Page 89 of Children of Fallen Gods

Moth’s small voice came from behind me.

Fuck.

“Moth—” I began to bark a command, and did not get to finish.

Here’s the thing about teenage boys: they’restupid.

In my split second of distraction, the boy I had pinned against the wall raised his hand and a large ceramic lamp from the bedside table went careening against my head.

I staggered back.

A Wielder. Fantastic.

And this is how it always goes. Control to chaos in less than a second. By the time I righted myself, the boy was lunging for me, his sword back in his hand, the other raised as he tried to push me back with another wave of magic. He was a good Wielder for someone so young, but still inexperienced. Two steps, two slashes, and I had him down on the ground.

But then there were footsteps. The noise had alerted the soldier’s companions, no doubt. I whirled just in time to see three more figures fly into the room, Moth lurching through the door and against the wall, his sword raised.

I didn’t have time to think or breathe or utter commands.

Three against one. I’d faced far worse odds before.

But there was something especially vile about this sort of fight, the kind fought not in chaotic battlefields but in these close, intimate quarters, close enough to hear every dying breath, close enough to see the terror in their eyes as your blades run through their guts. It’s ugly, and pathetic, and terrible.

Pain shot across my side, blood soaking my jacket. Still, my muscles responded on instinct. The boy didn’t get the chance to scream, letting out only a pitiful gargle as he hit the ground, his throat slashed. One of his companions let out a ragged sound of fury and lunged for me. I was still recovering. Didn’t move fast enough. His blade struck me, and for a moment I couldn’t catch my breath — an unnatural jolt ran down to my bones. Magic. Another Wielder.

I countered with a sloppy, vicious strike. Blood spattered my face. This body fell on top of the other one, twitching, dying slower.

I clutched my side. My vision blurred.

By the time it cleared again, I saw the first soldier, the one who was little more than a child, back on his feet, rushing towards me, rage on his face—

And then I saw Moth lunge, magic sparking at his hands, collecting around his sword.

There was a crash as they collided. A blast of light filled the room. When it subsided, Moth was on his knees, the soldier on the ground before him, his weapon buried in the bloody, burnt body.

The world was suddenly silent.

Moth’s face was tilted down to the lifeless soldier beneath him. His breaths were heaving, but he did not blink.

I slowly rose.

“Moth,” I said, quietly.

He did not move. His breath came quicker and quicker, and now all I could think about was the first time I felt someone else’s blood soak my hands.

“Moth, look at me.”

His head snapped up. Crimson smeared his blond curls and his face. At thirteen, Moth was that strange age when sometimes he looked almost like an adult, or at least some distant version of the one he would become. But now, staring at me with round blue eyes, he looked like such a helpless child.

Several sets of footsteps approached at a wild run, and I tensed, only for the doorframe to be filled by four of my own soldiers. When their eyes landed on me, they sagged with visible relief.

“General.” One gave me a sloppy salute and I waved it away, still panting. As if it was the time for performances like that. Another went to the soldier dead on the bed and let out a curse.

“Fuck, poor Jorge…”

“The bastards came out of nowhere,” one told me. “Everywhere at once. All over the fucking city. They weren’t Aviness’s people.”

I looked down at the bodies at my feet, using the tip of my blade to push one of them over. It had been impossible to make out the sigil at his lapel in the thick of the fighting, but now I recognized it — a coat of arms, with twin roses at its apex. Morwood. Yet another powerful family, one that hadn’t yet joined the fight. Bad news, if Aviness was still gaining allies.

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