Now he had blood on his hands again-and his clothes and face, in his eyes and ears and mouth-and he fought with more fervor than he had felt in many years.
Those loyal Blades who had pledged allegiance to him also fought hard, and died hard. The force against them was staggering and inescapable, but behind them Dane knew the hope of the city was still fleeing, and he had to give them every moment he could.
And more than that, Nophel, his son. He had to save his son.
He sidestepped a sweeping blow from a Dragarian with blades for arms, ducked down, and buried his sword in the bastard's groin.
"Fight, you bastards!" he shouted. "For every mother and son and daughter and every fucking nephew and niece you have, fight for them all!" None of these Blades knew the story or why they were fighting. But every time he cried out encouragement, they roared their approval and battled that much harder.
They know this is death, he thought, but they keep fighting. I'm fighting for Echo City, but they're fighting for me. For me! He screamed and ran forward, reversing the direction of their retreat and engaging three Dragarians. These were regulars-unchopped but still trained for war-and they came at him with swords and knives, throwing stars and weighted wires that would take his head from his shoulders. He ducked and stabbed, kicked and bit, slashed and thrust. Something struck his shoulder and pain flared, but his scream was one of fury. Wetness splashed across his throat and chest, and he was unsure whether it was his. A sword jabbed at him and he fell back, straight onto another. It pierced his hip and he turned, kneeling, twisting the knife from the owner's hand, smashing his head forward, and feeling cartilage crunch beneath his forehead. The man stepped back, holding his nose, eyes watering as he looked in comical surprise at the blood pooling in his hand. Dane jabbed, and his sword's tip entered the man's left eye, wide blade jamming in his skull.
I'm leaking, Dane thought, and he caught a glimmer sweeping through the air toward him. He fell forward and rolled, crying out as the knife in his hip snagged on a fallen Blade's bloodied robe. The wire whistled by above him and he rolled onto his back, throwing a knife back at the wire wielder. It struck the woman's chest and rebounded from her thick leather armor. She glared at Dane, hatred filling her alien eyes, and her shoulder pivoted as she brought the wire around one more time.
Dane held up his hand to protect his face-and lost four fingers. They tumbled onto his chest. The breasts I've stroked with those, he thought, the muffs I've felt, the slash I've smoked, the food I've eaten, and the severed fingers curled as if stroking soft scented flesh one last time.
A Blade stepped astride him, warding off the woman, dummying, stabbing her in the gut, and then smashing her face with a spiked fist.
Dane went to stand but could not. Something was wrong with his legs. He roared again, putting every ounce of strength into rising, but nothing happened, nothing moved, and when he sought the pain below his waist he found none. He grabbed the knife in his hip and tugged it free, feeling nothing. Its blade was sticky with his blood and, near the handle, dark with something else.
Dirty fighters, he thought. He had seen several Blades butchered as they lay motionless and helpless but had not let himself wonder why. But every moment he'd spent here had given Nophel a better chance to escape.
"Run," he said to the Blade above him. "Retreat, stand again a hundred steps back, fight until you can't fight anymore."
"I'll not leave-"
"Do as you're fucking well told, soldier!"
She glanced down at him, then disappeared from view.
A Dragarian with haunting indigo eyes and four arms stepped into view above Dane Marcellan. It blinked eyes lizardlike and expressionless. Dane imagined raising his sword and popping those orbs, seeing if the bastard thing had expression then, but none of his limbs would move.
"Eat me," he said, offering a final curse, and the thing's impossibly wide mouth hinged open to display horrendous teeth.
Feeling and seeing the sky appear before her was the greatest breath of freedom Peer had ever experienced. The weight of the Echoes lifted away and she breathed easier, even though there was a stitch in her side and her lungs and legs ached. But she had to keep running. If she didn't and the Dragarians caught her, Malia's death would be in vain.
The moonlight was bright, unimpeded by clouds, and to the south, across this narrow finger of Crescent, rose the imposing mass of Marcellan Canton. Lines of lights snaked up its gentle hillsides where streetlamps had been lit, and window lights speckled the entire shadowy mound. At its pinnacle, the blazing illuminations around Hanharan Heights were there as usual, but there was a particular intensity to them tonight. It was as if every single light in that place was lit. The canton's outer wall was silvered by moonlight, and this was Peer's destination. For some reason, she felt that once she reached there, she would be safe.
We stole their god, she thought. Nowhere is safe. But she tried to shove that idea down as she ran. Grasses whipped around her legs, then she entered a vast field of whorn plants, tall as her shoulders and pungent with their burgeoning crop. Shoving the close-growing plants aside with outstretched hands, she ran as fast as she could, tripping over roots on occasion, her palms sliced from the plants' fine leaves.
She was desperate to reach Rufus again. He'd looked confused and bewildered, but deep down there had still been some measure of control. Whether or not he knew how special he was to Echo City now-if what the Baker said was true, if she could use him to help them all-Peer still felt responsible for everything that had happened to him. Discovering who he was and where he had come from had been a shock, to her as well as to him. But she wanted to help him learn more.
She sensed that she was no longer alone. Risking a glance behind her, she saw nothing, but she knew that the Dragarians were out now, flooding up furiously into the moonlight. Dane Marcellan and the Blades would be dead, and she only hoped that the others had taken full advantage of the lead they had been given.
Stumbling into an area of flattened whorn, she almost came to a standstill, looking around for whatever had made the rough path. But then she saw that it headed south across the fields and knew who had come this way. It'll be easy to follow, she thought, but surprise was no longer with them, and stealth could not save them. It all came down to speed.
Freedom from the oppressive belowground was good, but she had never felt so isolated. Peer ran as fast as she could, her breathing and footfalls the only sounds. She expected a poisoned arrow to strike her at any moment, plunging her into the same agonies that had taken Malia. She considered weaving to distract any potential killer's aim, but that would only waste time. Fast, she thought, faster-just run!
The wall loomed before her, and the path of beaten whorn she'd been following faded out. On top of the wall two shadows waved to her, and she heard a voice calling. Though it confused her, right then it was the finest thing she had ever heard.
"Go left!" Alexia called. "There's an open door." Peer did as she said, rushing diagonally toward a dark shape at the base of the wall, a newfound burst of energy carrying her across the rough ground. And that was when she heard the first of their cries.
Pausing for a moment to look back, she saw hundreds, perhaps thousands, of thrashing shapes forging through the whorn like a wave of darkness about to wash against the canton wall. Above, other shapes drifted and flapped, low to the ground but faster than those on foot.
She rushed through the door and someone slammed it behind her, plunging them into darkness. Heavy metal bolts were thrown, then timber thumped against timber.
"Where's Malia?" Alexia asked.
"Dead."
"Oh. Come on, we don't have much time."
"I can't see-"