“Sound the alarms!” Penn roars at two bewildered-looking soldiers stationed on a street corner as we hurtle past them. “We are under attack!”
We do not pause to see if they comply. We run faster. Impossibly fast. An unyielding sprint. At my sides, Soren and Penn seem tireless, their long legs eating up the ground without ever breaking stride. Somehow, I keep pace with them, my feet flying over the cobblestones as though I’ve grown true wings, the golden train of my gown whipping out behind me like a battle flag. I feel the cold burn of power coiled in my chest and realize I am unconsciously using the wind to propel myself forward, the air currents extending each bound farther, higher, longer than my petite legs could accomplish of their own accord.
Under normal circumstances, this might shock or even delight me. Tonight, there is no room in my mind for anything but dread. It poisons my veins, a toxic elixir, as we carve a jagged path toward the heart of Caeldera. When we reach King’s Avenue, the main thoroughfare from the tunnel to the lakeside, we find it packed with people still dancing and drinking.
“Get inside!” Penn roars, over and over. “Take cover!”
Faces stream by in a flood—at first merely concerned, then increasingly terrified as yet another blast of maegic shakes the sky.
“Prepare for attack!”
A cacophony of confusion and terror rises in place of music and laughter. Just as we reach the main square, that terror reaches a fever pitch when alarms begin to sound—a shrill ringing that splits the night, warning of an imminent attack. Even the drunkest revelers know what it means.
People bolt for cover. Stalls overturn in the crush. Vendors desert their wares. The stage is abandoned, fire-eaters long gone. The contortionist hoops hang empty. We push against the tide, fighting our way upstream as folks flood from the lakeshorethrough the marketplace, onto King’s Avenue. Their fear is palpable, infusing the air, mingling with the persistent scent of gunpowder from the fireworks.
The moment we reach the bridge, I know there will be no getting across. It is packed with people pouring from the palace, desperate to reach their homes and reunite with their loved ones.
“Oi!” Someone whistles sharply over the din. “Pendefyre!”
The three of us slam to a halt. In unison, we turn to see Jac, Cadogan, and Farley shoving their way toward us through the melee by the foot of the bridge. On their heels, about two dozen other members of the Ember Guild are forming orderly rows around us, buffering the panicked crowd. The sheer amount of weaponry strapped to their persons is mildly reassuring.
“Oh, thank the gods. She’s with you.” Jac is staring at me like he wants to sweep me into a hug and throttle me simultaneously. “Damn it, Ace, we’ve been looking for you for almost an hour! If the sky wasn’t falling, woman, I swear…”
“Sorry.” I grimace. “If we live through the night, I’ll make it up to you.”
“Not sure what’s going on,” Cadogan cuts in, stepping forward to face Penn, “but we figured you might need these.”
Penn nods in gratitude as he accepts his boots, broadsword, and bandolier of throwing knives. On all sides, people continue to jostle by, an unending stream. How quickly this night of warmth and light has darkened into shadows of despair. How fast these flames of joy have turned to ash. The sky flashes red again as another barrage of maegic hits the wards.
“Anyone care to explain what the hell is happening?” Farley shouts over the resounding rumbles.
“We’re under attack,” Jac says. “Obviously.”
Farley rolls his eyes. “Bloody half-wit, you think I don’t know we’re—”
“Enough!” Penn barks as he straps on his bandolier with one hand. In the other, the naked blade of his broadsword gleams. “The Reaver clans have found a new ally in our old enemy—Efnysien. He’s trying to bring down the wards. If he succeeds, they’ll breach the tunnel and sack the city.”
“Gods.” Jac pales. “Can he do it?”
“Let us hope not.” Penn glances past the flood of panicked civilians to the palace looming behind. “Where the hell is Yale?”
“Took it upon himself to protect the queen.” Cadogan’s face is a mask of contempt. “Our brave commanding general, barricaded in the throne room while his soldiers do battle.”
Beside me, Soren snorts. The other men look at him, seeming to finally take note of his presence. Their thunderstruck expressions are very nearly comical.
“What the skies ishedoing here?” Farley splutters.
“Helping,” Soren fires back. “Which is more than I can say for you, tripod. Do you plan to swing that walking stick at every Reaver who comes your way?”
Farley’s oath is overshadowed by another onslaught from outside the crater. The wards shudder weakly, strobing the diluted shade of inexpensive wine—as though their strength wanes with each strike. I am not the only one to realize this, for any verbal sparring is quickly brushed aside in lieu of rapid-fire battle orders.
“Cadogan, take your unit to the tunnel,” Penn commands, jerking his chin toward King’s Avenue. “Mabon should already be there with the rest of the guild and a contingent of foot soldiers. Grab as many able-bodied men as you can find on the way. If they’re sober enough to stand, they’re sober enough to fight.” He pauses. “We have to assume anyone stationed outside the ward perimeter is already dead.”
Cadogan nods, expression grim.
“Jac, go to the aviary,” Penn continues. “Tell the master of scrolls to send ravens to every guard post and battle station across the plateau. We need reinforcements here as soon as possible.”
“And afterward?” Jac asks.