Gyre was about to protest that she hadn’t known about it until five minutes ago, but the desperate look on her face stopped him. He glanced over his shoulder, where the sounds of combat echoed from the archway.
“Just hold them off,” Kit said. She put her hand on his face, cupping his silver eye. “You can do it, can’t you? Give me enough time to get these doors open, and we’ll take that key off Naumoriel and blow him to the Chosen.”
She raised herself onto her toes to kiss him, arms wrapping around the small of his back. Gyre leaned into the kiss, feeling the hot, bright spark of her pressed against him.
“I’ll do what I can,” Gyre said when he pulled away. Kit grinned, like a kid with a plate full of cookies, and turned back to the door. Gyre loosened the silver sword in its scabbard and ran back along the dock.
Shapes were struggling and clashing in the dust, the murk periodically illuminated by a flare of brilliant fire. One of the soldier-constructs came staggering out of the cloud, missing one arm at the shoulder and with its faceless head slashed to pieces. A young man strode after it. He was covered head to toe in gore, his traveling leathers sodden and caked with it; dried blood smeared his face. He wielded a haken, its blade a line of shimmering distortion, doing odd things to the eye.
A centarch, not much older than Maya. As Gyre watched, he extended his off hand, and waves of twisted space snapped out. They vanished when they hit the construct, splashing harmlessly into nothingness, and the centarch clicked his tongue in disapproval as the thing swung its remaining arm at him. He ducked, but one of the bladed protrusions on the construct’s arm caught him on the shoulder. Instead of leaving a cut, blue energy flared, stopping the blow. The centarch surged upward, his distorted weapon slicing the construct from armpit to shoulder, and it fell in two pieces in a welter of black blood.
The boy looked up and saw Gyre. His eyes narrowed.
“Who are you supposed to be?” he said.
“Gyre Silvereye,” Gyre said, with more bravado than he felt. He resisted the urge to look back at Kit.
“And I am Centarch Tanax Brokenedge,” the centarch said, stepping over the broken body of the construct. “Now, drop your weapons and get out of my way.”
Gyre took a deep breath and drew his silver sword. With a click at the base of his skull, the world splintered into shadows.
“I see,” Tanax said, gravely. He raised his haken to a guard position. “As you wish, then.”
Before Gyre could take a step forward, the centarch’s free hand shot out, summoning a wave of twisting, boiling energy. Gyre held his ground, silver sword extended, and he felt it part around him as it had parted around the construct. The energy bottle at his side grew warmer as Naumoriel’s augmentations deflected the deiat. Tanax’s eyes narrowed.
Gyre didn’t intend to give him time to puzzle it out. He charged, coming in high. Tanax responded contemptuously, sidestepping and extending his own weapon. Gyre saw the blow coming, shadow-haken hardening into reality, and he twisted to let it slide by. At the same time, his silver sword came close enough to nick the centarch’s sleeve. Energy crackled along the silver blade, as though earthing itself, but the blue-white shield did not appear. Fresh blood bloomed. Tanax spun away, recovering opposite Gyre and glancing at the wound.
“You have some … interesting abilities,” Tanax said. “Once you’re in chains, I’ll have you explain them to me. At length.”
Gyre felt a grin spreading across his face. “Come and get me, then.”
Now it was Tanax’s turn to charge, low and fast. Gyre brought his blade down to meet the haken, twisted space scraping against ghoul silver with a high, shivery whine. Tanax disengaged and came in again, and Gyre parried, feinted, and left another line of fresh blood on the centarch’s leg. Their two blades flickered, meeting over and over, but the shadows playing out in Gyre’s silver eye kept him half a step ahead, and that was enough.
He felt exultant as his opponent’s expression shifted, going from arrogance to fierce, desperate concentration. A centarch, the elite of the Twilight Order, inheritors of the power of the Chosen and all the rest—and he’s not good enough. Of everything Naumoriel had promised him, Gyre realized, this was what he had longed for most of all. He felt like he could reach into his own past, find Va’aht Thousandcuts, and with the power of eye and blade tear him to pieces. As they clashed and whirled, Gyre found himself laughing.
“Who are you?” Tanax grated through gritted teeth.
He threw out his free hand, sending distorted waves to either side of Gyre, ripping up the ground to box him in. Gyre retreated, reaching into his pack and working by feel. When Tanax lunged, he slipped to one side, leading with his blade to disperse the deiat in his path. The centarch turned, haken raised to guard against a counterattack, but Gyre kept moving, opening the distance. Tanax frowned, then looked down. There was a fist-sized clay sphere at his feet, and in that moment the little fuse burned away.
The blast sent a shivering concussion across the dock and raised another cloud of dust. Gyre skidded to a halt and spotted the prone figure of the centarch lying beside the fresh crater, haken dark and silent next to him. One down. He glanced at the energy bottle at his side. The glow had dimmed, but he had a few minutes. One spare left. He forced himself to breathe. I can do this.
A bar of brilliant flame became visible beside the fallen centarch. A moment later, Maya strode into view, dust roiling around her.
Maya
It had been easier than Maya had expected to reach the cliff face. Whatever drove the plaguespawn to tear at one another overrode even their normal desire for human flesh, and only a few had tried to confront the two centarchs. Twisted space and boiling flames cleared this handful from their path, and they arrived in the lee of the mountain. Tanax, with Jaedia slung over his back, was panting, and Beq’s face was tight with pain, her leg now bleeding freely.
“How do we get in?” Beq said. “I don’t see any controls.”
“The simple way,” Maya said, and raised her haken to the stone. Four quick slashes later, and a block about her height fell inward, collapsing with a boom and a cloud of dust, revealing a dark passage beyond. “Let’s go.”
None of the plaguespawn seemed inclined to follow them, but Maya and Tanax propped the broken piece of stone in the opening anyway. They settled Jaedia against one wall, and Beq sat down beside her. Maya looked between them, and her feelings must have been clear on her face, because Beq gave a weary sigh.
“Go,” she said. “Jaedia asked you to, didn’t she? We’ll be all right.”
“You’re sure?” Maya said, wavering. “Your leg—”
“Nothing a bandage and quickheal won’t fix,” Beq said, twisting the knob on her lenses. “It’s the Republic and the Order at stake, right? Go.” She smiled weakly. “But come back, okay?”
“I will.” Maya bent down and kissed her. Her lips tasted of blood and dust. When she straightened up, Tanax was looking at her.
“Are you coming?” Maya said doubtfully. Tanax was clearly exhausted, wobbling on his feet like he was punch-drunk. The blows his panoply had taken must have been draining.
“As far as I can,” he said. “If you believe that the Order is at stake, don’t hesitate to leave me behind if you must.”