Felix flinched back, one arm thrown up by reflex to shield her eyes, even though her combat visor mirrored immediately. The bomb detonated with an ear-shattering roar, spewing liquefied flame in every direction. Three more napalm canisters exploded in succession, filling the air with a burning white-hot mist. The burning cloud rolled across the gardens, incinerating the Jehanan soldiers, consuming every scrap of vegetation and engulfing the tanks. A wave of terrific heat boiled up over the walls, shattering brick and splintering marble, granite and alabaster alike. The windows of the whole eastern side of the Residence shattered, cracked by the concussive effect of the blast and then coated with blazing jelly.
The crews of the Jehanan tanks survived a moment longer – protected from the flame and explosion by thick armor – but none of the three vehicles were secured for a zero-pressure environment and carbon monoxide flooded in through the gun aperture and air recirculators. The crewmen succumbed to paralysis and violent hallucinations within seconds, then strangled on their own blood.
Felix bolted forward, chased by a wall of fire, and hurled herself and the unconscious engineer into the secondary tower. Her combat visor sealed itself automatically as the monoxide level in the air spiked, fresh oxygen hissing into her nostrils.
On the comm, Kosho was bawling commands and Felix could hear Carlyle scream helplessly for a long drawn out second before his voice cut off. Then she was rolling down the ramp as the ceiling roared with billowing flame and everything turned red-orange from the furnace glare howling at her back.
The Courts of the Morning On the Banks of the Phison, Southeastern Parus
Flower petals, shriveled by the queer light in the sky, fluttered down from a roseate claw. Bhazuradeha was sitting beside an ornamental pool, her slim head bent over the waters, watching the sicane buds drift on the current, slowly fattening as they saturated. The pool was served by a hidden pump and the frail gray blossoms swirled away to disappear beneath mossy rocks.
"Phantom petals fall into moonlight," she whispered. "Autumn has come too soon…"
A crashing sound echoed through the tall pillars around the courtyard, followed by the tramp of heavy, booted feet. The Jehanan woman did not look up. The transparency and color of the water had caught her attention, curving over the rocks, capturing the morning light with a faint rainbow sheen. A multitude of tiny blue-green tendrils – a long-stemmed algae – waved on the surface of the stones, capturing invisible prey from the flow of water.
An image occluded the smooth surface of the water – a long-jawed Jehanan in a trailing cloak, jangling with iron and leather and smelling of oil, fire and bitter smoke. Bhazuradeha looked up, enormous green eyes taking in the crowd of barbarians who had invaded her apartments. A jeweled display box, she corrected herself, a stage for my skills, filled with soft, elegant things.
One of her 'guardians' was among the tribesmen, half-paralyzed by fear, a kalang knife against the rough pebbled skin of her throat. Bhazuradeha ignored the matron, attention hungrily fixed on the leader of the Arachosians arrayed before her. The common literature of the lowland cities was filled with lurid descriptions of the habit, mien, clothing and vicious temper of the highland raiders, but the poetess had never seen them before, not up close.
The Jehanan looming over her was tall, scales hard and bright, powerful chest draped with a leather harness holding knives, pistols, soft leather pouches bulging with bullets and powder, and thumb-sized cylinders of black metal thrust into fabric loops. Leather cords heavy with fore-teeth crowded his neck and upper arms. Oddly, to her eye, his broad shoulders were draped with a thick linen cloak in dull gray and brown, though the inner layer – only partially exposed – seemed to be of a softer, shinier fabric. The poetess realized temperatures among the highland mountains must be regularly chill, requiring the inhabitants to conserve warmth. Even the bone structure of his face was strange – harsher and crueler than the soft-scaled denizens of the lowland plains. His hands and forearms were scarred and chipped from rough usage on the field of war.
Humara would be apoplectic at this sight. All his glorious civilization laid to naught by one day of strife.
"This is the one we seek," the Arach war-captain said, after looking her over carefully. "Kill the others."
"How can you be sure?" Bhazuradeha stirred, rising to her feet. The engraving on the creature's sword hilt had captured her attention for a moment – obviously the work of a woman with fine, delicate hands and skill the equal of any jeweler's shop in the city. "What if I am only an attendant? If you reach so high, do not pluck a rotten fruit by mistake!"
"You are no milkmaid," the Arach growled, turning back to face her. His snout was oddly shaped, to her eyes, almost hooked, with twin ridges of jutting scales starting above the nostrils and rising up behind the eye-shields. In contravention of the literature, his eyes did not blaze with the fires of burning cottages, but they were very, very cold. "But you are indeed the 'color of dawn.' "
There was a choked cry, and the matron crumpled to the floor, blood sluicing from her neck. The kalang had sheared through soft scale and bone alike, making a clean, neat incision.
No molk was ever butchered with less thought or more skill. Bhazuradeha allowed her nostrils to flare slightly as the smell of urine and blood and severed bone washed over her. The Arachs did not seem to notice, or care. She considered the arrangement of the invaders, saw they had formed a loose cordon around her and their captain. Not one of them paid her the least attention, save the creature directly in front of her. The others were keeping a wary eye on the rooftops, the doors opening into the bedrooms off the courtyard and the passageway whence they had come. All of the raiders were armed with asuchau weapons, and Bhazuradeha was sure the dull, efficient-looking rifles had issued from workshops tended by human hands. No Jehanan craftsman could reproduce one object with such soulless perfection.
Not a dozen times. At least once, some hint of beauty might leak in.
"I am Bhazuradeha," she said, lifting her wrists, palms together. "Do you take me for yourself, or for another, or for ransom?"
The Arachosian hooted in amusement, adjusting his cowl. His eyes glittered in shadow. "Our master does not desire you," he said. "You are summoned to observe a thing of import and – in time, when the gods move your tongue to recite – to sing of what you see." He pointed to her proffered hands with his snout. "No restraint will be placed upon you."
Bhazuradeha drew back, alarmed and insulted. "Not a properly taken captive? What kind of cruel master do you serve? Do they wish me to beg?"
The Arach snorted, nostrils flaring and shook his head. "By my eye, singer, you are a delight to look upon." He gestured sharply at his men and made a deep, respectful bow. "Bringing you home in chains or tied to the stirrups of our sherakan would bring us vast honor. No greater prize has been taken from the lowlander soft-scales in a thousand years! Even under the White Teeth, tales are told of your skill and beauty."
Well! The poetess started to smile. He's well spoken, at least!
"But," he continued, turning away, "you will accompany us and observe."
"I will not," Bhazuradeha declared, irritated and growing angry with his obstinacy. "When did an Arachosian ever ask a lowlander for anything! Where is your spirit? Have the men of Ghazu lost their kshetrae to some malign demon?"