It was then that the vordknights pounced.
They suddenly burst up from the ground on the far side of the redirected river, where they must have slipped into position once the sun was down. They were barely a half mile from the battle, and they swept down upon the Knights Aeris of Alera like a swarm of bees. The Knights found themselves suddenly beset on all sides, and did what any of them with any sense would do-they called their furies and prepared to take to the air.
Until the taken began throwing salt at them.
Windcrafters screamed in agony as the salt crystals ripped holes through their furies, dispersing and weakening them. Several made it off the ground and managed to escape-but most didn’t. Though the Legions tried to push forward to shelter the exposed Knights Aeris, they had lost too much of their momentum to reach them in time. In seconds, the masters of Alera’s skies were all but drowned in armored bodies and hacking limbs.
And then the true death blow fell.
Crows by the tens of thousands suddenly plummeted into the capital’s streets, buildings, and rooftops. Several of the creatures even fell to the stones of the balcony upon which Ehren stood. The crows, upon landing, fluttered in bizarre spasms, then went still.
Ehren and the others stared around the balcony and out at the city, perplexed.
“Great furies,” Ehren breathed. “What was that about?”
Gaius’s pensive frown suddenly froze in place. His eyes widened slightly, and he said, “No. Cursor, ware!”
The bodies of the crows erupted with Vord takers.
They weren’t impressive things to look at. Each was about the size of a scorpion, and vaguely resembled one, except for dozens of flailing tendrils sprouting from all parts of its body. They were swift, though, as quick as startled mice, and half a dozen of the things scuttled toward those upon the balcony in a blur of green-black chitin.
Ehren spun and stomped a foot down upon one of the takers, and slapped a second from the back of his thigh. One of the couriers stomped at another one, missed, and lost his balance. Three takers swarmed up his body, and, as he cried out in surprise and revulsion, one of them plunged into his mouth.
The man screamed once, and then fell backward in convulsions, his eyes rolling back into his head. Another cry died as it was born-and then his eyes went flat, and swiveled toward the First Lord. He came to his feet and lurched at Gaius.
Ehren flung himself in between the First Lord and the taken courier. He seized the man’s tunic, and with a panicked effort of his entire body the young Cursor threw the doomed courier over the balcony railing.
There was a bright flash of light, a crackling snap, and the sharp smell of ozone. By the time Ehren was finished blinking the spots from his eyes, he realized that several takers lay curled up and dead on the balcony floor. The First Lord stood over them, his right hand out, flickers of lightning dancing between his spread fingers.
“Crows,” Gaius said simply, glancing up at the nearly empty sky. “I didn’t spare them a second glance.”
Screams began to echo up through the city. Not a minute later, a house or a garden one tier below the citadel level caught fire.
Outside the city, the Vord’s collared crafters came onto the field. They drove forward toward Aquitaine’s forces, and the redirected river began to waver and writhe like a vast, living serpent.
A scream of agony echoed through the halls of the Citadel, behind them.
“Never a second glance,” Gaius said, sighing quietly. Then he raised his voice to a tone of firm command. “Clear the balcony.”
Everyone there withdrew, except for Ehren. Gaius went to the balcony’s edge and stared down at Aquitaine’s desperate Legions. The High Lord had already realized his predicament, and his men were executing a fighting retreat, struggling to get away from the Vord before they were cut off, drowned, or overwhelmed.
Gaius bowed his head for a moment, then looked up again, and calmly took a pair of folded, sealed envelopes from his jacket. He passed them to Ehren.
Ehren blinked and looked down at it. “Sire?”
“The first is for my grandson,” Gaius said simply. “The second, for Aquitaine. There’s a tunnel concealed behind my desk in my mediation chamber in the deeps. It exits two miles north of the city, on the road to the Redhill Heights. I want you to take the messages and Sireos and go.”
“Sire,” Ehren said, “no, I couldn’t… We should all go. We can retreat toward Aquitaine or Riva and prepare a better-”
“No, Ehren,” Gaius said quietly.
Another scream echoed through the citadel.
“I’ll be dead before we can establish another stronghold-and the seat of my power is here,” Gaius said. “This is where I can hurt them the most.”
Ehren’s eyes stung and he looked down. “We’re to sound the retreat then?”
“If we do,” Gaius said quietly, “there’s no chance of the queen’s exposing herself. Their forces will disperse to pursue us, and the roads will become abattoirs.” Gaius turned haunted eyes toward the city’s defenders below. “I need them. If there’s to be any chance at all… I need them.”
“Sire,” Ehren breathed. Though it didn’t feel as if he was crying, he felt his tears falling on his hands.
Gaius put a hand on Ehren’s shoulder. “It was an honor, young man. If you should see my grandson again, please tell him…” The old man frowned slightly for a moment before his lips turned up in a sad, weary smile. “Tell him that he has my blessing.”
“I will, sire,” Ehren said quietly.
Gaius nodded. Then he untied the thong that bound the scabbard of his signet dagger, the symbol and seal of the First Lord, to his side. He passed the dagger to Ehren, and said, “Good luck, Sir Ehren.”
“And you, sire,” Ehren said.
Gaius smiled at him. Then he put his hand on the hilt of his sword and closed his eyes.
Gaius’s skin changed. At first, it became very pale. Then it began to gleam in the moonlight. Then it gained a silvery sheen, and within seconds it actually shone like freshly polished steel. Gaius drew his sword, and his fingers clinked against it, steel upon steel.
Ehren simply stared. He had never even heard of such a feat of crafting before, much less seen it.
Gaius took one look at Ehren’s face and smiled again. The motion made his shining steel visage moan like metal under stress, though his teeth looked normal, and his tongue seemed almost unnaturally bright pink. “It doesn’t matter,” he told Ehren. His voice was rough, oddly monotone. “I hadn’t planned on lasting much longer in any case.” The smile faded. “Now go.”
Ehren bowed to the First Lord. Then he turned, clutching the letters, and ran.
Ehren and Sireos exited the tunnel an hour later and began making their way to the causeway so that they could attempt to catch up with the fleeing civilian refugees. Most of another hour of running with the effortless ease of fury-assisted travel brought them into the hills north of Alera Imperia, the beginning of the Redhill Heights, and they paused there to look back.
The capital was burning.
Vord swarmed all over it, like some kind of gleaming mold. Aquitaine’s Legions had apparently made good their escape-though he had only three of them remaining, not the five he’d begun the operation with. They had managed to cross the Gaul, then bring it back into its normal course, and were withdrawing to the north.
White and violet fire like nothing Ehren had ever seen suddenly flashed from the top of the First Lord’s tower. Vordknights swarmed through the air toward it. Knights Aeris, presumably the enemy’s, rushed toward it upon gales that sounded hollow in the distance. A star of scarlet-and-azure light suddenly blazed upon the tower top-the First Lord’s sword, kindled to life.