“No,” Moira said, too harshly. “She isn’t coming.”
Laurel and Lyana snapped their heads toward her.
“Why not?” asked Lyana.
“Because of who you are. Because of what you mean. If your Aunt Rachida finds out you died out there, she’d never forgive me for allowing it. I’m sorry, but absolutely not.”
With that, Moira dashed toward the stairwell, ignoring Lyana’s angry shouts. She descended the stairs three at a time, hoping that the girl was obedient enough to heed her warning and stay far, far away.
For though it was true she’d probably die in the next few minutes, she had to hedge her bets just in case. Lyana would make a splendid present for Rachida should they ever be reunited.
Her Movers awaited her just outside the tall building, and upon her arrival, they began sprinting without a word. From what Moira could tell, more than half of the eight hundred men and women fit to fight had decided to join them on the dash to their deaths. The Palace Guard and Watchmen wore their uniforms, but the commoners were dressed mostly in lighter armor, if they had any armor at all. Those that didn’t had strapped scraps of wood to their arms and wedged heavily stuffed pillows beneath their smallclothes for protection.
As a group they sprinted down the alleyways, crossing the span between them and the raging battle in mere minutes. The roar of it grew more and more deafening with every step Moira took. Then came the fear and excitement, and-just as she’d told Laurel-the pain from her wounds melted away behind a wall of electric anticipation.
They reached the rear wall of the castle, the three towers rising high above them, and ran at a measured pace along it. The fighting had spilled over to the side, as soldiers in sloppily painted white armor fought those in silver and black. Ashhur even had a few Wardens on his side, the tall beings more than holding their own against the armored hordes. The Judges were also in the mix, working their way through the melee, ripping men apart. Moira paused, looking toward the neighboring rooftops. There were elves up there; she could see them now, taking aim and launching arrows into the hordes.
“Movers, to me,” she said.
Gull, Rodin, Tabar, and Danco sidled up to her, waiting intently for their instructions. She also called over twenty others.
“Forget the fight on the ground,” she said. “See those buildings over there? Get on the roofs and kill those elves. They are likely the ones who are best with a sword, so I want our best with a sword to face them. I’m sure there are more on the other side of the square, but the less death coming down on us from above, the better. We have enough to deal with when there are Judges and soldiers and Sisters about.”
Her Movers nodded sharply, pride in their eyes, and took off without a word, leading the twenty others. “I hope to see you again,” she whispered. Moira then took a deep breath and faced forward. Pulo Jenatt was peeking around the wall. He held up three fingers and counted down. When his fist closed, mayhem sparked.
Moira ran screaming into the fray, holding both her swords out to her sides. She used one of her own men as a launching point, kicking off his back and rising into the air. As she descended she spun, hacking at a pair of soldiers’ throats. One she killed, severing his windpipe easily; the second she sliced through the cheek instead, causing his flesh to dangle, exposing his teeth. The soldier fell to the ground, clawing at his face.
She landed amid the turmoil, sprinting into motion once more. She stabbed and slashed, bounding off shoulders and helms, using her lithe frame and agility to keep from dying. Arrows flew all around her, making her spin to the side or arch her back to keep from being struck. Always she eyed the two lions, which were at least two hundred feet away, sending bodies flying into the air. It was then, as she stabbed another soldier in the back of the neck and once more leapt into the air, that she noticed something strange. There were a great many people who weren’t engaging in the battle. They simply stood there in the middle of everything, swaying, eyes blank. Some looked to have taken grave injuries, many missing limbs or with gaping wounds on their bodies that somehow did not leak blood. The momentary confusion caused Moira to falter. She missed her mark, roughly colliding with a soldier’s back and then landing in the midst of countless tramping feet.
At least the arrows won’t reach me here.
She stayed crouched, inching along the ground and hamstringing as many men as she could. A queer sort of panic filled her when one of the men whose ankle she severed fell to the ground, only to have his face stomped by oblivious feet. Though the man’s armor was that of Karak’s Army, there were splotches of white paint covering the breastplate. Moira scooted to the side, avoiding another soldier’s blade, and noticed that almost all of Ashhur’s followers were simply wearing the standard of the lion, only painted over. With the crude paint chipping away during the battle, it would be nearly impossible to tell one side from the other.
The concern fled her when she heard a cry rise above the clamor. It was the scream of a tortured soul, of pain beyond physical, and she recognized the voice. She stood, grabbed a soldier from behind, hoped it was one of Karak’s, and slit his throat. Using his body as a shield, she spun around, looking for her opening. When she found it, a three-foot space of empty, bloody cobbles, she tossed the man’s corpse at the skirmishing men and ran in the opposite direction, putting as much force as she could behind her next jump, arrows be damned.
Batting away blows on either side, Moira hustled toward the sound. Luckily, the arrows were no longer flying on this side of the square, which meant her Movers had done their job. She had to keep one eye ahead and one eye on the castle wall, but then she saw him-Patrick DuTaureau, the father of Moira and Rachida’s child, sprinting along the wall. His expression was one of pure agony, pure hatred; in that moment, he actually looked like the monster many had assumed him to be. She had fought by his side in Haven, and he’d never looked like that. She wondered what had transformed him so.
Then her eyes traced upward, and she wondered no more.
“Fuck no,” she muttered.
Hanging on the wall amid a long row of corpses was one that stuck out from the rest-a small, withered thing with red, curly hair. And beside her, his chestnut locks like reeds blowing in the wind, was Crian. Her brother, the only one in her whole family who had never judged her for her dismissal of the family code, hadn’t made it to Paradise after all.
“No!” she screamed.
A woman possessed, she hacked and slashed blindly, not caring in the slightest which side she killed. The frenzied nature of her assault created a wide gap in the packed group of combatants. When finally she dove out of the fray, she twirled around, whirling both swords in her hands, and split the faces of two soldiers who were brave enough to challenge her. When they fell, she followed the sound of Patrick’s ranting. She found him battling with a giant elf who wielded a pair of black swords. Patrick shouted obscenities each time he dove into a hysterical attack, only to be beaten back by a tumult of parries and jabs. The elf had split the chainmail on Patrick’s thigh and damaged his right vambrace so much it dangled off the hunchbacked man’s massive arm. His skill was too great; and Patrick, too angry. He was swinging wildly, carelessly. Before long he would open himself up and receive a sword in the face for his troubles.
Moira sprinted toward the clash, ducking out of the way of charging soldiers, leaping over a couple others. She reached Patrick’s backside just as the large elf launched into a flurry of cleaves and slashes. Leaping upward, she used Patrick as a steppingstone, kicking off him to continue her forward assault. Flying frontward, she twisted to give her slashes even greater power as she came crashing down. The elf edged away in time so that only the tips of her blades caught his flesh, scoring both his cheeks at once. Moira landed on both feet in a low crouch, her shortswords held one over the other in a defensive stance. Behind her, Patrick staggered ahead, almost falling on his face.