Chapter 45 | Sephania
Sephania
The Firehold falls into chaos when I arrive like a hurricane, bursting into the main chamber that evening.
The first thing we do is mobilize the army.
Or whatever army I have at my disposal. I throw my arms left and right, calling out orders, dispatching specific Grimsons I know can get the job done.
“Filgy! Find Captain Rirth wherever he is in the fucking city and tell him we need the Silverknights. Now.”
“Yes ma’am!” the crier runs off.
I turn to a tall girl, nearly twenty winters aged, named Talma. She’s the sister of the short lad, Besho, who always annoys her. “Talm, can you and your brother get around without being seen?”
“Better than most, Lady Lock.” Talma is all business. She has short hair to her ears, bobbed, and brushes it behind her ears.
“Find Skar and take a shadow portal to the eastern countryside near Olhav. Do whatever you can to find Zefyra or get word to her. Tell our comrade we need to round up as many of her allies as she can, and tell her to bring her troops to the northern section of the Faith Ward. We’ll be coming up from the south. ”
Talma salutes. “Consider it done. Come on, Besh. And don’t whine.”
Iron Sister Keffa sits on a bench nearby, watching me lose my mind and bark orders at people. “You think Sister Talma is right for that job, Mistress Lock? Sounds like an important one.”
I turn to the leathery old woman, who has been growing older and frailer by the day, it feels, showing less and less of herself ever since protecting the Sisters aboveground with remarkable martial prowess. “She can handle it, Iron Sister. You trained her personally, did you not?”
Her thin lips crack into a half-smile. “Makes her cherished to me. But yes.”
“Then she’s the right person for the job. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
I whisk past Keffa and barge into the alchemical room. “Mother!”
She looks up, startled, from a table where three other Chained Sisters are hovering, analyzing their newest batch of Silverblood. “Yes, dear daughter?”
I curl my fingers at her. “Give me as much Silverblood as I can carry. We might need it tonight.”
Her face twists. “They’re not arrows to be chucked at people, Sephania. What could you possibly use—”
“Just hand them over!”
When she does, scowling at me, I pocket the vials in as many openings as I have on my clothes, until I’m clinking around with every step I take. Then I leave and find my mates. Skar and Lukain are rounding up the soldiers.
Antones stares disappointingly at me from across the eating chamber when I pass him.
“Don’t look at me like that, Ant.”
“You need to breathe, Seph. Lukain told me what happened at the temple.”
I blink at him. Stare into his wrinkled face for a long time, until he thinks I’m not going to answer. “No,” I say at last, and turn away from the leader of the Firehold. “We put a stop to this. Now.”
Skartovius blathers, “The ant man is right—”
“Erm, that’s not why they call me Ant—”
“—you’re going to break down if you don’t get a grip, temptress. Skent won’t die tonight.”
“How can you know that?!” I screech.
He remains infuriatingly calm. “Because I’m certain they are stealing humans for a purpose. Not to turn them into simple blood bags. Otherwise they wouldn’t pick and choose who they take. They would just take everyone.”
My head is already shaking. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t care how they pick and choose. You want to be useful, nobleblood? Shadow portal your ass to the Commerce Ward and convince Liolen to help us with their mercenaries.”
Skar scoffs, throwing amber locks over his shoulders. “That will never happen.”
I shove past him. “Then get out of my way.”
I wait for a moment at the archway, hear him mutter, “Damned incorrigible brat fucking princess,” and he brushes past me in a hurry.
A small smirk curls on my lip. I charge to Lukain in the next room over. “How many fighters do we have here?”
He looks over the line in front of him, a mix of younglings and hardened veterans, a few of which I recognize even from years ago. “Fighters? Maybe ten. Bodies? A few dozen.”
I wince. The last thing I want to do is send dozens of people to their deaths for the sake of one boy and Imis.
Vallan stomps into the room. “Good news then, silverblood. When the cub and I went into the Faith Ward, the resistance was laughable.”
“You never laugh.”
“Exactly. It was that bad. Valenthia does not command the Military Ward or Aramastun’s judgemen or even Liolen’s mercenaries. They are robe-wearing beggars turned zealot zombies.”
Lukain says, “Then maybe we won’t all die.”
“That’s the spirit, dhampir,” Vall grunts, and wanders off to go do something important, I hope.
At least I have one cheerleader.
Before he gets too far, guilt gnaws at me and I chase him down.
“Vall!” When he glances over his bulky shoulder, I say, “Hunt down Skar before he runs off. I need him to portal you to the eastern countryside in the mountains, with Talma and Besho. Their orders are to find Zefyra and relay my message. But maybe that’s better suited for you, if Zef is on the battlefield, and you can send the whelps to rally Helget and Tymon’s soldiers. ”
He mulls that over, running a hand down his beard. “Very well.” Then he stomps off without another word.
Garro is the last man I find. He’s gathering daggers in his dwelling—there has to be at least eight scattered on his person, making him clank just as loudly as I do when he moves. When he senses my presence, he pauses and looks over his shoulder.
“You look pale, cub,” I murmur.
“I’m a grayskin. I’m always pale.” His tone is clipped. He faces away to rummage around the sack near his bed.
I smile, approach, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Not like this, love. The beast-charming took a lot out of you. Perhaps you should—”
“Don’t,” he interjects, standing. “Don’t tell me to rest, Seph.
Not while everyone else is helping. I’m planning to round up as many irate townspeople as I can.
Mostly at the taverns and redcloud dens.
They’ll be worked up into a drunken storm when they learn where their families have been taken. And by whom.”
I clench my jaw. “You think drunk and high commoners can help us, Garro?”
“We need bodies to intimidate. We don’t need them on the front lines. They’ll be useful.” He rushes past me toward the open archway of his room, throwing his bulging bag over his shoulder.
“What’s in there?” I ask.
“Some of Vall’s explosives we recovered from the safehouses in Olhav.”
My eyes widen. “. . . Are you planning on, uh, blowing up the Faith Ward?”
“If I have to.” He shrugs, shooting me a tiny smirk. “It worked the first time.”
Then he turns to leave.
“Garroway,” I call out, and he freezes, because even if he’s no longer my thrall, he’ll always be my loyal myrmidon. “Meet at the base of the Peaks. East. Don’t get yourself killed . . . or anyone else, preferably.”
He nods curtly. “Is that all, love?”
I choke back a sigh. “No.” I run to him, lean forward, and plant a dry kiss on his lips. Then I run a hand over his smooth pate. “Good luck, cub.”
I’m quite impressed how quickly we’re able to muster a workable fighting force. It bodes well for the future, when we might need a bigger army.
For now, we simply need to strike while the iron is hot, and when the vampires least expect it. Even if we don’t kill her tonight, we need to put a stop to whatever exchange she’s making with the Truehearts.
Valenthia Yurlyth needs to learn not to step on Nuhavian toes, unless she wants a sword shoved up her ass, right into her black, gooey heart.
I have a feeling we will need to strike and withdraw quickly, so we don’t draw Aramastun’s army to us. That’s why I’m hoping surrounding the Faith Ward is our best bet. That way, we’ll be able to carve an exit in any direction if things get dire, through our battle lines.
I plan on asking Skartovius if the plan is sound, next I see him.
I’m not sure where or when that will be, so for now, I have to trust my gut.
He would understand. The bizarre nobleblood might even be proud I’m taking the reins and showing gall.
Or he might scold me for being reckless. Can never be too sure with that one.
In a span of two hours, we manage to hobble together a band of humans ready to charge on Olhav. Granted, they aren’t in tiptop shape, and some of their weapons and farming tools are rusty and crude. They do all have weapons, though, or at least the framework of weapons. So that’s important.
Garro has a rabble of pissed-off townsfolk carrying torches, spears, hoes, shovels, and batons. There’s not a lick of armor between the drunkards, but there’s fire in their wet eyes. I have a feeling if push comes to shove, these three dozen Nuhavians will be our most passionate infantry.
I recognize Physalia’s father, the butcher, wielding two cleavers, a grungy white apron over him that’s spattered with hog’s blood.
It gives off the right effect. There’s Banooth, the unscrupulous gang leader, who I never suspected to show up to something like this.
I guess he cares more about Nuhav’s citizens than I thought.
Nym the flower girl’s parents are here. Tannan’s father, who is a big burly man with a giant shovel, and it’s clear now where Tannan’s stature comes from.
Other family members—fathers, mothers, brothers—of missing Nuhavians.
As we march north, unimpeded by any soldiers, commoners actually cheer us on from their windows.
Then a handful of Bronzemen join us, creeping out of an alley with their halberds held idly. Then another handful, until our ranks have swelled from just over fifty to just over eighty.
Nearing the edge of Nuhav, Rirth appears at the head of a knot of Silverknights, at least our number. These soldiers look orderly, uniform, and prepared. Their armor is spotless, radiant as their blades and silver cloaks. Their helmets are closed, showing no fear and no faces.
Rirth sidles up beside me at the head of the regiment, taking a joint leadership role, for which I’m thankful. “This is all I could round up on such short notice,” he tells me. “We’ll need knights in Nuhav, too, in case there’s a counterattack.”
“What you brought will certainly suffice,” I say, glancing over my shoulder to admire the clanking armor and rigid postures of the soldiers alongside mine and Garroway’s ragtag militia. “Thank you. You’ve trained them well, I can see.”
He lets out a huff of annoyance and lowers his voice, leaning over. “Aramastun’s army is dwindling.” His visor is up, his eyes certain and with that dangerous glint to them I recognize so well. “Now is the time to do this.”
“Then I’m glad we are,” I say, “but our goal tonight is not to eradicate Aramastun’s army, Rirth. We need to take our humans back and put Overlady Valenthia in her place. Our target is the Faith Ward, not the Judgment Ward. We can’t spread ourselves thin.”
He grumbles to himself. He knows I’m right, because he’s a tactically-minded man like Skartovius.
“Besides,” I continue, “we need to see what we’re working against. This will be a good test of that. A small force that can get in and out swiftly if things go sideways and we’re overwhelmed.”
“Aramastun might be stalking the peripheries to swallow us up if we try running. Or he might charge right in and slay us. We need to be organized, surefooted, and moving in one direction. Straight through the Faith Ward and out the other side.”
I grind my teeth. “I can lead these people, Rirth.”
Our march is starting to kick up dust, and we have a full entourage of supporters on either roadside, watching their loved ones go off to battle.
It’s heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time.
I know people will die tonight, and it will be on my command.
Can’t let the doubt trickle in, I tell myself, swallowing hard, or it’ll drown and paralyze me.
“I know you can lead these people, Seph.” He gives me a sharp smile. “You’ve been a leader since your first stint in the Firehold. I’m just encouraging myself, acting like I know what the fuck I’m talking about.”
I match his smile. “How’s Palacia?”
He closes his visor. “Never better.” His voice comes out muffled now, and I wish I could see his face. “She’s made a plan to leave Liolen for good.”
“Excellent,” I say, with my smile growing into a devious grin. “We break the morale of the Faith Minister, break the heart of the Commerce Minister, and get our people back in the process. Not a bad night if all goes well, eh, Captain?”
“Yes, Commandress.”
“Oh, I like that.” My hands curl on the worn hilts of my swords, tapping, tapping, eager to draw them. “But I think it’s high time I accept what I’m known as, my friend. You can call me Bitch-Queen.”
“I like Hellwhore more.”
“Even better,” I mutter. “Because hell is exactly what I plan to bring these bloated, stinking bags of filth.”