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As the fight went on, the sound of Zosime’s strikes became less sweet. The beast attacked faster and faster. The princess moved at impossible speeds, blocking and deflecting, her eyes darting to keep up.
Then, the creature connected.
Teigra gripped the stairs hard.
The harpy’s claws caught both of Zosime’s wrists, sending her sword clanking across the deck.
The princess was defenseless—both arms pinned! Her compatriots were too far to reach! The beast was poised to strike!
For Teigra, the moment seemed to stretch forever. Half of her wanted to run back below deck; the other half screamed that she had to help.
But why should she? Zosime was the one who’d ruined everything. Was this not fitting? Was this not what she deserved?
The indecision didn’t last. She couldn’t let someone die. Not even her.
The big harpy hissed at Teigra’s sprinting arrival, but she ignored it, grabbing the bronze-weighted nets from a few feet away and throwing them.
The blind toss wasn’t perfect, but enough of the rope tangled the creature’s wings to leave it thrashing around, like a fish out of water.
She didn’t wait, she didn’t dare. Her eyes half closed, she grabbed one of the harpoons from the rack and thrust it out.
It was a messy hit, missing the creature’s chest and cutting a few inches below its shoulder. Still, with a spurt of rank blood, it stumbled over. Before it could rise, she pulled the harpoon up and struck again, this time directly into its stomach.
The harpy screeched right into Teigra’s face as blood and stomach contents spewed onto the deck. The smell—rotting flesh and bile—was disgusting, but Teigra didn’t stop. Again and again, she stabbed. Chunks of flesh stuck to the hook of the blade with each manic thrust.
At last, the harpy slumped back, a red-splattered lattice as its funeral blanket.
Zosime rose and grabbed her sword, incomprehension on her face.
“I... I did it,” Teigra breathed, feeling as if she could cry. “I saved you.”
“Yes, you did,” said Zosime, in shock.
The moment was broken by a sneering voice from behind. “What the fuck are you doing on our ship?”
88
AURELIUS
The king’s dead face was a statue of agony—his eyes rolled back, his mouth slack, his tongue hanging limp in the curling smoke. It was a brutal contrast to the wickedly grinning figure on the podium—with his... its... my... fingers threaded tightly through the gray hair, now streaked red with lost life.
It was like looking into a hideous, ruby-smeared mirror.
What the fuck is happening!?
From somewhere within the mass came an almighty roar. The sentinel shock of the crowd was shattered, turning now to fury, as soldiers drew their weapons, clambering over each other to be the first to the podium—to avenge, to kill, to slaughter. They bellowed for their king. They bellowed for their polity. From all sides they came, like frenzied ants up a wooden mound, their steel clattering in the smoky firelight.
From atop the podium, the beast that somehow bore his face seemed unfazed by its imminent demise. It turned upon Aurelius a lazy glare. Its grin seemed to grow even greater at the sight of his shock. And just as the blades were about to slice it to pieces, it gave him a wink.
Then it vanished into starlight.
The soldiers clattered into each other. When they got back to their feet, they held nothing but fistfuls of smoke and, eventually, in the arms of the big man who had started the charge, the mournful, decapitated corpse of their former ruler.
Then, it happened.
There was a change around him. The smoke seemed to thin. And then he was aware of a shift in the crowd. Before, he had just been one among many. But now eyes were turning to him.
And those eyes were full of fury.
