A Green Sun Illuminates the Void
Chapter 21: The Wrath of God
{0}
The skies above the flying isle of Albion were blue, only a few scattered clouds denoting the island was at its nadir. The weather had shifted over the past few weeks and now the brief Albionese summer was here for the handful of weeks before autumn snatched it away. The deluges of spring were draining, born off by the heat or lost over the edge, and so work-gangs flocked over the causeways and the bridges of the damp land to repair the damage the spring floods had inflicted.
It was an ill-fated summer, everyone agreed. Around Londinium, the crops had wilted in the fields, poisoned. There was already rumour of a curse, of punishment from the Lord God for the killing of a king. The Pale Tower, that ancient fortress of the royals, had fallen, and left in its place a toxic cantankerous sore. And there were darker tales reaching the towns and villages of the south coast; stories of men who had gone too close to that place and been twisted in mind and flesh, of burning angels stalking the streets and madness and plague in the north.
The guards at the outermost gates of Port's Mouth sincerely hoped that none of those tales were true, when they thought of them at all. They had enough to think about, what with surge in traffic coming into their town and orders from on high that they should check everyone who wasn't with the New Model Army. It was a completely unreasonable request in their opinion, the kind made by panicking superiors without considering how implausible they were. But orders were orders. What could you do?
A steady stream of carts had been coming for days, down from the road which lead to Oramsarbour. The one which they could see approaching this checkpoint, however, stood out because it did not have the flag of the Holy Republic flying over it. Drawn by two donkeys, there was something about it which drew their attention. It might have just been boredom, but still, Maxwell and Margaret decided that they might as well show their devotion to the cause of the Republic by making sure that no dastardly Tristainian spies were trying to sneak in.
And it might be good for a few pence to turn a blind eye to not-strictly-legal but certainly-not-treasonous activities, right?
The new flags of the Republic flapped above the gate as the two guards, dressed in their brown uniforms, made their way forwards to block the vehicle. "Halt, in the name of the Republic," Maxwell ordered, and the driver acquiesced.
His female companion strolled up. "Good day," she said. "And what business might you be having in Port's Mouth?"
Yes, the driver was certainly nervous when seen up close. He was perspiring heavily – which wasn't odd in its own, because everyone was swearing in this weather – but it was a cold and clammy sweat. He tried to meet her eyes, but kept on flinching away.
A small figure, swaddled in heavy clothing despite the heat, sat behind the driver, under the shade. They shrank back slightly at the approach of the guards, hoping not to be noticed. That very movement only made them more obvious to the watchmen.
"Hello, hello, hello, what do we have here?" Max said, grinning predatorily. "Sir, get off this cart or so help me I will do something you regret."
The female guard reached in to yank back the hood of the robed figure, revealing a pale, worried-looking face. They squeaked and tried to flee; Magaret threw herself on top of the smaller person, pinning them down. She did not let go, no matter how the much the man – barely more than a boy – fought. "Get 'im!" she yelled out. "Guards, guards, to me!"
The violence which followed was brief and soon ended with the driver and the suspicious dark-robed figure beaten and bruised. "Who're this lot?" asked one of the newcomers.
"Dunno," Margaret said, "but they were actin' real suspicious and we got our new orders from the Army lot that sneaky people like that are to be held."
"They coulda been spies," Maxwell agreed, giving the grizzled driver a kick.
Behind the cart rode an overweight, darker-skinned man, wearing the robes of a monk emblazoned with the three blue lines of Saint Orieris, patron saint of Gallia. His balding head was slick with sweat, and his mare also seemed to be suffering in the heat. "Blessings be," he said, in a very thick Romalian accent. "In the name of the Lord God, the angels and the Founder Brimir, I you bless."
"Why are you here?" Maxwell said, talking slowly and deliberately as one did to a small child or a foreigner.
The monk blinked, clearly not at home with more than religious rote in Albionese. "I," he frowned, and tried, "
pelligrino," he tried. "I go to church, holy church, in Albion."
"Right you are, father," the Albionese man said, nodding. Wandering pilgrims seeing the holy sites of Albion were a not-unfamiliar sight in Port's Mouth, and they never had anything worthwhile to give a poor hardworking guardsman, save a blessing. Still, maybe a blessing was worth something, what with all the rumours and troubles going around. And they might have caught some spies today, so that was worth a reward!
The tired-looking monk on his mare inclined his head solemnly, making the sign of the Brimiric pentacle on his chest with his free hand. He rode on by, wiping his brow with his sleeve as he passed under the stone gateway to the city. Wearing a false face, Louise de la Vallière rode into Port's Mouth, accompanied by the cawing of ravens with eyes the colour of the midday sky.
{0}
The noise of her horse's hooves on the cobbled streets were almost lost amidst the sound of the town around her. Overweight, tanned and male, Louise maintained her noble air, which was the best way she had found to avoid looking nervous when disguised. Looking nervous did more to ruin a disguise than any slight mistake in colouration or accent, because these inbred islanders had probably only seen a few Romalians before, but they certainly knew what suspicious people looked like. They had been stopping people at the gates, but now she was past them and she was just another pilgrim in the port.
Those books on the paths of Saint Orieris and the holy places upon them she had read as a younger girl had served her well. She had the wind embroidered in blue on her shadowy falsehood of a robe, the mark of the magic of that most holy Saint, and on her back she wore the hollow circle of one who had already visited the empty tomb in Namnetes which was the final memorial to the woman who had followed the Founder Brimir from the Holy Land.
Act like a weary pilgrim, who cares about nothing more than his belly and finding somewhere cheap to sleep for the night. Don't look like you're trying to evaluate everything you see for threats. Just let them see the amusing old fat pilgrim who's sweating too much and who you couldn't take seriously if you tried.
That way, no one else had to die.
It had taken her almost a week to travel the hundred or so kilometres. It had taken her painfully long to find a new mount after her old one had fled from the Dead things in the ruins, and the mule she had first acquired had been a troublesome thing which barely moved faster than walking. More of a trouble, though, had been the flights of dragons she had seen overhead, criss-crossing the land. She was not sure if they had been looking for her or engaged in other business, but it had been enough to force her to travel at night to avoid the eyes in the sky.
It had been up near Basingestoches that she had discovered this new, strange ability to wrap herself in her own shadow and make it seem as if she was anyone she could imagine. She had been hiding in a ditch, waiting for someone with a horse to pass – her own steed having taken lame – when her shadow, one of the not-hers from her dreams, had started whispering to her. At first she had ignored it, because the shadow was an utterly terrible and reprehensible thing, but at some point she must have dozed off and found herself in a nightmare of its twisted imaginings.
She certainly hadn't deliberately fallen asleep because it had offered to teach her a way to hide. No matter what it claimed. It always lied. She hated it. She… she hated the way it had dug through her memories, shown them again through a funhouse mirror, and coaxed her into trying on the faces of the participants, wrapping its tenebral matter around her. She hadn't wanted to… to relive her memories of Viscount Wardes, of her husband in that manner!
But eventually she had awoken, feeling unclean – and an edge of that discomfort still remained whenever her own shadow enveloped her. But no matter how wrong it felt to walk around like this, she could not deny that it was useful. Once she no longer looked like the escaped Louise de la Vallière, once she could be a soldier, a young man, a monk when she needed to be, she could move freely. She could ride through a town and only have to worry about someone trying to talk to her. In Oramsarbour they had chased her after she had taken food from a cart; all that she had needed to do was to get out of sight and shed the disguise, and they had run straight past her.
This was a dangerous thing to be able to do; quite unlike many of the other, mage-like gifts she had. To be able to casually disguise herself in this manner with her own shadow was quite out of the ordinary. She would have to be careful and responsible about how she used it.
"
A little less melancholy brooding, my sweet princess, and a little more paying-attention-to-the-dangerous-and-hostile-town-we-are-riding-through, oh beautiful one," Marisalon drawled.
The neomah was right. There were soldiers and sailors everywhere in this city. Some of this might have been expected; Port's Mouth was the foremost naval base on the southern coast of Albion. But not this many. The rumours she had been able to gather from letterboards, posters, and poorly understood overhead conversations were true. The Holy Republic – as it called itself, in a mockery of true Brimiric law – was preparing for war.
And there was only one place they would attack. Gallia was too big, too populated, and anyone with the slightest grasp of politics knew that the emperor of Germania had a none-too-firm grip on his Elector-Khans, and kept them busy and sated with wars to the East – a war in the west would be just another diversion for him. No, Tristain would be their target.
She would not permit that.
Could not permit that. And so in the meantime she kept her eyes open as she explored the town, finding her way around and acting like a newly arrived pilgrim looking for a cheap place to stay.
By the time she had made her way to the waterfront – or where the waterfront would be in a place which was not a ridiculous floating island only accessible by windships – she had not managed to find a place which was within the budget of the pilgrim she was pretending to be. She had the money, of course, because several officers of the New Model Army she had met along the road had been carrying reasonable sums on their person, but she had to remain unseen. And so she tipped a boy a copper coin to hold her horse for her, and climbed up the wall, to gaze over the void down to the ocean below.
She vaguely recalled from her lessons that Albion was eroding as the years passed, the edges of the floating island slowly crumbling. A few hundred years ago, Port's Mouth and South Hampton had been safely away from the edge. Now a great crack reached up north past South Hampton, and Port's Mouth... well. The girl paused, staring at the vast chains anchored on either side of the divide before her.
It was one thing to know that most of the city was built on Portsea Isle, a broken-away island which was bound by vast steel chains to the rest of Albion. It was another thing to see it, to hear the metal creak and moan in the wind. It was a marvel, a great work blessed by the Pope Gladius IV, one of the mightiest earth mages ever to have lived.
And it was not the only so-bound floating island. She turned and gazed out over the blueness of the sky and down to the blueness of the sea below. There were lesser isles standing vigilant over the docks of Albion, fortress bastions which bristled with cannon. And then, in the distance, several ancient chains, each one made of links larger than a man, bound the Wihgtarisle to the main body of Albion.
Looking more closely at it, Louise raised her eyebrows. She could see that the chains binding the Wihgtarisle were made of the same ancient white stone as made up the dragon ruins, but looking closely it seemed that the links were bound with more modern materials.
"
By my reckoning, they probably salvaged the stronger material from the ruins," Marisalon observed. "
Such practices are not uncommon in the lands surrounding the Realm. The Realm itself would work in jade-steel for such things, though, for they retain the capacity to forge it. There is a great bridge in red jade-steel which connects the Imperial City in the foothills of the Pole of Earth to the nearest domain-island; I accompanied one of my mistresses across it many times when she was called to the Imperial Court."
'Now is not the time,' Louise thought back snappishly. 'I'm hungry, and I need to think about what I've seen.'
{0}
In the end, she found an eating house sufficiently far from the docks that it was not filled with sailors or soldiers, and tied her mount up under the tired eye of an elderly ostler. The scent of the cannabis smoke from the pipes of the people inside almost made her gag, but it was unlikely anywhere else would be much better. Smoking was an unclean, filthy habit of the lower classes – and Headmaster Osmond – which polluted their souls, but they engaged in it no matter how much they were warned by those more righteous than them.
And her mother made her father smoke outside the house, because it made her sneeze. At least that was much better than it being inside.
She made her way to the bar through the blue haze, clearing her throat and trying to attract the attention of the woman there. Judging from how low-cut the woman's dress was, Louise would not have been surprised if scandalous or inappropriate behaviour also occurred at this establishment, but maybe she was being too judgemental. That was just her mind distracting itself from the difficult process of trying to pretend to be someone she was not.
"Praatsto ek Romaliesk?" she tried. The woman stared blankly back at her, and she was fairly sure she had the Albionese for 'Romalian' right. Evidently not.
"Hoi," she began again. "Ik bin muonts," Louise said in the broken Albionese she had acquired. The deep, soft voice of the shadow-monk was still very strange, coming from her mouth, but she tried to put on the thickest Romalian accent she could manage. "Ik ride tsjerke. Pak fan Hillich Brimir," she made the pentacle, "beade. En paraoal. Ik bin…
pelligrino?" she hazarded, using the Romalian word – she didn't know the dratted Albionese for 'pilgrim'. "Ik wol graach… uh, brea, tsiis, beannen, wyn" she added. Yes, she had seen people eating bread, cheese and beans, and drinking wine and the words sounded enough like their counterparts in Tristainian that she was almost sure she was asking for what she meant.
This was dangerous – very dangerous. She was exposing herself as a foreigner here. Her only hope was that the Romalian accent would be enough to make them think she was from that holy nation, and that they would not leap to assume that she was a spy. In retrospect, she really should have paid more attention to that tutor who had tried to work on her accent. Admittedly, that old sourpuss would never had approved of it being used in this manner, but as it stood the only thing which might allow her to get away with it was the sheer blatancy of her affected mannerisms.
Well, that and the stupidity of commoners. They probably didn't even know what a Romalian sounded like, let alone speak the language!
"Ja," Louise was fairly sure the barmaid said. The woman was speaking very slowly, as if to a small child, which helped. The next few words were lost, but she heard a distinct "Hillich Republyk", and something which she was fairly sure was asking if she had come to see… something which involved windships – which was helpfully 'wynboat' – and the name 'Cromwell' repeated several times.
"Brea, tsiis, beannen, wyn," Louise repeated slowly, trying to contain her excitement. Cromwell? Here? Within reach?
"Fiifpence," the woman said, holding out her hand. Louise paid, though she was fairly sure she was being ripped off. It didn't matter. She had the money and she didn't think she could object properly. And the news that Cromwell was here… yes. A few lost copper pennies was nothing compared to that.
The wine was watered down and the cheese was over-hard, but Louise had eaten worse – and fewer – things than the decent sized portion of dark rye bread and bowl of bean stew she was presented with. For a moment she wished she had the sesselja with her so she would have been proof against food poisoning, but that had slipped away from her days ago, and fled into some tavern. Marisalon said it would probably lurk around Albion, stealing wine and beer from places where they were stored, and she idly wished it the best of luck. Most of her concentration went into getting the food into her belly as fast as she could. And soon she'd be home and she'd have proper food every day and…
… and she really should have been paying more attention to her surroundings, Louise realised, at the sight of black-jacketed soldiers clomping in through the entrance. And there was the barmaid pointing to her and they were heading her way and… the girl took a deep breath, and glanced down at her hands, checking that the false shadow-flesh was still there. It was. She could feel her sword hanging loose under her outer robe, tucked into an improvised sling which allowed her to sit, albeit somewhat uncomfortably, and her fingers twitched.
"
Easy does it," Marisalon cautioned. "
It would be best to get away cleanly."
"You are Tristainian, ja?" the lead soldier – who looked to be an officer – asked in atrociously accented High Tristainian.
"
So much for cleanly. Five in total; they're not ready, and you look like a fat monk."
Bringing her knee up and shoving, Louise pushed over the table. It clattered to the ground, sending its contents flying. With a grunt, she booted it. The Albionese officer screamed once as the heavy wooden table crushed him against the wall, with a meaty crunch. But by then, Louise was already on her feet. The nearest man was recoiling in shock; her right hand came around to slam his head into a beam supporting the roof. Pushing off from her other foot, she backhanded one of the other guards, and then her blade was in her offhand in a rising cut and it was all over bar the killing.
It didn't take long.
Then there was silence, save for the sound of Louise's heavy breathing and the moans of the dying. Grabbing the coat of one of the bodies sprawled over the bar counter, she wiped off her blade, and stuffed it back into its scabbard. The other patrons who had not managed to flee screamed and whimpered when she flicked her eyes over them.
"
The door to your right; I can see daylight through it. It must lead out to a back alley," Marisalon said shortly. "
My princess, you will need to change faces after this."
'I know, I know,' Louise thought, sliding back the bolt and stepping into the stinking alley behind the tavern. 'I thought I had them fooled.'
"
Maybe they're looking for any foreigners," the neomah suggested. "
Or maybe your Romalian accent sounds like a Tristainian trying to do a Romalian accent. There. The alcove there."
Louise wrinkled her nose. It was more like a short alleyway, leading up to a now bricked-up door than an alcove, and it smelt strongly of urine. Someone had clearly been using it as a toilet. But at least there was no chance of anyone seeing her change. Trying to breathe only through her mouth, she stepped in, and after checking there were no iterant drunks watching, she let the mental muscle which controlled her shadow relax. The liquid darkness flowed off her skin, pooling momentarily on the ground, and leaving only her.
The thin-faced woman in a worn and muddy New Model Army uniform immediately closed her eyes, and felt her face, patting her way down her body. Of all the things she had done with her strange magic, this was one of the ones which disturbed her the most. When that magic was active, everything about her was shaped by the lie, to the extent – she blushed – when she was pretending to be a man she could pass for a male in every way. It just wasn't right. And it was not helped by the way that, the last time she had slept, the shadow not-her had stolen her face and left her just a shadow herself, telling her that she should realise that it was just another lie. There was always the nagging phobia that she might not look exactly the same when the disguise faded, but the brief check reassured her on that part.
Sleeping was too inconvenient nowadays, anyway. That was the only reason she couldn't be bothered to do it. It certainly wasn't because of the nightmares.
"No more monk disguises," she muttered to herself. "They'll be looking for them. Who next, who next?"
"
Someone who won't be questioned for not knowing Albionese, someone who isn't suspicious, someone who will be overlooked," Marisalon responded promptly. "
Fair princess, you managed to avoid being hurt… and good, you are not trailing blood. But we have lost our steed, and we left the saddlebags behind."
"There was nothing important in them," Louise said.
"
Only most of the money," the neomah quipped.
"I have enough… and can get more." She took a deep breath. "Old, ugly… yes. A mad old woman, I think. I… I can go find a church, rest there, pray, settle my thoughts. Cromwell is here… and the ships… and I need to get home and I don't know what to do."
"
Well thought-out, my lady," Marisalon said. "
Just make sure you don't start glowing from the light of your soul."
"I know that!" Louise flinched slightly from the unintentionally loud words, and focussed. In the shadowed alleyway, the dark places seemed to grow subtly darker, and from the corner of the eye they began to writhe and twist. Wisps of darkness leapt up from the ground, forming a layer of scaffolding over Louise's skin, before her shadow flowed up like blackened mercury, sinking into her flesh before melting away. Where once a thin-faced woman in a worn New Model Army uniform had stood, an old lady in a headscarf and rags now took her place. Twists of white hair escaped from her tattered clothes, and milky white cataracts obscured her eyes.
"I feel grotesque," Louise grumbled, hunching down into how she thought an old woman like this should stand.
"
Quiet, my lady. If you must complain ceaselessly, do it in your head. Old senile Albionese ladies do not speak to themselves… or at least, do not do so in Tristainian." The neomah cleared her throat. "
Let us move on. We shall find your church, and we can think what to do properly there. And remember to walk like an old woman."
{0}
Louise sat in the pews, her hands – though they were and were not her hands, the lie of her own shadow wrapped around them – folded in her lap. She had to think. Reaching out, she took the copy of the first book of the Novuarch before her, and opened it to the start.
"In the beginning," she read, "the Void unshaped and unmathed was. The geist of the Lord through it swam, and the Void was Him and He was the Void. Time was not, for the Lord counted not the seconds nor the minutes, and He was alone. Then he sung, and in his choir the Void began to change and fire and water and earth and wind were mathed from the void and the spirits of those things joined in the song of the Lord."
She barely needed the book, and its peculiar Albionese phrasing, which crept through into the Romalian. She could have recited it from heart. Religion had always been her comfort in times of trouble, the promise that one day she would control her magic and become the daughter of the de la Vallière family she should have been.
"
It is peculiar, how much this calms you," Marisalon noted.
'You wouldn't understand,' she thought back, somewhat snootily.
"
You are most correct, my princess," the neomah agreed. "
My previous mistresses and masters usually saw the dominant faiths of their cultures as a weary annoyance at best. Then again, those of the blood of the dragons who summoned me were sorcerers, and their norms were off-skew from what their society would have desired. One – the one who kept me bound for longest – why, she was rumoured to deny her faith entirely in private!"
'That's dreadful!' Louise mentally protested.
"
Why? After all, elements of their faith were obviously lies. For example, they denied with utmost certainty – a certainty born of ignorance – that the King and the Desert and the Ocean and the other mighty lords of the City were the ones who forged Creation! They worshipped the Traitor Dragons; rebel Princes who were-and-served black-hearted Gaia, one of the two treasonous world-lords who were tempted by the wicked offers of the disloyal Incarna and so murdered their kin to seize power for themselves!" Marisalon coughed, voice returning to a calmer state. "
To worship such things is falsehood, the self-aggrandisement of traitors who wish to proclaim their victory. Such do the Priests of the Desert say, and so the knowledge of the truth passes to the summoners who enquire about it. Is it any wonder that they grow cynical, weary of the lies their faith tells them?"
Louise pouted. 'Just because their religion is wrong doesn't meant that it-' she began, and then stopped, because she was not entirely sure where she was going with that. And then she blinked. 'Wait,' she thought, 'would the… the Dragonblooded who attacked me in the hotel be following the same religion?'
"
Ah, my princess, I cannot say. They may have gone native here; they may still hold to their old faith. I could not tell you where they were from, either, though as far as I am aware there are only a few states in the whole of Creation which maintain such wonders – and it did not look like the great trading purchases a few lesser powers might make from mighty lords of the City, like the Green Sun himself who for worship and honour will forge mighty suits such as those."
'I see,' she thought in response. 'But still, I think the important thing is to get home. But they're obviously…'
The girl wearing the face of an old woman bowed her head, as the Brimiric prayers started. She did not think again until the display of faith was over.
There was one thing she could see for sure. The New Model Army was preparing for war. She did not need Marisalon's comments about logistics and supplies to see it. There were the bulging shapes of troop transports, the fat, barge-like ships designed to land and allow their men to disembark en masse, and there were the more predatory shapes of the warships, bristling with long-barrelled cannons.
Well.
When she put it like that, it really wasn't a choice. She wanted to be home, longed to be home and away from this island with its rain and mist and slightly too-thin air. Away from having to hide under a false face and being attacked by soldiers when she slipped up, away from the frequent need to kill and the way she was finding it easier and easier. She wanted peace and quiet to adjust to how her body kept on changing on her – and she was sure that the transformations and transmutations had not happened so quickly at the academy. The stress was making her less and less like she had begun, she was sure of it.
But when her nation, her parents, her princess were threatened by what these Albionese curs were doing… that was something she could not permit herself. It was her duty to God, the Church, her parents and Princess Henrietta to safeguard Tristain, and so she would not just slip away like a thief in the night. Even if that would allow her escape, while the thoughts which were forming in her head might lead to her death or recapture.
If she went home to a nation under threat, she could not truly call it her home. If she left her family in danger, she could not truly call herself their daughter.
"I'm going to need a distraction," Louise whispered to herself.
"
Oh, my sweet princess," Marisalon said, chuckling, "
the best kind of distraction is one which is an objective in its own right. There's nothing quite like the sight of a foe on her knees, weeping over her scorched warehouses while they try to control the blaze, when you know your hired angyalka assassin is even now slipping through the weakened perimeter to murder one of her closest allies. Even if the assassin fails, why, you've still burned her assets."
"So what would you suggest?"
The neomah made a pleased noise. "
My lady, why would you need to even need to ask? Find something as volatile and valuable as possible, and blow it up."
Louise grinned a terrible, predatory grin. "Oh, I have an idea."
{0}
That night she rested in a garret. The cold night air crept in through the shutters she had torn open, but Louise did not feel it. Her meal was bread and hard cheese, purchased from a street seller just as they were closing up their barrow, but she paid no attention to it. Kneeling on the hard, dusty ground she prayed, her blade resting on her lap.
"So… killing time?" it asked hopefully.
"Almost," she promised it, looking out the open window. A blocky fortress of grey stone was the dominant feature, rising above the narrow wooden houses. Louise nodded once, decisively, curling up on the old mildew-smelling blankets she had found up here. She needed to get rest. Tomorrow – no, later today – would be a busy day.
In the end, she ended up falling asleep out of boredom, as she waited for the night to pass. She dreamt of fire, of dark stone and of the screaming of the ocean winds as they tore through a burning city. She laughed and she cried, until she could not tell the two apart.
Something grabbed her by the throat, lifting her up with hands which were as hard as iron. Like a toy she was battered around, and all her struggling managed to do was hurt herself.
"Weak," grated the diminutive woman with the unshakeable grasp on her. "Weak. You're a slave to monsters. You defile your own flesh and soul with everything you do. You defile me."
Louise choked out a response, though even she was not sure what she was saying. The woman seemed to grasp the intent well enough, and laughed harshly, grip tightening. "You don't deserve life," she whispered, letting go of Louise, who dropped like a stone.
She impacted with silver sand with bone-breaking force, flesh sloughing off. Louise screamed in agony, before brass and stone unfolded from within to take the place of her torn skin and skeleton.
"You're too late," Princess Henrietta whispered softly in her ear. Louise turned to find her future ruler, her friend chained to the throne of Tristain by great iron shackles. "You let him die."
Louise bit on her lip, tasting metal. "I'm so sorry, your highness," she begged, trying to curtsey and failing when she found she was wearing only bloodstained rags. "I tried my best, but…"
"You killed him. Your blood is on his hands," Henrietta accused. Bitter blue tears wept from her eyes, leaving her flesh burned and raw. "You were too late and he died because of you. Just like you killed your husband. Just like you killed Princess Sophia, and she
trusted in you."
"I didn't! It… Henrietta, please, trust me! It was the Republicans! Not me! I didn't tell, I swear!"
"Then why are you soaked in their blood?" the princess said flatly. She shifted so a sight of the monstrosity which lurked beneath her throne and which held her chains was visible. "You killed the father of your child, Louise Francoise. It's all your fault. And now Tristain is going to burn because of you."
"It won't! I promise you! Henrietta, I'm going to stop it! I will! I will!"
Henrietta scoffed at her, bitter and spiteful. "Liar."
Louise woke, panting. It was almost pitch-black, with only a faint orange glow painting the shadows a darker shade. Sitting up, she sunk her head onto her hands, and found her eyes wet.
"
Oh, my sweet princess," Marisalon said. "
That was not pleasant."
"It wasn't my fault, was it?" Louise asked softly, her voice a croak. "I… I couldn't have done anything else, could I?"
The neomah cleared her throat. "
Of course not, my lady. And the dream was a mere nightmare. It was not true. After all, that adorable little princess is not even dead, as far as you know. And there is still a chance your husband is alive – and even if he was dead, it would have been the Republicans who killed him, not you. Blame the men who killed the Prince Wales; not yourself. And," Marisalon added, a malicious note entering her voice, "
make them suffer for it."
"But I… I…" Louise took a deep shuddering breath. "Yes," she exhaled. "Yes. I will." Pulling herself to her feet and wiping her eyes, she glanced out the window. "I might as well get started, then," she said.
{0}
Under the cover of the early morning, the eastern horizon just acquiring the first hints of the sunrise, a slender man wearing the uniform of the New Model Army stepped neatly up to the outer gate of the Hexagonal Tower. The blocky, squat fortification with its sloping walls and protruding star fortifications was designed to be a vigilant guardian of the shoreline. Its walls were lined with cannon, and the noise of the dragon eyries could be heard from outside the fortification.
However, it was in no way designed to be proof against people who could turn into clouds of immaterial silver sand, as this young man could. He stepped through the outer wall, coalescing on the other side, and continued on his advance. His handsome, clean-shaven features radiated an air of such arrogant confidence that it was hard to accept that he did not know where he was going. The rank insignia of a lieutenant on his arm was enough to convince the tired, low-ranking watchmen who patrolled the fortress that harassing him would get undue attention paid to them, and so he passed with mere salutes.
Another three walls, and the man was walking through the basement of the fortification. He slowed down to a stroll, his hands folded behind his back as he methodically checked the contents of each room. Barrels of swords, of muskets, and everywhere were open containers of various alchemical reagents meant to suck the moisture out of the air. Eventually he found what he was looking for in a cavernous hall which had once been where wines were stored. Now the barrels were of a different nature, and the man smiled as he stabbed his sword through the top of one, prying it open to reveal the coarse black powder within.
And then he sheathed his sword and went along on his way, finding several more such rooms of stored blackpowder. Green fire consumed the interior walls between them, the stone dissolving into ash with a faint scream.
Louise de la Vallière let the shadows melt away from her form, and cracked her knuckles. The light of the burning brand on her forehead matched the fire in her eyes.
{0}
On the eastern horizon, the sun was slowly creeping up from under the sparkling sea. Within basement of the Hexagonal Tower, all was hushed, suspenseful. The building silently groaned at the demolition of several interior walls. The bodies of a few unfortunate sentries were stuffed into corners. Blackpowder had been left in a trail leading up to a thick exterior wall. All that was needed was a spark.
A spark that was provided.
Viewed in slow motion, the detonation was beautiful. There was no other way to describe it; the artistry which had gone into it was wonderful. The foundations of the six-sided fort had already been weakened by the demolition of several key underlying walls, and even before that the depots would have caused major damage.
As it was, the explosions rippled upwards, tearing through floors, while at the same time the entire building shuddered and slumped. Walls collapsed inwards as their foundations were torn out from under them, and vast choking clouds of dust were thrown into the air, forming a strange twisted blossom. Flaming detritus painted arcs across the sky, crashing down on the rest of the city to start lesser fires.
The screams of men were drowned out by the shattering of masonry.
And out from the flames and dust strode a figure of silver sand. There was no flesh, no clothing, and no humanity about the whirling pillar. The fires around it burned in vibrant viridian, a halo-corona engulfing the spectre.
Waves rippled across the figure, like wind over the desert dunes, and colour swept in with them. The form of Louise de la Vallière, her buff jacket now somewhat more scorched, pulled itself back together. She blinked heavily, slapping herself on the side of her head with her free hand, and worked her jaw. An onlooker might have thought she was trying to clear her head.
"That was… loud," she muttered to herself, ears ringing.
And then she was off again, running away from the site of her first blow. Amongst the chaos, the fire and the explosions, the attention of others was necessarily somewhat more focussed on the flaming remains of the Hexagonal Tower. However, as she found when she ran into a cavalry patrol galloping full pace through the streets, that was only a relative term. She had barely heard the clatter of their hooves over the ringing in her ears, and only Marisalon's shouted warning was enough for her to throw herself out of the way of the horse which came barrelling towards her.
Shouts trailed after her as she turned heel and fled. Arms pumping, she ducked around a corner and nearly fell on her face when she stepped in a clogged gutter. Louise managed to remain upright – barely – but her flailing had managed to bring her face-first into a solid brick wall. A great clashing shout rang out, men and trumpets crying to the heavens.
Louise blinked. To add injury to insult, she was now bleeding from a gash on the cheek. It wasn't from her impact. That had felt unnaturally soft – a sign of her unusual toughness, no doubt. No, she was bleeding because her sword had bounced off the wall and hit her in the face. Thankfully, that didn't appear to have roused it. The scent of muck and wet vegetation filled her nose as she pulled herself upright using the ivy growing up the wall.
She could hear the clatter of the riders getting sorted behind her. She didn't want to fight them here; it would slow her down and risk drawing more attention. She had to get to the docks, and random brawls didn't serve her sacred duty. Heart pounding like a drum, Louise grabbed at the ivy with one hand and cursed all Albionese soldiers under her breath. Her stomach muscles felt like they were on fire, but she almost danced up the wall, her feet finding rotten mortar under the plants. Her ears were filled with beautiful noise as she clawed her way up the structure. Hooking an ankle up onto the lip of the roof, she launched herself up over the last overhang, and lay flat on her back, panting. The clattering hooves reached where she had been, and she tried not to make a sound. With best luck, they would not notice the green pyre around her, but luck was not something she could rely on.
The girl flexed her hands as down below the soldiers approached. She heard Albionese voices, alarmed and suspicious, but could not understand their words. Had they realised that she had climbed the building? Was a mage preparing to try to burn her alive even now? Then the hooves clattered off, the Republicans riders' voices still raised, and she let herself breathe.
That had been strange. Not the fact that she had somehow managed to scale a vertical wall; such oddities were familiar to her in this warped life she had assumed. No, it was the way that under her hands and feet the stones of the building had been singing to her. She had heard unseen choirs, voices raised in a slow, solemn song.
"
I heard them too," Marisalon said, a trace of awe in her voice. "
Those were the songs of the City, King of Kings. Coming from the stone itself." She paused. "You should wait a little before moving on, or at least let your fires die down," she observed. "
They won't be very distracted if you are quite so obvious. But if we go slower, then you should be able to stay hidden up high."
Louise grinned, a predatory smirk etched onto her face. "Well, it's a sign of favour," she said, shaking off her blade. Her eyes drifted to the great fire of the burning fortress and the smoke drowning the city. She could still hear periodic explosions. "Right," she whispered. "That should slow down any invasion. Try loading your cannons with powder when it's on fire, I just dare you!"
"
That probably sounded better in your head, my lady," the neomah quipped. "
Also, I feel the tremendously large explosions and the fact that you appear to have set another Albionese town on fire may do more to slow down any potential fleet action than…"
"Shut up, Marisalon. On to the docks, then. They'll burn too."
{0}
The men who came rushing into the Lord Protector's bedroom in Port's Mouth Castle found him already awake, and pulling on his boots. His blond hair was tousled and his nightshirt was tucked into his breaches, but nonetheless he looked awake. Certainly, he was aware enough to have a weapon pointed at the men who had nearly battered down his door.
"My lord!" the lead soldier barked, uncaring of the wand in his face, "there's been an explosion and…"
"I heard the blast from here!" Cromwell snapped back. "What's on fire?"
"It's the Hex, my lord! The blackpowder! The entire tower's up in flames! And the fires are spreading!"
The Lord Protector of Albion groaned, but refused to slump despite the churning pit of nausea in his stomach. It would not do to show such weakness in front of the men. Instead, he – as was his way – got angry.
"What else can you tell me? Are we under attack? Tell me more, man!"
"We don't know, my lord! But there don't seem to be any ships attacking, which," the younger man pursed his lips, "well, which means it's either an accident or sabotage. But my lord, I was told to tell you about this, and I don't really know anything more."
"'Svoid!" Cromwell swore to the heavens. He marked the pentacle on his chest, and bowed his head for that blasphemy, taking a moment to calm his nerves. A sinking suspicion crept into his mind; a product of his thoughtless cursing. "Has there been any sign of green fire?" he said, grabbing his coat from its stand.
"My lord?"
"The fire. Is there any greenness about it?"
The young lieutenant blinked. "Not as far as I can see," he said, confusion in his voice. "It's… you know. Orangish-yellow."
Well. That was something at least, Cromwell thought bitterly. Londinium was suffering from the wicked actions of Louise de la Vallière – suffering greatly. The pit where the Pale Tower had once stood was tainting the fogs, leaving them a sick green-brown which burned at the eyes and lungs. He had no idea what would happen if the noxious acids of the pit got into the river water, and he did not wish to know. Many mages – mages he could have used for this invasion – were working day and night to build a dome over it, but the fumes were corroding away the stone.
He hoped – prayed at night – that the chit responsible had died in the swamps around Londinium or been cut down by some brave soldier.
"Rouse the rest of the high command," he ordered, supressing a yawn. "If they were not woken by the blast, I suspect the healers need to be called in. I cannot have deaf generals. We will need to contain the fire and find out if this is treachery or mere sloppiness."
{0}
A shadow flitted among pre-dawn shadows across the rooftops of Port's Mouth, the songs of the city itself filling her mind. Louise's mind was a blur with joy as she watched the panicking ants in the streets below rush around. Her strides were eating up the distance towards the bristle of masts she could see beyond the buildings. She veered off to the left, dropping down onto a lower building and ducking under some laundry before clambering back up a slanted brick roof.
Over the crest, over a low wooden palisade she could see the masts of the fleet. Pausing to gather her breath, Louise sat on the roof, legs dangling over the edge. The chimney behind her smelt of baking bread and woodsmoke, erasing some of the less pleasant smells, and lying back she could see the patchwork sky. There were clouds rolling in from the great North Sea, strangely dark for this time of year.
'Do you know anything about windships?' she asked the neomah in her head. 'Or any other kind of ships, come to mention it?'
"
Sandships need their sails to move," Marisalon said helpfully. "
They also don't like having extremely large holes put in them by the all-consuming fire of the King."
'Nothing specific, then.' Louise sighed out loud. 'At least that's all technically correct.'
"
Glad to be of service, my lady."
'I was hoping you might know how to sail one. Which we could use to, you know. Escape this island.'
"
Ah. Then fairest lady, I must most humbly admit that I know nothing of how to sail any form of ship."
Louise ground her teeth. She really should have thought of this earlier. Oh well. Now that she could disguise herself, she could hide among the population here. Cripple the fleet first; if she couldn't find a way to get away, she'd just have lie low until normal trade started up again and she could stowaway on a windship. Or she could wait until Albion's path took it over Halkeginia again, grow wings and fly down. Either would work.
Staring down at the street beyond her, she idly wiped her blade on the moss growing on the slate. She watched the passage of men and vehicles below, swinging her legs as she waited for an opportune moment. Taking a deep breath, Louise let herself slip off the roof.
The cries of a perfectly innocent carter were lost in the chaos and confusion of Port's Mouth. Louise de la Vallière, just another black-clad figure among the other soldiers, strode away from the wreckage of the wagon which had been her impromptu landing. She thanked the Lord that she had noticed a vehicle carrying hay, and hadn't been forced to risk finding out what was in some of those canvas-covered wagons.
Still, every last piece of fortune was just evidence that her cause was righteous. And now she was almost there. Wrapped in an air of noble arrogance, she strode up to the wall around the shipyards. No one thought to ask the figure in a New Model Army uniform what they were doing; it wasn't even as if they were trying to get through the gate when they might not have been allowed in.
Of course, Louise de la Vallière did not use gates when they were inconvenient.
On the other side of the wall, she inhaled deeply, smelling the air. The smoke from the burning fortress was the dominant scent, but underneath it was damp wood, tar and the strange lightning-smell of windstones which was both fresh and somehow 'hot'. Tar and windstones. Those might make an interesting combination. At least if they were mixed with some fire.
No. She needed to burn their fleet
first. If the fleet launched, she wouldn't be able to catch them. She could set fire to the dockyards later. Dockyards couldn't flee from her.
One hand on her blade, Louise picked her way through the warehouses and barracks of the docks. Stepping around an unhitched cart, she followed an indirect path towards the tallest set of masts she could see. They were just peasants and she was a noble serving the righteous order of things. As long as she bore that in mind, as long as she showed no fear, she wouldn't look out of place. They just had to ignore that her buff jacket was torn and burned, that there were a few darker stains on her which were blood, and that her boots were caked from days on the road.
Her hopes were dashed when she encountered the first checkpoint. It was just a few men, tired-looking and nervous, but their hands were on their weapons and she was aware that she was in the centre of a military encampment. She couldn't kill silently; one of them would manage to get a scream off and then the traitors would come swarming in. The masts were still some distance away. She needed to draw them off.
"
Stop justifying to yourself why you want to set that warehouse on fire and just do it, my most beautiful yet somewhat predictable princess," Marisalon said tartly. "
Oh! And it would be advisable to cover up some of the incongruities of your disguise with soot and smoke. It would add a most delightful air of verisimilitude to your cries and obvious distress."
The guards at the barricade were already on edge. They had been woken by the terrifying explosion from elsewhere in the city, and rumours were flying around like mages' fire, setting fresh tales ablaze in their passage. When a blackened woman came running their way, they were already pointing weapons at her.
"Fjoer!" Louise shouted at the men at the barricade at the top of her lungs, and pointed at the nice little blaze she'd started in a warehouse. That was one word she knew in Albionese. People tended to use it quite a lot. She'd picked it up here and there. "Folken! Wetter! Wetter!" Having alerted them, she dashed off, making as much noise and drawing as much attention to the rapidly growing fire as she could.
"
In retrospect, you probably could have walked through one of the warehouses," the neomah in her head said.
'Possibly. Someone might have seen me,' Louise thought, a smirk creeping onto her face. 'My, my. That's quite a nice little fire there.' Thunder boomed, and the shutters tore themselves off every window. Lightning danced, blue-white inside the smoke. 'They were very careless leaving those windstones lying around like that.'
"
Under a pile of boxes, inside a locked heavy wooden case, each one wrapped in velvet and inside its own compartment. I'm not even sure how you found them in there."
'Lying around is lying around, Marisalon. Let's not quibble over the details.'
"
Yes. Details. Of course."
'As traitors, no wonder they're a little slovenly,' she thought, picking her way past the abandoned barricade. The strange scent of windstones was even stronger now, mixed with the dizzying odour of tar. 'It's just as well they were so incautious.'
Her pace quickened, boots squelching on the muddy cobbles. Her hand was never far away from her blade though she kept it sheathed. Louise kept up her cries of 'Fjoer, fjoer!' as she went, gesturing back the way she had come. Pretending to be out of breath helped in her disguise. No one expected a young woman raising the alarm to be the most verbose.
The last gate was the most fortified, and the watchers most suspicious. Rather than try to bluff her way past the guards, Louise simply stepped through the palisade and into the shipyards themselves. Coalescing again, her eyes widened at the forest of masts and the windships they sprouted from. There were men everywhere, moving with uncertain and undirected panic. She perhaps hadn't appreciated quite how large a ship-of-the-line was. And if she was any judge, it looked like at least some of the anchored ships were preparing to cast off. She didn't know if they were departing for good, or just moving away so saboteurs would have less easy access to them. Either way, it was not acceptable.
The wind picked up, the dawn chill creeping up down her collar. "Keep an eye out, Marisalon," she breathed out, as she set a course towards the largest vessel she could see. It was called the Lexington, at least if the name on the ship was to be trusted. It would be just like the deceitful Republicans to lie about the name of their ship.
On the other hand, it was probably important anyway, given that it was a very large windship with lots of those window things that they poked cannon through when they shot things.
Louise paused for a moment. 'What, no correction?' she thought after no neomah-borne advice came her way.
"
My fairest princess, I believe I have already imparted the depths of my knowledge of boats to you," Marisalon said sniffily. "
I don't know what the window things are called. Although I must say, I am a great
fan of your cannons. So much more range than algarel projectors, and so much cheaper than any of the more effective solutions! I think you should get one. Or several. You'd love one."
Well, that wasn't very helpful, Louise thought. 'I
meant as to whether going after the ship is a good idea.'
"
Oh, but of course. It's big, and looks like it will burn well."
Her heart was beating like a drum as she made her way closer and closer to the Lexington. Would the man with the hook hand approaching try to stop her? Would those boys – even younger than her – rolling the barrel ask what a soot-blackened woman was doing here? Those men over there, sitting by the cradle which held the landed windship, were watching her; why? It was only the loss of the ability to sweat which prevented her forehead from being slick with perspiration.
She heard a shout from behind her, and chose to ignore it. Every step counted. One hand crept down to her blade, knuckles whitening, and she sped up her pace. Ducking between a pair of men carrying a plank between them, she got closer and closer and-
A hand landed heavily upon her shoulder. Blood singing, she removed it and the limb it was attached to without even a thought. A gleeful giddy joy filled her heart as all the tension fled, and she spun and severed the head of the man in the fancy coat in front of her. She shoved the body away and bolted up onto the gangplank as the screaming started. A woman carrying coils of rope was in the way; Louise backhanded her, a gout of green flame trailing as her opponent fell in a great clatter.
And then she was on-board and leaping, arm straightening in a perfect line. Her blade sang out as it tore into the mast, dripping flames down onto the deck. The mast went up like a torch, green fire coruscating upon the blackening wood. The rigging burned in brilliant viridian, silver clouds falling down as ash-rain.
Louise spun, leapt and its aft companion joined it in flames. They couldn't stop her. Anyone who got in her way was so much meat, and the sailors on deck were too occupied at keeping out of the way of the maniac who tore into their ship to try and douse the flames.
Sinking her blade into the ship's hull, Louise let her anger out in a shriek of rage. The sword cut through the polished wood as easily as it would have parted soft butter, and from the edges of the wound green fire licked out, consuming the keel of the vessel. The wood whimpered and moaned as silvery ash fell away from the opening gash, blanks buckling and baking to the soft patter of nails popping out. Legs pumping, Louise threw herself over the side of the doomed ship, wreathed in burning light. A man screamed in pain as he was used as a landing.
She acted instinctually, and sprung up from the ground, blade arcing down to split a rider's head in two. The body fell off the horse, and the beast went crazy, rearing up only for the second and third riders to collide with it. Men and women screamed, barking orders in the Albionese tongue, and Louise took the chance to hack at the legs of a second horse. Silently she apologised to the poor animal even as she ran the rider through; it wasn't the animal's fault its master was unworthy of it.
A bolt of ice lanced out from the glaive-staff of one of the riders; Louise caught it on her sword. Shattered ice pattered from her clothing. Snarling, she thrust her hand towards him, and the howling sandstorm blinded the man. He screamed, gripping onto his reigns, but Louise was no longer paying attention to him. She twirled on one foot, slashing low, and another horse fell in the confusion, collapsing onto its rider. Then she was off, fleet feet flitting through the chaos as she headed towards the next nearest vessel.
The death of the Lexington resembled nothing less than the fall of some great beast, brought down by hunters. The burning masts tore themselves from unsteady planks. One of the central ones fell forwards, crashing through the decks like a titanic spear until it had impaled what once it had guided. Another leaned crazily sideways, swaying unsteadily like a drunk man, before ripping itself completely from its charred and weakened anchorings and falling sideways to slam into another vessel. And soon that ship was burning, and another, and another, as the bonfire spread and flickering viridian light illuminated the smoke-choked docks.
Louise laughed and laughed until she cried, surrounded by an ever-growing circle of death.
{0}
Port's Mouth blazed with the funeral pyre of the fleet of the Holy Republic of Albion. A warehouse exploded in a thunderclap, discharging windstones falling as autumnal leaves. Some detonated where they landed, sparking more flames which added to the conflagration. To the east, the inferno of the Hexagonal Tower was the centre of a rose blossom of lesser fires. To the west, mages desperately tried to set up fire breaks as golems trampled out smouldering roves and water drenched houses.
Oliver Cromwell slammed his hand into the wall. "Why is everything on fire!" he screamed out, in an outburst of pure rage. "Who is doing this?" He glared at the senior officers, as if they would have answers for him. There were none to be provided yet.
The soldiers who would have been part of the invasion fleet were spread over the city, trying to contain the spreading infernos. Too many had been close to the Hexagonal Tower, which had possessed sizeable barracks and so the blast had already taken out too many good men and women.
And the whispers and rumours. Founder, the rumours. Despite the best efforts of the Holy Republic, tales of what had happened and was happening in Londiunium had spread among them. He already had heard that some officers had been… been
infected by the dark tales which were spreading through the men, and the Fifth Light Foot, who had been in Londiunium, had refused to move out from their barracks. This was not something he needed right now. Not when he was trying to save a town and his invasion.
"Horelworth reports that the Second have managed to get firebreaks set up to the north of the Hex."
"It's worse in the east, though. Are you sure we can't get the dragoons in the air?"
"Not a chance. The fire dragons are… excited by the blaze. We really don't need them going into heat on top of everything else."
"Too true, too true."
"My lords! My lords! News from the docks!"
Cromwell glanced up from the map he was brooding over. He had only been half-listening to the babble of the officers. They had their jobs to do, and he would let them do them. But the newcomer, the soot-stained young woman who had just burst into the room they had commandeered – what was going on here? Who was she? And for that matter, there was a clamour outside which sounded like there had been some controversy over her entry.
"What's happening?" Wortlemere, commanding officer of the Second, demanded. "What is it?"
"Is the Lord Protector here?" the young woman asked, gasping for breath.
Cromwell narrowed his eyes. "Yes; spit it out," he said.
"Word from… from Hartlen," the messenger managed, pushing her sweaty black hair away from her eyes as she hastily bowed. "The harbourmaster. The docks are ablaze! The Lexington is destroyed, and so are many other ships! I saw them burning green, sir! With my own two eyes! And there's green fire everywhere and…"
"Everyone! Silence!" Cromwell yelled. "Get your men, all of them! Every single one of them! I want every last soldier you have! March them on the docks, surround them! Let no one in and no one out! Get the dragoons airborn! Find the source of the green fire and
kill it dead!"
"Oliver, the rest of the city is on fire and if we…"
"Let it burn!" he snapped. "
She's here!"
"But, my lord…"
"Let it burn!" He took a deep breath, and tried to restore order to his thoughts. "The… the spirit-kin who destroyed the Pale Tower is here!" he said. "Take everything! Kill her! For what she did to Londinium! And it was her who blew up the blackpowder here and now she's burning the docks! We need to stop her right now!" He glared around. "Move! Get started!"
He needed her dead. It was the only way to restore order. If he could prove it was a Tristainian saboteur, if he could prove that she was a spirit-get or Protestant in the middle of one of the mightiest families of that wrecked nation – he had to do it.
"What are you waiting for, you fools?" he yelled.
{0}
The stone gate burned, ash carried away on the howling winds, and Louise de la Vallière stepped through the gap she had so conveniently made. The brilliant light of her soul wreathed her, fat clumps of brazen and viridian flame falling from the bonfire-pyre to burn in terrible glory behind her. She brushed her free hand against the wall as she made her way down the path preceded by fleeing, weeping soldiers, and left a black trail of basalt wherever she touched.
She knew why they fled. Their morale was no less destroyed than the fleet she had left behind her. The tired, scared, surprised soldiers who had been standing watch were routed. They fled from the diminutive figure who strode through their streets. They fled from her burning eyes which were a hole into an inner sun, and from the inhuman monstrosity wrought in her beautiful carapace and her crown of metal-sheathed bone that spouted from her skull. And above all, they fled the death which awaited them if they stood in her way. If they had stood together, if they had fought her, maybe they could have brought her down. But they would not do so. Each man and woman among them feared too much for their own lives to do so, and so they fled.
Trailing blood from her blade, leaving crimson footsteps which blackened and charred in her wake, she set off again. There was one more objective she had set herself. One last target which had to burn; one last knife in the gut of Albion. Then she could think about escape.
Before her lay one of the colossal stone blocks which rooted the chains which anchored the Wihgtarisle to the main body of Albion.
"
I've seen bigger," Marisalon said.
Louise forced herself to grin. She was feeling exhausted, and pain was an ignored-yet-present note in her thoughts. "You've seen larger giant stone blocks anchoring floating islands?" she said, jabbing one finger in the direction of a musket-armed man and leaving him screaming, sand-flayed, on the floor.
"
But of course, my princess. Hmm; I do believe you will wish to attack whatever anchors the anchor-block. That is most likely magically reinforced to a frightful level. Whether this will dislodge the island… well, it depends on how much redundancy they have. But it will not be easy to replace, and they will want to do so."
The girl breathed in, tasting the smoke. She looked around, trying to take in the area without anyone attacking her. At least there was plenty of light, from the bonfire which enveloped her. There were great stone spikes thrust into the ground, each one the height of a building, surrounding the giant block. They were probably doing something, so if she destroyed them, perhaps that might weaken the anchor.
Louise's ears perked up. Over the noise of the devastation, she heard the distinctive noise of dragon wings. Nothing else flew like them, and she had been half-expecting dragoons to show up ever since she had set the shipards ablaze. "Watch for them," she muttered to the neomah in her head, and sprinted for the stone spikes, head raised high.
The first gout of fire came far sooner than she had expected. Founder! Only the sudden orange in the green light of her overflowing soul warned her, and then there was nothing but light. Up and down the dragons swept their fire, blast-furnace breath melting the pretty gardens which once had lain around the anchor stone. This was the true danger of the Albionese dragoons revealed; the force which could melt a regiment where they stood if they lacked the mages or artillery to guard against such a threat.
A cloud of inchoate silver sand escaped from the inferno, only reforming when she was behind the solidity of one of the stones she had come here to destroy. Louise sucked in the too-hot air, choking on it. Even away from the fire, she could feel herself slowly cooking, a loaf in a too-hot oven. And with her own fire enveloping her, she couldn't escape from them.
Lips moving, she prayed to the Founder, to God, to Malfeas. She asked for success, for protection, to simply escape from this.
"
We got greedy," Marisalon said sadly. "
We shouldn't have tried to destroy an entire sky island."
Louise was inclined to agree, but not was not the time for regrets. Now was the time for not dying. The breath of the dragons couldn't reach around the massive stone block, but they knew she was here, and… she threw herself down as hunting orbs of flame came seeking her way. They barely missed her, and splashed harmlessly against the massive edifice of the anchorstone.
A thump. A second one. Louise sprang up, weapon at the ready and came face to soot-blackened teeth with the open maw of a dragon. It radiated heat, and the breaths of the great beast pushed and pulled at her. The metal plating around its skull, to protect it from shot, was red-hot close to the mouth.
It inhaled.
She sprung up like an uncoiling spring, vaulting over the nose of the beast. The scent of scorched flesh wafted from her hand where she had touched the metal, but the pain was a distant thing compared to the hunger of the blade in her other hand. There was a crackle and whoosh as the dragon exhaled, but Louise was already beyond it. Her sword arm extended, aimed of the throat of the rider.
Who whipped her own sword-wand into the way of the blow, deflecting it. Then Louise's body hit the seated woman, and the two of them fell, tangled up in the reins and the bridling.
Louise rolled as she hit the ground with a clatter of trumpets, and rose on one toe, bringing her blade around in a pirouette guard. The rider was less effete about manners, and severed her binds with a muttered word, landing heavily. Her dragon coiled around her, to protect its master from the green-burning monster approaching. A second dragon roared, and Louise dodged the fireballs from the mage on its back, each one aimed to force her to back away from the fallen earth mage.
The other woman flicked out her arm with a barked word, and the pavement beneath Louise's feet was suddenly unstable. She tried desperately to regain her balance, and was not quite fast enough to avoid the serpent-like tendril of rock which latched around her legs. She yelled in pain as it began to squeeze down. A sand-flicker, and she was free, but she was trying to fight both the dismounted rider and two dragons and she was too tired and too slow to rack all of them. The least that could be said was that she was in too close for the landed dragons to burn her, but they still had claws, teeth and tails.
It was one of the stones from the fallen rider which send her flying backwards with a cracking sound and a jolt of pain from her chest. Tumbling along the ground, she scrabbled for grip and managed to grab on just short of the low wall which marked the point where the land became the sky. She gasped for air, something coldly noting that it was probably another broken rib. Each breath was liquid, bubbling in her chest.
Looking up, she could see two dragons and two mages facing her on the ground, and many more dragoons in the air. Some were riding fire dragons, others were riding wind dragons, and there were yet more fliers present, holding back for now but ready to move in if necessary.
She couldn't fight them all. Not in this state; maybe not at all. Either they would kill her, or she would be taken captive and she would
never fall into the hands of the Sheffield-thing again. Never never never.
Louise had already manifested her inner strangeness and the wings had not come. There would be no flight for her; no escape that way. And she felt exhausted, in the bone-deep way which meant she soon would be able to do little more. She took a step back, felling the wall behind her, gasping for breath.
She looked to the east, and the light of the sun which seeped through the smoke and flames. She felt the cold light of her soul burning all around her, seeping into the world and twisting it. She could hear the crackle and roar of the flames. She could taste the fear of all those terrified soldiers who dared stand against her.
Louise de la Vallière smiled up at the dragoons. She spread her arms wide. And she released the flaying sands as she let herself fall backwards.
{0}
Oh, the irony.
