The Starfall Knight (29 page)

For a moment, Devan’s fingers felt extended like the roots of the weed he had discarded.  His bones dug into the earth, stretching like lightning through the air.

The ground shuddered and the bare rock cracked.  The iron spike sagged.

Devan shot upright and pulled out the spike.  Nausea rose and Devan’s stomach clenched.  He dry-retched – if he had had eaten anything substantial, it would’ve been wasted.  Small favours, Devan thought.

He freed himself of the chain.  Even though the manacles were still bound to his wrists, he was free.  Devan stretched out for the first time in days.

Devan picked up the iron stake and tapped the ground.  The metal thumped against the rock.  Nothing moved.  Devan was sure that he hadn’t imagined the sensation of reaching through the ground.  Then again, he had been delirious enough to give Tarius and Vantanis a grand tactic for invasion.  Coupled with the fact that Sirinis’ andonite was weak enough for them to steal from Masteney, the broken rock didn’t seem surprising.

Devan sighed to himself.  He rested the iron stake against his shoulder – it would serve well as a crude weapon – and headed in the same direction as the rest of the Sirinese.

The road led to the edge of the Sirinese settlement and the northern foothills of Centara became visible beyond the edge of the aerock.  Refuse littered the trampled dirt of the Sirinese, leading Devan onwards.

Devan crept towards the edge of the aerock and saw Centara city in the distance.  Sirinis had crashed against the Ledge, forming a cliff at Devan’s position but a level crossing further to the east, or Centara’s west.  Below, the entire population of Sirinis had spread out through the sparse woodlands and the foothills.  A handful of canvas tents had been erected but most of the Sirinese claimed ground with strewn bedrolls.  A few cook-fires smoked and trees were already being felled.  Dogs and children ran wild amongst the rest of the impromptu settlement that stretched as far as Devan could see from east to west.

As Devan examined the camp from above, the demarcation between Tarius’ followers and the other factions became apparent.  Thrashers with tattoos of spiked vines held one area while those with tattoos of bones or snakes stayed amongst themselves.  There were other groups that stayed out of the way of the dominant, and better equipped, thrashers.

Devan peered over the edge of Sirinis and his knees grew weak.  No, it would be easier to cross at a more reasonable height.  He had to warn the city of the impending invasion.  All he had to do was get past several thousand Sirinese.

Chapter Twelve

Devan sauntered between the fires and tents.  He swung his stake like a cane, scowling at the few who dared meet his gaze.  Devan gathered that the Sirinese, both men and women, were amassing to march against the city, leaving behind old-timers and children too young to fight.

He passed a pile of corpses stripped and hacked to pieces.  Judging by the fresh blood, they had been Centarans visiting the Ledge.  Devan shuddered to think of what had run through their minds, seeing Sirinis rise from below, lined with thrashers from edge to edge.

Devan shook his head.  He hadn’t time to contemplate if he intended to reach Centara first; with local knowledge on his side as well as the advantage of trekking alone, it wasn’t impossible.  Devan marched onwards, keeping to the sparse firs at the eastern edge of the enclave.

“You!”  A pair of patrolling thrashers stomped past a sack of crockery.  Their heads were shaved like most other Sirinese and they had no armour except for thick leather leggings and boots.  One carried a crude spear while the other had a rusted broadsword across his back.  “The staging area is over there!”

Devan slowed his pace.  Apart from a few old-timers tending their fires or setting up camp, there were no other thrashers.  He adjusted his grip on the iron spike.

“Are you deaf?”  The spearman’s boot crunched on a twig.  Close enough.

Devan lunged.  He took the thrasher by surprise but captivity had slowed him.  The thrasher twisted to one side, taking a gash along his ribs, and counter-attacked.  Devan threw himself backwards and scrambled against the brush as the other thrasher leaped forward with his sword.

Senses shot into the dirt and Devan flung up the spike to parry the sword.  Earth sprayed in the wake of his arm and Devan felt his stomach lurch.  He fought off the nausea as the dirt and rocks slammed into the thrasher, blinding him.

Before Devan realised what had happened, the other thrasher charged forward, spear raised.  Devan blocked the thrust and rolled to his side, gaining his feet.  The thrasher attacked again, thrust and swing, swing and thrust.  He was untrained but stronger than Devan.

In full retreat, Devan stumbled over an exposed tree root and fell backwards.  His spike flew from his sweaty palms.  The swordsman rejoined his compatriot and they both pounced.

Devan winced.  His fingers dug into the dirt and he connected to the rock and the earth and the veins.  The ground opened up and swallowed him.

Earth tumbled around him as he fell through the dirt as it opened at his back and closed in front of his eyes.  Devan held his breath and clung to the simple knowledge of the shape of the aerock and the tunnels that bored through its heart.  Mines.

The dirt tugged at him, bowling him onwards.  Rocks shifted and split and rejoined in his wake.

Devan flew out of a mineshaft ceiling and slammed into the floor.  The crackle of earth told him that his egress had sealed after him.

“What in the moons?”

Devan opened his eyes, wondering if he had been blinded by his passage through the aerock.  A group of miners stared at him – an exploratory group, judging by their equipment, maps and charcoal styluses.  “How far to the city?” Devan asked.

“Half a league, I’d wager.”

“Thanks.”  Devan felt his stomach tighten.  “The city is under attack.”

He retched on the tunnel floor.

The cell door opened.  Alessa squinted in the light.

“Shit,” Leonus said.  “Who killed Elina?”

“Jarrell,” Alessa said.

“Isn’t he supposed to be a commander of sorts?”

“I thought so too.”  Alessa stood up.  “What is happening?  How did you get out of your cells?”

“Freedom.”  Leonus stepped back and stretched out his arms.  “I knew my father would come for us.”

“Where are the keys?”

“Oh, right.”  Leonus dropped his arms, his moment ruined.  He fished out a keyring and handed it to Alessa.  “Here.  Everyone is to walk up the stairs and gather in front of the prison.  We have taken control of this area.  Grunos will help you.”  Leonus marched off with the other half of the filth-ridden prisoners.

Grunos entered the cell and began unlocking the manacles.  “This would go faster if our friend had stayed to help.”

“I know,” Alessa said.  She freed her fellow prisoners one by one and they stumbled out of the cell, some limping along with the help of others.  The interrogations had been cruel for everyone.

“What about her?” Grunos asked, gesturing to Elina’s body.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Alessa said.  Tears threatened again but she blinked them away.  “She died well.”

The thrasher nodded and unlocked the last of the prisoners.  Alessa stepped into the corridor and Grunos shut the cell door.  They followed the trail of Sirinese past the interrogation rooms and empty guard posts.

“Where did they go?” Alessa asked.

Grunos did not answer.  They reached the stairs and the first of the dead soldiers decorating the ascent from the dungeon.  Blood painted each stone step while the footprints of the escaped prisoners were slowly eroded by the dripping maroon from the corpses above.

Alessa and Grunos passed a severed arm here, a body with a crushed face there.  Most were armoured and wore the red tabard of the Centaran army or the blue of the city guard.  For most, blood smeared over the tree and lake of Centara.  There were several Sirinese with their tattoos prominent.  Alessa reached the top of the stairs and trotted through the first holding area.

They emerged from the prison into full daylight.  Battle raged throughout the city, warcries and the clash of metal echoing through the streets.  Smoke rose from the buildings around the prison as well as beyond the wall.  Roughly twenty Sirinese thrashers – all Tarians – circled the Sirinese prisoners.  The thrashers had recently seen battle and milled around, weapons in hand.

Alessa stepped forward.  “What is happening?”

“We’ve taken the city by surprise,” Leonus said.  “The Imperator launched an invasion from the north, over the edge of Centara.”

“This is true, Servius,” said one of the thrashers.

“Who are you?”

“I am Ramalos, Servius.”

“The city does not sound conquered, Ramalos,” Alessa said.

“It soon will be.”

“Impossible.  They have a thousand trained soldiers with full armour and fine weaponry.  And hundreds of andonite rifles.  They will not surrender so easily.”

Ramalos bowed at the neck.  “Servius, their military was the first to surrender.”

Alessa sighed, feeling Elina’s blood slip through her fingers again.  Jarrell.  A single command could’ve placed the majority of the Centaran army elsewhere at the crucial hour of invasion.  From what Alessa remembered, the city guards and rangers were commanded by the Council and Marshal of Rangers respectively, but even those forces combined would have fallen under the thousands of Sirinese raiders.

“You see, Servius?”

“I do,” Alessa said.  “Where is the Imperator?  I must speak with him.”

“Yes, Servius.  He has taken the great hall for himself.”

“Has he?”  Alessa frowned but suppressed her expression a moment later.  If Tarius had claimed the Council Hall, he meant for this stay to be permanent.

Ramalos gestured to the other thrashers.  “Do you give them leave to join the battle again, Servius?”

“No,” Alessa said.  “The prisoners have just been freed.  They need food, water and lodgings.”

“Our camp is north, beyond the city wall.  My thrashers will miss the looting.”

“Then, find a tavern,” Alessa replied.  “No looting or raping.”

“What?”

“These Centarans may well be our people too, now.  I think Tarius intends to stay.  Do you want more enemies?”

Ramalos shook his head.  “As you command, Servius.”  He barked out orders to his men and women.  The thrashers grumbled but obeyed, herding the freed Sirinese down the road.

“This way, Servius,” Ramalos said.  He set off in the opposite direction, towards the Avenue of Tiers that led upwards.  Alessa, Grunos and Leonus followed.

Clusters of bodies clogged the streets and smaller thoroughfares – both Sirinese and Centaran dead from the running battles.  Not all of the dead were soldiers, guards or rangers.  There were men in smithing aprons and noble finery, women in ill-fitting leather cuirasses, teenagers and pages, dusty labourers armed with hammers and picks.  The door to a bakehouse clattered against the frame, the baker and his apprentices cut down amidst broken sacks of flour.  Hawker stalls were smashed and looted. 

They ascended with the avenue to the middle tier and encountered a barricade manned by Sirinese.  Ramalos, Leonus and Grunos showed their tattoos.

“And her?” the Sirinese guard asked.

Alessa said, “I am Servius.  Find flesh to ogle elsewhere.”

The thrasher bowed his head and withdrew.  Ramalos led the way past the barricade.

While in the guise of a Sister of the Moons, Alessa had spent most of her time in the middle tier of Centara.  Little had changed apart from the regular patrols of the Sirinese warriors coupled with teams of Centaran civilians hauling corpses into carts.  The fighting had been brutal but short.  Most of the buildings were intact and order seemed restored. 

They reached the Council grounds where more Sirinese thrashers stood guard.  The sentries moved aside and Alessa followed Ramalos into the complex.

“Did the battle come to the Council?”

“No, Servius,” Ramalos said.  “The blue guards surrendered when we descended upon them.”

“And you did not kill them anyway?” Grunos asked.

“No.”

“You grow weak,” Grunos said.

“Perhaps,” Ramalos replied.  “Or perhaps the Servius was right about the Imperator’s intentions.”

They crossed the pristine gardens that usually teemed with Council administrative staff.  The slate path chilled Alessa’s bare feet.  The lack of scurrying pages and self-absorbed scribes unsettled Alessa, even as the din of battle echoed from the lower tier and outer boroughs.

The Council Hall lay open and Sirinis men and women lounged in its shadow, weapons resting on the ground.  Judging from the tattoos, most were Tarian.  Leonus murmured, “I do not like this.”

“It’s just a building,” Alessa said.  “Or is it the lack of discipline that finally worries you?”

“We have never lingered too long in one place.”

Ramalos ushered them inside.

Tarius sat in a grand wooden throne at the opposite end of the Hall.  His armour lay next to him except for a pair of unusually thick bracers that encased his forearms.  His thrashers lined each wall, the sunlight streaming through the high windows above them and reflecting off the dark tiles.  Vantanis, Nasius and Dene stood next to the throne while their trusted men and women waited nearby.  On the other side of the throne, a group of Centaran Councillors kneeled in a huddle, chained together and gagged.  Their robes of office billowed onto the floor.

“Welcome,” Tarius said.  “Servius, Grunos, my son.”

“Greetings, Imperator,” Alessa said.  “My thanks for freeing us from the prison.”

Tarius nodded.  He gestured to Leonus.  “My son – please, your place is by my side.”

“Yes, Imperator.”  Leonus approached the dais and stood next to his father.

“Where is Elina?” Tarius asked.  “Was she not captured alongside you?”

“She was,” Alessa said.  She stepped forward, leaving Grunos amongst the other thrashers.  Even in her fragile state, she would be able to snatch a spear or sword from one of Dene’s thrashers and impale Tarius.  Alessa just need to reach out and –