Page 95 of The Cradle of Ice

Tazar grabbed a coiled length of rope, tossed it out the window, and leaped out. He slid down the line, landed deftly, and freed his own scimitar.

Jamelsh dropped next to him, wielding two hooked blades. When fighting, he was a blur of steel and skill.

Still, such talent might not be necessary. Already, the imperial forces—outnumbered and unprepared—had succumbed to the fierce and sudden attack. Both war wagons were overrun, becoming slaughterhouses. A few guardsmen fled on horseback, rattling their armor, announcing their cowardice.

Tazar noted the gold cart’s oxen all lay toppled in their traces. One still lived, struggling in its harness, bloody and bellowing. Tazar retrieved a crossbow from the dead hands of one of his warriors. The weapon was still cranked with a bolt in place. He lifted the bow one-armed, aimed, and shot the ox through its eye. It stiffened, neck craning back, then dropped to the cobbles.

Anticipating the cart’s draft animals might not survive, Tazar had fresh animals secured in a side street. He turned to Jamelsh. “Go fetch the—”

The man’s blade cut a swath across Tazar’s eyes. He instinctively ducked back, but the tip sliced the bridge of his nose, striking bone hard enough to dance his vision. Still, he had not survived this long by being slow to react.

He swung the crossbow one-handed and smashed it into Jamelsh’s shoulder, driving him back a step—far enough for Tazar to raise his scimitar to the man’s chest. Jamelsh’s expression was agonized, but not because of the swordpoint digging into his skin.

“The Shield has my children,” Jamelsh squeaked out. “They handed me the tongue of my youngest son. Either I agreed to help them, or they’d take apart my sons and daughters, piece by piece.”

Tazar struggled to understand, but clarity came with a massive explosion behind him. The concussion threw him forward, sending his blade through Jamelsh’s chest and striking the stone wall behind him.

Jamelsh slumped, dragging the sword with him. His mouth opened and closed, maybe asking for forgiveness, but only spilling blood. Screams erupted behind Tazar. He spun around, yanking free his blade.

The gold cart had shattered in a fiery blast, casting flaming green oil across the square. Where it landed, it burned through cloth, skin, even bone. He recognized the black alchymy.

Naphlaneum.

Figures ran blindly in all directions, their flesh melting before his eyes.

Tazar backed away, knowing there was nothing he could do. There was never any gold here, only flaming death. The shelter of an overhang above the saddlery door had saved his life.

He searched the square. Others had managed to escape by sheer chance. They gathered in confused groups. He spotted Althea, his second-in-command, on the far side of the square. Her hair smoked, but she hollered for everyone to gather to her, to make their escape.

But the battle was not over.

A swyftship swept into view. Then another. Their stern doors lay open. From their holds and decks, shapes bailed out into the air. A half century in number. Wings snapped wide across their backs. Guardsmen kited down through the smoke and screams.

Tazar knew their only hope was to flee, then regather their remaining forces later. He lifted a bone whistle from a cord around his neck, brought it to his lips, and blew a sharp retreat. His piercing signal drew Althea’s eyes. She nodded to him and waved at those who had been rallying alongside her to escape into the maze of streets.

Tazar fled in the opposite direction.

* * *

AS THE SECOND morning bell echoed through the city, Tazar hurried across a dark alley. It stank of excrement and old piss—and not just from the rats that scurried from his path. Gratefully, he could not smell all that well, with snot running from both nostrils.

He held a rag against the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the flow of blood from Jamelsh’s blow. Still, he tasted it on his lips, the iron bitter, a reminder of the betrayal.

He had used the same cloth to wipe away the swath of white paint that had striped his eyes from temple to temple. He had also stolen a byor-ga headgear and robe to further hide his features. As he crossed Kysalimri, hunters scoured the streets, some in armor, others moving more stealthily. Even disguised, he had to kill three men to reach this alley.

He rushed to an unmarked door and knocked a pattern.

A knothole opened in the scarred wood and an eye peered through. He pulled aside his draped coif, revealing his face, then heard the scraping of a bar being lifted. The door swung wide enough for him to rush inside. A portly matron in a stained apron with disheveled gray hair scowled at him and led him down a pitch-black hall toward a glimmer of firelight.

Furtive voices reached him until one shushed them all quiet.

He entered and found a dozen figures crowded in a small room. Several warmed their hands around a small hearth, ruddy with coals. All were bruised, bloody, and sour in outlook. One had a horribly burned face, half hidden under a bandage. The tallest of the group broke free and strode swiftly to him.

“Althea…” he gasped out.

His second-in-command hugged him. “Thank all the gods,” she whispered in his ear before stepping back. She held him at arm’s length, squinting at the ruin of his nose. “You’ll need a healer.”

“That can wait. Even this shelter might not be secure for long.”