Chapter 32 Ransom
As morning broke on Saints’ Day, Ransom took up his position on the Bridge of Tears. The dawn sky was still and war drums pounded on the wind.
‘How much longer must we wait?’ asked Anouk. At his side stood the Saint of Clay; fearsome and fearless, with her long hair braided down her back and a scowl that could shatter stone.
He looked to the skies. ‘At the first breach of the city, our flares will go up.’
The other members of their Order were stationed on every rooftop along Merchant’s Way, watching out for the first sign of Prince Andreas.
Ransom glanced over his shoulder, his nerves settling at the sight of Seraphine standing on top of the Old Chapine, the most celebrated hatmaker in Valterre. Her blonde hair streamed in the wind as she raised her chin to the paling sky.
Val and Caruso flanked her, all three of them clutching crossbows.
The Order of Flames had spent their last day of freedom learning how to wield the weapons Madame Mercure’s Cloaks had stolen from the armoury, and though Sera had been more tired than usual after her most recent – and entirely impulsive – saint-making, she had outlasted all of them, practising in the garden until long after the moon rose.
On another rooftop east of the Verne, the Versinis also had their eyes on the sky.
While the Shadowsmith loaded his crossbow, Paola and Tobias tunnelled inwards for their weapons.
Together, the Saint of Storms and the Saint of Beasts were uniquely placed to bring down the Stargrazers of Urnica.
A boon from Oriel. Perhaps to make up for the soul-eater among them.
Further north, Ransom and Anouk stood alone on the bridge, marking their first line of defence.
‘People are watching from their windows,’ said Anouk. ‘They look so frightened, Bastian.’
‘They needn’t be. The prince will try to pick us off first.’
‘I can’t wait to flatten him.’
He traced the steelfire blade in his waistband. ‘Save the killing blow for me.’
As the sun crowned the city in syrupy light, Ransom delved into the dark well of his soul. Shadows streamed, trailing down to the river.
Gulls flocked in from the harbour, shrieking as they filled the sky. The Saint of Beasts was warming up. Clouds brewed across the east bank, sinking low over the water as the Saint of Storms took up her mantle.
To the east, a silver flare went up.
Anouk stiffened. ‘Andreas has breached Hangman’s Pass.’
The Verne trembled as Anouk leaned over it, throwing her hands wide. A boulder rolled up from the river. She dragged it onto the bank. Buildings quaked in the wake of her power. A drainpipe peeled off the the Roaring Lion, while the inn next door surrendered its chimney.
‘Careful.’ Ransom’s gaze flitted back to Seraphine. Oblivious to the pillars trembling under her feet, she looked to the skies, her hand like a visor on her brow.
Still no sign of the Strix.
Drawing a shuddering breath, Anouk pulled another boulder from the water.
Ransom returned to his shadows, sweat beading his brow as he conjured his dragon.
She whistled. ‘Where have you been hiding that?’
‘Saving it for a special occasion.’
As it perched behind them on the bridge, Ransom felt the stretch of his magic like a rubber band pulling taut.
Let it fly!
Let it kill!
The city will cower at your feet!
He ground his teeth, shoving the old voice down, down, down into the dark of his soul.
Not to be outdone, Anouk flexed her own magic. Along the riverbank, chunks of pale stone and mossy boulders stacked themselves into lumbering giants.
Another flare went up. Red. Andreas was almost upon them.
Paola’s storm clouds rose.
Anouk’s golems picked up their heads.
Ransom’s dragon spread its wings.
As the Silver-tongue’s army turned onto Merchant’s Way, a sea of Rose-bearers appeared in the distance.
Anouk grimaced. ‘Do you hear pipes?’
There was a strange trill in the air.
‘And fiddles,’ he said, frowning.
‘It’s … a folk song.’ Anouk climbed up the stone railings, squinting at the advancing soldiers. ‘Bastian, come and look.’
The urgency in her voice propelled him up the railings after her. He blinked, sure his eyes were betraying him. Andreas’s army wasn’t marching.
It was dancing.
The bridge began to tremble.
‘Breathe,’ he reminded her.
Anouk was starting to panic. She stiffened as the rest of Andreas’s army came into view. Behind the Rose-bearers were throngs of ordinary villagers. They laughed and danced and kicked up their heels, while children pranced between them, twirling colourful ribbons.
Ransom’s heart sank like a stone.
This wasn’t an attack.
It was a parade.
There were drummers and pipers and fiddlers, and bannermen with gleaming smiles and polished boots, waving the prince’s flag. That taunting image of a rose was now accompanied by a different motto:
Let peace dance in every corner of Valterre
Behind the bannermen, a troop of minstrels played the jauntiest damn jig Ransom had ever heard. It was like something from a dream. Or a nightmare, rendered in vivid colour.
It was exactly like Andreas, and yet not at all what they were expecting.
There was no sign of the Silver-tongue.
Just his puppets dancing merrily along.
Ransom’s gaze roved across the rooftops.
Their flares forgotten, their fellow Order members had moved to the edges of their buildings to get a closer look at the spectacle.
As the parade wound its way down Merchant’s Way, townsfolk gathered to watch, emerging from the lanes and side alleys that led to the inner quarters of the city, while merchants stuck their heads out of shops and taverns, craning to see where the music was coming from.
Onwards the parade danced, moving ever closer to the Bridge of Tears. Not a soul there cared about the storm gathering overhead, the golems lumbering along the bank or the menacing black dragon straining to kill them all.
Soon, the streets were lined with onlookers.
They began to dance too.
Ransom watched with mounting unease. Fed by his fear, his magic grew restless. The dragon opened its wings, stirring a dark wind.
The music stopped. The minstrels lowered their pipes and fiddles, and the parade drew to a jarring halt.
A lone guitar strummed.
The sound reverberated in the sudden quiet. The bannermen parted. From within, a figure emerged, his face hidden by the brim of a wide black hat stuck with a white feather.
Even the wind stilled, as if in curiosity.
The musician sang, the voice striking Ransom like a slap.
Lark.
The Saint of Corpses was dressed like a travelling minstrel, the brim of his hat expertly concealing his skeletal face.
His shirt hung loose to hide the thinness of his arms, his belted trousers tucked into worn brown boots.
His voice, as smooth as honey and as familiar to Ransom as his own, echoed through the streets as he ambled onwards, strumming that beat-up guitar.
And the song he’d chosen, those soaring words … called for peace.
Panic sparked, fast and violent. They had been outwitted. Their power was useless here. Their plan was useless.
The parade was a distraction. A cover for something else.
But what?
The bridge shook as Anouk stumbled down from the railings, her gold eyes wrought with horror. ‘What do we do now?’
Ransom barely heard her.
His shadows reeled, death rising at his back as fear gnawed through his control. It snapped and his magic erupted in all its dreadful glory.
The dragon took flight.
Fantome trembled in its shadow.