‘You’ve never seen it?’ K’ess said, surprised.
‘No.’
He cleared his throat, his voice thickening. ‘Shame, that.’
On Aragan’s other side Attache Torn sat awkward on his mount, his helmed head tilted upwards, following the passing quorls.
‘Twins stand aside,’ Aragan offered.
Torn nodded. ‘Yes. Let us hope they succeed.’
Down the lines Bendan stood with Little, now Sergeant Little, Bone and Tarat. He twisted his aching neck where the majority of his shield’s weight hung. ‘Don’t want to see what I think we’re gonna see,’ he growled.
Little eyed him sidelong, her gaze re-evaluating and somehow softer. ‘You’re turning into a regular pacifist, Bendan.’
‘Just wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, is all.’ He hawked up a mouthful of phlegm to spit.
‘And that is your home, yes?’ Tarat said.
Bendan shook his head in a negative. ‘No. I’m from Maiten.’
Masts of coastal barques and merchant cargo haulers whipped past beneath Torvald’s boots so close he thought he might lose a foot. Abruptly Galene yanked the nose of the quorl up and they climbed fiercely. Torvald hunched into his seat as if a great hand were pressing down upon his head. Then they broke over the lip of the Second Tier Wall and he had a glimpse ahead that disoriented him so thoroughly that he almost tumbled from his seat. ‘What in Oponn’s name is that?’
‘The Orb,’ Galene called over her shoulder. ‘The Orb of the Tyrants.’ She raised an arm, gesturing her commands in broad sweeps. ‘Ready the munitions!’
Torvald reached both hands into the first pack and braced himself with his thighs against the juddering of the quorl.
Spindle was sitting at a table, working on his third glass of wine while he thought about the mystery of when — and how! — to use the chemicals he and Duiker had collected. The damned circle was buried and there were mages keeping an eye out! How were they possibly gonna do the deed?
The historian himself was at the front, keeping his own eye out. Picker and Blend were at the bar, leaning together from opposite sides, communicating in their one-word sentences like the veterans who’d spent a whole lifetime campaigning together that they were. The bard had gone in for an early night.
He was considering his fourth glass when out front passed a noise that sent a shiver down his back and set his hair stirring: swift thrumming and hissing overhead.
He, Blend and Picker shared stunned glances.
As one they jumped to the front, knocking aside chairs and tearing boards from a window to gape up at the night sky, knocking heads and pushing at one another. Something whipped overhead obscuring the darkness for an instant. The oh-so-familiar humming and hissing of gossamer wings whispered past.
‘A Hood-damned assault!’ Blend snarled.
‘A drop!’ Picker barked.
‘I’m on it,’ Spindle declared, and he punched Duiker’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go!’
The historian sadly shook his head. ‘I’m flattered, but no — it’s a young man’s chase. Find a stronger back.’
‘Well, who …’ Spindle looked to Blend and Picker. They shook their heads. ‘We have our post.’
‘Shit!’
Duiker edged a hand to the back and cocked a brow. Spindle’s gaze narrowed; then he smiled evilly. He ran for the rear. ‘Fisher!’ he bellowed. ‘Get out here! We’re on.’
Torvald’s quorl now flitted over the estate district. Since reaching the city, he’d been peering all about for the gas lights but had seen hardly any. The dread gripped him that this was some sort of trap devised by these mages. Yet couldn’t it also be a fantastic blessing? It may be that someone here has shown astounding forethought. He’d like to kiss whoever it was, considering all the munitions now flying over the city. Ahead, the ‘Orb’, as Galene called it, shone with the reflected commingled light of the moon and the Scimitar. It glowed so pale he imagined that in daylight it would be white. And he could see through it as well, as if were as thin and translucent as a bubble. Galene suddenly jerked her straps, urging her mount into a series of jerking rolls and near-spins. Torvald held on for his life.
‘What’s that for!’ he yelled.
His answer came as something lashed from Majesty Hill to strike a chevron of the approaching quorls. For all he could tell it looked like ripples in the air, heat ripples as over a hot road. These disturbances arced out like waves and any quorl they struck tumbled from the sky, its wings shattered like crushed dry leaves. As the creatures fell spinning Torvald suddenly realized what was about to happen. He quickly looked away, yet the glaring bright flash still dazzled his vision. A thunderous roar followed, together with a great black cloud of debris kicking skyward behind. Peering back, it looked as though a block of the waterfront district had been destroyed.
‘Pay attention,’ Galene snarled over the wind.
Their mount now turned sharply, tilting almost sideways. The ghostly pale Orb swung into view. Torvald glimpsed the forested park grounds of Majesty Hill below, and saw masked figures running and one man, bent, his long pale arms malformed, gesturing to wreak such havoc among the quorl chevrons.
‘Ready munitions!’ Galene yelled above the screaming wind.
Torvald pulled out the first cusser and hugged it to his chest.
The quorl turned even more sharply now, arcing until they were riding nearly upside down. The pale lucent wall of the Orb curved directly below, as did a section of Majesty Hall.
‘Drop!’ Galene snapped.
Torvald threw. The cusser fell, tumbling and spinning. He bent backwards, following its descent. The moment it reached the ghostly wall of the Orb he winced, blinded, as a flash jabbed at his vision. An instant later a concussive wall of force knocked their quorl sideways, sending them spinning.
Galene fought to regain control of her mount. They swung round, headed now for the waterfront. ‘What happened?’ she grated, turning back to confront him.
‘It burst early when it struck that wall or whatever it is!’
‘Elders damn that sorcerer!’ She reknotted her hands through the jesses, tightening them. ‘We’ll go high.’
Behind them further bright flashes lit the night, followed closely by the rolling thunder of blast after blast. Torvald was thrown backwards as the quorl’s nose suddenly rose straight up. They climbed and climbed, arching ever backwards until Galene had put the quorl through a complete back loop and rolled to right them. They headed back for another pass.
Torvald fought down the contents of his stomach.
Coll rushed back into the Great Hall to find all the councillors, aristocrats, functionaries and hangers-on jammed together in a tight circle round the raised white throne, where the Legate sat still as immobile as ever. From overhead came an almost constant booming, punishing everyone. Dust sifted down from the stone ceiling.
‘We cannot be harmed!’ the Mouthpiece yelled, his voice cracking and quavering, rather ruining the effect of his claim.
Councillor Redda Orr pushed her way through the crowd to Coll. ‘What now?’ she shouted, and ducked at a particularly close punch of bursting pressure.
‘That wretched weasel Mouthpiece is right,’ he answered. ‘None of this is getting through.’
‘But what if the roof should fall?’
He squinted up at the arched ceiling and saw mortar drifting down from between the stones. ‘You’re right.’ He glared about, searching for an answer. ‘The cellars! We have to get everyone down underground.’
A pall of silence grew over all the shouting and crying around them and Coll looked over. The Legate had stood up. ‘Lady Envy,’ the Mouthpiece said, choking and gasping. ‘Will you not demonstrate why you are the brightest jewel of this court?’
Men and women flinched from one tall woman who remained unbowed beneath the direct regard of the Legate. She crooked her painted lips in an amused smile. Then she lightly inclined her head and sauntered to the doors. All eyes followed her lazy, seemingly unconcerned exit.