Page 118 of City of Stone and Silence

A pair of corpses lever themselves up. The rotting things are getting cannier, throwing themselves flat to avoid getting crushed by Hagan’s bulk. I let them come to me, their ancient bodies stumbling into a flailing run. At the last moment, I sidestep the first one, bringing my blade around at neck height and letting its momentum do the work. The other throws itself at my midsection, scrabbling at me as my armor raises crackling sparks. Two quick swipes remove its arms, and I kick the shuddering thing aside and move on.

“Left up ahead!” Silvoa shouts. “Come on, come on. I can feel him looking for me.”

The dog-angel reaches the intersection and tears into another pack. I haven’t seen any more of the lizard-birds, but Prime appears to have ordinary corpses to spare, and he’s happy to throw them away to slow our progress. Or so I assume—I don’t know how much attention he’s personally paying me, with the battle still continuing.

Continuing not far away, I suddenly realize. I close up with Hagan, dispatching a pair of half-crushed corpses the dog-angel has left in its wake. As he pushes onward, I can hear shouting, and the crackle and blast of magic. Silvoa directs us through another doorway, and I blink in the sudden light as we emerge into a familiar chamber.

It’s the room where we fought the lizard-birds, on our ill-fated first expedition to the ziggurat. Silvoa has led us to the balcony from which Prime—one of his puppets, anyway—taunted me before unleashing his ancient monsters. The strobing flashes of magic come from below, mingled with shouts and screams.

Hagan is heading directly to another doorway, at the other end of the balcony. I move to follow, then stop at the sound of a familiar voice.

“On the left!” Meroe’s shout of command is more like a scream, so hoarse it barely sounds like her. “Left, now! Rotting stop that thing!” Something explodes with a roar. “More! Keep it down—”

I run to the rail, and spot her at once. Our people are clustered in a loose semicircle at the doorway, a wall of bodies and magic lashing out at a solid mass of walking corpses. Lizard-birds stalk through the crowd, brushing their lesser cousins aside, throwing themselves at the humans in a frenzy of slashing talons and ripping fangs. The monsters fall by the dozens, burning or torn apart or slashed to pieces, but more climb over the blackening corpses before the flames have gone out.

People are dying. A lizard-bird jumps and lands in a cluster of Minders, reducing a man’s chest to bloody ruin with its spur-like claws before the others bring it down. One of the Cresos warriors has gotten too far from the line, his Melos armor glowing brighter and brighter as he hacks glowing green lines through a swarm of corpses that latch on and drag him down. I don’t envy him his choice—let the armor fall and be torn to pieces, or leave it up and boil inside it. Zarun fights with Melos blade and Tartak force, and beside him Thora’s hands move ceaselessly, bands of blue energy gripping the lizard-birds and tearing them asunder one by one. Jack paces at her side, shifting in and out of her own shadow, laughing as she cuts the corpses to ribbons.

Meroe is in the center of it all, surrounded by a rapidly thinning guard, screaming commands even as she kneels to lay her hands on someone torn and bleeding. Her dress is sopping with crimson, hands dripping with gore, and either she’s given up caring if people find out about her power or doesn’t think anyone is going to notice in the midst of all this. Shiara works next to her, armed with nothing more than conventional bandages and tourniquets.

For the moment, the line is holding, but only for the moment. This is part of a wider fight, stretching back through the complex—I can see shifting shadows in the corridor, and the strobing light of magic back there as well. Humans have limits to their endurance, but Prime’s hordes seem to have no end. They need help, or this is going to be a disaster.

My mind is already planning. I put one foot on the balcony rail, contemplating the drop—my armor will absorb it, and if I’m quick I can carve a breathing space in the mass of corpses before—

“Isoka!” Silvoa shouts. “No!”

I blink, and look over my shoulder. The dog-angel has half-turned, and Silvoa’s ghostly form is beckoning.

I should follow them. I have to follow them, or else this is all for nothing.

A lizard-bird gets within a foot of Meroe, shredding a young girl from our crew who’s helping Shiara with the bandages. Thora whirls and plucks the monster up with Tartak, mashing it into a paste in midair and letting the pieces fall away. Meroe doesn’t even look up until her task is done. Then she sees me, on the balcony. Our eyes meet, and I know I’m not going to be able to turn away.

I take a deep breath and shout. “I’m coming!”

Meroe’s answer is practically a shriek. “Don’t you dare, you rotting moron!”

My princess. Always ready to punch me when I need it.

Rot rot rot. I turn and run, and the dog-angel lumbers back into motion as we leave the sound of the battle behind us. The corridor stretches on, then descends a ramp and passes into an arched tunnel lit only by Eddica ghost-glow. A rank of walking corpses stretches across it, and I find my lips curling back in a feral snarl. After everything we’ve been through, what are another couple of dozen of the rotting things?

Behind them, arms crossed, is the handsome puppet Prime wore to taunt me in my captivity. I’m going to enjoy tearing that thing to shreds.

“Clever,” he says, as we approach. “One of the angels from Soliton, I assume? I didn’t realize your control extended so far. I underestimated you.”

“People have a tendency to do that,” I mutter. Beside me, the dog-angel tenses to pounce.

“Perhaps,” Prime says. “But I fear that now you have underestimated me. Your friend here is within the matrix of the city-system, which means, now that I know where it is—”

He gives an elegant shrug, and at the same moment the dog-angel freezes in midstep, one paw off the ground. Unbalanced, it tips sideways, toppling with a crunch.

“—it is no longer a threat.” He turns to Silvoa. “As for you, we have had quite enough of your poking your fingers in my affairs. Clearly my torments no longer hold any terror for you, so I’m afraid you’ll have to leave us permanently.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Silvoa says. “You have too much fun ripping me to shreds—”

A torrent of Eddica power, gray and ghostly, slashes across the corridor. Silvoa’s shape is outlined in it for a moment, and then she simply evaporates into wisps of fading smoke.

“Poor girl.” Prime fixes his gaze on me. “I don’t need her anymore.”

There is a long pause.