“You didn’t imagine something like this,” I finish. “That’s the point. Cleavers and bearers are taught specifically how to blockthemselves against our magic, but most Trovians—including junior clerics—only have a fuzzy notion of what sensic power is, much less how to deal with it. The downside of them accusing us of heresy for the last eighty years,” I say archly, “is that we don’t exactly rub shoulders with the Temple very often.”
“They won’t guess where this hysteria’s coming from,” Corrin says. “And that plays right into Milo’s little story about unhappy gods and bad omens.”
“So they’re drugged up, sick,andsleep deprived?” Chalke says. He has the grace to look a little impressed. “Aye, that’ll do it.”
Now everyone’s on the same page, we go over our plan for this afternoon.
“You look almost excited,” Corrin says as we prepare to leave the bar for Grove Street.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I say, allowing myself a rare grin. “Scaring the gloam out of a bunch of crazed cultists? It’s one of my favorite pastimes.”
The old gambling den is a gloomy shadow of its former hedonistic splendor. The lights seem dimmer and the building hollower without the chorus of music and laughter spilling out of it. We gather at various points around the perimeter, using the alleyways and side streets to get close without being seen. Corrin helps with his shadows, but where we’re both perched on a roof opposite the building, we’re already hidden enough.
“Nice touch with the symbols,” I mutter to Corrin, examining the fresh graffiti on the steps of the building. Corrin told me he’d crept over in the night and put it there himself.
“Thank you,” he says, surprised by my compliment. “Lafia gave them to me. She said she was inspired by the Morelium calling Ana Mithanas. Apparently, these are some of the goddess’s marks—death and destruction and all that.”
When we’re all in position, I close my eyes and push my awareness down into the earth below me. Less than a minute later, Corrin leans past me, looking down curiously. I can tell he hears it: the rustling, slithering noise of hundreds of snakes winding through the streets.
Of course, there aren’t many snakes to be found in the city itself, but I spent the night sending out the call, my magic coaxing them in from the surrounding countryside. Snakes can be very obliging as long as you ask nicely enough, and they arrived in their droves, lurking in gutters and shady corners, waiting for the moment I gave them the signal.
“It’s fucking incredible,” Corrin breathes as we watch the tide of curling, scaled bodies rise up the steps to the gambling den. The Temple moving into this street has scared off most of its usual residents, so there’s no one to shout a warning, to give the clerics inside any sign of what’s about to hit them.
Ssssss…Barb pokes her head up higher to get a better view.When do I get to join the fun?
Sorry Barb, venomous snakes only,I reply.Plus, you’re too little; you’d just get stomped on.
She hisses in protest but watches with enjoyment as her brothers and sisters do their work. A scream goes up inside the building, telling me the snakes have found their first target. It’s soon followed by more bellows and shrieks.
When the first cleric comes sprinting from the building, trying to shake a snake off her robes with flailing limbs, I turn to Corrin.
“Your cue, Mr. Wadestaff,” I murmur.
He gives me a wicked smile. Darkness surges across the street, swallowing up the front of the building, the surrounding alleyways, and the cleric. The noises of terror on the ground grow, but I listen carefully to the hissing, hearing what my scaled friends have to tell me.
“The humans are pouring out of the building,” I say. “Most of them are in the street now.”
Corrin nods, lifting his fingers to his lips to release a sharp whistle—the last signal. Now they’ve driven the clerics out, I send the snakes on their way via the back of the houses where they’ll be safest from trampling feet. Then the citizens of Hallowbane seize their moment to attack.
From our position, we can see them surge from their hiding places, disappearing into Corrin’s mass of shadows with lit torches and raised weapons—clubs and irons and the occasional glinting dagger. I’m warmed by the idea of those clueless clerics, still trying to work out which god has visited a plague of darkness and serpents upon them, about to beactuallystruck down by the ordinary men and women they’ve terrorized for months.
“Care to join?” I ask Corrin to the background noise of forty clerics being set upon by angry civilians.
“I’d love to,” he says, offering me his hand.
We climb down from our rooftop perch—Corrin’s surprisingly nimble, for a human—landing at the edge of the darkness. Witha nod at each other, we both dive inside. The dim light of the torches is enough to see the battle raging within the shadows, and the next few minutes are a symphony of suffering as I twist and stab.
Eventually, I follow one cleric out of the edge of the darkness, only to find him caught in Corrin’s fists, quivering as the dark-haired man glowers down at him.
“Tell the high inquisitor the gods don’t consider the Temple welcome in this city,” Corrin hisses, throwing the cleric to the ground. The priest scrambles up and sprints down the street without a backward glance.
When the screams stop, Corrin clears his shadows. The light reveals a sea of red-robed bodies and a crowd of bloody, bruised, and triumphant Hallowbane residents. Corrin moves through the carnage, congratulating them like a benevolent king. They almost treat him like one, shaking his hand and nodding at him as he compliments their efforts.
I stand at the sidelines, watching it play out. This street might technically belong to Wadestaff the crime lord, but all these people feel like they’ve won something for their city today. They weren’t fighting for some gambling den, but for their freedom. Corrin understands that. I’m starting to realize it’s why he’s here too—not just because his empire was snatched from him and he wants revenge.
We enter the gambling den with some of his old employees, who diligently start taking stock of the damage. Corrin and I examine his office together. Despite the assault on the building the last few days, it still looks remarkably well-kept. It seems the clerics who’ve been occupying the den saw no reason to get rid of theoffice’s comfortable couches and drinks cabinets. Corrin pops one of the cupboards open, pulling out a bottle and two glasses.
“Here,” he says, pouring me a few fingers of amber spirit. He does the same for himself, then lifts his glass.
