Jim Butcher - Furies of Calderon

Gram clenched his jaw. "You want me to call for a full mobilization? Is that what I'm hearing?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what kind of fire is going to fall on my ears if you're wrong?"

Bernard nodded.

Gram growled, "Scouts. Deploy scouts and reconnaissance into the wilderness and make immediate contact with our watchtowers."

"Y-yes, sir," Pluvus said.

Gram stared at him for a second. Then roared, "Now!"

Pluvus jumped and then turned to the nearest soldier and started repeating versions of Gram's orders.

Gram rounded on Bernard. "Now then. I think you'd better explain what kind of idiot you are. Hitting one of my soldiers."

A gliding caress of cold air slid over the back of Amara's neck and made her shiver-a warning from Cirrus. She glanced behind her, out toward the blinding white of pale sunlight on snow and ice. She shaded her eyes, but saw nothing.

Cirrus stirred against her again, another warning.

Amara took a slow breath, focusing on the area behind them.

She almost didn't see through the veil.

There, perhaps no more than ten feet away, was a disturbance in the air, several feet off the ground, a rippling dance of light, like waves rising from a sun-heated stone. Her breath caught in her throat, and she sent Cirrus out toward the disturbance with a whispered command. Her fury encountered a globe of dense air, changed to bend light, much as she herself used it to view things from afar in greater clarity.

Amara took a breath and then forced Cirrus against the globe, sudden and quick.

There was a whoosh of expanding air as she dispersed the globe, and abruptly three men in armor with drawn swords appeared, hovering in the air. Amara cried out, and the men, their expressions startled, hesitated for a faltering second before acting.

One flicked himself through the air toward her, sword gleaming. Amara threw herself to one side, sweeping her hands at the man to direct Cirrus. A roar of sudden wind washed up against her attacker's flank, shoving him wide of her, guiding his course into one of Garrison's stone walls. The man tried to slow his advance, but collided hard with the wall, and dropped the blade in the impact.

The second of the men, expression cool, calm, thrust his hands forward, and a gale rose up immediately before the gates of Garrison, whirling snow and chips of ice into the air in a stinging cloud, and hurling legionares from their feet, driving them behind the gates for shelter.

The third took his sword in hand and shot toward Bernard's back.

Amara tried to cry out a warning, but Bernard's fatigue, perhaps, had made him too slow. He turned and tried to dodge to one side, but snow and ice betrayed his footing, and he fell.

Gram stepped in the way. The flame-haired Count jerked the sword from the stunned Pluvus's belt and met the oncoming Knight Aeris head-on. Steel chimed on steel, and then the attacker shot on past Gram.

"Get on your feet!" Gram roared. He spat as the snow and ice clouded his vision. "Get the girl! Get inside the walls!" Gram turned his body against the icy spray and shielded his palm against his side. Amara saw sudden fire kindle there, and Gram turned toward the second of the attackers and hurled a sudden, roaring wall of flame back against the ice and snow. The attacker screamed, a horrible sound, and the gale abruptly vanished.

Something black and heavy fell smoking into the snow before the gates, and the odor of charred meat filled the air.

Amara dashed to Bernard's side, helping the Steadholder to his feet. She didn't see the man who had attacked her until it was almost too late. He rose and drew a knife from his belt, eyes focused on her. With a flick of his wrist, and a sudden pinpoint burst of air, the knife hurtled toward her, whistling with its raw speed.

Bernard saw it, too, and dragged her down, out of the path of the knife.

It hit Gram in the lower back.

Such was the force of the fury-assisted throw that Gram was hurled several paces forward into the snow. He went down at once, without so much as a cry or a gasp of pain, and lay still.

Someone on the walls cried a command, and a pair of legionares with bows loosed at the man at the base of the wall from almost directly above him. Arrows struck him hard, one in the thigh and one in back of the neck, its bloody tip emerging from the man's throat. He, too, fell into the snow, blood staining a quickly growing scarlet pool around him.

"Where's the other one?" Amara demanded. She stood and swept her eyes over the sky. She barely saw, from the corner of her eye, another flickering of light and air, but when she focused on it, it was gone. Tentatively,

she sent Cirrus out toward it, but her fury found nothing, and after questing about aimlessly for a few moments, Amara gave up the effort.

"It's no good," she whispered. "He got away."

Bernard grunted and rose to his feet, one leg held stiffly, his face twisted with pain. "Gram."

They turned to see Pluvus and several legionares hovering over Gram's form in the snow. The truthfinder's face was pale. "Healer!" he screamed. "Someone get the healer! The Count is hurt, get the healer!" Legionares stood around him, stunned, staring.

Amara let out a hiss of frustration and grabbed the nearest soldier. "You," she said. "Go get the healer, now." The man gave a nod and sprinted off.

“You," Pluvus said, his face twisted with distress, anger, and fear. "I don't know who those men were, or what is going on, but you must be in on it. You came here to hurt the Count. This is your fault."

"Are you mad?" Amara demanded. "Those men were the enemy! You have got to get this garrison ready to fight!"

"You cannot order me about like some kind of common slave, woman!" shouted Pluvus. "Centurion," he snapped, eyes watering but with his voice ringing with authority. "You all saw what happened. Arrest these two and take them to the cells on charges of murder and treason against the Crown!"

Despite her exhaustion, Isana could not sleep.

She spent the night holding Odiana's head in her lap, monitoring the woman's fever, with little else she could do for her. Pale light came through chinks in the walls of the smokehouse, when a grey, winter dawn rose over Kordholt. Isana could hear animals outside, men talking, crude laughter.

Despite the cold air drifting in from without, the interior of the smokehouse remained broiling, the ring of coals around the two women glowing with sullen heat. Her throat, parched before, began to simply ache, agonizing,

and at times it felt as though she could not get enough air into her lungs, so that she swayed and had trouble sitting up.

Once, when Odiana tossed restlessly, Isana rose and went to the far side of the ring of coals. Her head spinning with heat and thirst, she gathered her skirts and made to step over the coals, a short leap to the far side-even though she knew the door would be locked and bolted, there might be a loose board in the wall, or something she could use as a weapon in order to make an attempt at escape.

Even as she lifted her foot, though, the ground on the far side of the coals stirred, and the swift, heavy form of Kord's fury rose up from the ground, misshapen and hideous. Isana's breath caught in her throat, and she lowered her foot again.

The malformed fury subsided and sank slowly back into the earth.

Isana clenched her fists in her skirts, frustrated, then moved back over to Odiana and took the woman's head onto her lap again. In her sleep, the collared woman whimpered and stirred languidly, her eyes rolling beneath their lids as she dreamt. Once, she let out a pathetic cry and flinched, and her hands spasmed toward the collar. Even in the woman's dreams, it appeared, Kord's collar continued its assault on her senses, her will. Isana shuddered.