“Four guards. Auxies.”
Gyre grimaced. That was more than he’d hoped, but it made sense. “Too many to take without someone shouting for help.”
“Time for the distraction, then.” Kit’s grin was feral. “Do it.”
Gyre knelt in the dirt and pulled out the trigger. He undid the latch on the grille, flipped it up, and hesitated only briefly before pressing his finger against the first crystal.
There was a delay of perhaps a second. Then a spectacular boom shattered the quiet of the palace grounds. Even this far away, Gyre felt the blast as a thump in his chest and a shiver running through his shoes. Whatever Lynnia had put into the bomb, it had been a monster. He imagined bits of wagon and toasted fruit blasted high into the air, raining down across the drive and spattering the palace. After a few seconds more, a thick column of black smoke developed, rising lazily into the sky.
Shouts and screams echoed across the grounds almost immediately. Every guard in the palace, Gyre guessed, was heading to the scene of what could only be some kind of assault on the grounds. Perfect.
“They’re staying put,” Kit said. “Smart. On three. One. Two.”
Gyre snatched up his crossbow and stepped out from behind the hedge as Kit mouthed, “Three.” He spotted the four Auxies standing in front of the red-painted double doors, shifting nervously. Their sergeant was an older woman, weather-beaten and tough-looking, and he sighted on her and pulled the trigger as her mouth opened to form a shout. Gyre wasn’t an expert shot, but the range was short. The bolt caught her high in the chest, punching through the cheap steel of her breastplate and knocking her off her feet.
Kit had a thin blade in each hand and sent one whipping in a fast arc at the Auxie on the right. It sank into his throat, and he dropped his spear and clutched the wound, staggering backward. The man next to him threw himself to the ground, and Kit’s second knife passed just over his head, burying itself in the storehouse door.
She was already halfway across the distance between them, saber drawn. The Auxie still on his feet gave a hoarse cry, lowering his spear to spit Kit as though she were a charging warbird. She slipped lithely aside, dodging the point, and was on him before he could drop the long weapon and draw his sword. Her saber found his throat, and blood fountained spectacularly.
The man who’d ducked Kit’s second knife was pushing himself back to his feet when Gyre’s reloaded crossbow twanged again, the bolt catching him in the side. He rolled over, clutching at the wound, until Kit came up behind him and slashed his throat.
“Nicely done,” she said to Gyre as she bent to finish the badly wounded sergeant. The woman shuddered and stilled. “Didn’t even have to draw your pretty new sword.”
“I’m hoping to save that until I need it,” Gyre said. Not least, he had to admit to himself, because he wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to fight with Naumoriel’s gift. “The door going to be a problem?”
Kit glanced at it and scoffed. “Give me … sixteen seconds.” She sheathed her bloodied saber and drew a set of lockpicks from a pouch, bending down to reach under the heavy iron padlock. A moment later, it popped open with a clack, and she grinned back at him. “Well? Did I make it?”
“Was I actually supposed to keep count?”
“Of course!” Kit looked offended. “You’ll never improve if you don’t take every opportunity to challenge yourself.” She hauled on the door, which swung outward a bit, then stopped. Kit frowned, then kicked one of the dead Auxies out of the way.
The inside of the storehouse was a mess. It looked like they’d taken half of what had been carefully arranged in Raskos’ warehouse and simply dumped it in a pile. Precious arcana was mounded in with worthless junk, bits and pieces of the ancient Chosen Empire and the ghouls all jumbled together. Kit gave a heartfelt sigh at the sight of it, and even Gyre felt a twinge. If Yora could have gotten to this, we’d all have been set for life.
“You find the Analytica; I’ll move the bodies,” Gyre said. “Hurry.”
Kit nodded and dashed into the mess, shaking a glowstone and filling the building with blue light. Gyre grabbed one of the corpses under the arms and pulled it inside, trying not to cover himself in blood. If anyone wandered by, missing guards might attract attention, but dead ones certainly would, and he figured it was better to get them out of sight. He’d shifted three of them and gone back for the sergeant when movement from the direction of the palace caught his eye.
“Shit.” Gyre ducked into the shadow of the hedge and hissed into the storehouse. “Kit! Legionaries coming!”
“Coming here?” Kit called back.
“Not sure.”
Gyre watched the pair of white-armored figures moving down the garden path. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry, as they might have been if they’d heard the fight. No way they caught that with everyone shouting from the explosion. Which meant these two weren’t necessarily heading their way …
Come on, plague it, go somewhere else. His urgent wish went unanswered, and the two Legionaries kept coming. Someone must have ordered them to make sure this part of the gardens is secure.
“Kit?” Gyre said. “Tell me you found it.”
“Not yet,” Kit said. “Do you know how much stuff is in here?”
Ah, fucking plaguefire. The Legionaries were moments from turning the corner. Gyre put his hand on his sword and tried not to think about what happened the last time he took on one of the Republic’s elites. No other options. Naumoriel, I hope all this works …
He stepped out from behind the hedge, crossbow first, and fired. The bolt hit the leading Legionary in the chest plate, glanced off his unmetal armor, and whined away. It had the effect of staggering him for a moment, which gave Gyre a chance to engage the second soldier alone. He tossed the crossbow away, drew his silvery ghoul-made sword, and forced his mind down the channels Naumoriel had taught him.
The energy bottle at his side warmed, and the world slowed around him, objects splintering into clouds of shadows. The Legionary came at him, raising her unmetal blade, and a dozen duplicates of the weapon hovered in front of her, possible paths that her attack might take. As she swung, some of the ghosts faded, and one rapidly became solid, thick with momentum. Gyre stepped aside, his movement feeling floaty and weightless, and aimed a cut at her helmet. The blow didn’t penetrate the unmetal, of course, but it snapped her head back and sent her staggering away.
The other Legionary had his blaster rifle up, bringing it to bear. As Gyre concentrated on the weapon, lines of light lanced out from it, forecasting the path the bolt would take. The Legionary’s finger tightened on the trigger, and Gyre just had time to interpose his sword and hope like the plague.
Even with his heightened perception, the blaster bolt was too fast to track, a burst of white light with a crack like a thunderclap. He flinched instinctively, but the energy was already dissipating, splashing into nothingness around Gyre’s blade. The energy bottle grew even warmer—Naumoriel had warned him that this defense, similar to the one that protected ghoul constructs, burned power prodigiously. But the Legionary’s shock was obvious. Before he could recover, Gyre snatched an alchemical from the pouch at his side and hurled it in a perfect trajectory that burst against the soldier’s mask in a shattering concussion. He stumbled drunkenly, tripped, and fell.