dragon bard (beta)
Chapter seven: make your moment
This is a work in progress, meant for newsletter subscribers only! Please keep the link private, and excuse any typos, etc--fully edited book to come fall 2021!
“What of House sponsorship, then?” the men were yelling, when Makina turned her attention back to them. “Have ye just come to taunt us, or to make sure we don’t get out of line? Why is Dukress here at all, if not to join the cause?”
It was a measure of how agitated the crowd was getting, that they no longer quieted for Alamina’s response. If the girl had been a girl, and not one of the Empress’s highly-trained spy assassins, she would have been in deep trouble. As it was, she seemed to be enjoying it.
The-girl-who-was-not-Alamina ripped a sword from a man nearby and slammed the flat on the table. That got their attention.
“I am here,” she said quietly, “to parley with the man in charge of this operation. The brains behind all this”—she waved a hand at them, as if unable to come up with a fitting noun—“stuff you have here. If he or she would kindly step forward, we could be about our business.”
Interesting. All Makina wanted to do was get out, but she filed the information away anyway. Whatever else the Hands were here to do, they were looking for leaders. That could be useful.
“Told ye, miss,” Terkin said, the sweat actually rolling down his face now, despite his thin set of Portown furs. There was one man, at least, who understood how badly this was going. “Master’s off on other business. Set me in charge of the congress, but in terms of the brains behind it,” he shrugged, “this is kind of it.”
“This is kind of… it,” she repeated slowly, looking out at the crowd. She glanced at her attendants, who had fanned further out from her, and shrugged. “Well, let’s be about it, then.”
A rapier appeared, rammed through Terkin’s chest. There was no lead-up. No drawing of the blade. No blood even, yet. Just a blade suddenly stuck through his chest. Makina tensed. One of them was a kineticist, then. She needed to move soon, if she was going to move.
“What—in—Power’s—name,” one of the front men choked out, as Terkin turned bulging eyes to the blade sticking from his chest, furs now beginning to stain around it. The blacksmith dropped to his knees.
“A message from the Empress,” one of the Hands declared, a tall man with flowing black hair. “Dissent will not be tolerated. And that means you.” Throwing knives flickered from his hands, and the man who’d spoken grew two steely new eyes.
Makina began pushing toward the back, through ranks of men still staring in shock. It was now or never to get out of here, but the crowd was still too quiet. If the right time doesn’t come, you make it.
“Well, what are we waiting for boys?” she roared, doing her best to sound like a pissed-off rebel. “If it’s a fight they want, it’s a fight they’ll get!”
Like an avalanche chute hanging on one shout, a roar ripped from every throat around her, and Makina shoved backwards as the crowd surged forward, toward the only viable escape. It would still be hard, with a Hand guarding it. But with enough noise--
She wasn’t the only one who’d thought of retreat rather than battle. There was a knot of men around the double doors, another collapsed nearby with a greyish face. Chemicist, then. Every Hand who survived the final journey came out with a special ability. Chemicists were the nastiest. She would not mind ending this one’s life, but a front assault was out of the question.
As the grew thick with shouts and wails, Makina clutched her stone and found the target she was looking for: a thick man, muscular but also just heavy around the waist, running toward the fray at the front with a harpoon in his hands. She took a breath, drew her concentration through his core like a seamstress making a stitch, then stuck the other end of it to the chemicist she could just barely see through the fight at the back, his face flushed and ecstatic.
The big man snapped to a stop, and every ounce of forward motion he had slammed through her stitch and into the chemicist, throwing him backward into the barred doors like the whaler had driven a shoulder into his ribs.
He bounced off them, howling, too full of the life he was pulling from the men around him to feel it, bones knitting themselves back together, and lashed out with a fist that sent one of his attackers flying backward. Makina kept moving, searching for another source.
“Who?” the chemicist howled, voice surprisingly high-pitched, a fine white dust beginning to swirl around him, as he drew more life from his attackers than his body could possibly take in. “Nash!”
Nash, some small part of her brain filed away. There was a kineticist among them named Nash.
Another target presented itself, and she needled her concentration through him, pulling a thread tight from the man currently flying backward through the air, through her fulcrum stone, and into the chemicist.
The flying man jerked to a halt in air, and the chemicist again smashed against the doors, splintering the bar this time. Good. The flying man crashed to the ground a moment later, gravity catching up to his body now that his momentum was gone. One more thread--
“Nash you whoreson!” the chemicist howled, making a vicious X motion with his two arms. Life streamed like snow from the men around him, swirling in the air, bodies collapsing as the chemicals they needed to live were drawn from them. Heart pounding, Makina pushed into the agitated crowd. She was not as fast as she once was, and without the knot of men to distract him, the chemicist would follow her threads back to her—and drain her like a punctured bag.
She sought the cadence of calm, pushing down panic, seeking clear thought. Maybe the chemicist would be angry enough at Nash that he would leave his station—he likely hadn’t even considered the attacks could come from someone in the crowd. But no. A few shifting moments of battle later, he was still there, albeit scowling and pulling out a special pair of blades. Meanwhile the battle at the front was going as it inevitably had to, against Hands: it was a bloodbath. The men back here just hadn’t realized it, yet, in their anger.
Make your moment. Makina felt for it, in the air, like she had felt for those tipping points of battle so many times in her life. This was nothing magical, just the built-up sensibility of a life spent killing and surviving. Another life, but powers how easily it came back. A life devoted to death.
There. A widening of the nostrils in the men around her. Like beasts realizing they were being herded rather than stampeding. That they were trapped.
“The doors!” she screamed, not having to reach much for the desperate edge to her voice. “Storm the doors! It’s a trap!”
As one, the men around her pivoted, eyes locking on the chemicist and the splintered wood bar behind him. As they did, she chose the largest of them and drew a thread through him as he started to run. Stuck it into the chemicist and drew it tight.
His eyes followed the gossamer line of light backward, from his chest to her fulcrum stone, to her eyes, then he was slammed backward.
Nothing for it. Makina ran with the rest, pulling the longest of her knives from her boot, ready to hack at the door if she must.
The men slammed into it like a wave of meat against a butcher’s block. The door, impossibly, held. Then the snow began to fly, swirling up and around the men closest to the chemicist.
Worse, more flew from behind—Makina spun to find the crowd thinning behind, men dropping as the Hands began to use their real skills, bodies flying and corpses dropping, and men clutching at faces gone blue with cold. She could not face four of them, and the chemicist at the back knew her eyes now.
Make your moment. But with a sinking feeling, Makina realized she'd already made this moment for herself, years ago.
It was a measure of how agitated the crowd was getting, that they no longer quieted for Alamina’s response. If the girl had been a girl, and not one of the Empress’s highly-trained spy assassins, she would have been in deep trouble. As it was, she seemed to be enjoying it.
The-girl-who-was-not-Alamina ripped a sword from a man nearby and slammed the flat on the table. That got their attention.
“I am here,” she said quietly, “to parley with the man in charge of this operation. The brains behind all this”—she waved a hand at them, as if unable to come up with a fitting noun—“stuff you have here. If he or she would kindly step forward, we could be about our business.”
Interesting. All Makina wanted to do was get out, but she filed the information away anyway. Whatever else the Hands were here to do, they were looking for leaders. That could be useful.
“Told ye, miss,” Terkin said, the sweat actually rolling down his face now, despite his thin set of Portown furs. There was one man, at least, who understood how badly this was going. “Master’s off on other business. Set me in charge of the congress, but in terms of the brains behind it,” he shrugged, “this is kind of it.”
“This is kind of… it,” she repeated slowly, looking out at the crowd. She glanced at her attendants, who had fanned further out from her, and shrugged. “Well, let’s be about it, then.”
A rapier appeared, rammed through Terkin’s chest. There was no lead-up. No drawing of the blade. No blood even, yet. Just a blade suddenly stuck through his chest. Makina tensed. One of them was a kineticist, then. She needed to move soon, if she was going to move.
“What—in—Power’s—name,” one of the front men choked out, as Terkin turned bulging eyes to the blade sticking from his chest, furs now beginning to stain around it. The blacksmith dropped to his knees.
“A message from the Empress,” one of the Hands declared, a tall man with flowing black hair. “Dissent will not be tolerated. And that means you.” Throwing knives flickered from his hands, and the man who’d spoken grew two steely new eyes.
Makina began pushing toward the back, through ranks of men still staring in shock. It was now or never to get out of here, but the crowd was still too quiet. If the right time doesn’t come, you make it.
“Well, what are we waiting for boys?” she roared, doing her best to sound like a pissed-off rebel. “If it’s a fight they want, it’s a fight they’ll get!”
Like an avalanche chute hanging on one shout, a roar ripped from every throat around her, and Makina shoved backwards as the crowd surged forward, toward the only viable escape. It would still be hard, with a Hand guarding it. But with enough noise--
She wasn’t the only one who’d thought of retreat rather than battle. There was a knot of men around the double doors, another collapsed nearby with a greyish face. Chemicist, then. Every Hand who survived the final journey came out with a special ability. Chemicists were the nastiest. She would not mind ending this one’s life, but a front assault was out of the question.
As the grew thick with shouts and wails, Makina clutched her stone and found the target she was looking for: a thick man, muscular but also just heavy around the waist, running toward the fray at the front with a harpoon in his hands. She took a breath, drew her concentration through his core like a seamstress making a stitch, then stuck the other end of it to the chemicist she could just barely see through the fight at the back, his face flushed and ecstatic.
The big man snapped to a stop, and every ounce of forward motion he had slammed through her stitch and into the chemicist, throwing him backward into the barred doors like the whaler had driven a shoulder into his ribs.
He bounced off them, howling, too full of the life he was pulling from the men around him to feel it, bones knitting themselves back together, and lashed out with a fist that sent one of his attackers flying backward. Makina kept moving, searching for another source.
“Who?” the chemicist howled, voice surprisingly high-pitched, a fine white dust beginning to swirl around him, as he drew more life from his attackers than his body could possibly take in. “Nash!”
Nash, some small part of her brain filed away. There was a kineticist among them named Nash.
Another target presented itself, and she needled her concentration through him, pulling a thread tight from the man currently flying backward through the air, through her fulcrum stone, and into the chemicist.
The flying man jerked to a halt in air, and the chemicist again smashed against the doors, splintering the bar this time. Good. The flying man crashed to the ground a moment later, gravity catching up to his body now that his momentum was gone. One more thread--
“Nash you whoreson!” the chemicist howled, making a vicious X motion with his two arms. Life streamed like snow from the men around him, swirling in the air, bodies collapsing as the chemicals they needed to live were drawn from them. Heart pounding, Makina pushed into the agitated crowd. She was not as fast as she once was, and without the knot of men to distract him, the chemicist would follow her threads back to her—and drain her like a punctured bag.
She sought the cadence of calm, pushing down panic, seeking clear thought. Maybe the chemicist would be angry enough at Nash that he would leave his station—he likely hadn’t even considered the attacks could come from someone in the crowd. But no. A few shifting moments of battle later, he was still there, albeit scowling and pulling out a special pair of blades. Meanwhile the battle at the front was going as it inevitably had to, against Hands: it was a bloodbath. The men back here just hadn’t realized it, yet, in their anger.
Make your moment. Makina felt for it, in the air, like she had felt for those tipping points of battle so many times in her life. This was nothing magical, just the built-up sensibility of a life spent killing and surviving. Another life, but powers how easily it came back. A life devoted to death.
There. A widening of the nostrils in the men around her. Like beasts realizing they were being herded rather than stampeding. That they were trapped.
“The doors!” she screamed, not having to reach much for the desperate edge to her voice. “Storm the doors! It’s a trap!”
As one, the men around her pivoted, eyes locking on the chemicist and the splintered wood bar behind him. As they did, she chose the largest of them and drew a thread through him as he started to run. Stuck it into the chemicist and drew it tight.
His eyes followed the gossamer line of light backward, from his chest to her fulcrum stone, to her eyes, then he was slammed backward.
Nothing for it. Makina ran with the rest, pulling the longest of her knives from her boot, ready to hack at the door if she must.
The men slammed into it like a wave of meat against a butcher’s block. The door, impossibly, held. Then the snow began to fly, swirling up and around the men closest to the chemicist.
Worse, more flew from behind—Makina spun to find the crowd thinning behind, men dropping as the Hands began to use their real skills, bodies flying and corpses dropping, and men clutching at faces gone blue with cold. She could not face four of them, and the chemicist at the back knew her eyes now.
Make your moment. But with a sinking feeling, Makina realized she'd already made this moment for herself, years ago.
