Scarab and her four magi were aware of the state of their home sky. Sendings had come to them, even here, and they felt the disaster as a slackness of their own anima , as though their souls shrank from the shadow of annihilation.
But if they sensed the annihilation that was nearer at handmuch nearerthey did nothing to warn the host in whose midst they invisibly mingled. Perhaps it was apathy bred of centuries of reclusion. Theyd been taught that these folk were fools, and that they deserved their wars. To take it a step further, there was a certain sense in the Far Isles that the wars served a grim good: That by occupying itself killing and dying here , the Empire couldnt muster itself to bother the Stelians with its stupid hostilities.
And if there was a grandiosity in the Stelian belief that, above all, they must not be bothered, it was a well-deserved grandiosity.
They must not be bothered.
At all costs, the Stelians must be left in peace. Scarab knew, from halfway around the world, what Melliel and the others abandoned in their cell beneath that unnatural dark did not: that Eidolon of the dancing eyes was one of many who strove against the sickened sky, holding the seams of their world intact. That she didnt have time for prisoners now, or for anything else.
And of course its possible that the five fire-eyed interlopers
didnt feel the ambush gathering just out of sightthough it seems unlikely that the collective breath passing in and out of thousands of enemy lungs could go unremarked by magi of such exquisite sensitivity. In any case, they didnt warn the rebels.
They watched.
Scarabs sending to the others was plainthought, without sensory threads or any effort at feeling. It is nothing to do with us , she sent.
It had always been true before. She could have no way of knowing how deeply un true it was today, or what it was this peculiar ragged hybrid army stood against, or what would be the fallout if they failed.
There were just so many unknowns.
ARRIVAL + 48 HOURS
42
THE WORST
The first awareness is a sensation in the spine. Karou feels it and looks to Akiva, across the crowd of soldiers. At the same moment, he looks to her. A crease knits his brows.
Something
And then, just like that, the sky betrays them. Its low and brighta lucent, backlit mist, just as it was when they came from the portal. But this time it isnt stormhunters that drop from above.
Its an army.
Many.
The angels are fire, and they are legion, wing to wing, and so the sky has become fire. Bright and alive. But the daylight is brighter and theyre blotting it outso manyand so a tangled darkness falls on the host below.
Shadows, chased by fire.
Very fast. All very, very fast.
It begins.
The crater is a ragged bowl, and the Dominion are as a lid of fire, and they are many and many, wing to wing and swords drawn, and when they plummet in a single breaths span, there is no getting out, and no getting around them.
Nor is there any hesitation from below. Everything that had almost happened in the Kirin caves happens now, unchecked and with whip-crack quickness. Swords: unsheathed; palms: upraised. The effect of the hamsas is instantaneous. Like grass rippled by a wind, the attacking ranks sway away, and in the moments reprieve this gains the rebels, they surge to greet the ambush, roaring. They dont wait to be pinned between fire and stone but leaplaunchand meet the emperors troops in the air with a sound like fists smashing on fists.
Many fists against fewer, perhaps, but the fewer have magic.
At the first touch of shadow, Akiva reaches for sirithar
and is thrown to his knees as though clapped by thunderthunder as a weapon, thunder in his headand hes ringing with it, and tilting, and someone catches him. Its the Dashnag who isnt a boy anymore. Rath. His hand is huge on Akivas shoulder. The same shoulder once savaged by a chimaera, another chimaera now steadies, and there is no sirithar , only the clash of blades, and then the boy Rath lunges into battle and Akiva surges to his feet and draws his swords, and he cant see Karou
and Karou cant see him, and she cant stop to look. Theres Zuzana and Mik and an angel is coming at them and she wont be able to get there in time. Shes opening her mouth to scream when she sees Virko. He pounces.
Rends.
The angel becomes pieces and Karou has her crescent-moon blades in her hands and its dance, cutting her way through the enemy to reach her friends.
Akiva tries for sirithar again, and again thunder invades his head and drives him to his knees.
For the merest instant, he has the impression of a cool hand pressed to his brow, soothing and then gone. All around him is glitter and clash and snarl and stab and teeth and grunt and stagger. Magic is denied him. All he can do is get to his feet and fight.
Zuzana has closed her eyes. Reflexive reaction to dismemberment. You could go your whole life without finding out how youd react to seeing limbs torn off in front of you, but now Zuzana knows, and she knows the coursing terror of all this war stuff, and she decides at once that not seeing whats happening is worse than seeing it and so she opens her eyes again. Mik is right at her side, and hes beautiful, and Virko is crouched before her, planted there, and hes terrible, and hes beautiful, too. The spikes at his neck have flared wide. She didnt know they did that. Theyd lain sleek, almost, like porcupine quills at rest but bigger, sharper, and with serrated edges, but now theyre all fanned out and bristling and he looks twice his size. Its like a lions mane made out of knives.