42. The Lions of Dawrtaine I (Patreon)

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“You’re insane,” Lady Barmaki says.

She may not be wrong, Hallon thinks, but when faced with the impossible, you have to do the impossible.

“I think flying is a lovely idea,” Dana says.

Lady Barmaki says, “Hush, love. Don’t humor her. We need to be sensible.”

Hallon shakes her head. “Sensible isn’t good enough. Not with what’s going on.”

“The problems are twofold,” the General says. “The capture of the powered armors and the knowing of how to fly them.”

“I’m confident that we can disable one or two,” Hallon says. “As for the flying, we’ll have to figure that out when we get to it. I—” Hallon’s words stop as her heart jumps into her throat. Somehow in the wild swirl of events, the powers have arranged for Milo to come up the ramp.

“I found you,” he says, his voice cracking.

He is a mess, bruised and bleeding, including bloody pinpricks running up and down his arms. Hallon catches him up in a hug and holds him tight. “What’s happened to you? I looked all over.”

Milo shudders. “First things first. Noor’s dead.”

The General and Rahima go stone-faced. Safi gasps, while Karam cries out. There’s a rush of questions, but Milo talks over them. He explains about the explosion at Groud’s Factory. That he was kidnapped by the Silent and found Noor with the Scholar. He describes a room full of dead Gloop and the way Noor protected him as they found their way out from under the city.

“The Scholar said he’d take Noor Stoneside,” Karam says. “He promised to keep her safe.”

“He didn’t want her seeing his involvement with the Silent,” Milo says. “Noor’s fortune telling was too dangerous to him, and then once she was in his hands, she was a tempting subject for his experiments.”

“She’s in the sanctuary at the end of the alley? I have to see,” Karam says, running off.

Lady Barmaki nods to Nabil, and the giant goes after him.

After Milo explains what he knows about the Scholar’s plan, Hallon picks up the threads of the story and tells him about what’s happened above ground, skipping over the deaths at Groud’s Factory. Milo is clearly at his limit, and the news may break him. When he hears about the flying armor though, he goes to the roof to see for himself what Civil Order has done with his work. Hallon stands beside him and shifts her weight, so that he can lean on her without the others noticing.

The sheets flap in the wind, as two armored soldiers streak overhead to land on a roof three buildings away. They fire at the ground with their machine guns. One leaps, the engine on his back igniting.

“I made those,” Milo says with dismay.

“I’m sorry,” Hallon says.

“I have to fix this,” he says. “To make it right.”

“We will,” she says.

The breeze falls away, and the sheets still. All around the city, the wind turbines grind to a stop.

“That’s the Scholar’s doing. He’s getting ready—” Milo’s voice falters. The rhythm and timber change. “Hallon, the Scholar has sabotaged the wind turbines and begun his attack on an army base to the west. I have taken Noor somewhere safe and left protections behind for you and Milo. The guardians must now leave to stop the Scholar. There is no more time left. Be bold. Be canny. Know that you will always be in my heart.” Milo blinks.

For a moment the world stopped, and now it moves again. Hallon grips Milo by the shoulders. She doesn’t notice his grimace. “That was Eratosthenes! Bring him back!”

“H-he’s gone. For a moment, I could see through his eyes. He was looking at you. At me and you, but mostly you.” Milo shakes his head to clear it.

“He’s going to fight the shadows,” Hallon says. “And he’s not sure if he’ll make it back.” The Calamity is unfolding—right now—and she won’t be there to help. Instead, she’ll be left behind to stand useless on this roof. She wants to yell in frustration, but she doesn’t. Hallon gets herself under control and eases the grip on Milo’s arms. “Who was with him?”

Milo sways with relief. “A woman with a staff. She wore green and looked cross. A hunchback. A woman with antlers. There were others appearing too, as if out of the air—more women in different colors: red, brown, blue, and gray.”

Eratosthenes had found allies, and the Green Witch had called on her coven. But they would not be enough, not nearly enough to challenge a city full of shadows. She needs to do something to support him from this side.

Hallon strides to the roof’s edge and waves her arms to catch the attention of the armored soldier nearby. “Hey! You! You, son of a pissing farmer! You reek of ox turd and your manhood oozes with pus. You smell of soiled underwear! You—”

“Hallon, your language!”

But she’d said enough. The armored soldier launches himself towards them. He raises his arms, and Hallon pulls Milo down behind the roof wall, as bullets chew on the brick. The roof door slams shut as the others also take cover.

The soldier lands with a fiery crash, the engine ticking as it cools. Gears whir, and he turns faster than expected. Hallon and Milo scramble in opposite directions. The machine guns alternate left and right. Rat a tat tat, tat tat a tat.

When the guns click empty, their ammunition cases clatter to the ground and springs load new ones into place. The respite is long enough for Milo to tackle the soldier from behind. The armor rocks forward and has to take a step to stabilize. The soldier swings around to catch him, but Milo fades away using a movement from the Soft Fist called the Snake Charmer’s Lament.

Hallon uses the opportunity to leap in with a kick to the armor’s hip, forcing the soldier to take another step and break his stance, letting her inside his reach. A breath, and Hallon compresses her focus to punch through the glass protecting the soldier’s face. Shards slice her forearm, the soldier’s nose breaks, and glass glitters into his eyes. He yells in surprise, triggering the engine to skid them across the roof, through the airing sheets to smash against the door leading down.

Tangled in fabric, the armor bucks, but Hallon refuses to let go. She punches the once-handsome face again and again until a metal hand catches her arm and tosses her aside. Hallon rolls to her feet, just as a machine gun blasts the ground where she’d been. Gears whine as the soldier struggles to get free from the entangling sheets.

The door opens, and suddenly there is Safi with his sabre in hand. He thrusts and pierces the soldier through an eye. The armor kicks, as the dead man inside spasms, then lies still. Safi pulls the sword free, his face stiff, while Milo goes over to stare down at the body.

Hallon clutches her right arm—blood flows freely, and it’s come loose from the shoulder socket. Her body is already working to stem the bleeding, though. All she needs is to push the arm back into its socket—

Another soldier lands on the adjoining roof. This one is smart enough to keep his distance. He triggers his machine guns, and Safi ducks back inside. Milo takes cover behind the walls protecting the rampwell, but Hallon is out in the open. There’s nowhere to go, except over the side, so she jumps.

The first window flies past, but she catches the second one-handed and gets her feet onto the wall in time to keep her grip. The shutters are closed though, and there’s no way to open them without the use of her other hand.

The soldier re-positions and lands on the building across from Hallon. He smiles down at her, taking his time to aim. As if she’d give him the satisfaction. She lets go. The bullets shatter the brick where she’d been.

Using the wall to slow her fall, Hallon catches onto the next window, only to have the brick break in her hand. She falls the remaining two stories. Into the arms of Nabil. Karam is there too, with eyes too complicated to read in the heat of battle. They sprint towards the sanctuary, bullets striking the street after them. Inside, Noor’s body is laid to rest, looking for all the world like she’s asleep. The hatch leading underground is open.

Nabil gently puts her down. From his pack, he pulls out a small kit with bandages. “That was close. Are you all right, Miss?”

Hallon closes her eyes and feels along her arm. With a grunt, she pushes it back into its socket. “Argh. Yes, thanks. Better now.” She offers her arm for him to bandage, and peeks outside while he works. She pulls back when bullets rain from above.

Karam points to the hatch. “We can get away by going down into the Below.”

“Not if we want the city to survive,” Hallon says.

“Why should it? Why should the city survive?” Karam’s cheeks are dry, but there’s grief in the boy’s voice.

“I don’t have an answer for you,” she says. “You need to find your own, but I have to stay.”

“I—I’m leaving,” Karam says.

Nabil finishes tying the bandage. It was quick work, but professional. With an apology in his eyes, he goes after Karam. He’s been tasked with watching the boy after all.

Hallon wishes them well, but stays near the sanctuary’s entrance. When the machine guns stop, she takes another peek. Two empty ammunition cases drop to the ground, and Milo appears at the roof’s edge to leap across and grab onto the armor. Hallon’s heart jumps into her throat as she watches the two struggle, but Milo’s slippery and knows the armor better than the soldier inside. He pulls a cable loose and cuts power to the engine, sending the two of them tumbling to the ground.

###

Milo falls, clutching the now-powerless armor, the equations all around helpfully marking his acceleration, vector, and time to impact. The alley walls whir past. The wind tugs at his hair, his clothes, and rushes against his skin. He’s exhausted—done much more than he ever thought he could—and now he’s going to follow Hallon to his death.

Let go.

Milo does, and the armor falls away. The soldier inside is frantic to restart the engine, but Milo has detached the cable connecting it to the power antenna. He would’ve liked to study the changes the military engineers made to his designs. Too bad he’ll never have the chance now.

So doubtful. Do you really think I’ll let you fall?

The voice is soft. Nothing like Eratosthenes. He wonders if it is another of Hallon’s friends that he’s inherited.

I’m yours. Been yours since the beginning—tucked away in the curls of your hair, hiding inside your lungs, recovering who I was and am. Let me show you.

Something opens inside him, and its breath flows through his body. The wind surges, strong enough to extend Milo’s arms and support him, slowing his fall. While the soldier crashes into the ground with a crunch, the wind sets Milo down oh so lightly. His head fills with the sound of chimes laughing. He barely has time to wonder at the experience when a soldier in another of the modified armors zooms towards him. His machine guns rise to point at Milo’s heart. The wind shrieks and smashes the soldier into the wall.

“Don’t!” Hallon appears at the sanctuary’s entrance.

She’s alive. The thought sends Milo down to his knees. He thought she’d fallen to her death, but here she is, alive. All the anguish he’d felt drains away, leaving him empty.

“This is important. More important than anything else I’ve told you,” Hallon says, her equations pleading. “Don’t feed the power your anger. Just don’t do it. Can you hear me? Do you understand?”

The armor is flung into the opposite wall. The soldier inside screams.

“Understand?” Milo’s been inside such a whirlwind of events and emotions. How can he understand anything?

“Please, Milo. Those chains are so heavy. You don’t want them weighing down your spirit.”

“I don’t even know how to stop her,” Milo says.

“Just wanting is enough.”

The wind quiets, as if embarrassed by her outburst. The armor falls, but its landing is soft. The soldier inside is alive. Unconscious but alive. Somehow, Milo can feel the soldier’s breath on his skin.

“Good. Oh, that’s good.” Hallon laughs in relief. “Well done, Milo. Well done! What an initiation. You don’t do things in half measures, do you?” She laughs again and slaps him on the back, only to cringe and grab her arm afterward.

“You’re injured,” Milo says, forgetting everything else.

“Some cuts, maybe a crack in the bone. Not important. We need to—”

Before Hallon can continue, the General steps into the alley. His equations spin in confusion. “What did I just see?”

Hallon raises a hand to stop him. “Don’t ask. I might explain later. Might. But we don’t have time right now.” She turns to Milo. “How do we fly the armor? We need to stop the Scholar.”

“The engines were never part of the original design.” Milo still feels dizzy from—well, everything that’s happened. “But—”

“You can figure it out, right?” Hallon says.

He nods. There are only so many ways to make an engine work. And it’ll be a relief to focus on something tangible. “Just give me a little time to examine the changes.”

I want you to grow out your hair, the wind whispers in his ear. It’s so nice to play with.

“Okay,” Milo says, desperate to hold onto his sanity. “But first, I have to look at the engines.”

Why? You don’t need one to fly. The wind lifts Milo and carries him to one of the armors. His stomach flips in surprise.

Hallon has to walk to join him. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m not sure. Apparently, I should grow out my hair.”

Hallon speaks to the open air. “There are a great many people in danger. Please let him work.”

Silly girl. That’s what I’m doing. Feel free to tell her that by the way.

“Ah,” Milo says. “I don’t think I will.”

Hallon looks at him with equations full of questions, but Milo doesn’t translate. Instead, he ducks his head and focuses on the modified armor. The soldier inside is dead. The fall broke his neck. Milo doesn’t know how to feel about that. He focuses on the machinery to keep from throwing up. He can easily reattach the power cable, but the fall bent the actuators. Too many repairs are needed, and he heads to the other armor instead.

There, the General undoes the latches to remove the unconscious soldier inside. “There is a third one on the roof.”

“I’ll get it,” Hallon says.

No, I will.

They stare as the wind carries the third modified armor down to the alley. The General says something foul. It’s out of bounds for his model, but Milo understands that the current circumstances are atypical.

Hallon quirks an eyebrow at the General, but otherwise ignores the outburst. “Milo, do we know where things stand with the Scholar?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Milo is having a hard time tracking.

Hallon turns the eyebrow on him. “I said, do we know where things stand with the Scholar?”

Milo glances to the side. A puppet in the shape of Eratosthenes in his human form stands nearby, but it is unresponsive. The dragon’s attention must be elsewhere. “I—um—haven’t heard from our mutual friend.”

Shall I go look and see? The wind asks.

“Ah, yes?”

The wind sweeps away, her numbers trailing behind and glowing bright in Milo’s eyes.

“I take it the power has left to find out,” Hallon says. At Milo’s nod, she reminds him: “The armor.”

“Right.”

Milo turns back to the armor. The unconscious soldier’s body is heavy, and he needs the General’s help to lift it out. Inside, the padding is damp with sweat and fear. Milo tunes out the sensations so that he can focus on the Lion’s systems. They’re undamaged, and it looks like all the military engineers did was build on what he designed.

The flight controls are in the hands, along with triggers to fire the guns. Judging from the reaction times, the engineers tuned the actuators to their maximum settings for strength and sensitivity. Typical Dawrtaine military thinking. It’s a wonder the soldiers could move at all without launching themselves into the nearest wall.

Milo adjusts the settings as he explains the control scheme to Hallon and the General. They listen carefully, and their questions are to the point and practical. Hallon volunteers to go first, and she climbs into the Lion, not squeamish about the various stains inside. She straps in, and the Lion hides her away except for the top half of her face. She nods when she’s ready and Milo backs away to give her room.

Her eyes close; her movements are tentative. Milo recognizes the start of the First Circle. By the time she’s into the Second Circle, the equations are bolder and more confident.

“We’re lucky,” the General says, “to have a master of her skill with us.” After a moment, he strides towards the remaining working armor, the one with the soldier stabbed by Safi inside. “This one is mine.”

Milo helps him with the body inside, doing his best not to retch.

The General straps in and is slower to start, his equations concentrating intently. Hallon, still testing, ignites the engine for the first time and takes a wild leap forward. She drops to the ground into a stuttering run.

“She flies,” the General says, “while I crawl. Well, to each their own pace.” He swings his arms and walks slowly. He triggers his engine—the barest flicker of fire—jumping two feet. “Hah. The center is high and to the back.”

Meanwhile, Hallon climbs the alley walls by leaping back and forth between them. Suddenly, a fourth armor appears in the air above.

“Everything all right?” The soldier’s voice is scratchy, broadcast through an amplified speaker. “Wait, you’re not—”

Hallon blasts towards the soldier, hooks the armor’s shoulder with the barrel of her right machine gun to spin him around. The attack is called The Sparrow’s Turn, a throw from the Way of the Soft Fist. Except that Hallon does it mid-air. While wearing a Lion. Which she’d just put on for the first time ever, not twenty minutes ago.

Milo’s jaw drops, and all the calculations in his head go quiet. I’m going to have to revise her model. Again.

The soldier crunches into the alley wall and slides. Hallon smashes into him, slamming his armor through the brick. A moment later, she crawls back out, dragging the soldier with her. She fires her engine twice to land on the ground, letting the captured armor slump next to the General. “How’s it going?” She asks.

The General clears his throat. “I—ah—am progressing. The armor moves more intuitively than expected.”

Hallon nods. “It rewards a light touch.” She turns to Milo. “Any word?”

“None.”

She frowns. “I can’t shake the feeling that we’re running out of time. You’d better strap in.”

Milo drags the unconscious soldier out of the armor she’d just captured. While he’s fumbling with the latches, Rahima wheels out of the Sanctuary. She and the others must’ve gone there while he was focusing on the Lions.

“We’ve decided to go underground,” she says, “at least part of the way. Karam thinks he can guide us if we stay to the shallow tunnels. Our goal is still the Barmaki estate. Safi will be coming with us.”

“I understand,” the General says. “Be careful.”

“We will. And you too.”

“There’s no room for careful in what we’re doing,” Hallon says, “but we’ll try.”

“We’ll meet again. After.” Rahima goes back into the Sanctuary.

The Lion is more cramped than Milo is used to and smells overwhelmingly of gunpowder. He’d spent hundreds of hours inside the prototype at Groud’s Factory though, so it feels like home. He stands and checks the changes to where the weight is distributed. The engine lifts from the shoulders, and the sound when it ignites roars in his ears. The frame vibrates as he lifts from the ground.

Milo hovers three feet in the air, making small adjustments to the throttle and flight system, quickly sketching a mathematical model of the modified Lion’s parameters. He executes a two-step slide in the air to verify the model’s integrity. He finds himself grinning.

Hallon hops towards him. “Ready?”

Milo’s smile disappears. “Yes.”

“What about you?” Hallon asks the General.

“Not quite, but I will manage. We have no other choice, true?”

“True.” She gathers them together with a wave of her hand, engines turned off to better hear her. “Here’s the plan. We stay low and out of sight for as long as we can. Once out of town, we’ll—”

“We'll what?”

Hallon motions Milo to be quiet. She turns left and right as she tries to pinpoint—then Milo hears it—a thin, whistling sound.

“Those are artillery rounds,” the General says. “We are too late.”