The City of Towers

CHAPTER 18

Night had fallen long ago. Shadows stretched across the streets, punctuated by pools of light from the cold fire torches as they made their way back to the Manticore. Pierce had slung his bow across his back and was carrying his long flail. The chain swung slightly as he walked. He found the motion was relaxing, steady, predictable.

“It was nice to see a few friendly faces,” Lei said.

“Some a little too friendly, if you ask me,” Daine grumbled.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Jode said.

“What do you mean?”

“Hugal … he’d seen Rasial before. I’m sure of it. I was watching him, and there was a definite reaction.”

“Interesting,” Daine said. “We’ll track him down in the morning. Pierce, are you all right? You didn’t say a word at dinner.”

Pierce raised his flail, causing the chain to wind around the haft. “There seemed little to say, Captain. Though I wonder at Greykell’s words. If she believes that it is a mistake for you to wear your uniform because it is a symbol of the war, what am I to do?” Pierce had been built to serve in the Cyran military, and the symbols of his service were engraved into his torso. “War is my purpose. If the world must forget the war, what place is there for me?”

Even the usually glib Jode had no answer to this.

“Your place is with us,” Lei offered.

Pierce inclined his head, acknowledging the thought. But he wasn’t so certain. He heard a stranger’s words echoing in the back of his mind. Are you just a weapon, worthless when there is no blood to be spilled?

They followed the street around a tight curve as it followed the wall of the central tower. Around the bend, six people were spread across the street. In the dim light, they all appeared human, though their features were hidden by ragged cloaks and cowls. The man in the center pulled back his hood. It was Monan-or Hugal. Pierce had noticed that the two had a few unique quirks; Hugal seemed to speak more often and more quickly, and Monan had a tendency to fidget. Given time, he was confident he could distinguish between the two. But at a glance, he wasn’t sure which one they were dealing with.

“I suppose we could have that talk now,” Daine said.

The six figures rushed forward. Monan brandished a long knife, and one young woman had her hands outstretched like weapons. Pierce saw that her fingers were tipped with long, curved claws.

“Take them alive if you can!” Daine cried.

As Monan closed with Daine, the woman and another stranger charged Pierce. He raised his flail and dropped into combat consciousness, setting aside emotion and thought to rely on the battle instincts that were a part of his being.

Two foes.

A human male.

Middle-aged.

Overweight.

Features twisted in fury, but no visible weapons.

No signs of the mystical tools or components that distinguished an artificer or spellcaster.

That’s one.

A human female.

Young.

Athletic.

Claws.

That’s two.

Pierce did not question the presence of her talons. He simply evaluated the threat they presented. She was armed, and for the moment, she seemed the greater danger.

The captain had requested that they be taken alive. Pierce’s flail was already ready and in hand, and even as the woman leapt forward he swung his weapon in a low arc. Wrapping the chain around her ankles, he gave a mighty pull. She fell back with a snarl, slamming her head against the street. Pierce was moving forward even as she fell, lashing out with the haft of the flail. But even as he struck her across the face, agony lashed across his shoulder.

In a split second he replayed the scene in his mind, reviewing the attack-

As he engaged the young woman, the older man had jerked his head forward and let loose with a stream of bile, a gout of acid that was now eating into the metal plating and composite material of Pierce’s shoulder.

Pierce was no creature of flesh and blood. He did not cry out, but he still felt the pain, a terrible burning that warned him of the injury he had suffered.

Priorities had changed. The portly man was a threat after all, and it was impossible to guess what other powers he might possess. Pierce disentangle the flail’s chain from the woman’s legs and raised it as the acid-spitter charged.

His attacker took in a deep breath. Pierce crouched and pulled his flail back to strike. The man’s mouth opened-

And he turned to stone.

One instant, the man was in motion. A second later, he was a granite statue. There were still flecks of bile on his lips, and the acid began to pit the stone.

The clawed woman was rising to her feet. Judging he had two or three seconds to spare, Pierce glanced over his shoulder. The lady Lei was on the ground, struggling with an old woman. From the strain on her face, it was clear that the crone was far stronger than she appeared. At the start of the battle, Pierce remembered seeing rags wrapped around the woman’s hands. Now one of her hands was free, and Pierce caught sight of a blemish on her palm-a scar or tattoo that resembled a large reptilian eye.

“Pierce, watch out!” Lei called. “Don’t look at her left hand!”

With the threat identified, his course of action was clear. The clawed woman had regained her feet and was charging him. Pierce hurled his flail at her. She dodged the clumsy attack with ease, but it bought Pierce enough time to turn and grapple with the crone, pinning her. Her strength was unnatural, but Pierce had muscles of steel and stone. As the taloned woman came forward, Pierce twisted, bringing the old woman’s hand up like a shield, and a moment later, there was a second statue in the middle of the street, claws outstretched in a frozen frenzy.

“Assist the others!” Pierce called out to Lei. He struggled with the crone, and slowly brought her hands together. She hissed in fury and redoubled her struggle. He brought his massive metal foot down on one of her rag-wrapped feet. She gasped, her eyes widening in pain-and he forced her left palm up to her face. The old woman turned to stone, frozen forever as she stared at her own third eye.

Daine couldn’t bring himself to strike a fellow Cyran, no matter how strange these people seemed to be. Monan had no such scruples, and he slashed at Daine with his long knife. Daine parried the blade, but even as he did so a raking pain blazed across his back. He side-stepped away from Monan and turned. A filthy dwarf with a vicious light in his eyes was right behind him. There was blood on his hands, and vicious talons protruded from his fingertips and the strange, twisted musculature of his arms.

“Flame!” Daine cursed, dodging another of Monan’s blows. “What are you people?”

Monan laughed, and both enemies charged. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his back, Daine held the dwarf at bay while lashing out with a powerful kick. He caught Monan in the chest and the twin staggered back, giving Daine a moment to focus on the dwarf. His foe moved with unnatural speed, smashing Daine’s hand and knocking his sword from his hand. The dwarf pressed forward, lashing at Daine’s legs with his claws.

Daine gasped and fell to one knee. While he hated the thought of striking one of his own, there was no choice. The dwarf would tear him apart. With his free hand, Daine reached out and grabbed the first thing he could-the beard of the feral dwarf. He yanked forward as hard as he could, and the unexpected indignity caught his foe off balance. Even as the dwarf slipped forward, Daine brought up his dagger and buried it in the dwarf’s throat. With a gurgle, the dwarf staggered back, claws scrabbling ineffectively at the knife buried in his neck.

Even as Daine rose to his feet, Monan was upon him, and now Daine was completely disarmed. He leaped out of the path of Monan’s blade and tried to spot his fallen sword. Monan continued to laugh, and the sound seemed to echo in Daine’s head, an unnatural reverberation that drowned out all natural thought. His vision blurred, and it seemed as though there were a dozen Monans dancing before him.

A blade lashed out, and it was all he could do to catch it with his forearm, pain lancing through him. The blade flashed in the light of the cold fire, and through the drowning laughter Daine knew the end was near.

A shadow flew past. The statue of the old woman smashed into Monan, slamming him down to the ground with a crunch of bone. Struggling to stay on his feet, Daine saw Pierce approaching. The warforged had hurled his petrified foe at Monan.

As Daine’s head began to clear, he grabbed Monan’s fallen knife and put his foot on the twin’s chest. Lei, Pierce, and Jode spread out around him.

“It’s over, Monan,” Daine said. “Tell me what this is about, and I’ll get you to a healer.”

Monan continued to cackle, but his mouth was full of blood. Daine slapped the man, hard. He grabbed Monan by the throat and brought the dagger into view. “Don’t make me hurt you, Monan.”

The twin laughed again, his voice a little weaker this time. “It’s Hugal,” he whispered, and then Daine’s mind exploded.

Daine staggered back. Wave upon wave of alien thoughts assailed his mind. A lifetime of memories, an overwhelming flood of images and sensations were trying to burrow their way into his brain. He fell to his knees, trying to raise his own memories as a defense-his grandfather shouting at his father, that last time he’d seen Alina ten years ago, the attack at Whitehearth.

“I know my name!” he said, and for a moment he believed it.