Dreams of Gods & Monsters

He had.

They didn’t know if he had found and secured the Atlas portal since they passed through it.

He hadn’t, yet, but even now his search patrols were crisscrossing the Bay of Beasts, searching.

They didn’t even know if he’d returned to Eretz, victorious or otherwise, and they had no way of knowing that Bast and Sarsagon, the unrepresented pair of scouts, had been captured within hours of their dispatch from the crater a day and a half earlier.

Captured and tortured.

And the rebels didn’t know and couldn’t have begun to imagine that, on the far side of the world, the sky had been twilight-dark for more than a day—a strange and ruthless dark that had nothing to do with the absence of the sun. The sun still shone, but it peered out of the inky indigo like a burning eye from the shadow of a cloak. Its light still fell on the sea and the speckling of green isles. Colors were still tropics-bright—all but the sky itself. It had sickened and blackened, and the stormhunters still wheeled in it, their screams gone hoarse and horrible, and the prisoners in their unprisonlike room watched it out their window and shuddered in nameless horror, but they couldn’t ask any questions of their captors, because their captors didn’t come to them. Not Eidolon of the dancing eyes, not anyone. No food was brought, or drink. Only the basket of bloodfruit remained, and none had grown hungry enough yet to contemplate it. Melliel, Second Bearer of that Name, and her band of Misbegotten brothers and sisters were seemingly forgotten, and, looking out their barred window, they could only imagine that it meant the end of the very world.

Scarab and her four magi wereaware of the state of their home sky. Sendings had come to them, even here, and they felt the disaster as a slackness of their own anima, as though their souls shrank from the shadow of a

But if they sensed the a

And if there was a grandiosity in the Stelian belief that, above all, theymust not be bothered, it was a well-deserved grandiosity.

They must not be bothered.

At all costs, the Stelians must be left in peace. Scarab knew, from halfway around the world, what Melliel and the others abandoned in their cell beneath that u

And of course it’s possible that the five fire-eyed interlopers didn’t feel the ambush gathering just out of sight—though it seems unlikely that the collective breath passing in and out of thousands of enemy lungs could go unremarked by magi of such exquisite sensitivity. In any case, they didn’t warn the rebels.

They watched.

Scarab’s sending to the others was plainthought, without sensory threads or any effort at feeling. It is nothing to do with us, she sent.

It had always been true before. She could have no way of knowing how deeply untrue it was today, or what it was this peculiar ragged hybrid army stood against, or what would be the fallout if they failed.

There were just so many unknowns.

ARRIVAL + 48 HOURS

42

THE WORST

The first awareness is a sensation in the spine. Karou feels it and looks to Akiva, across the crowd of soldiers. At the same moment, he looks to her. A crease knits his brows.

Something—

And then, just like that, the sky betrays them. It’s low and bright—a lucent, backlit mist, just as it was when they came from the portal. But this time it isn’t stormhunters that drop from above.

It’s an army.

Many.

The angels are fire, and they are legion, wing to wing, and so the sky has become fire. Bright and alive. But the daylight is brighter and they’re blotting it out—so many—and so a tangled darkness falls on the host below.

Shadows, chased by fire.

Very fast. All very, very fast.

It begins.

The crater is a ragged bowl, and the Dominion are as a lid of fire, and they are many and many, wing to wing and swords drawn, and when they plummet in a single breath’s span, there is no getting out, and no getting around them.

Nor is there any hesitation from below. Everything that had almost happened in the Kirin caves happens now, unchecked and with whip-crack quickness. Swords: unsheathed; palms: upraised. The effect of the hamsas is instantaneous. Like grass rippled by a wind, the attacking ranks sway away, and in the moment’s reprieve this gains the rebels, they surge to greet the ambush, roaring. They don’t wait to be pi

Many fists against fewer, perhaps, but the fewer have magic.

At the first touch of shadow, Akiva reaches for sirithar—

—and is thrown to his knees as though clapped by thunder—thunder as a weapon, thunder in his head—and he’s ringing with it, and tilting, and someone catches him. It’s the Dashnag who isn’t a boy anymore. Rath. His hand is huge on Akiva’s shoulder. The same shoulder once savaged by a chimaera, another chimaera now steadies, and there is no sirithar, only the clash of blades, and then the boy Rath lunges into battle and Akiva surges to his feet and draws his swords, and he can’t see Karou…

… and Karou can’t see him, and she can’t stop to look. There’s Zuzana and Mik and an angel is coming at them and she won’t be able to get there in time. She’s opening her mouth to scream when she sees Virko. He pounces.

Rends.

The angel becomes pieces and Karou has her crescent-moon blades in her hands and it’s dance, cutting her way through the enemy to reach her friends.

Akiva tries for siritharagain, and again thunder invades his head and drives him to his knees.

For the merest instant, he has the impression of a cool hand pressed to his brow, soothing and then gone. All around him is glitter and clash and snarl and stab and teeth and grunt and stagger. Magic is denied him. All he can do is get to his feet and fight.

Zuzana has closed her eyes. Reflexive reaction to dismemberment. You could go your whole life without finding out how you’d react to seeing limbs torn off in front of you, but now Zuzana knows, and she knows the coursing terror of “all this war stuff,” and she decides at once that notseeing what’s happening is worse than seeing it and so she opens her eyes again. Mik is right at her side, and he’s beautiful, and Virko is crouched before her, planted there, and he’s terrible, and he’s beautiful, too. The spikes at his neck have flared wide. She didn’t know they did that. They’d lain sleek, almost, like porcupine quills at rest but bigger, sharper, and with serrated edges, but now they’re all fa