25 - THE BLOODIED AX

Sudden, awful pain.

My shoulder went numb, arm feeling abruptly heavy, as though turned to lead. My eyes went wide and my mouth dropped open, not yet in a scream, but I felt it coming, bubbling up inside me. For a moment, the operative and I just looked at each other. Her lip twisted distastefully, as though she was judging herself harshly for only striking my shoulder rather than my heart.

How had she reacted so fast?

How had she known what I was trying to do?

But there was no time for answers.

A flicker of concentration altered the operative’s expression, and time resumed its usual flow. I sucked in a deep lungful of air, blinked, and watched as the operative reached for another knife. Behind her, Justinia was frowning in confusion, perhaps trying to work out what had just happened—but not for long.

Because then she was running—straight toward the operative, an ax in each hand.

Felice was moving. Other people were moving, too, all around us. So much was happening and I couldn’t process it all at once. My brain honed in on the singular source of immediate danger: the operative.

How was now only mere feet away from me.

“Stop!” I shouted, hating how juvenile I sounded, how naive the attempt was.

The operative, of course, did not stop. She slashed at me with her knife, and all I could do was raise my arm defensively, covering my face. Sharpened steel dug into my forearm, opened up a long, deep line. It was hot. Warm blood gathered along the wound and spilled out.

I’d never been hurt like that before. I had never been exposed to my own blood—not unless you counted the minor scrapes and cuts of childhood. This was different. This was shocking. I was still moving, pulling back, attempting to protect my face, but it was all automatic, instinctual, my body taking over as my mind reeled, struggling to comprehend that, yes, this was real, and yes, I was about to die.

It didn’t seem fair. I’d hardly been given a chance.

That, I supposed, was the nature of life.

The operative kicked me in the chest, advanced, arm pulling back, ready to deliver a fatal stab—

Justinia reared up behind her, swinging her axes.

The operative spun, and even though I’d already seen her in motion several times now, it was still shocking how quick she was, how fluid her movements were. Her free hand flashed out and caught Justinia’s wrist; it was immediately obvious that she was stronger than Justinia.

But that didn’t stop the second ax.

A sickening crack as steel smashed into the operative’s skull. She made a strange, choking sound, body stiffening, and I guess that in her panic, she once again stopped time. Justinia and I froze in place. The operative dropped her knife, both hands reaching for the ax buried in her head as though she simply couldn’t believe it was actually there, that she was about to be a dead woman, that everything had finally come to an end. I saw the glimmer of realization in her eyes. The panic. She groaned. Blood flowed from the wound in her head, and time once again resumed.

When it did so, the operative collapsed bonelessly, legs giving out beneath her; Justinia wrenched back on the handle of her ax as her victim fell, freeing it with an awful sucking sound.

“No time to stare,” Justinia growled. “Fucking run.”

And so we ran, Felice and I panting, struggling to keep pace with Justinia, who was practically flying across the stone street. From somewhere up ahead, there came a scream, then the clashing of metal against metal.

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The Thorns were striking.

And that meant things were either about to go very well, or get a lot worse.

A roar from inside the amphitheater, and I assumed that meant the final event had come to a close. Soon, the audience would start to pour out the exits, flooding the surrounding streets, and aiding our escape.

Or at least, that was the plan.

“Stop!” two Terarch Guards were running toward us from our left side. Probably they’d spotted Justinia’s axes, still clenched in her fists, and one of them dripping blood all over the place.

I loved Justinia, and was immensely grateful to have her by my side, but no one could’ve said that she was subtle.

Justinia did as the Guards had instructed. She stopped. So, too, did the Guards, as though they hadn’t actually expected her to obey. One drew their sword, the other just stared. They were both young, probably freshly initiated into the Terarch Guard. Normal people, I thought, with normal jobs, just trying to earn a living for their families. They didn’t deserve this. Shouldn't have had to deal with us.

But I was starting to learn that life was unfair. Cruel. That it didn’t care about what you wanted. If there was such a thing as fate—and I wasn’t convinced that there was—it had its own whims and wants. We are like leaves adrift upon the winds of destiny—or perhaps we are simply animals operating in a universe of utter chaos.

One of the Guards said, “Drop the axes! Now!”

Justinia sprinted at them.

I stared, aghast, as the scene unfolded. This wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to destroy the Autach and his cruel empire, to tear it down and build something better, and more fair, in its place. But I didn’t want good, innocent people to die simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It just wasn’t fair.

Felice was frozen next to me. We stood there, together, and we just watched.

Watched as Justinia smashed the first Guard, a young woman, directly in the face with the sharpened edge of her ax, caving in the Guard’s mask, cracking bone, and dropping the poor lady immediately. The second Guard had enough wherewithal to take a swing at Justinia with her blade, but if the operative had been fast, Justinia was even faster, and more vicious, like a storm incarnate. Her other ax came around seemingly out of nowhere, smashed into the Guard’s knee, bringing them crashing down, and then returning in a reverse swing that buried the blade in the side of his head so that he, too, dropped, both of them rendered lifeless like broken and bloody toys.

Justinia didn’t even look at their bodies, didn’t stop for half a second to examine her work. She just turned on her heel and sprung off, resuming her sprint in the direction of the sounds of battle. A momentary glance in our direction was her version of saying what the fuck are you waiting for?

Nothing. We were waiting for nothing.

We followed, silent and horrified.

#

And not long after, came across the bloody scene.

It was still in progress, in a manner of speaking. Camillan was there, tall and powerful, a cloak over an old suit of armor. He wielded a two-handed long sword, was standing over a wounded member of the Terarch Guard, who raised a hand in a futile attempt to stop what was about to come. It came anyway, a foot of steel sliding through his throat.

Elsewhere, devastation.

Amaline was prowling across the street, wading through the smoke. There was a lot of smoke, black, and pouring out of several nearby buildings. I was forced to immediately assume that the Thorns were responsible, that the goal had been to create as much chaos and confusion as possible. But who had owned the buildings? One looked like it’d been a bakery, another a shop of some kind. What of the owners, the customers?

Did the Thorns care?

Should I care?

More cloaked, hooded figures, likely Thorns. A few were finishing off the resistance. Some were running. Many others were dead. I quickly tried to count them—ten, twenty, twenty-five…over there, near a carriage that had been tipped on one side, a dead Autarchy Sun Knight surrounded by so many fallen Thorns that it was impossible to tell where one ended and another started.

All I could do was stare dumbly. I had already seen a great deal of violence in my time away from the Withered Isles, but nothing like this.

This was a battlefield.

And a quiet voice at the back of my mind said, this is only the beginning.

“Did you get him?” Justinia called.

Camillan looked up and grinned. “Aye, we fuckin’ got him.” His grin turned into a frown as he looked down the wide street to our immediate right. “But the Seeking Hand operative got away. Have a feeling that when he’s back, which will be far too soon, he’s going to bring a lot of backup. So…”

“Time to run.”

“Time to run,” Camillan agreed.