The Ministry had been more than willing to add twenty years onto his debt marker in exchange for funding Master Kastora’s efforts to control the madness.
Idrian did not mind the debt. That was life, after all. But he could remember the terror he felt after realizing that he’d swung his sword at the empty air, when he thought he saw a rebel glassdancer standing right in front of him. That was a mistake he couldn’t make again. It could get him killed – or worse, his friends. Fear of doing so had gone away once Kastora perfected his eye. Now the fear was back, nestled in the pit of his stomach like a lead weight.
He turned back to Tadeas and Valient. “Is that map any good?” he asked.
“My maps are always good,” Tadeas replied, looking hurt.
Idrian rolled his eye. “These buildings here. Townhomes just like these ones outside?”
“Correct.”
“Just like them?” Idrian demanded.
Valient nodded. “Like I said, I was just over there.”
“Then I should be able to come along here,” Idrian said, pointing, “and drop down into here. If I can catch the glassdancer by surprise, we should be in a good position to take the intersection.”
A light seemed to go on in Tadeas’s eyes. “Like that time in Folia?”
“It was Stagro, but yes,” Idrian corrected.
“Ah, right. Stagro.” Tadeas stared at the map, lips pursed. “You remember that redhead in Stagro? Haven’t thought about her in years.” He seemed far away for a moment, then nodded. “All right, I like that. In and out quick before the Grent reserves even know we’ve moved. Valient, take a hundred infantry over to here. I’ll send word to the Green Jackets that we’re moving in.”
“Done.” Idrian slammed his helmet onto his head, fastening the leather strap and then snatching up his sword and shield. The forgeglass in the helmet reinvigorated him immediately. He found Braileer outside, looking dismayed at the meager army rations in his hands. The armorer seemed surprised to see Idrian wearing his helmet again. Idrian said, “Stay here. I’ve got a quick one-man mission. I’ll expect lunch and dinner when I’m finished.” With that, he took off at a run while Valient shouted for his sergeants behind him.
Like so much street fighting, the violence was so close as to be claustrophobic, with enemies within a stone’s throw in seemingly every direction. It was a deadly labyrinth, even here in the wealthy district of Grent where the streets were broad and the townhouses had front and back gardens.
Idrian hurried farther behind his own lines, cutting down side streets and following the picture he held in his head of Tadeas’s bean map. He passed through a contested neighborhood, shield held overhead to block shots from marksmen in the high windows, and reached a narrow alley that cut between the back gardens of a row of townhouses. Here he hunkered down for a moment, looking carefully, until he spotted what he needed next: a chimney sweep’s access ladder, little more than heavy nails bolted into the side of a massive townhouse chimney.
Taking one last look around for the enemy, Idrian sprinted across the garden and threw himself up the ladder.
Within moments he was four stories up, crouched in the shadow of a chimney with a view across the whole neighborhood. He could see the ducal palace, Grent soldiers scurrying back and forth across the lawn. Sandbag barricades provided cover for a garrison that knew the exact purpose of the Ossan mission in this borough.
But they didn’t know his mission. He tore his eyes away from that distant view and focused on the present, where all across his vantage point he could see hundreds of marksmen in both Ossan black and Grent orange waging their own miniature war across the rooftops. Individual shots rang out, spouting plumes of black smoke as figures ducked beneath rooflines and hurried from vantage to vantage, worrying just as much about each other as they did about the soldiers down in the street below.
None seemed to have noticed his presence, so Idrian kept low behind the chimney. His vantage allowed him to look down into two intersections. At one, he could see the Green Jackets forming up for another charge, the bright green stars on their jackets glittering in the sunlight. At the other, hidden back to the point where he could barely spot them, were a hundred Ironhorns.
Valient raised his hand in Idrian’s direction, waving in the affirmative. The charge was ready. Idrian returned the wave.
The blast of a ram’s horn suddenly cut through the air, reverberating off the townhouses, and the Ironhorns advanced at a steady march. Their bayonets were fixed, six lines of soldiers backed up by engineers with slings and grenades. A few beats later, the Green Jackets began their advance.
Idrian counted to ten, then burst from his cover and began to sprint along the rooftops parallel to the charge. He ran hard, feet slipping on the tiled roof as he went up the crown of one, down the other side, then leapt the six-foot gap between townhouses. His forgeglass spurred him on, sorcery humming through him.
One house. Two. Four. By the time he reached the fifth one he was firmly in Grent territory. He came over the crown of one roof and spotted a marksman taking aim at the Ironhorns below. The marksman whirled, trying to bring her rifle up to bear. Idrian was on her in half a second, his sword slicing through musket, arm, and chest in a single stroke that didn’t even slow him down.
He was past, leaping a gap, his sword streaming a ribbon of entrails behind him as he landed on the next roof. Two more marksmen saw what he did to their companion. One took aim, firing a shot that Idrian easily blocked with his shield. Idrian skewered him while the other leapt from the roof, clearly more interested in fighting gravity than a breacher. Up ahead, Idrian heard the tight Grent defenses fire off their first volley. He was almost to the end of the row of townhouses. One more gap to jump, and he landed on a flat-roofed maintenance building swarming with Grent marksmen.
Not one of them saw him coming, and it did not go well for them.
Mere moments had passed since Idrian had begun his run. He was now four stories directly above the Grent defensive position, and he could see why they’d been so hard to unseat: two whole companies lay in wait behind high barricades, firing in rotation, a glassdancer hiding just behind the second barricade with several thick shards of glass hovering just over his shoulder, ready to be hurled at the oncoming infantry.
Idrian waited for a few moments, watching down the street until the Ironhorns paused their advance. He could hear Valient screaming orders. The first line knelt and, along with the second line, released a volley at the Grent defenders. The shots had barely been fired when another blast from a ram’s horn sounded. Grenades were flung from slings, arching over the barricades, exploding with enough force to shake the building Idrian was hiding on.
The Ironhorns charged with bayonets fixed, and it was exactly the signal Idrian had been waiting for. He looked down, found the glassdancer again, and saw that the man was ready to hurl death at the Ironhorns. Idrian leapt, sword and shield spread to either side like wings. Four stories of empty air whistled past his ears, barely audible over the adrenaline fueling his blasting heartbeat. Time seemed to slow to nothing, and the glassdancer glanced up half a second before Idrian landed on his shoulders.
Idrian’s used the glassdancer’s body to absorb much of the shock of his landing, but even still he felt the impact through his entire frame. Without the forgeglass to strengthen him, he would have broken both legs.
He felt the glassdancer crumple, rolled across his shield, and came up quickly with a horizontal slice that vivisected an entire squad. He shattered an officer’s skull with his shield, sliced again, and then began to sprint at the next group of infantry. The Grent defense collapsed around him as soldiers turned to face the breacher in their midst mere moments before the Ironhorns flooded over their barricade. The Green Jackets appeared next, hungry for vengeance.