Matthias saw Nina’s pupils dilate. Her lips parted, and she pushed past him, stepping down from the tank. The air around her seemed to crackle, her skin glowing as if lit from within by something miraculous. As if she’d tapped a vein of Djel directly, and now the god’s power flowed through her.
She went for the Heartrender immediately. Nina flicked her wrist, and his eyes exploded in his head. He crumpled without a sound. “Be free,” she said.
Nina glided towards the soldiers. Matthias moved to protect her as he saw rifles raised. She lifted her hands. “Stop,” she said.
They froze.
“Lay down your arms.” As one they obeyed her.
“Sleep,” she commanded. Nina swept her hands in an arc, and the soldiers toppled without protest, row after row, stalks of wheat felled by an invisible scythe.
The air was eerily still. Slowly, Wylan and Inej climbed down from the tank. Jesper and the rest followed, and they stood in stunned silence, all language dissolved by what they’d witnessed, gazing out at the field of fallen bodies. It had happened so quickly.
There was no way to reach the harbour unless they walked over the soldiers. Without a word, they began to pick their way through, the hush
broken only by the faraway bells of the Elderclock. Matthias laid his hand on Nina’s arm, and she released a little sigh, letting him lead her.
Beyond the quay, the docks were deserted. As the others headed towards the Ferolind, Matthias and Nina trailed behind. Matthias could see Rotty clinging to the mast, jaw slack with fear. Specht was waiting to unmoor the ship, and the look on his face was equally terrified.
“Matthias!”
He turned. A group of drüskelle stood on the quay, their uniforms soaked, their black hoods raised. They wore masks of dully gleaming grey chainmail over their faces, their features obscured by the mesh. But Matthias recognised Jarl Brum’s voice when he spoke.
“Traitor,” Brum said from behind his mask. “Betrayer of your country and your god. You will not leave this harbour alive. None of you will.” His men must have got him out of the treasury after the explosion. Had they followed Matthias and Nina to the river beneath the ash? Had there been horses or more tanks stationed in the upper town?
Nina raised her hands. “For Matthias, I will give you one chance to leave us be.”
“You cannot control us, witch,” said Brum. “Our hoods, our masks, every stitch of clothing we wear is reinforced with Grisha steel. Corecloth created to our specifications by Grisha Fabrikators under our control and designed for just this purpose. You cannot force us to your will. You cannot harm us. This game is at an end.”
Nina lifted a hand. Nothing happened, and Matthias knew what Brum was saying was true.
“Go!” Matthias shouted at them. “Please! You—”
Brum lifted his gun and fired. The bullet struck Matthias directly in the chest. The pain was sudden and terrible – and then gone. Before his eyes, he saw the bullet emerge from his chest. It hit the ground with a plink. He pulled his shirt open. There was no wound.
Nina was walking past him. “No!” he cried.
The drüskelle opened fire on her. He saw her flinch as the bullets struck her body, saw red blooms of blood appear on her chest, her breasts, her bare thighs. But she did not fall. As fast as the bullets tore through her body, she healed herself, and the shells fell harmlessly to the dock.
The drüskelle gaped at Nina. She laughed. “You’ve grown too used to captive Grisha. We’re quite tame in our cages.”
“There are other means,” said Brum, pulling a long whip like the one Lars had used from his belt. “Your power cannot touch us, witch, and our cause is true.”
“I can’t touch you,” said Nina, raising her hands. “But I can reach them just fine.”
Behind the drüskelle, the Fjerdan soldiers Nina had put to sleep rose, their faces blank. One tore the whip from Brum’s hand, the others snatched the hoods and masks from the startled drüskelle’s faces, rendering them vulnerable.
Nina flexed her fingers, and the drüskelle dropped their rifles, hands going to their heads, screaming in pain.
“For my country,” she said. “For my people. For every child you put to the pyre. Reap what you’ve sown, Jarl Brum.”
Matthias watched the drüskelle twitch and convulse, blood trickling from their ears and eyes as the other Fjerdan soldiers looked on impassively. Their screams were a chorus. Claas, who had drunk too much with him in Avfalle. Giert, who’d trained his wolf to eat from his hand. They were monsters, he knew it, but boys as well, boys like him –taught to hate, to fear.
“Nina,” he said, hand still pressed over the smooth skin on his chest where a bullet wound should be. “Nina, please.”
“You know they would not offer you mercy, Matthias.” “I know. I know. But let them live in shame instead.” She hesitated.
“Nina, you taught me to be something better. They could be taught, too.”
Nina shifted her gaze to his. Her eyes were ferocious, the deep green of forests; the pupils, dark wells. The air around her seemed to shimmer with power, as if she was alight with some secret flame.
“They fear you as I once feared you,” he said. “As you once feared me. We are all someone’s monster, Nina.”
For a long moment, she studied his face. At last, she dropped her arms, and the ranks of drüskelle crumpled to the ground, whimpering. Her hand shot out once more, and Brum shrieked. He clapped his hands to his head, blood trickling between his fingers.
“He’ll live?” Matthias asked.
“Yes,” she said as she stepped onto the schooner. “He’ll just be very bald.”
Specht shouted commands, and the Ferolind drifted into the harbour, picking up speed as the sails swelled with wind. No one ran to the docks to stop them. No ships or cannon fired. There was no one to give warning, no one to signal to the gunnery above. The Elderclock chimed on unheeded as the schooner vanished into the vast black shelter of the sea, leaving only suffering in her wake.
