30 AGAINST THE GODS

30

AGAINST THE GODS

Sorasa

There were three prisons in Almasad. One on the water, the cells half flooded at high tide, with crocodiles tearing at the bars. One on the outskirts, between the city and the dunes, the cells open to the sun, so that prisoners burned and blistered within hours of captivity. The third was buried beneath the citadel fortress of the city’s central garrison, its cells dark and cool and sepulchral, secure as a tomb. The first two were unpleasant, but manageable. Sorasa Sarn had swum and climbed her way out of both.

She gritted her teeth as they were led, bound and gagged, to the third. Taltora, she knew, cursing its name.

Sorasa kept her face lowered. It wasn’t difficult to look defeated. After all, Sigil had betrayed them.

I should have known,she thought as their footsteps echoed. She never saw the corpses on the hill. She never saw Taristan of Old Cor, the red wizard at his side. Sigil is of the Ward, still existing within the rules she understands.

And she’s right,Sorasa thought. In another time, I would have done the same.

The Ibalet officers brought them to a guardroom below the prison fortress, flaring with torches, its walls lined with shelves and trunks. The Ibalets wasted no time stripping away their weaponry, relieving Dom and Andry of their swords. Corayne grimaced in the flickering light, her eyes too wide as they removed her cloak and tossed it away. She fought weakly, choking against her gag, when they unbuckled the Spindleblade and took it gingerly from her back.

Dom bucked against his captors, but six men and a heavy iron chain around his wrists and ankles were enough to keep the Elder from escape. Sigil warned them, Sorasa cursed, watching him writhe in vain.

The bounty hunter was nowhere in sight, and neither were the Gallish soldiers in their cloaks. While the soldiers patted down Valtik, puzzling at her trinkets, Sorasa imagined Sigil in the soldiers’ mess, surrounded by the northern troops. Or perhaps in the warden’s office, collecting a seal of merit to be presented for payment in Ascal. The latter, most likely. Sigil enjoys nothing until her business is completed.

When it was her turn, Sorasa leaned into the shadow, trying to obscure her face. She winced when a guard with a badge of office examined her, his eyes narrowing beneath full, dark brows. He had the hawk face of a noble Ibalet, his eyes a warm, syrupy brown. She recognized his black beard, shaved and oiled into perfect curls beneath his cheekbones. Without removing the gag, he grabbed her by the chin, turning her head from side to side. Then his gaze dropped, taking in the tattoos at her neck and the lines on her fingers.

He sighed aloud, sounding fatigued. “Back so soon, Amhara?”

Sorasa smiled, working the gag out of her mouth, using a combination of her tongue and lips in a well-practiced trick. “Bar-Barase, I see you made lieutenant,” she sneered, nodding to his badge. “Congratulations.”

The soldier clenched his teeth. “Put the rest in the cells; space them evenly. Keep the immortal chained,” he said wearily, without joy or zeal. “Strip this one bare. Search every inch.”

Across the room, Corayne made a small noise behind her gag, trying to take a step. A single guard stopped her. Dom himself fought harder, nearly overpowering his six guards, until a seventh caught him around his neck. They struggled even as they were marched away, nudged along at spear and sword point.

Sorasa shrugged as they went, her hands still bound. “The sooner we get this started, the sooner we can finish.”

The lieutenant’s lip curled and he waved forward two of the female guards, both of them hardened enough to have been carved from the granite of the Red Pillar. Sorasa let them work, her muscles tight with tension. She stared at the lieutenant’s back, hating him.

There is nothing so frustrating as an honest officer.

It didn’t take long. Sorasa Sarn had been strip-searched since childhood. It was a regular occurrence in the Guild, where acolytes were encouraged to steal food, money, or whatever else they could get away with. She barely noticed as they checked over her body, looking for hidden weapons from her scalp to her toes.

She counted the cells as she passed, and every hairpin turn. Taltora was a labyrinth beneath a fortress, the air dry and cool. They took everything—her belt, her sword, her bow, her daggers, every pouch of precious powder, and, worst of all, the coin purse strapped along her thigh. All that Ionian gold, gone to the vaults of Taltora, where it would only gather dust under the watchful eye of dutiful Lieutenant Bar-Barase. The stiff-necked fool won’t even use it for himself, Sorasa lamented, marching along the passage.

Four guards marched her along, their swords drawn and raised. Subduing them wouldn’t fix anything. Another six would come running, and she’d end up unconscious and chained in a deeper cell, without even the hope of a candle. No, Sorasa was a model prisoner, her wrists tied behind her back, her leggings, boots, and shirt hastily donned again. Her black hair hung loose over one shoulder, ragged from their journey.

She heard Valtik around the fourth turn, the old witch rambling in Jydi again. Her voice echoed off the dirt floor and stone roof, a ghost haunting its mausoleum. For once, Sorasa was glad to hear her squawking. She wagged a finger as Sorasa passed, grinning with too many teeth.

Around the next turn she found Corayne and Andry, an empty cell separating each from the other. Sorasa looked them over, expecting a blubbering mess, especially from the squire. Both stood at the bars, flint-eyed and bold, their gags torn away.

“Did they hurt you?” Corayne demanded, her fists clenching on the iron.

Sorasa tossed her head. “Does it look like it?”

The Elder’s cell faced the others, alone across the aisle. He was half obscured in the dim light, chained against the wall like a rabid animal. Even his neck was bound, forcing him to stand awkwardly straight, his back braced to the stonework. He shifted, clinking his chains.

“A bit much, don’t you think?” Sorasa said to her guards. “He’s a puppy dog.”

Dom scoffed, struggling with the chain around his throat.

The guards did not respond, opening her own cell with the grate of metal on metal, jamming a key in the snarling lock. They shoved her in, wrists still bound, and slammed the cell door before marching back into the passage.

Their footsteps died away, leaving the five of them in the quiet dark, the only light coming from a single torch. Between the empty cells and the long aisle, no one could brush fingertips, let alone help each other. And with Dom bound as he was, there was little hope of smashing their way out. Their brooding battering ram was no more.

“This is less than ideal,” Dom growled to the ceiling.

Corayne kicked up a spray of dirt, exasperated. “That’s one way to put it,” she snapped. “You trusted the bounty hunter.”

Sorasa took the accusation in stride. She paced her cell, examining the bars for any flaw. “Charlie’s still on the outside.”

Andry’s scoff echoed. “Oh yes, he’ll certainly come back for us.”

“He could draw something up,” Corayne offered, looking between them. “A writ or a diplomatic letter to buy us some time?”

“He won’t get anything past Sigil.” Sorasa kept up her inspection. The bars were dug in, hammered into the ceiling and the dirt floor. She scuffed at the bottom, trying to make a hole. The iron reached too deep. “She’s going to drag us all the way back to Ascal.” Another voyage across hostile seas, to die on the executioner’s block or in the maw of a sea serpent. Exhausting. “Unless we do something about it.”

“We’re forty feet underground, Sarn,” Dom said in a flat voice. He strained again, his pale face going red with exertion. The bonds didn’t budge.

“Locked in cages. Chained,” Corayne added, waving a hand at the Elder. “I doubt even you can do something about that.”

“You’re right,” Sorasa said. Then, with a huff of breath, she jumped straight up, tucking her knees, drawing her bound wrists around her feet. When she landed on her toes, her hands were in front. It was an old trick, taught to every acolyte at the citadel. “Ibalets are just jailors but Taltora is a bitch of a dungeon. The air shafts are too small even for a child. Trust me, I’ve seen it tried.”

She began to move her wrists over themselves, pulling with each pass of skin on skin. The restraints were good rope, braided and tight, but the knots needed work. Inch by inch, she made room against her flesh. The rhythm was slow, steady, even hypnotic. She sank into it as easily as a warm pool.

“The only way out is the way we came in. Down the cells, four turns through four rows. Then the guardrooms, the antechamber, and up the gut of the citadel itself. Where you have to charge through the courtyard of the barracks and garrison offices before reaching the street. Then it’s a race to the desert, which few can survive on foot, if they manage to not get run down by mounted cavalry before they hit the dunes.” The others winced as she listed each obstacle, but Sorasa only shrugged, her wrists turning. “Be grateful we’re not in a Treckish prison pit, half-buried in our own refuse. Or Ascal, for that matter, at the mercy of pig-idiot guards who forget to feed their prisoners. No, Taltora is kind compared to those.”

Her right hand loosed first, squeezing between the bindings. The left followed with a slip, and she tossed the rope around her neck. It would come in handy later, should she need to strangle someone.

The others watched, wide-eyed.

“You’ve been in prison before,” Andry said in a flat voice.

“I’ve been in this prison before,” Sorasa replied. With her hands free, she rolled up the sleeve of her left arm, exposing an intricate tattoo of a bird’s wing.

“Well?” Corayne leaned her forehead against the bars. Hope flared in her eyes. It was so easy to coax the girl into flame, Sorasa was almost jealous. The ability to hope was driven from me long ago. “We don’t exactly have time to waste. It’s been hours already.”

Sorasa drummed along the feathers, feeling the flesh of her arm. She stopped at the wing tip and put her teeth to her own skin. “The guards are wise to my ways by now,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.

After a moment, she felt the metal nub of the pin and latched on. It slid from her skin easily, the steel of the thick needle shining crimson. It wasn’t long, the length of a single finger joint. She ignored the sting and the single drop of blood marring her tattoo.

“But they still can’t figure out how to check a body properly,” she added, triumphant, the needle in her teeth.

Dom stared in disgust. “Are you going to fix a hole in a shirt?”

Sorasa didn’t answer, pulling a second pin from another spot in the bird’s wing.

“Oh, well done,” Andry said, gasping in fascination.

“Thank you, Trelland. It’s nice to be appreciated,” she answered as she set to picking the cell lock with her bloody pins.

Her heart pounded as the door swung open, the hinges mercifully silent. Now what, now what, now what drummed to a crescendo in her head. The guards hadn’t taken her lockpicks, but they had taken everything else. Her gear, Dom’s Elder sword, the Spindleblade. Not to mention there were probably a hundred soldiers between themselves and the street, one of them Sigil of the Temurijon. Sorasa gritted her teeth, trying to remember a more precarious position she had been in and escaped.

Well, I’ve never tried to save the realm before, so nothing comes to mind.

Dom’s voice grated in her ears. “What’s next, Sarn?”

She wanted to slip through his bars and tighten the chain around his neck until he couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. Instead she crossed the aisle, setting to work on Andry’s cell.

“If your life didn’t depend on getting out of here, I’d say you were gloating, Elder,” she snapped over her shoulder.

His chains clinked. He drew up his chin as best he could. “The Vedera do not gloat.”

Andry pushed open his cell door with a grateful nod.

“Valtik?” he said, looking to the witch. “Any tricks?”

Still on the dirt floor, Valtik shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Listen for the bells,” she said. For the first time since they met, Sorasa thought the old woman sounded tired, her voice matching her advanced age. “So the bone tells.”

Andry winced, reaching through the bars to help her to her feet. His expression darkened like a storm cloud. “I’ve had enough of bells to last a lifetime.”

The picks turned in another lock and Corayne’s cell opened. She spilled out, a whirlwind, a mad horse kicking up dirt. “We can’t go anywhere without the blade,” she said. Her body leaned, compensating for a weight she no longer carried. Without her cloak, without the sword on her back, she looked small and young, a child plucked from her bed.

Then she gnashed her teeth, stepping into Sorasa’s way. The assassin stared, the child melting away before her eyes.

“The Spindleblade, Sorasa,” Corayne said, her eyes black as jet.

“I know,” she hissed, making quick work of Valtik’s lock.

“Do you think Charlie is still waiting?” Corayne followed close on her heels. Desperation rolled off her in waves.

“I really can’t say,” Sorasa forced out, prying open the final cell. Dom glowered at her from the wall, awkwardly splayed within his chains. The assassin approached him with her picks bared, raised like daggers. “Try not to bite, Elder.”

“Why would I?” he snarled back. “Your blood is probably poison.”

His first wrist came free, then the second. The neck was more difficult: she had to push his hair away to find the padlock holding the chains in place.

She chuckled to herself, unlocking his feet. “Only a little,” she said as he fell to the floor, a heap of sore muscles.

Corayne was right: there was no time to waste. But Sorasa found herself wishing they were deeper in the cells of Taltora, if only to buy a few more seconds to think. They were running into oblivion, with no plan and no hope of finding the light on the other side. It was well into the night by now, but that would mean little until they made it outside. Past the guardrooms, the garrison, the citadel itself . . .

Her mind spun, hunting for opportunity.

For the first time in her life, Sorasa Sarn found none.

The door loomed, cedar planks banded with iron, its hinges fat and heavy. She imagined it splintering under Dom’s weight, opening onto a room full of soldiers armed to the teeth.

Our only hope is surprise.Get a sword, get a dagger, get any weapon we can. Fight until numbers are back on our side. Let Dom do the heavy lifting. I could manage the rest.

And above all else,she knew, keep Corayne an-Amarat alive.

Dom stared at the door, his face pulled in concentration. Sorasa knew he was listening, trying to figure out exactly who and how many were on the other side.

“I’ll take down whoever I can,” he murmured, staring around at them. Even Valtik stood in front of Corayne, with Andry shifting to protect them both, his long arms stretched out.

The squire met the Elder’s eye, exchanging stern nods.

“With me,” the boy said, resolute.

“With me,” Domacridhan of Iona echoed, taking as many steps back from the door as he dared. Two, three, ten. Until long yards stretched between himself and the wood.

He lunged, a blur, sprinting so quickly Sorasa felt the air stir around her. She braced, willing him through the door, telling herself to follow, as close as lightning to thunder.

The door gave beneath his shoulder, cracking on its hinges, falling flat like a drawbridge. He kept his balance, staying on his feet to pound through, nearly colliding with an oak table. Instead he leapt over it, spinning, lithe as a deer in the forest.

Sorasa burst into the room, clamping down on the fear rattling between her teeth. She waited for the sting of swords, the cut of daggers, the bashing blow of a shield or fist.

Nothing came.

Sigil sat in a chair, her overlarge boots resting on the table, legs crossed at the ankles. She had a chicken leg in one hand, a smear of grease over her lips. A forelock of dark hair fell over one eye. She looked from the Elder to Sorasa, a smile in her eyes as she sucked meat off the bone.

“Two hours to get out of a cell,” she chuckled. “Sarn, I think you’re losing your touch.”

Their weapons fanned over the tabletop, the Spindleblade safe in its sheath. Sorasa’s blood soared, singing with adrenaline. Her mask of indifference slipped, showing a true smile.

“Sleeping draft?” she said, angling her head at the ceiling.

“You’re not the only one who knows her way around poison and powder,” she answered. “These soldiers certainly can drink. The entire garrison went down like a baby.”

“Good you came to your senses, Bounty Hunter. To betray us is to betray the realm, and your own survival.” Dom glowered, snatching his weapons from the table.

Sigil basked in his judgment. “I didn’t betray you, Elder. Or, at least, I didn’t betray you for long,” she added.

“And what did you learn from two hours with the citadel garrison?” Corayne asked, returning the Spindleblade to her back. She breathed a sigh of relief as it slid home, her shoulders dropping. “That was your aim, right?”

“Smart girl,” she answered. “The Gallish soldiers had a chatty captain, not to mention stupid. He was happy to trade news—I think he wanted to share in my earnings, or my bed. I had no interest in either, of course.” Sigil fiddled with the edge of her ax. “But he did say they aren’t the only Gallish troops in Ibal. Two hundred soldiers arrived a week ago, sailing right into Almasad.”

Andry balked. “The Queen can’t send that many soldiers into a foreign kingdom, not without a declaration of war.”

“I doubt she minds,” Corayne muttered. “Did he tell you where they were going?”

Sigil raised her chin, catching Sorasa’s eye. After so many years, they shared an understanding, a familiarity. The assassin saw reluctance in the bounty hunter, perhaps even fear.

“An oasis on the Aljer coast,” she said. “Called Nezri.”

Sorasa felt that fear too, and let it be her guide.

Mirrors on the sand.

It had been years since the daughter of Ibal had ridden its deserts, a sand mare beneath her, flying over the dunes she was born to. There was nothing quite like it. Not standing at the prow of a ship, nor the bed of a chariot. Not even leaning into the wind at the edge of a cliff, the entire realm splayed out like a blanket of green and blue, all the world in your teeth. In the heart of Sorasa Sarn, there was no thrill to match a desert at night, moving swiftly below clearest stars, the cold, clean wind in her hair, the only sound her heartbeat and the shifting of ancient sand.

She lay back in the saddle, thighs clenched tight to keep her seat as her spine hit leather, her eyes on the heavens. The oil-black sand mare shuddered beneath her, galloping in perfect, steady rhythm. With the breeze on her face and the stars above, Sorasa cleared her mind, emptying her head of Spindles and Elders, Corblood girls and enchanted blades. It was a Guild tactic, to seek clarity through peace.

Sorasa had never been much good at it.

She sat up again, the reins back in hand and her boots in the stirrups. The mare surged beneath her, eager to run. The other mounts responded in kind, the horses’ hooves like meteors across the sand.

How Charlie had procured seven sand mares, black and red and golden, Sorasa did not know. But she was certainly glad he had. There was no creature so fast, no beast so hardy. The miles passed in a blur, the sky wheeling toward dawn.

With the right provisions and good planning, the Great Sands of Ibal were easy to navigate. It’s the sun that’ll kill you, not the stars. They set their course by the constellations, thundering a line over the dunes. Sigil took the lead, with Dom at her side. They rode neck and neck, testing each other, her hair flattened to her skull, his trailing like a flag of hammered gold.

They raced toward a Spindle torn open, spilling forth the monsters of Meer.

The realm of oceans, surrounded by a sea of sand dunes.Sorasa could not comprehend it, but so much was beyond her understanding these days. She narrowed her focus to what she could control and could accomplish. Another Guild tactic. All I can do now is ride and outrun a doom like the rising sun. She felt it now, a sword at her neck. Taristan and What Waits, their hands outstretched to seize the realm. And another blade hung over her, closer and closer with every second.

Return and I’ll pick your bones clean.

She heard Lord Mercury’s voice in her head, clear as the stars in the inky black. Their citadel was to the north, too far to see, miles off on the coast, where sands met cliffside. But she dared not look. The horse might shift beneath her, the path might change. Sorasa Sarn might lose all control and bring her bones home.

Dawn was a curtain of heat like the opening of an oven. Sorasa kept them moving as long as she could, pushing the outlanders to their limits. Until the sun was too high, too strong, the shadows pocketed in the dunes nearly gone. The horses gleamed with sweat, flagging in their perfect steps. Even Dom breathed a sigh of relief when Sorasa called for camp.

She dismounted into sand hot enough it seared through her boots. A scrabble of rocks at the base of a dune provided good shade. It was still boiling hot but bearable, and the others used their cloaks to prop up little tents for more shadow. Andry was asleep in an instant, snoring as soon as he lay down. Charlie was quick to join him, while Dom took watch, his face buried in the dark of his hood. Valtik dug at the sand, building herself a nest in the cooler layers below, before waving at Corayne to join her. Sorasa quirked a brow at her, but did not bother asking how a northern witch learned desert ways.

“They’ll have a watch on the canyon,” Sigil murmured, shucking off her armor. She was just as big without it, all muscle and thick limbs. “Archers, crossbows. It won’t be pretty.”

Sorasa shaded her eyes and squinted at the horizon, the bright, blue sky meeting shimmering gold. Though she wore muted clothing, black and brown and dirty gray, blue and gold were her favorite colors. The royal blue of the flag. The gold of sand. The clear cerulean of the endless sky. The yellow wink of coin. They were Ibal. They were home.

It was early autumn now. The others could not feel the change in the winds, the miniscule drop in temperature. But a daughter of Ibal certainly did.

“I can handle the canyon,” she said, patting Sigil on the shoulder.

The bounty hunter replied with a gruff laugh. “Good. I’d rather not have to save your skin again.”

As they made their way forward, they slept through the worst heat of the days, rousing before dusk. It was exhausting, even for Sorasa, who had been long from home. Corayne’s lips cracked and bled. Dom swathed himself from head to toe, sweating in his cloak and hood. Poor Charlie nearly fainted every morning, ruddy from finger­tips to toes. Sigil sweated through her armor, her face shining, and Andry didn’t drop his hood for days, shading his eyes. Only Valtik was somehow unaffected by the heat or sun, her ivory skin never changing, her head bare and eyes wide open. Some Spindle­rotten trick, Sorasa assumed.

The sun sapped their strength, leaving their nights quiet and swift. A week passed in near silence, their waterskins growing lighter, their stores of food running low. The apples bought in Adira were long gone, the sweetness of them only a memory.

Sorasa did not worry. It was no longer summer and the red line appeared on the horizon as it should, growing with every passing hour. The cliffs cast long shadows, bathing the desert in cool air, the earth cracked by a seasonal lake. It would be months before winter rains brought it back. A few hardy plants still wormed up through the cracks in the dirt, fed by an underground water supply, seeping through the dirt and sand. The sand mares tried to nose at them as they walked, lips reaching for any hint of green.

“Either you intend to go around,” Dom said one morning, his immortal eyes on the cliffs still miles off. They stretched the length of the horizon, jagged from north to south, a wall of rusty stone. “Or go through.”

“Around would take weeks. The Marjeja rings the Aljer like a crescent moon. We’ll take the canyon.” The horse’s flank was smooth beneath her hand, steadying as an anchor. The sand mare shuddered at Sorasa’s touch, leaning into it. “And we won’t be the only ones.”

Sorasa finished braiding her hair into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. With a will, she raised her eyes to stare at the horses spread across the dry riverbed, the canyon a gash in the wall of cliffs half a mile on. Though she was still, her heart rammed in her chest and her stomach twisted. There were two hundred Shiran at least, in all colors, from cream to sand to blood red and even a few obsidian black. They grazed across the cracked earth, hunting in the growing shadows of the cliffs. There were only a few stallions, the rest intelligent mares and colts still growing into their gangly limbs. They looked akin to sand mares, but any Ibalet knew them as a beast apart, stronger and faster and infinitely more wild than their domestic cousins. This is wrong, Sorasa thought, feeling shame already. This is unholy, a strike against the gods and the realm.

The others stared with her, sweating against the dawn.

“Are we going to look at them all day or . . . ?” Charlie said, trailing off with a half grin.

“That is a Shiran.”

Sorasa’s skin crawled at the thought of what they had to do.

“After the gods, there is nothing so sacred to Ibal as these herds. They are the wind made flesh, faster than a storm, fiercer than sand wolves. In the days of Old Cor, the empire raided them, dragging wild Shiran screaming across the sea. Most died so far from home. Not so anymore.” Her mouth went dry. “To disturb or capture a wild Shiran is punishable by death.”

Corayne shifted in the saddle. “Something else for the posters,” she grumbled.

“They are a testament to the gods, to the Ibalet kings, to the great and terrible glory of Ibal, who was conquered but never killed.” Sorasa felt sick but forged on. At least I must make them understand. “These lands are their own to wander, from coast to riverbed, cliff to grassland, mountain to oasis shade.

“They are truly free,” she murmured, feeling the wind in her air, the judgment of the gods in her bones. And Dom’s emerald eyes on her, soft for once, without his usual glare.

“We will not harm them,” he rumbled, bowing his head low. “You have my word.”

Sorasa could only nod, her mouth too dry as he urged his mare forward, descending the dunes with Sigil close beside him.

Saydin nore-sar.

Gods forgive me.

Saydin nore-mahjin.

Gods protect us.

She worried more for the sacred horses than for most of her human companions. Somehow, the witch manages to survive everything. Andry will be fine too. He is a good horseman, easy in the saddle. Charlie not so much, but if he is trampled, so be it. His blood isn’t saving the Ward anytime soon. It was Corayne she looked to, reading the tension in the girl’s shoulders, the tightness of her fingers on the reins of her horse, a sand mare the color of garnet gemstone.

“Keep your grip,” Sorasa said to her. “Whatever you do, don’t let go. One arm over the saddle, both feet in one stirrup. I’ll be right next to you; so will Dom. No one will let you fall.”

Corayne dipped her chin in a firm nod, her face a picture of strength. The trembling in her hands told a different story. For once, the Spindleblade was not across her back. It would have sent her off balance. For the run, they’d strapped it to her horse’s saddle, angled out of the way, lashed as tightly as they dared.

If we lose that horse . . . ,Sorasa thought. Her mind tried to chase down every possible outcome and mistake they might face. There were too many to follow, too many variables to anticipate. And not enough time to plan for any, let alone all.

Sigil knew how to move horses. She’d cut her teeth on the steppes among the stocky, stout ponies of the Temurijon. She urged her horse between the Shiran mares, aiming for a stallion standing apart, his neck arched and ears twitching.

In the dunes above, Sorasa wound the reins into her hands, her heels and thighs tightening around her mount.

The battle cry of the Countless, the great army of the Temur emperor, went up from the herd, a shriek like the crashing of metal and lightning. Combined with Sigil’s galloping mare and the flash of her ax, it was enough to send the stallion bolting. Muscle shuddered beneath his flank, a ripple over water, beautiful for a moment, as if he were forged from metal instead of flesh. He went for the plain but found Dom in his way, his sword bright with sunlight, startling the wild horse.

Together they drove the stallion toward the canyon, his voice braying over the riverbed. The herd screamed with him, kicking up dust, exploding to follow his thunderous path.

“Don’t let go,” Sorasa said again, leaning over to strike Corayne’s mare on the flank.

They raced down the sand, pelting into the thick of the Shiran, the smell of dust and wild horse in the air. Sorasa’s heart leapt with the horses, their hooves beating a rhythm to match her pulse. It was like joining a storm, falling into a tempest. Sorasa shuddered and jarred as her sand mare found pace with the herd, their bodies pressing closer together to follow the stallion as he charged. She galloped with Corayne, their knees nearly touching. As for the others, Sorasa could not say. There was only Corayne and the Spindle­blade, the scarlet flank of her horse like a beacon at the corner of Sorasa’s eye.

The cliffs loomed, the canyon a narrow split of rock. All the world shrank to the red walls and the drumbeat of a thousand hooves, the rhythm of her blood, adrenaline rattling through her body. Corayne bent low over her mare’s neck, clawed to the horse, her teeth bared and gnashing. A familiar shade of gold flashed somewhere, joined by the snap of dark green. Dom pulled up alongside Corayne’s other flank as the shadows of the cliffs fell over them, the cool air a dropping curtain, the sound of the herd echoing off stone in a deafening roar.

“Now!” Sorasa tried to yell, her voice lost in the din. She could only hope the others saw her and followed.

Hands tight on the reins and the hard pommel of her saddle, she swung her left leg out of her stirrup, passing it up and over the horse’s back in a smooth arc. Her muscles pulled, tensing as she balanced one boot in the stirrup, wedging the other alongside as best she could. The horse didn’t break stride, urged on by the pace of the herd. Centuries of breeding could not outweigh pure instinct, and sand mares were Shiran somewhere down their lines. It wasn’t easy, keeping herself tight against the horse’s side, her head tucked to the saddle. The dusty ground flowed beneath her like water, cragged with rocks, uneven and worn. She tried not to look down or imagine being trampled. Instead she glanced left and right, back and forward, searching through the waves of roiling horseflesh.

Her stomach turned when she saw soldiers in the high rocks, their silhouettes sharp on the cliffs. Archers, all of them, watching the canyon. She flinched, expecting a fiery bolt of pain at any moment. An arrow through the neck. It never came.

It’s working,she thought, almost losing her grip in shock. Instead she strengthened her resolve, pulling herself closer to the horse.

First she spotted Andry, his head pressed to the side of his bay mare. He was taller than Sorasa, and had to curl his body to keep his legs from dragging along the ground. He met her gaze, his mare weaving among the Shiran. The squire did not falter, his brow set in a dark line. Sigil was behind, also too tall. She wrapped herself around the horse, one arm and leg thrown over its back, the others passing under. Valtik and Charlie were nowhere to be found, lost in the sea. At least if she couldn’t see them, any Gallish scouts certainly wouldn’t either.

Corayne was still on her right, the girl’s breath coming in hard, fast gasps. Her knuckles went white on the reins and saddle, fingers scrabbling to keep hold. She dangled close to Dom, the Elder gripping his horse with only one giant hand. The other held Corayne’s horse by the saddle, keeping them in pace together. He braced the Cor girl against his chest, his immortal grace holding them both up and out of crushing death.

The horses ran at breakneck speed, their manes like flags in the wind, their hooves kicking up stones and dust. A cloud followed the herd, hazy and pink, obscuring the heights of the cliffs. The figures faded, the archers lost in the dust. Sorasa allowed herself a small burst of triumph. If they held on long enough, the herd would carry them through.

The canyon seemed to stretch, endless. It widened and narrowed with each turn, forcing the herd to adjust, and their mares with them. Sorasa winced as another horse clipped her, nearly crushing her against her mare’s ribs. A cry of alarm went up somewhere. It sounded like Charlie. Sorasa tried to pray, willing him to hold on, willing the scouts not to listen. All she could do was clench her teeth and keep steady, her own grasp on the saddle slipping.

While the entrance to the canyon was a dark gash, the way out blazed bright as any star, a white column of daylight. It appeared around the next bend, and Sorasa nearly crowed in relief, her body bruised and weakening. She willed the herd to move faster, begging any god who might be listening.

Dom and Corayne pulled ahead, their horses running in tight formation. The Elder had a foot in Corayne’s stirrup and his one hand on either saddle, with Corayne braced against his chest, her face pressed into his cloak. His back faced forward, allowing his cloak to flow around them and keep her hidden.

It also kept him blind.

The assassin drew a sharp, almost shrieking breath when she saw the path split around a boulder thrusting out of the earth like a dagger. The herd broke around it, maneuvering easily. But not Dom and Corayne, their mares held together, the whites of their eyes furious, both horses blowing hard. They charged, screaming, trying to pull apart, but Dom was stronger, his fingers wormed beneath the girths of both saddles.

Sorasa was on the back of her horse again without thinking, her heels digging into the sides of her mare. The horse whinnied and bolted, outstripping the Shiran around them, a darting black arrow. If the scouts could see her, she didn’t care.

“Reach for me!” she shouted, coming up on the Elder and the Cor girl.

They looked up at her in shock, Dom’s face red from exertion. And now anger.

“You’ll kill us—” he began, but Sorasa ignored him, stretching out her hand.

The boulder loomed, closer with every second, a hammer to split them in two.

She looked to Corayne, who raised her head, all terror. But her eyes were the same. Blacker than the night sky. The eyes of another realm.

“REACH FOR ME!” Sorasa screamed again, already feeling the crush of rock on bone. Her fingers stretched, touching open air. Something thwipped by. An arrow, she thought idly, knowing the sound all too well.

Then Corayne’s hand was in her own, Dom shouted, and Sorasa pulled as hard as she could, her shoulders screaming under the sudden weight. For a second, time suspended, slowed to nothing. Corayne drifted toward her, arms wide, her eyes filled with terror as the rock passed within inches. Behind her, Dom moved in a blur, kicking off one horse to land on the other, one arm thrown over the Spindleblade to keep it from falling loose.

The rock passed between them, Dom never breaking their gaze. Sorasa felt his focus like a spear through her gut, his eyes that stormy, unyielding green. But not as angry as she knew, not as disgusted. They rode apart, weaving around the break before colliding back together, Corayne sprawling between them, the girl shuddering against Sorasa’s back.

A shout sounded above, the barking voice of a soldier. Another volley of arrows peppered the herd, needling the horses around them. Sorasa felt the arrows as keenly as if they were embedded in her own flesh. Her heart bled for the Shiran, now bleeding for her. She loosed a curse under her breath and snapped the reins, kicking the sand mare to her limits.

“Faster,” she hissed, to herself and the horse. “Faster.”

The canyon opened out onto desert, the sand here whiter than the gold of the dunes. They rode with the Shiran, the great stallion pulling his herd along. The soldiers would follow. They were probably already clambering down the cliffs or signaling to the rest of their company. Whatever element of surprise Sorasa hoped to use had disappeared.

But we are alive. And that is enough.

The water was a few miles ahead, the gulf of the Aljer so close she thought she could smell it. After days in the desert, the salt tang of seawater was impossibly heavy on her tongue. But the oasis stood between, a dark smudge a mile ahead. The shadow whispered of palm trees, cool water, and a small outpost town for caravans and pilgrims. A blessed place, Spindletouched.

And now Spindletorn.

“Keep going,” she shouted, to anyone who could hear her, to anyone who made it through the canyon.

Corayne’s grip shifted on her waist, the pressure fleeting but unmistakable. To their right, Dom had the sword. Sorasa nearly wept in relief, choking out a triumphant cry.

We are enough.

She dared not look back, lest she see the others broken or trampled.

On the horizon, the oasis glimmered. An odd sight, like the edge of a blade laid against the earth. Steel. Silver. Mercury.

Her breath caught.

Mirrors on the sand. The Eye of Haroun.

And this.

The sand turned to liquid, her horse’s hooves kicking up water instead of dust. But the mares kept on, the Shiran never stopping, every horse plunging into the shallow layer of water laid across the harshest desert upon the Ward.

It was shockingly cold.

Sorasa shivered as she never had before. The merciless sun of Ibal beat down on her face while the water of Meer splashed around her, lapping up the legs of her mare.

“I think this is the right place,” Corayne said weakly in her ear.