Season of Glory (22 page)

It just wasn't possible to stay.

And so I would remain, I decided, tied up, with guards all around me. I would balance
on this high wire until I could see a way to quell the rebellion and make as many
of us as possible one within the empire.

If I could do this—just manage to convince them to fully take me into their fold—I
might escape with much more than I had ever lost.

ANDRIANA

I think I spent half the night trying to think my way through the Keallach situation.
But I tried to remain still and not toss and turn, fearful that I'd awaken my finally
dozing husband. Ronan's arm was flopped over the side of his cot, but his lips were
together, rather than slack, telling me that he was asleep, but barely. I stared
over at him, at the way his dark hair draped over one brow and waved across his ears
and neck, and how
the candle he'd insisted we kept lit this night caused the angles
of his cheek and jaw to cast deep shadows on the far wall. I loved him. With everything
in me, I loved him. I would never let anything—or anyone—get between us. Didn't he
know that?

I closed my eyes and willed assurance into Ronan. Love. Affection. Dedication. Loyalty.
Commitment. I prayed he would dream of me, feeling all of those good, solid feelings.
Moments later, his breath became deeper, more rhythmic and settled. It soothed me,
too, to think on such things, and gradually I settled into slumber at last.

It seemed just moments later that the alarm bells began ringing.

Ronan and I sat up, together, flinging back our blankets and blinking heavily as
we heard shouts from far away and boots running down the corridors. “Everyone! To
your positions and fully armed! Attack! We are under attack! This is not a drill!”
yelled a boy as he ran by, repeating it over and over, his voice growing dim as he
receded down the hall.

Someone rapped at our door. “Dri? Ronan?” Bellona cried.

“Coming!” I shouted, pulling on my boots as Ronan pulled a sweater over his head.
“Meet you outside!”

“Got it!” she called.

Hurriedly, we finished dressing and took up our weapons, running out the door, not
bothering to shut it. We ran down the corridor, to the main hallway, and down the
tunnel, making our way outdoors.

In the early hours of morning, it seemed like utter chaos outside. Torches streamed
by, held by groups of Aravanders and Drifters and Valley-dwellers alike. Everyone
surged west, toward the mouth of the Valley. I realized that they all had
stations,
positions they were to occupy. But where were we to go? Where were the other Ailith?

Ronan seemed to wonder the same thing at the same time. He reached out to stop a
passing Aravander female, fearsomely tall and strong. “Where are you going?”

“To stop the interlopers,” she said, pulling up the strap of her quiver. “They drove
us from our land, but we will stop them here.”

I heard the curious sound, then, in the distance. A
chop-chop-chop
rending the air,
like we'd never heard before. “Ronan, what is that?”

“Ronan! Dri!” Bellona called, and we saw her then on an outcropping to our left with
most of the others with her. Ronan took my hand, and we climbed upward until we found
ourselves in a small clearing with a defensible rim of stone all around, three Citadel
guards peering outward over their guns, as if they might be able to see through the
near-dark.

“Where is Keallach?” Ronan cried when we saw that he wasn't with Killian and Niero.

“Still tied below!” Niero muttered, dismissing his concern. “We have bigger issues
at the moment.”

Ronan bit his lip, and I knew his wariness as my own. But he said nothing further.

Niero bent and drew in the dirt at our feet. “This is the Valley,” he said, hurriedly
drawing two lines that widened where we were and narrowed at the far end, near the
Desert. “Last night, Pacificans cut down a couple hundred pilgrims from Zanzibar
who were following us home, and infiltrated the Valley. We've lost our front two
guard posts, and the Aravanders have all fallen back to about here,” he said, drawing
two lines about halfway up the Valley.

I sucked in my breath, trying to get my mind around his words. They'd “cut down”
pilgrims? Meaning, they'd killed them? In the distance, I heard that odd sound again.

Niero met my gaze. “That's the sound of a helicopter.”

I gaped at him. A helicopter hadn't been flown since the days of the Great War, at
least that we knew of.

“That's what they used to kill all those people,” Chaza'el said, eyes wide and haunted.
“Shot them from above. They're dead. So many dead . . . men, women, and children,”
he said, the last word emerging as a whisper. He rubbed his hands down his face,
leaving his fingers over his mouth, as if wishing he could forget what he had seen.

“Set that aside for now,” Niero said, taking Chaza'el's shoulders in his big hands.
“Have you seen anything else? Anything else we can do to turn them back?”

Chaza'el paused, as if searching his mind, but then he shook his head.

Niero turned to Vidar. “What about you? What do you sense? Are these just Pacificans
coming our way, or are they Sheolite too?”

“Sheolites among them, for sure,” Vidar said grimly. “And more . . .”

He glanced my way, and I knew. Trackers. Wraiths. I took a deep breath, steeling
myself.

Together, we ran down the trail. Niero shouted over his shoulder, “Stay together!
Fight together! Remember that you are strongest together!”

I looked back, noticing that every alcove among the rocks was now filled with armed
men and women ready to defend the Citadel. I knew that inside they were rolling the
heavy stones across and barricading the tunnel, making it impossible
for anyone from
the outside to enter without assistance. This both heartened me—the hundreds inside
would remain safe, regardless of what we faced—and terrified me. It felt like we
were locked out of the only secure place I knew.

Under the wing of the Maker is your strongest place to be,
Niero silently said to
me.
We are not alone.

Agreed
, I responded ruefully. He was right, of course. Why did I always resort to
fear and trembling? I had to be strong in the One who had formed me. . . who had
marked me as Ailith . . . who had known this day was coming from the start. Praise.
Praise was what always got my head and heart in order when I started to crumble.

I thanked the Maker that we were together. I thought on Niero's words—together, we
were a pretty potent force. And then I thanked the Maker that dawn was breaking,
that we didn't have to combat our enemy in the dark of night. But it was early yet.
The shadows were deep. My ears pulsed as I tried to hear anything, sense anything
ahead of us. But all I heard were our footfalls, our combined labored breathing,
and in the near distance now, the helicopter.

We passed Keallach, on his feet and straining against the ropes that held him. “Let
me come with you! I can help!”

“Help?” Ronan cried over his shoulder. “You are the one who brought them here!”

“I didn't! Don't you see? Sethos and the Council now count me as a traitor!” he called,
but we didn't respond. I knew it was probably unfair to put the blame entirely upon
him, that our enemies were here because of our success in Zanzibar—we were getting
too strong, drawing too many to our side—but I remained silent.

Farther down the path, we passed people heading toward the Citadel, already carrying
wounded across their shoulders
back toward safety.
The injured from the front posts.
Tressa moved among them, praying healing over each of them. Killian pulled arrows
from the shoulders of two and bent to dig out a bullet from one man's thigh with
the tip of his knife, then set to bandaging it. I tensed. We were clearly getting
closer. Two groups of Aravanders met up with us: one with eight fighters and another
with twelve. We paused to catch our breath and hear their reports.

“They're at least a hundred strong,” said Jezre, the Aravander queen's husband. “They've
fanned out in groups of three, flushing everyone inward to the Citadel, thwarting
our efforts to get around them and trap them between us. That helicopter,” he said,
tilting his head toward the Valley mouth, “accompanies them, sweeping from one edge
of the Valley to the next. We are doing our best to kill the people manning the guns
aboard her but have failed so far. Those guns—they're more powerful than anything
even the Drifters have. And they appear to have endless rounds of ammunition.”

“Give me a shot,” Vidar said, pulling his machine gun around his side. “I will take
them out.”

“Or me,” Kapriel said, stepping forward. Azarel was with him. He closed his eyes
and bowed his head, his hands in fists. At each side of the Valley, over the mountains,
I saw clouds beginning to swirl and felt the first tug of real hope. Sethos thought
he had the advantage, with his flying machine, but we had the means to take it down,
one way or another.

A group of Drifters came over the hill before us, hauling wounded between them and
over their shoulders. There was blood, so much blood, everywhere. Tressa moved toward
them, touching every one she could, and we watched each of them regain consciousness,
blinking heavily. But after so
much blood loss, they'd need more time to recover.
“Take them toward the Citadel,” Niero said. “The passage is closed, but we'll want
to get them inside as soon as it's safe to open it again.”

“They'll be upon you soon,” a Drifter grunted, picking up his friend again. “Take
defensive positions!”

We looked about. “There!” Niero said, pointing to an outcropping of rock that would
give us protection on three sides. “Half of you there, and the rest among the trees
to the far side. If it feels like we cannot push them back, retreat to the boulders
beside the Citadel. Do you understand me?”

We all nodded, already in motion. We knew that if we had to we could get to the Citadel
and climb ropes that those above would cast down for us. But that would be our very
last resort. Without a good lead, they'd simply shoot us as we climbed.

Kapriel went to the outcropping with Vidar and Bellona, Azarel, Killian, and Tressa.
Niero, Chaza'el, Ronan, and I moved out together, our task to flush groups from the
trees toward the others, where they could take them down.

Niero was moving toward the right when Chaza'el whispered hoarsely, “Not over there,”
and I could see his eyes were wide and dilated. “That will be deadly. This way.”

We followed him, partially hunched over, readying ourselves to roll left or right
to avoid any arrows or bullets coming our way. We could hear the helicopter, its
ominous sound edging closer and closer from our right. Above the trees, the clouds
were building, deepening, darkening, and swirling. Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled.
If we could just buy Kapriel a bit more time, the helicopter would be no match for
him.

The bullets strafed our path, coming right between Ronan and me, an inch away from
my boot. I rolled left and Ronan
came with me, deeper into the trees. Niero and Chaza'el
went right, just as the helicopter emerged above us. My eyes searched the dense underbrush,
looking for a telltale sign of red or gray among the dark green. The man had said
the helicopter was providing cover for the fighters moving inward, so they had to
be here. Had to be. Why couldn't I see them? Sense them?

We dodged around a huge tree and under the sheltering leaves of a massive patch of
giant fern, praying it would shield us from the helicopter moving slowly above us.
The gusts cast down from the helicopter's blades sent the tree branches swaying,
as well as the leaves above us. Belatedly, we saw we would be exposed, if we hadn't
been already.

“Move, Dri!” Ronan cried, just as gunfire rained down on us from above. He grabbed
my hand and fairly wrenched me around the trunk of the tree as bullets pelted the
other side, landing in the soft, fleshy wood. Another gun sounded—likely Vidar's—and
the helicopter rotated to return fire. We heard the thrum of bowstrings—perhaps ten
at once—and saw a volley of arrows fly toward the open space of the helicopter.
We heard a shout, and the pilot tried to move away. I knew at least some arrows had
entered the compartment. And then Vidar opened fire again.

“Dri,” Ronan growled. I looked his way and followed his gaze. Two Sheolites were
on our left and two to our right. At the center were two more.

Niero and Chaza'el charged the two Sheolites on the right flank, and we went after
those on the left, pulling our swords as we went, glad they didn't appear to be armed
with guns. But we knew the Pacificans would be, and they couldn't be far behind.
Ronan reached the men before me, driving back
the closest with a roar and strike
of his sword then trying to plunge a dagger in the belly of the second. He missed,
but I was right on top of him, managing to nick the Sheolite's shoulder with my
sword as he spun away. Thunder cracked, making me wince. Winds swirled around us,
now from the clouds above as much as from the helicopter, which had moved off and
appeared to be solely focused on our companions at the rocky outcropping. Swords
clanged as Ronan and his opponent engaged, and steps away, a second Sheolite stepped
toward him, and I knew he was in for a serious battle. Chaza'el and Niero engaged
their own adversaries. But I stayed focused on the one before me, circling, making
sure I had a secure footing before I moved, desperate not to fall. The man was about
my size, and strong. He moved in, faster than I anticipated, striking once, twice,
three times. I narrowly blocked each blow and waited for my opportunity.