The Price of Valor (61 page)

Marcus found himself holding his breath.
One shot. One good shot and this is
over.
The old woman reached the ground and walked, slowly, toward the growing bonfire.
What is she waiting for? Sothe—

Fire leapt upward with a roar, streaming off the bonfire and swirling around the old woman like a glowing ribbon. An instant after, Marcus heard the
crack
of a rifle, and saw something hit the burning, twisting flames with a shower of sparks. The old woman didn't even flinch, merely raised one hand, and bolts of fire slashed upward at the roof of the Silver Eagle.

“Oh,
fuck
,” someone said.

“Saints and martyrs.”

“It's a demon. A demon!”

Several of the Leatherbacks were frantically making the sign of the double circle.
Give them any longer, and they'll run for it.
He couldn't blame them—fighting Patriots was one thing, and demons were quite another.
We can't give them time to think.

“Go!” he roared. “Now! Grenadiers, hit that woman with everything you have!”

Walnut, musket looking toylike in his enormous hands, swung the butt of the weapon into the glass of a window. It shattered, and he aimed through the gap and pulled the trigger, smoke boiling out of the lock and around the other Leatherbacks. To Marcus' surprise, one of the Patriot Guards toppled.

That was enough to get the rest of them moving. A man old enough to be Marcus' father pushed the double doors open and charged with a yell, waving a sword that looked older than he was. A girl younger than Andy followed, a butcher knife in each hand. More glass shattered, and an irregular volley of musketry veiled the face of the Silver Eagle building in smoke. Balls found a few more of the startled Patriots, while sparks flew from the whirling fire defending the Penitent Damned woman.

Walnut tossed his musket aside and hefted a long iron-banded staff, following the main group out through the double doors. Marcus, falling in beside him, drew his sword and added his voice to the others. It was pointless to try and exercise command of a crowd like this once battle had been joined—they would fight, or they would run, and there was very little he could do in either event.
Besides, what orders are left to give?

The Patriot Guards took a moment to recover from their surprise, and another few moments to shoulder their muskets, in which time the attackers had covered much of the distance. When they fired, they were at close range, though still evidently rattled. Leatherbacks in the front line pitched over or crashed to
the ground as though they'd tripped, moaning or screaming or lying still and silent. Marcus saw the rest were moving too quickly to falter, though, and clearly the Patriots agreed. As one man, they turned to run, but only those farthest from the Silver Eagle building got the chance. Leatherbacks and Dockwomen swarmed over the rest, clubbing and stabbing.

The old woman, whose attention had been focused on the roof, lowered her gaze to deal with the more immediate threat. She spread her fingers, and tendrils of flame licked out like whips, igniting anyone they touched as though the attackers had been doused in lamp oil. The woman who'd been standing beside Marcus screamed as she went up like a torch, dancing like a mad, blazing marionette until she collapsed, still burning. Farther forward, one of the grenadiers was hit, and her satchel exploded with a thunderous roar, spraying blood and bits of flesh in all directions.

That seemed to give the old woman pause, and the fire curled about her like a snake wrapping her in burning coils. One of the grenadiers, a gawky blond boy, dug one of the makeshift bombs out of his satchel and threw it. The fiery snake snapped out, intercepting the projectile in midair, and the powder burst blasted the snake's head into a thousand gobbets of flame that sprayed in every direction.

The woman took a step back as Walnut and one of Jane's girls skidded to a halt and hurled their own grenades, her fire again flicking out to catch the bombs. It caught one, but the blast scattered it badly enough that the second grenade reached the ropes of flame coiled around the Penitent Damned, detonating mere feet from her. Fire sprayed like liquid, raining down across the crossroads in a shower of white-hot droplets, and Marcus' view of the old woman was obscured by the cloud of powder smoke.

It won't finish her,
he thought. Raesinia had nearly hit her with a powder barrel, back in the warehouse, and that hadn't been enough.
Someone has to go over and drive a knife in her heart, just to be sure.

“Marcus!” a girl's voice shouted. “The seedies are coming!”

Marcus spun. Coming up the street from the south was a mob of militia, a hundred or more, some of them already grimed with powder smoke.
They must have been in the fighting already.
Marcus' Leatherbacks, staggered by the Penitent Damned's supernatural assault, hesitated in the face of this new threat, and Marcus could feel them teetering on the brink of flight.
Damn.

There was exactly one option open to him to prevent this from becoming a massacre. He gestured desperately with his sword at the cloud of smoke.

“Walnut, make
sure
she's down.” Marcus wasn't certain the big man heard him over the shouts of the charging militia, but there was no more time. He raised his own voice to a hoarse roar. “Everyone else,
follow me
!”

He slashed his sword down and started to run, straight at the oncoming mass of seedies. It was, he thought, a throwback to an earlier era, when the primary role of a commander was to be the man who literally led the way. He wanted to look over his shoulder, to make sure they were
actually
following, but that would make his doubt visible. In any event, it was too late.
If they're not following, this is going to be a really short charge . . .

Pistol shots sounded from behind him, and seedies in the front rank went down. Marcus gritted his teeth and focused on the man directly in front of him, a thin, wiry type with a scraggly beard. He carried a cudgel, which he waved over his head in an impressive but impractical fashion.

Marcus timed his move carefully, slowing his headlong run and pulling up short before he collided with the thin man. The seedie hadn't been expecting that, and his club was already coming down in an arc that took it over Marcus' head. Marcus let the man's wrist bounce off his shoulder and thrust, the seedie's momentum doing most of the work of driving him onto the blade. The man just behind him, a larger fellow in a long flapping coat, stumbled to an awkward halt and tried to bring his spear to bear; Marcus jabbed with his off hand, breaking the seedie's nose with a
crunch
and buying him enough time to let the dying man slide off his blade. The spearman, one hand clutching at his face, thrust vaguely in Marcus' direction, and Marcus sidestepped and lopped off his hand at the wrist.

He left the crippled seedie to scream and tried to look around. The Leatherbacks had followed, enough of them at least, and the two groups had collided in a general melee that bore little resemblance to any kind of organized military action. Small groups fought back to back for a few moments before the press tore them apart, the battle dissolving into a confusion of individual duels. Marcus watched a teenage girl fire a pistol full in the face of a huge, bearded man, then charge another seedie with a butcher knife, ramming it past his frantic parries to open a huge gash in his thigh. She spun, triumphant, only to find a spearman thrusting his weapon into her ribs. When she opened her mouth to scream, only bubbling blood emerged.

A housewife still in her apron kicked a seedie's feet from under him and put a dagger in his eye, as neatly as if she were dispatching a chicken for the pot. An older man, screaming the battle cry of some defunct regiment, charged with ancient sword in hand, but tripped over the prone body of a seedie and went
sprawling. Two other seedies immediately set about him with clubs, blood flying. A scared-looking boy crawled through the fighting, leaving a trail of blood from one leg, but when a seedie bent to finish him off, his victim surged back to his feet and buried a knife in the attacker's throat.

Marcus, with his sword and his uniform, was evidently not a tempting target. The seedies gave ground rather than face him, and he cut down two men from behind when companions who'd been watching their backs fled. Another man came at him with a spear, which Marcus barely dodged, slamming the hilt of his sword down on the seedie's hand as it went past. The man dropped his weapon and stumbled back, cursing.

Something dropped from the second story of the Silver Eagle building, a lithe black shape that landed in a crouch behind the mass of seedies. Two men nearby turned and raised their weapons, and steel flashed yellow-gold in the light of the bonfire. They both spun away, spraying blood into the dirt, and Sothe got to her feet with a long knife in each hand.

Marcus watched her fight with something like awe. In the army, personal close-quarters fighting skill had never been a priority, and those officers who
had
trained extensively with a sword had done so in the elaborately formal styles of official dueling. He'd seen Sothe fight once before, in the confusion at Ohnlei, but he hadn't fully appreciated her skill. She didn't
fight
the seedies so much as
dismantle
them, twisting and cutting through the press, moving on before her victims had time to topple. It was like watching a master craftsman at work, every motion neat and efficient, with no wasted energy or missed opportunities.

It wasn't long before the seedies became aware of this new threat to their rear by the screams of the men Sothe left in her wake. A few turned to confront her, and were duly dispatched in showers of gore. The rest of them broke, scattering back from the terrifying assault and the continued efforts of the Leatherbacks. A ragged cheer went up from Marcus' troops, who waved their makeshift weapons in the air and shouted curses at the retreating backs of the militia.

Sothe flicked each blade once, painting patterns of blood in the dirt, and returned them to their sheaths. She looked a little singed, and blisters were rising on one side of her face, but if they pained her she gave no sign as she nodded to Marcus.

“Apologies for the delay,” she said. “The stairs caught fire.”

“You—” Marcus' throat was dry. “That was . . .”

Sothe tensed, hands dropping back to the hilts of her weapons. A crackling roar of flames drowned out the cheers of victory, and Marcus felt a hot rush of air
against his back. He spun to find the flames of the bonfire rising high into the air, with a dark silhouette in the center of them, her arms spread as though in benediction. Coils of fire outlined a dark, skeletal mass that might once have been a large man. Then the woman slashed her hand, and the flaming tendrils pulled in opposite directions, tearing the charred flesh in two and scattering blazing bones across the dirt.

The cheers turned rapidly to screams. This was too much, even for the staunchest of the Leatherbacks. Marcus shouted to be heard over them, voice ragged.

“Grenadiers! Go after her! Everyone else take cover!”

He wasn't certain how many heard, or how many were left after the confusion of the melee. As whips of flame came down, igniting everyone they touched, the Leatherbacks ran for the protection of the buildings on either side of the street. Men and women screamed as they blazed up like effigies, flailing until the fire consumed them. Here and there, a stray grenade exploded with a roar.

“This way,” Sothe said, and Marcus followed her back toward the Silver Eagle building. He ducked as a fiery lash scythed overhead, touching a middle-aged woman who was headed down the street with her arms pumping determinedly. She must have been one of the grenadiers, because she exploded violently at the kiss of the fire, scattering the dirt with shards of metal and bits of gore. Marcus dove through one of the smashed windows and huddled behind the wall, Sothe vaulting past balletically to land beside him.

“Someone has to get word to Andy,” Marcus said. “The grenades aren't going to be able to stop that thing.”

“I sent someone on my way down,” Sothe said. “She should be on her way.”

Marcus watched the twisting fire demon and felt his certainty draining away.
Saints and martyrs. I'm not sure
anything
can stop that thing.
No Leatherbacks remained standing in the open, but Marcus could see a few who'd taken cover in the buildings or amid fallen debris. The demon seemed to be taking its time now, pausing for a few moments before sending a lance of flame punching against a window frame. Screams rose from the other side.

“It'll just pick us off,” he muttered. “Fuck, fuck,
fuck
.”

“Back door's open,” Sothe said. “We could retreat.”

Then all this will have been for nothing, and thousands of men will burn.
“We'll have to hope Andy's team will be enough. But they'll need cover to get set up.”

Sothe nodded. “I'll do what I can.” She looked down at him, for once meeting his eyes. Marcus wasn't sure what it was he was seeing in her impassive face.
Resignation? Regret?
“If I don't make it, Raesinia is your responsibility.”

“I—”

She didn't wait for an answer. Sothe vaulted the shattered window frame, cartwheeled, and came up with a knife in hand, whipping it into the heart of the bonfire. The fire spiraled inward, like a closing flower, all the tendrils feeding a ball of blue-white heat that screamed like a kettle about to burst. Something flashed at the center of it, and Marcus saw that at least part of the knife had struck home, leaving a long cut across the old woman's withered cheek.

The single point of fire burst apart, a hundred bolts of flame lashing the ground where Sothe had been standing. She was already on the move, running a zigzag pattern across the packed, bloody earth of the square, one step ahead of the fire that left smoking craters in her wake.