A shame about your children! A shame for them, that theres no one civilised around!
Vitaris orange eyebrows drew furiously inwards. Theyre far away!
Oh, Im afraid not. Two girls and a boy? Beautiful, flaming red hair, just like their mothers? Which gate would they go through? The Gurkish came from the west, so They were stopped at the east gate, and taken into custody. Glokta stuck out his bottom lip. Protective custody. These are dangerous times for children to be wandering the streets, you know.
Even with her mask on Glokta could see her horror. When? she hissed.
When would a loving mother send her children to safety? Why, the very day the Gurkish arrived, of course, you know that. The way her eyes widened told him that he had guessed right. Now to twist the blade. Dont worry though, theyre tucked up safe. Practical Severard is acting as nurse. But if I dont come back
You wouldnt hurt them.
What is it with everyone today? Lines I wont cross? People I wont hurt? Glokta showed his most revolting leer. Children? Hope, and prospects, and all that happy life ahead of them? I despise the little bastards! He shrugged his twisted shoulders. But perhaps you know me better. If youre keen to play dice with your childrens lives, I suppose we can find out. Or we could reach an understanding, as we did in Dagoska.
Shit on this, growled one of the Practicals, hefting his axe and taking a step forward. And the atmosphere of violence lurches another dizzy step towards the brink
Vitari shoved out her open hand. Dont move.
Youve got children, so what? Means nothing to me. Itll mean nothing to Sult eeeeeee There was a flash of metal, the jingling of a chain, and the Practical staggered forward, blood pouring from his opened throat.
Vitaris cross-shaped knife slapped back into her palm and her eyes flicked back to Glokta. An understanding?
Exactly. You stay here. We go past. You didnt see nothing, as they say in the older parts of town. You know well enough that you cant trust Sult. He left you to the dogs in Dagoska, didnt he? And hes all done, anyway. The Gurkish are knocking at the door. Time we tried something new, dont you think?
Vitaris mask shifted as she worked her mouth. Thinking, thinking. The eyes of her killers sparkled, the blades of their weapons glinted. Dont call the bluff, bitch, dont you dare
Alright! She gestured with her arm and the Practicals edged unhappily back, still glaring at the mercenaries across the room. Vitari nodded her spiky head towards a doorway at the end of the chamber. Down that hall, down the stairs at the end, and theres a door. A door with black iron rivets.
Excellent. A few words can be more effective than a lot of blades, even in such times as these. Glokta began to hobble away, Cosca and his men following.
Vitari frowned after them, her eyes deadly slits. If you so much as touch my
Yes, yes. Glokta waved his hand. My terror is boundless.
There was a moment of stillness, as the remains of the gutted building settled across one side of the Square of Marshals. The Eaters stood, as shocked as Ferro, a circle of amazement. Bayaz appeared to be the only one not horrified by the scale of the destruction. His harsh chuckling echoed out and bounced back from the walls. It works! he shouted.
No! screamed Mamun, and the Hundred Words came rushing forward.
Closer they came, the polished blades of their beautiful weapons flashing, their hungry mouths hanging open, their white teeth gleaming. Closer yet, streaming inwards with terrible speed, shrieking out a chorus of hate that made even Ferros blood turn cold.
But Bayaz only laughed. Let the judgement begin!
Ferro growled through clenched teeth as the Seed burned cold at her palm. A mighty blast of wind swept out across the square from its centre, sent Eaters tumbling like skittles, rolling and flailing. It shattered every window, ripped open every door, stripped the roofs of every building bare.
The great inlaid gates of the Lords Round were sucked open, then torn from their hinges, careering across the square. Tons of wood, spinning over and over like sheets of paper in a gale. They carved a crazy swathe through the helpless Eaters. They ripped white-armoured bodies apart, sending parts of limbs flying, blood and dust going up in sprays and spatters.
Ferros hand was shimmering, and half her forearm. She gasped quick breaths as the cold spread through her veins, out to every part of her, burning at her insides. The Seed blurred and trembled as if she looked at it through fast flowing water. The wind whipped at her eyes as white figures were flung through the air like toys, writhing in a storm of shattered glass, shredded wood, splintered stone. No more than a dozen of them kept their feet, reeling, clutching at the ground, shining hair streaming from their heads, straining desperately against the blast.
One of them reached for Ferro, snarling into the wind. A woman, her glittering chain-mail thrashing, her hands clawing at the screaming air. She edged closer, and closer. A smooth, proud face, stamped with contempt.
Like the faces of the Eaters who had come for her near Dagoska. Like the faces of the slavers who had stolen her life from her. Like the face of Uthman-ul-Dosht, who had smiled at her anger and her helplessness.
Ferros shriek of fury merged with the shrieking of the wind. She had not known that she could swing a sword so hard. The look of shock only just had time to form on the Eaters perfect face before the curved blade sliced through her outstretched arm and took her head from her shoulders. The corpse was plucked flopping away, dust flying from its gaping wounds.
The air was full of flashing shapes. Ferro stood frozen as debris whirred past her. A beam crashed through a struggling Eaters chest and carried it screaming away, high into the air, spitted like a locust on a skewer. Another burst suddenly apart in a cloud of blood and flesh, the remains sucked spiralling up into the trembling sky.
The great Eater with the beard struggled forward, lifting his huge club above his head, bellowing words no one could hear. Through the pulsing, twisting air Ferro saw Bayaz raise one eyebrow at him, saw his lips make one word.
Burn.
For a single moment he blazed as brightly as a star, the image of him stamped white into Ferros eyes. Then his blackened bones were snatched away into the storm.
Only Mamun remained. He strained forwards, dragging his feet across the stone, across the iron, inch by desperate inch towards Bayaz.
One armoured greave tore from his leg and flew back spinning through the maddened air, then a plate from his shoulder followed it. Torn cloth flapped. The skin on his snarling face began to ripple and stretch.
No! One clutching, clawing arm stretched desperately out towards the First of the Magi, fingertips straining.
Yes, said Bayaz, the air around his smiling face trembling like the air above the desert. The nails tore from Mamuns fingers, his outstretched arm bent back, snapped, was ripped from his shoulder. Flawless skin peeled from bone, flapping like sailcloth in a squall, brown dust flying out of his torn body like a sandstorm over the dunes.
He was dashed suddenly away, crashed through a wall near the top of one of the tall buildings. Blocks were sucked from the edges of the ragged hole he left and tumbled outwards, upwards. They joined the whipping paper, thrashing rock, spinning planks, flailing corpses that reeled through the air around the edge of the square, faster and faster, a circle of destruction that followed the iron circles on the ground. It reached now as high as the tall buildings, and now higher yet. It flayed and scoured at everything it passed, tearing up more stone, glass, wood, metal, flesh, growing darker, faster, louder and more powerful with every moment.