Ramson nodded at Marya. “Now.”
Her irises whitened and frost spread over her cheeks. With a colossal crack, the wall of ice splintered and plunged back into the Tiger’s Tail. Water exploded into the air.
Ramson swung his arm down. “FIRE!”
As the next bombardment of arrows whistled past them, Ramson drew his misericord and turned to Marya. “Take me up there.”
Ice crackled beneath their feet, forming a plate for them to stand on; the river water and snow all around them shifted, pushing them higher and higher. Mist from the Tiger’s Tail sprayed across Ramson’s face; he trained his focus on the crenellated walls of the Salskoff Palace as the ground beneath them fell away. By his side, Marya was a solid, steady figure, the platform of ice beneath their feet evenly balanced as it continued to lengthen, forming a bridge that lifted them into the air. Up, up…the Kateryanna Bridge could fit on the palm of his hand, and the people there were no larger than the nails on his pinky fingers…Ramson couldn’t help but sweep a searching glance for Ana, but then they were eye level with the crenellations, the shadows of guards flickering as they readied more flaming arrows.
Ramson leapt into a cluster of Imperial Patrols. He barely had the chance to catch their startled looks before his misericord slashed and their throats bled red. Behind him, Marya hadclambered over and had erected a wall of ice against the Imperial Patrols incoming from the other side.
“Get back!” Ramson shouted, lunging in front of her to parry an Imperial Patrol. Marya huddled against the ice she’d erected, squeezing her eyes shut in concentration. On the other side of the ice wall she had made, the trapped Imperial Patrols had begun to swing at the ice barrier with their swords.
Turning to face the Imperial Patrols before him, Ramson had the distinct feeling that he’d landed right in the center of a wasp’s nest. He cut, slashed, ducked, and wove; bodies fell before him, yet there was an endless line of Whitecloaks surging toward him…his arm was growing tired, his reflexes thrown off in his growing panic—
A flash of a sword and his misericord went flying. Ramson stumbled.
The Imperial Patrol who’d knocked the blade from Ramson’s hand approached, weapon swinging.
Ramson ducked.
He felt the cold metal of the sword slice a hairsbreadth from his cheek; in an extension of the same movement, Ramson pivoted and struck out, as hard as he could, with his steel-tipped Navy boots.
He heard the crunch of bones and hiss of breath as the guard stumbled back. Ramson dove for his misericord and, with a flourish, pierced it through the Imperial Patrol’s neck. The salty tang of blood coated his lips; his opponent doubled over.
“I happen to value my face,” Ramson panted, “and I very much dislike those who seek to mar it.”
He plucked his blade from the dead man, who collapsed with a thump.
Yet it was with increasing desperation that Ramson found a group of Whitecloaks charging toward him. He backed away until he stood in front of Marya, squeezing her between him and her wall of ice.
A sudden burst of fire lit up the night from behind him. He heard Marya screaming; turning around, he saw a silhouette outlined behind the rapidly melting ice wall. The man’s armor was pale, with none of the blackstone reinforcements that regular Imperial Patrols held. Flames shot from his bare hands.
Inquisitor.
Within seconds, the ice was gone, and Ramson was surrounded.
Ramson’s heart pounded in his ears as he thrust Marya behind him and raised his single misericord against the incoming army. And as the fire Affinite Inquisitor raised his palms toward him, Ramson Farrald realized that he’d never thought he would die fighting on his own two feet. That this wasn’t the life he’d wanted for himself, yet it was the one he’dneeded—to change, to atone for all the crimes he’d served and the evil he’d turned away from.
He thought of Ana, fighting down at the gates, of the life he’d briefly hoped for. With her.
Fire exploded from the Inquisitor’s hands. Blades flashed as the Imperial Patrols charged.
And a howling wind rose all around.
From the night tumbled a blur of a shadow. Four flashes of metal, and the Imperial Patrols crashed onto the ground, the hilts of daggers protruding from their necks. The gale slammed into the Inquisitor’s fire, pushing it back; a blade cut through the flames and struck true.
With a choked gasp, the Inquisitor stumbled, clutching his throat. As blood poured from his mouth, his head rolled back, and he collapsed onto the battlement.
The slim figure straightened, a breeze stirring her short, midnight hair. Dark eyes turned to Ramson.
“It seems I must save you every single time we attack this palace, Ramson Farrald,” said Linn, her daggers gleaming a wicked scarlet. “Have you not learned your lesson from last time?”
The night was awash in blood and crimson as Ana’s battalion continued to lay siege to the gates of the Salskoff Palace. She sat astride her valkryf, alone across the Kateryanna Bridge, watching from a distance as Yuri’s Redcloaks and the Affinites in her army pummeled the entrance with all that they had. The ground shook with explosions as the other battalions continued to engage the archers and defenders along the Salskoff walls, drawing firepower away from Ana’s unit. Already, Tetsyev was tending to the wounded, his pale alchemist’s robes ghostly from here.
The strategy—the one all battalions and commanders of her army had agreed upon—was for her to remain behind and conserve her energy in order to face Morganya once they got through the gates. Yet sitting in the background, watching her army and friends put their lives at danger for a revolution inhername, was unbearable.
Ana’s knuckles were white as she maintained her grasp on her reins. The statues of the Deities loomed against the darkness on either side of her, their melancholy gazes reflecting the red glows of fire.
