
had wanted friendship but refused to give any in return. Oliver, who had gotten much worse than he deserved. The unhealed slash on Cyrus’s forearm tingled slightly beneath its tight bandage. It rarely felt like anything anymore, and Arachne’s small bandage was smoother and more perfect than his real skin. Cyrus pushed away the memory. He could be sad for Oliver later.

The same couch and chairs were in the Brendan’s rooms, beside the windows. And Bellamy Cook was pacing behind them. He was gnawing at his fingernails while he moved, spitting out the shards, talking, demanding, shouting, waving his arms, and tossing questions at three men who stood almost completely out of view. Cyrus couldn’t quite see, but he was willing to bet that all three men had gills on their necks. There were other men and women, too—the room was full.

Snatches of Bellamy’s shouting made it through the glass and were carried away on the lake breeze.

done everything … ratbag thinks he can do … now … lies … promised me … dingoes listening … dragons toss … ending you … all ending

Bellamy flipped over the couch and tore into a string of Australian curses. The three men didn’t move.

Rupert drew his revolver and handed it to Cyrus.

“You fly past and put a few in the windows,” Rupert whispered. “Niffy, help him launch the flier. Then we drop through the ceiling for hand-to-hand.”

Niffy nodded approval.

Cyrus shook his head. “Fly that little thing? Then what?”

Rupert dug a small string-cinched pouch out of his pocket. “Your Quick Water,” he said. “Fly as far as you have fuel, then hunker down until Di and your sis can get back for you.”

“Rupe,” Cyrus said, taking the pouch. “I’m not leaving you here. No more splitting up.”

Rupert grabbed the back of Cyrus’s neck and leaned forward, staring into Cyrus’s eyes.

“Here I stand,” Rupert said quietly. “Here I fall. If my vows mean anything, they mean this. I cannot turn away from the blood spilled today.”

He smacked Cyrus’s aching head and pushed him away.

“Quickly,” he said. “The roof won’t be ours for long.”

Cyrus backed up the slope with the heavy revolver hanging in his hand. Niffy jogged past him. This didn’t make sense. Tonight, Rupert Greeves fought for Ashtown. Without allies. The Captain should be here. And Nolan. And Arachne and Diana and Dan and the Livingstones and the Boones and Gunner and Dennis. They weren’t much, but they were something. They were loyal and tough and … they were friends. Polygoners.

Rupert looked back and waved Cyrus away. He and a
thick Irish monk—no friend at all—were going into their Alamo.

While he, Cyrus, flew away.

And suddenly, Cyrus understood. He understood all the frustration he’d seen in his Keeper in the last weeks, the struggle, the anger. Rupert Greeves, Blood Avenger of the Order of Brendan, Ashtown Estate, was a protector, a guard, a shepherd. Rupert Greeves was no general. Generals spend men. Generals expect sacrifice from those who stand with them. Shepherds do not lead their sheep into battle with wolves. They fight alone.

Rupert had never settled on a path because down every path, he saw the deaths of others, the deaths of those he had sworn to die protecting—the deaths of his sheep. Some of his people had died anyway, and now Rupert saw a path open in front of him—a path that led to only one death. The only life Rupert Greeves would gladly spend was his own. Only that path offered him peace of soul.

Cyrus felt his heart thumping, and the hot anger began in his legs, tingling where the wind touched him. Heat roared up into his chest and pounded in his aching head. Niffy hissed at him, waiting. Rupert’s eyes were on Cyrus’s, quiet and peaceful and patient. And Cyrus knew something else.

Rupert would never wait for Niffy. As soon as they
were out of sight, they would hear glass shatter behind them as Rupert went in alone.

Cyrus’s eyes were hot. It couldn’t be this way. They had to fight Phoenix and Radu Bey and they had to win. People would die. But people were surely dying now, wherever Phoenix was. People would be dying wherever Radu Bey might have gone, unchained.

He, Cyrus Smith, had to be what Rupert Greeves could never be—a general.

He shall be called the Desolation
.…

The memory of Dan’s words sent tight chills up Cyrus’s neck.

You, Cyrus. It’s about you
.…

And it started now.

when he casts his shadow …

Rupert was no longer the general.

 … even the dragon shall shrink in fear
.

Rupert Greeves was just one warrior, a warrior Cyrus had to be willing to risk. And if he died … Hot, wet anger rolled down Cyrus’s cheeks. He turned away and began to run.

Niffy dropped off the low wall, and Cyrus dropped down after him. The monk was already untying the sandbag anchors.

“Niffy.” Cyrus grabbed the monk’s robe. “Rupe is going in alone. Get back there now.” He was surprised at how calm his own voice sounded.

The monk blinked surprise. Glass shattered.

“Go!” Cyrus said.

Niffy exploded back up the low wall and disappeared. Another life risked. Cyrus shoved the revolver into his belt and flipped open Sterling’s bone-handled knife. The ropes that held down the flier were weatherworn and parted quickly. Sandbags slumped to the ground, and black wingtips bounced up.

He could hear shouting. Gunfire.

The ropes were all cut and he gave the little flier a shove. It was heavier than it looked, and hidden down between two roof peaks. There was no way he was pushing it up. But he couldn’t imagine that Sterling would be able to, either.

Cyrus ducked under the black cloth wing and slid into the little wire cage, spread his legs around the controls, and dropped into the seat. He didn’t bother with the over-the-shoulder buckle.

There were two small pedals for steering, but there was no tail or rudder anywhere on the little thing, so he had no idea how they would work. The two fat silver tubes below him on either side had to be engines. The stick between his knees was obviously the throttle, and it had a trigger and thumb button—both under hinged plastic covers. Were there guns on this thing? He didn’t have time to care. He had to start it. Now. Groping around beneath his seat, he felt a tank—fuel—and
then he found a small box. It opened. Yes. A key and switch.

A dragonfly shot past him. And another. He looked back toward the statues where he had first climbed up, and he saw shapes moving—a line of men, spread out, sweeping the rooftops.

Cyrus turned the key and flipped the switch.

The two silver tubes beneath him woke up, first with a yawn, then with a tornado roar. Leaves whirled up behind him and the little flier shook and bounced.

Cyrus glanced back at the rooftop hunters. He saw guns flash and arms wave, but he couldn’t hear the shots or the shouts.

He held his breath, clenched his teeth, and threw the throttle.

The flier jumped forward into the pitched roof, banged its nose, tipped back, and then launched up and off the peak.

Cyrus should have buckled in. He was in the air, the flier was dropping, nose down, and he was still floating up. Grabbing at the stick, he managed to level it out and slammed back down into his seat.

The lake breeze pushed him inland. He tried to bank back toward the water. His pedals changed the direction of the engine thrust beneath him. The stick between his legs either bent in or released the cloth wingtips. Used
together, he turned so sharply that he simply stopped in the air, and then began to drop into a glide.

Cyrus liked this thing. A lot. He accelerated past the buildings and wheeled back around over the airstrip.

The little Quick Water shook in his shirt pocket. The bigger lump was wobbling against his hip.

“Not now, Arachne!” Cyrus yelled, and the quivering stopped. He brought the flier in level with the Brendan’s glowing windows and slowed until he was practically hanging in the air.

The room was a shambles. Rupert and Niffy were both on their feet, pressing against at least twelve men armed with guns and long knives. Rupert used only a sword and it was a blur in his hand. He was moving faster than Cyrus had ever seen, a man exploding forward into the teeth of Death. Niffy stayed beside him as they moved over a carpet of bodies. Niffy spun the black-bladed sword in one hand, and his dead master’s patrik flashed like golden fire in the other.