“It’s the other one!” a guard called, and three of the remaining four leapt at her, swinging clubs.

The fourth pulled a knife, lunging for Rojer and Amanvah. Rojer tried to pull her to safety, but the chain linking her feet was short, and she stumbled again. Rojer reversed direction, coming in hard and delivering a powerful snap kick from his sharusahk training into the man’s crotch.

But his foot struck armor, and he felt something snap as pain blossomed. His bellow was cut off as the guard swatted him aside with his baton, lifting the knife to finish off Amanvah.

“No!” Rojer didn’t think as he leapt into the knife’s path, shielding Amanvah’s body with his own. He felt the thud against his back, and suddenly there was a sharp bit of metal sticking from his chest, his shirt reddening around it. There was no pain, but he could feel the cold of the metal inside him, and understood, distantly, what had happened.

Amanvah understood it, too. He could see it in her eyes, her beautiful brown eyes, always so serene, now wide with horror.

There was a jolt, and the assailant’s hand fell away from the knife’s hilt. He collapsed dead to the floor next to Rojer.

Sikvah began to wail, but like the pain, it was a distant thing. His second wife lifted him from Amanvah as gently as a babe. “Heal him!” she begged. “You must … !”

“The chin took my hora pouch!” Amanvah snapped. “I have nothing with which to work.”

Sikvah tore the choker from her throat. “Here! Here is the hora!”

Amanvah nodded, moving quickly to block the window. Sikvah laid Rojer gently on the bed, then stripped off every bit of warded jewelry from her person, smashing the priceless items with the hilt of her knife. They gave her incredible powers, but she destroyed them without a thought for him.

It was such an act of love, Rojer’s eyes began to tear. He wanted to tell her to stop, that it wouldn’t save him and she would need their power in the days and nights to come.

Amanvah was with him, then, cutting away his clothes as if there weren’t a knife through him. As if there were something she could do. He was dying. Dying, with so much undone.

There was a thin brush on Rojer’s writing desk, and Amanvah used his own blood to draw the wards, working quickly as more continued to well around the cloth wadded over the wound.

In moments, she raised the hora, and there was a warm glow at his chest, bringing a euphoria that deadened his pain. Amanvah looked to Sikvah. “Withdraw the blade slowly, sister. The magic must repair his organs in your wake.”

Sikvah nodded, and began to pull. Rojer could feel the blade moving, inch by slow inch, pulling at his insides and cutting anew. He felt it, body convulsing, but there was no pain. It was as if his body were a player, miming the act of dying.

The bones in Amanvah’s fist crumbled, and Sikvah pulled the knife out the last few inches in a rush, immediately pressing a cloth against the wound.

Amanvah moved to inspect his back. “His spine is intact. If I sew the wound …”

But Rojer could feel the burning inside, and the erratic beating of his heart. He rolled to face them.

“K—” The sound came with a bubble of blood that burst and spattered in Amanvah’s face, but she did not flinch, his blood mixing with her tears.

He paused, gathering his strength. “Keep singing.” It came out as a gasp, and he fell back, struggling to simply breathe when there was so much to say. His wives each took one of his hands, and he clutched them with all his strength.

“K-keep learning. T-teaching.”

He looked off to the side. “Kendall …”

“Husband?” Sikvah asked, and he shook himself, realizing he had been slipping away. Darkness was closing on him, shrinking his vision to a pinhole, with a light at the end to follow.

“Give Kendall my fiddle.”

Leesha rushed to the northern windows of the gatehouse, praying the portcullis had been closed in time, but instead she saw the gateway spewing forth an endless stream of Krasians. The flow split around the fountain, hundreds—thousands of screaming warriors with long spears lowered like lances as they galloped toward the handful of Mountain Spears guarding the avenues.

To their credit, the princess’ guard did not break ranks, keeping their polearms extended before them, as if any spear could hold back two tons of galloping horse.

Captain Bruz raised his own weapon as the avalanche came down upon them. At the last moment, he brought his mountain spear down with a shout.

The courtyard erupted in hundreds of explosions, like a box of festival crackers thrown on a bonfire. The air filled with smoke, and the Krasian charge broke against it as surely as a demon against the wards.

Horses screamed, some rearing so far they fell backward, others collapsing in mid-run, throwing their riders to smash against the cobbles.

The Krasian cavalry had no time to pull up. Those behind smashed into the front ranks, shattering bones and helplessly ramming their lowered spears into the backs of their fellows. From above, Leesha could see the impact ripple back through the charging horses until it lost momentum.

There was one moment, as the Sharum shook themselves off. Some horses leapt back to their feet, often riderless. Many stayed down. There was a dazed confusion.

KA-CHAK!

The Mountain Spears worked a bar on their weapons and leveled them again, firing another deadly barrage into the chaos.

The secrets of fire, Leesha realized. She had known Euchor had them—had seen the very plans for the weapons the Mountain Spears now fired.

But she had never dreamed he would actually be mad enough to use them, or that they could be mass-produced so quickly.

He had them all along. The thought was chilling, but it made sense. Euchor had always been hungry to become king of Thesa. Miln, after all, had once been the nation’s capital.

KA-CHAK!

The enemy was in full rout now, those still able wheeling their horses and heading back through the gates. Half the Mountain Spears fired again, then began to reload as the other half fired.

When all had reloaded, the Mountain Spears began their advance. Behind them, thousands of men from the levies followed, some with weapons and others with heavy tools. The leaders had despaired for these men in open combat, but they were ideally suited for bashing in heads and cutting throats as they moved through the enemy wounded. Leesha watched them work, and sicked out the window, spattering the turban of one of the fleeing Sharum.

The Mountain Spears retook the gatehouse in minutes, flowing up to the wall tops and spreading out, reloading with practiced precision.

The enemy forces were in disarray, the cavalry riding back through the ranks of infantry that had been on the march in their wake. The Mehnding looked confused, unsure where to direct their fire and perhaps wondering if they, too, should flee.

That moment’s confusion was all the Mountain Spears needed. They opened fire on the sling and stinger teams first, and even the wood and hammered steel of their shields was no protection. They were devastated, collapsed torn and bloody atop their engines of war.

Again the Mountain Spears began to reload. Five hundred men, each with three shots to their flamework weapons, and they had reloaded how many times now? Four? Leesha had to grip the windowsill for balance as she sloshed up again.

“Time we got back to the palace, mistress,” Wonda said as a dozen Mountain Spears finally unbarred the door, marching past the flustered archers to take position at the windows.