Chapter 14 #4
Something cold and clammy grasped at her ankles. Rin jumped back just as a soldier hauled himself out of the water. He sucked in air with hoarse gasps; he must have held his breath the entire length of the channel.
He saw her, yelled, and fell backward.
All she could register was how young he looked. He was not a hardened, trained soldier. This might have been his first combat engagement. He hadn’t even thought to draw his weapon.
She advanced on him slowly, walking as if in a dream. Her sword hand felt foreign to her; it was someone else’s arm that brought the blade down, it was someone else’s foot that kicked the soldier down by his shoulder—
He was faster than she thought; he swept out and kicked her kneecap, knocking her into the mud. Before she could react, he climbed over her, pinning her down with both knees.
She looked up. Their eyes met.
Naked fear was written across his face, round and soft like a child’s. He was barely taller than her. He couldn’t have been older than Ramsa.
He fumbled with his knife, had to adjust it against his stomach to get a proper grip before he brought it down—
Three metal prongs sprouted from above his collarbone, puncturing the place where his windpipe met his lungs. Blood bubbled from the corners of the soldier’s mouth. He splashed backward into the marsh.
“Are you all right?” Altan asked.
Before them the soldier flailed and gurgled pitifully. Altan had aimed two inches above his heart, robbed him of the mercy of an instant death and sentenced him to drown in his own blood.
Rin nodded mutely, scrabbling in the mud for her sword.
“Stay down,” he said. “And get back.”
He pushed her behind him with more force than necessary. She stumbled against the reeds, then looked up just in time to see Altan light up like a torch.
The effect was like a match struck to oil.
Flames burst out of his chest, poured off his bare shoulders and back in streaming rivulets; surrounding him, protecting him.
He was a living torch. His fire took the shape of a pair of massive wings that unfurled magnificently about him.
Steam rose from the water in a five-foot radius from where Altan stood.
She had to shield her eyes from him.
This was a fully grown Speerly. This was a god in a man.
Altan repelled the soldiers like a wave. They scrambled backward, preferring to take their chances on their burning boats rather than take on this terrifying apparition.
Altan advanced on them, and the flesh sloughed off their bodies.
She could not bear the sight of him and yet she could not tear her eyes away.
Rin wondered if this was how she had burned at Sinegard.
But surely in that moment, with the flames ripping out of every orifice, she had not been so wonderfully graceful. When Altan moved, his fiery wings swirled and dipped as a reflection of him, sweeping indiscriminately across the flotilla and setting things freshly aflame.
It made sense, she thought wildly, that the Cike became living manifestations of their gods.
When Jiang had taught her to access the Pantheon, he had only ever taught her to kneel before the deities.
But the Cike pulled them down with them back into the world of mortals, and when they did, they were destructive and chaotic and terrible.
When the shamans of the Cike prayed, they were not requesting that the gods do things for them so much as they were begging the gods to act through them; when they opened their minds to the heavens they became vessels for their chosen deities to inhabit.
The more Altan moved, the brighter he burned, as if the Phoenix itself were slowly burning through him to breach the divide between the world of dreaming and the material world.
Any arrows that flew in his direction were rendered useless by roiling flames, flung to the side to sizzle dully in the marshy waters.
Rin was half-afraid that Altan would burn away altogether, until there was nothing but the fire.
In that moment she found it impossible to believe that the Speerlies could have been massacred.
What a marvel the Speerly army must have been.
A full regiment of warriors who burned with the same glory as Altan .
. . how had anyone ever killed that race off?
One Speerly was a terror; a thousand should have been unstoppable.
They should have been able to burn down the world.
Whatever weaponry they had used then, the Federation soldiers were not so powerful now. Their fleet was at every possible disadvantage: trapped on all sides, with fire to their backs, a muddy marsh under their feet, and veritable gods guarding the only strips of solid land in sight.
The jammed boats had begun to burn in earnest; the crates of uniforms, blankets, and medicine smoldered and crackled, emitting thick streams of smoke that cloaked the marsh in an impenetrable shroud.
The soldiers on the boats doubled over, choking, and the ones who huddled uncertainly in the shallow water began to scream, for the water had begun to boil under the heat of the blazing inferno.
It was utter carnage. It was beautiful.
Altan’s plan had been brilliant in conception.
Under normal circumstances, a squad of eight could not hope to stand a chance against such massive odds.
But Altan had chosen a battlefield where every single one of the Federation advantages was negated by their surroundings, and the Cike’s advantages were amplified.
What it came down to was that the smallest division of the Militia had brought down an entire fleet.
Altan didn’t break balance when he strode onto the boat at the fore.
He adjusted to the tilting floor so gracefully he might have been walking on solid ground.
While the Federation soldiers flailed and reeled away, he flashed his trident out and out again, eliciting blood and silencing cries each time.
They clambered and fell before him like worshippers. He cut them down like reeds.
They splashed into the water, and the screams became louder. Rin saw them boil to death before her very eyes, skin scalded bubbling red like crab shells, and then bursting; cooked inside and out, eyes bulging in their death throes.
She had fought at Sinegard; she had incinerated a general with her own flames, but in that moment she could barely comprehend the casual destruction that Altan wrought. He fought on a scale that should not be human.
Only the captain of the fleet did not scream, did not jump into the water to escape him, but stood as erect and proud as if he were back on his ship, not in the burning wreckage of his fleet.
The captain withdrew his sword slowly and held it out before him.
He could not possibly defeat Altan in combat, but Rin found it strangely honorable that he was going to try.
The captain’s lips moved rapidly, as if he was muttering an incantation to the darkness. Rin half wondered whether the captain was a shaman himself, but when she parsed out his frantic Mugini she realized he was praying.
“I am nothing to the glory that is the Emperor. By his favor I am made clean. By his grace I am given purpose. It is an honor to serve. It is an honor to live. It is an honor to die. For Ryohai. For Ryohai. For—”
Altan stepped lightly across the charred helm. Flames licked around his legs, engulfed him, but they could not hurt him.
The captain lifted his sword to his neck.
Altan lunged forward at the last moment, suddenly aware of what the captain meant to do, but he was too far to reach.
The captain drew the blade to the side in a sharp sawing motion. His eyes met Altan’s, and a moment before the life dimmed from them, Rin thought she saw a glimmer of victory. Then his corpse slumped into the bog.
When Aratsha’s power gave out, the wreckage that drifted back out into the Nariin Sea was a smoldering mess of charred boats, useless supplies, and broken men.
Altan called for a retreat before the Federation soldiers could regroup. Far more soldiers had escaped than they had killed, but their aim had never been to destroy the army. Sinking the supplies was enough.
Not all of the supplies, though. In the confusion of the melee, Unegen and Qara had detached two boats from the rear and hidden them in an inland canal. They boarded these now, and Aratsha spirited them through the narrow canals of Khurdalain into a downtown nook not far from the wharf.
Ramsa ran up to them when they returned.
“Did it work?” he demanded. “Did the flares work?”
“Lit up like a charm. Nice work, kid,” Altan said.
Ramsa gave a hoot of victory. Altan clapped him on the shoulder, and Ramsa beamed widely. Rin could read it clearly on Ramsa’s face: he adored Altan like an older brother.
It was hard not to feel the same. Altan was so solemnly competent, so casually brilliant, that all she wanted was to please him. He was strict in his command, sparing with his praise, but when he gave it, it felt wonderful. She wanted it, craved it like something tangible.
Next time. Next time she wouldn’t be deadweight. She would learn to channel that anger at will, even if she risked losing herself to it.
They celebrated that night with a sack of sugar pillaged from one of the stolen boats.
The mess hall was locked and they had nothing to sprinkle the sugar on, so they ate it straight by the spoonful.
Once Rin would have found this disgusting; now she shoved great heaps of it into her mouth when the spoon and sack came around to her place in the circle.
Upon Ramsa’s insistence, Altan acquiesced to lighting a roaring bonfire for them out in an empty field.
“We’re not worried about being seen?” Rin asked.
“We’re well behind Nikara lines. It’s fine. Just don’t throw anything on it,” he said. “You can’t experiment with pyrotechnics so close to civilians.”
Ramsa blew air out of his cheeks. “Whatever you say, Trengsin.”
Altan gave him an exasperated look. “I mean it this time.”