Текст книги "Days of the Vipers"

Автор книги: James Swallow

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Darrah turned to the Cardassian. “Any trace of other life signs?”

Pa’Dar shook his head grimly. “Not at all. If Pasir was down there, then he perished.”

Darrah sighed. “All right. Mark this location and then get us up above the storm. You can do that?”

He got a nod in return. “Of course.”

The Cardassian went to the front of the compartment, leaving the two Bajorans alone. Sealing the hatch, Darrah paused to snatch a tricorder from the medkit case and swept the sensor over his friend.

Gar was breathing heavily. “Darrah…Darrah Mace.” His voice was thick with pain and effort, husky and rough. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” he replied. “No broken bones. No organ damage. I think. I’m not an expert with these things.”

Gar pushed the tricorder away, leaning closer. “I’m fine. But…” He shot a terrified look at the Cardassian. “Don’t let him near me.”

“He helped to rescue you, Gar.”

“They tried to murder me!” spat the priest. “Pasir! He was insane! He said that it was an abomination…”

“What do you mean?”

“The…alliance between Cardassia and Bajor. Between our two faiths. He swore that Oralius was not going to be polluted by corrupt Bajoran dogma.”

“He was some sort of fundamentalist?”

“He was a murderer! He pulled a weapon on me.” Gar’s hands reached out, and his fingers clutched at Darrah’s sleeve. “May the Prophets forgive me…There was a struggle and the flyer went down in the lake. I had to…I had to…”

A chill washed through Darrah’s bones as he read the truth in the other man’s eyes. “You killed him.”

“I had to!” husked the priest. “I had no choice!”

“All right,” Darrah said, after a moment. “We’ll get you back to the hospital in Korto.”

“No.” Gar’s grip tightened. “There are Cardassians in the city. I can’t be safe there! Kendra!” He straightened. “Please, Mace. Take me to the monastery at Kendra.”

Darrah’s disquiet chilled him more than the lingering cold from the lake; in all the years they had known one another, he had never seen such an expression of naked terror on his friend’s face. “All right. When you’re healed, we’ll talk more about this. Until then, you mention nothing about what happened. Pasir died in the crash. That’s what we’ll say.”

Gar seemed to shrink in on himself, his fingers moving up to probe at the flesh of his face. “Yes. Thank you. You’re a good friend.”

Darrah stepped up to the control console. “Change of plan,” he told the Cardassian. “We’re going to Kendra.”

“What am I doing here?” Jas Holza grumbled to himself under his breath as he filed into the Chamber of Ministers, the last man to enter from the atrium outside. The question had too many facets for his liking; it cut too deep, with neither the literal nor the figurative answers to give him any sort of peace. He sat in his assigned place, hollow inside. In the highly polished surface of the steel table before him, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. He looked like his father; the sudden realization caught him off guard. Yes, in the warped mirror of the shiny surface, he saw the ghost of his parent in the haggard and beaten man that he was, aged before his time. With effort he pulled his eyes up to where the First Minister stood. Like many of the men in the room, Jas was slightly unkempt, having been called from his opulent temporary lodgings in Ashalla back to the chamber in the middle of the night. Only a few—Lale Usbor most obvious among them—looked as if the impromptu meeting was nothing but a minor inconvenience. Jas’s gaze fell on Kubus Oak; all that Jas and Korto had done for that man, and the minister for Qui’al had yet to even acknowledge his presence. Instead Kubus was in quiet conversation with one of his aides. The only man who did meet Jas’s gaze was Keeve Falor. The agitator was stern and quiet. He reminded Jas of a pit-fighter waiting for his next bout. And I? I wreath myself in pity, like an animal walking to the slaughterhouse.

“Colleagues,” began Lale. “My apologies for recalling you at such short notice, but an issue of great import has been brought to my attention, and it must be addressed immediately.”

General Coldri, who even on the best of days could only be described as a man of bleak and forbidding aspect, gave the officer at his side a curt nod. Coldri’s expression filled Jas with dread.

“Major Jaro Essa,” said Lale. “Will you please repeat the information you presented to me before this assembly?”

“Sir.” Jaro had a padd in his hand, but he didn’t refer to it. “Ministers. As of twenty-two–bells, Ashalla local time, the reprisal force under the command of Colonel Li Tarka was logged as overdue for their scheduled communications check-in. Their last known coordinates were close to Ajir, an uninhabited system in the Coreward Marches. Based on data supplied by the crew of a vessel in the employ of Minister Kubus, they were investigating a possible sighting of a Tzenkethi warship, with intent to censure and detain it in connection with the Cemba incident.”

The chamber was silent now, every minister listening intently to Jaro’s flat, emotionless report—every one except Jas Holza, who studied Kubus Oak. Kubus doesn’t have any freighters within a hundred light-years of Ajir.Jas was sure of it; as part of his increasingly unfair association with the man, the minister was privy to some of the Kubus clan’s ship movements. I’m certain of it. But if that is so, then where did he get that data from?

He thought about the scoutships from his own fleet, the Kylenand the Pajul;and Lonnic, dear Tomo, who had remained at his side even when other members of his staff had seen his self-destructive course and left the Korto administration. The tone of Jaro’s explanation caught up with him. What is he telling us?

The major continued. “A short time ago, the detection stations on Andros picked up this signal on a subspace emergency band. Degradation of the transmission indicates that it was under intensive jamming. Only the application of a large amount of energy to burn through the blockade allowed us to receive it. The sending of the message was clearly an act of desperation.” Jaro raised the padd and tapped a key.

Immediately the air filled with the buzzing hiss of a communications channel. The next words he heard made Jas Holza’s blood run cold. “This is Lonnic Tomo…of the Korto District…”Some heads turned to face him. He saw Keeve’s eyes narrow. The static-laced message stuttered, then went on. “…Aboard the Bajorian Space Guard warshipClarion, we are under attack by…Tzenkethi marauder. They have already…killed the crew of theGlyhrond …Cease your attack, please!”

The raw panic in Tomo’s last words hit Holza like a hammer, and he rocked back in his chair, the color draining from his face. “Prophets,” he whispered. “She’s dead.” He gripped the table in front of him, his head swimming. He felt dizzy and sick.

“It would seem that Colonel Li engaged the Tzenkethi without success,” Jaro concluded, the pronouncement a death knell for the men in the reprisal fleet.

A wave of raised voices echoed around the chamber, some in fury, others decrying the destruction. “You’ve brought this to pass, Kubus!” snapped Keeve. “What sort of botched data did you give the Space Guard?”

Kubus blinked, for a moment showing signs of shock over Jaro’s revelation; but in the next moment he was composed again. “I provided only what was asked of me by Colonel Li! What he chose to do with the information was his choice!”

Keeve rounded on Lale. “I was against this so-called task force from the start! A poorly planned operation motivated only by the immediate need for vengeance? Is it any wonder that more Bajoran lives have been lost because of it?” He smacked his fist into his palm. “What is needed is rational thought and measured response, something this administration seems poorly equipped to deliver!”

The argument went on over Jas’s head. He stared at his hands, recalling a time when Lonnic had held them. Many years ago now, when they had been young and both untested; and now she was gone, ripped away in the dark, and he would never see her again. Her directness, her honest counsel, all gone. The only voice that had ever dared to stand up to him, to show him the errors of his ways—and then still to stand by him. “Tomo,” he husked. “Oh, Prophets. Please keep her safe.”

“I am forced to agree with Minister Keeve,” grated Kubus, drawing Jas’s attention toward the man. “In principle if not in language. He is correct when he stated that the task force sent to censure the Tzenkethi invaders was not adequate to the task.” He shot a poisonous glare at General Coldri, which the chief of staff ignored.

“You’re trying to blame this on the shortcomings of the Space Guard?” said another minister, one of Keeve’s supporters.

Major Jaro folded his arms. “The Militia are an arm of the government,” he growled, “and we can only operate to their orders. Would you have us do otherwise? Perhaps martial law would suit you better, Minister?”

“Blame for this must be apportioned…” began Kubus, suddenly trailing off as he saw a runner enter with a message tab for the First Minister.

“Blame,” Jas said in a low voice. “There should be blame.” His hands tightened into fists, his nails digging into his palms. And I must share in it. What have I become?He wanted to leap to his feet and shout the words. An annex for Kubus Oak’s dreams of empire? His willing vassal? And all along Lonnic was warning me, trying to guide me away, and I ignored her. I knew it was true and I ignored her because I was weak!Jas saw the broken pieces of his life falling down around him. All of it had been in service of Kubus Oak’s agenda, not his. The collapse of the Golana settlement and the ongoing loss of the clan’s lands and influence. Oak had clothed it in lies made to sweeten the moment, and he had gone along. Why? Why did I do this? Am I so spineless?

Jas stiffened and made to rise to his feet, the words pushing at his lips; but there was a new arrival in the chamber, and he turned with Kubus and Keeve and all the others to see Jagul Kell enter the room, a cloak folded over his arm.

The Cardassian bowed to the First Minister. “Sir. I have grave news. Thank you for allowing me to address the Chamber.”

Jas wavered, the energy of his turmoil suddenly dissipated by the alien’s arrival.

“I have been informed of the loss of your ships and their brave crews.” Kell looked solemn. “I only wish that the Cardassian Union could have done something to prevent that terrible sacrifice.”

“We fight our own battles,” said Coldri with hard emphasis.

“What I am about to tell you may force you to reconsider that, General. Pride, after all, must have its limits.” The jagul sighed. “One of my ships has been conducting deep-range scans of stars in the sector as part of a scientific program run by Professor Ico. They detected a vessel, Ministers. A starship of Tzenkethi design, caught by chance in their scan ratios.”

Keeve voiced the question on everyone’s mind. “It’s coming here?”

Kell nodded. “It is. Based on the projected speed and course of the marauder, it will reach the Bajor system in less than five hours.”

Coldri was instantly on his feet and speaking into a handheld communicator unit. Jas caught the words “scramble” and “raiders.”

“I have contacted Central Command and requested the assistance of any Cardassian cruisers in the area, but they will not get here in time.”

“You must have ships here,” said Kubus. “Warships.”

The jagul shook his head. “Only transports and light escorts, Minister. Nothing that is a match for a Tzenkethi marauder.”

Lale nodded grimly. “We will place the planet on full alert, gather what ships we can to form a blockade. If the Tzenkethi come to strike us once more, then we will meet their aggression with all the force we can muster.” He surveyed the room. “I would suggest, ladies and gentlemen, that if you have the means, you should seek shelter for your families and make your districts aware of the threat that now faces us.”

The chamber emptied faster than Jas had ever seen happen before, but he remained in his chair, once or twice buffeted by the figures that passed him, the ministers eager to remove themselves from a building that would most likely be a major target for any orbital attack.

When he looked up he saw Kubus Oak standing across from him, watching him with a measuring gaze. “Holza,” said the other man. “This is a time to be strong, my friend, you understand?”

Jas got to his feet. “A moment ago you were as frightened as the rest of us. Now you seem calm.”

Kubus sniffed. “If the Tzenkethi are coming, they’ll find nothing to shoot at in Qui’al. And what ships of mine are in-system will be gone within the hour. I’ll have little to lose.”

“And you’ll be on one of those ships?” Jas snapped. “To stand in safety and return only when the dust has settled?”

“I can’t have myself put in harm’s way.” He smiled, as if the idea were comical to him. “Think, Holza, think. This, no matter how tragic, is an opportunity. The intelligent man turns that to his advantage.”

“You disgust me,” said Jas.

Kubus’s face turned stony. “Save some of that judgment for yourself, Minister. Don’t let the woman’s death give you some sudden growth of conscience.”

Jas could find no words and glared at the other man in impotent rage.

“Yes,” Kubus sneered. “You may hate me now, but you won’t step from the path at my side. You can’t. You lack the insight to do it.” He came closer and tapped Jas on the shoulder. To any observer, it would have looked like a friendly gesture of support. “You have only a short time before news of the Tzenkethi incursion breaks around the planet. Instead of staring at me, I’d suggest you use the time to get your family to somewhere remote, somewhere safe.” He grinned. “After all, in the chaos that follows an attack on our planet, who could say what might happen to them?”

Kubus walked away, leaving Jas alone. With shaking hands, Jas drew a communicator from his pocket and activated a link that would connect him with Korto city.

Orange fingers of sunlight were creeping over the horizon as Darrah turned the police flyer onto a final approach, lining up to touch down on the port’s landing pads. He felt bone tired and thick-throated, a chill inside him even though he had dried himself down and changed into the nondescript flight suit in the aircraft’s deck locker. He concentrated on the work of flying, but he was troubled. Gar had refused to be drawn on his ordeal and disappeared into the Kendra Monastery the moment they had touched down; and on the flight back to Korto, the Cardassian Pa’Dar had been equally uncommunicative. Rather than return to the port with him, the scientist had asked Darrah to drop him off at the enclave outside the city. Darrah had no reason not to agree, but the alien did not seem interested in thanks for his help.

The storm was gone now, passed out toward the ocean and diminishing, and beneath the flyer the streets of Korto were still wet, shimmering like dark stone. Darrah blinked hard, his eyes rough with fatigue. He thought of Karys and the bed he had abandoned to rescue Osen. It seemed like a world away, as if he’d been gone for days. “I just want to get back,” he said aloud. He’d put the flyer down and then requested someone else to pilot him back to his house. After the night he’d had, it was the least he deserved.

It wasn’t until he climbed out of the flyer, the engines winding down in a falling whine, that Darrah realized something was wrong. The port’s alert lamps were flashing and there were men running back and forth. Over the noise of the flyer, if he strained to hear it, Darrah could pick out the sirens of police ground units.

He was halfway down the gantry to the port control building when Proka caught up with him. He had a steaming mug of thick brown fluid in his hand. Raktajino,spiced with slivers of kava.Darrah had little taste for the Klingon beverage, except when he needed a hard caffeine hit to keep him on his feet.

“You’re going to want this,” said Proka. The look he gave Darrah was not promising.

“Something very bad is happening,” said Darrah. It wasn’t a question. Proka’s face was answer enough.

“Worse than you know.” He handed the inspector a hand communicator.

Darrah raised it to his ear. “This is Darrah,” he said warily.

“Inspector.” Jas Holza’s voice was tight with tension. “Don’t talk, just listen. Get to the Naghai Keep and collect my wife and my sons. Take them immediately to my villa. You are to stop for nothing, you are to talk to no one, do you understand?”

“Sir,” he said, and the word was laced with the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him, “I don’t know if I can—”

“Just do it!” roared the minister. “I don’t argue with Ke’lora,do you understand me? Do what you’re told, do your job!I don’t want to hear a word from you unless it is to tell me they are safe, is that clear?”

Darrah felt a cold burn of anger at the slight. Jas had never invoked the inferiority of Darrah’s D’jarrabefore, and now that he had done it the lawman felt irritated and disappointed; but none of that showed in his next words. “Yes, sir. I’m on my way.” He snapped the communicator off and glared at Proka as they climbed back into the flyer. “Safe? What the kosstis he so worked up about? Safe from what?”

Darrah listened with growing alarm as Proka explained the priority message that had come over the general Militia channel just minutes before Darrah had landed at Korto. An attack was coming, and the planet was going to a maximum state of alert; but by then they were already airborne and it was too late for him to get a call through to Karys and the children.

16

The marauder came in toward Bajor’s orbit from high above the plane of the ecliptic, dropping down in a fast, near-light-speed approach across the rim of the Denorios Belt. The ship’s commander was canny, using the natural dispersal effect of the plasma phenomenon to mask his approach. The flotilla of Space Guard assault vessels and impulse raiders had little time to respond, but they were well-trained men and women, and it was their home that was at stake. They did not shirk from the engagement. All hails were, as expected, ignored by the Tzenkethi ship.

The first shots were fired with Bajor at their backs, the small two-man raiders leading the interception. The few pilots who survived the engagement would later remark in debriefings how the warship, easily two or three times the mass of a heavy assault vessel, made punishing turns that would have shredded the hull of a Bajoran craft. They outnumbered the marauder, but still they were outmatched.

The darkness became a web of phaser fire and missile trails as General Coldri’s crews threw up a wall of destructive energy, fighting to cordon the invader and force it back into open space.

The Tzenkethi ship took hit after hit, but they were glancing blows that the streamlined hull shrugged off, deflector shields glittering and denying anything but the most cursory damage. The marauder’s main armament threw lances of searing white light against the Bajorans; impulse raiders caught in the nimbus were blown apart or sent tumbling, their control systems and crew flash-burned to ashes. The alien ship turned and avoided every attempt by the Guard to converge fire upon it, answering with shots from secondary disruptor cannon arrays. Assault ships were hit with pinpoint attacks that blew out power grids or targeted their warp cores, leaving them dead in space or drifting out of control toward the Denorios Belt. The gunners aboard the Tzenkethi ship seemed to know exactly, precisely where to hit them, rendering the Cardassian-made drives fitted aboard the Bajoran ships inoperative.

At last, weathering some minor damage but still combat capable, the marauder slowed to pass through the disruption it had caused in the Bajoran intercept force, as if the ship’s commander were evaluating his work. No killing shots came, no executioner’s blows; the disabled ships were left behind and the marauder moved on, turning over Bajor’s terminator toward the sunward side of the planet. Unopposed, it dropped into a low orbit, turning vertical to present its prow and the plasma cannon emitter to the unprotected surface of the world.

“Status?” said Dukat, shifting on the alien command dais.

The glinn at the oddly proportioned helm control turned to face him. “We are ready to move to phase two of the operation at your discretion, Dal.”

Dukat nodded, a faint sneer on his lips as he examined a screen showing the fallout from the engagement. The marauder was an impressive ship, of that there was no doubt, agile and lethal. It was a pity that he could not return with it to Cardassia Prime as a prize, and he made a mental note to ensure that as much data on the craft was gathered as possible before the operation came to an end. The marauder had made short work of the Bajorans, and that had been in the hands of a crew of aliens inexperienced with the vessel. Dukat wondered what it would be like to oppose a Tzenkethi ship at the pinnacle of its capacity. In comparison, these Bajorans were poor sport; they fought in space as if they were still in sailboats on the surface of their oceans. They lacked the hard-won battle experience of the Cardassian navy. He shook his head. “If that was the best they had to offer, we should have invaded this planet five years ago.”

“With respect, sir, the Bajorans weren’t using Cardassian-surplus warp drives five years ago,” offered the woman.

“Today, our tactical advantage was much greater.”

Dukat made a derisive sound. “You give them too much credit.” He glanced at her. “What are they doing?”

“Regrouping, it appears,” she replied, reading what she could from the encrypted Space Guard communications networks. “As you planned, the ships that were neutralized are clouding the channels with emergency beacons. There are other defense groups returning to the planet at high warp from the outer edges of the system, but they will not arrive in time to interrupt phase two.”

Dukat stood up, looking at the arc of the planet represented on a dozen of the small console screens. “We proceed, then.” He drew a padd from a sealed pocket and activated it with a tap of his finger. The device presented him with a string of surface coordinates and firing protocols. There was nothing else, no indication of what was being targeted or why it had been chosen for destruction. He relayed the numbers to the glinn, and when the job was done he deactivated the padd. Immediately, the device went hot in his hands and emitted a puff of acrid black smoke. The internal working fused into a mass of useless matter, and he grimaced at the object before he tossed it to the deck. The Obsidian Order do so enjoy their little flourishes of drama.

“Targets locked in. Plasma reservoir is stable. We are ready to fire.”

And now, all of them were to play their part in a different kind of theater. Dukat hesitated, looking inward. He searched within himself for the fragments of doubt that had surged to the surface of his thoughts at Ajir. I have come this far.The lives he had taken in the prosecution of this mission up to this point had been soldiers. Once he gave his word of command, it would be civilians that would be put to the sword.

Dukat studied Bajor, and his hand came up to a screen to trace the line of the planet’s curvature. He looked, and found no uncertainty. It was regrettable, but there were sacrifices to be made, and they would not be the lives of his people, his family. Never again. I will do what I must.

He gave the order to fire.

The first bolt fell from the sky in a brilliant streak, atomizing the thin clouds over Korto, a rod of incandescent energy that drew thunder behind as it ripped air molecules apart.

The polarized windows of the police flyer weren’t enough to stop the bright flare from hitting Darrah and Proka like a physical blow, and both men reflexively clutched at their faces, shielding their eyes. Darrah saw the hazy image of his bones through the flesh of his fingers, heard the screech and howl of the flyer’s controls as an electromagnetic backwash lanced through them.

“Fires take me, what was that?” Proka spat, blinking furiously.

Darrah ignored him, fighting through streaming eyes to hold the aircraft in the sky.

The concussion hit them next, buffeting the craft in a burning updraft. Proka stabbed a finger at the city; they were no more than twenty kellipates distant from the Korto limits. A huge patch of the settlement down toward the docks was burning. Clouds of vapor roiled overhead.

“Steam from the river,” said Darrah. “They hit the low districts.” He thought of the stacker blocks where he had once lived, somewhere inside that inferno.

“We’ve got to get on the ground,” snapped Proka. “We can’t risk getting caught in—” He balked and pointed at the sky. “Another one!”

Darrah was ready this time, and covered his face with the meat of his forearm. The hurricane scream of the energy bolts struck again, and this time there were more of them, hammering at the air. The flyer fought against him, desperately trying to throw itself into the ground, but Darrah resisted, riding the shock waves even as the wind shear ripped at the hull, shredding the stabilator winglets.

When he looked up again, the entire city was shrouded in smoke, a spreading black cloud pooling in the shallow valley beneath the hill districts. Only the peak and the Naghai Keep were clearly visible, rising above the spreading darkness. The entire attack had lasted less than a minute.

Darrah slammed the throttle forward to full power and threw the ship toward Korto, aiming the nose toward the hills.

“Where are you going?” Proka asked.

“Job’s done,” he snapped back. “We got Jas’s family out, now I’m going to get mine!”

The constable didn’t reply. He was craning his neck to see up into the ash-smeared sky. A new storm of killing fire lanced overhead, the angle from the attacker in orbit too shallow to strike the city again.

“They’re targeting something to the east,” said Proka.

“Not the enclave…”

Darrah’s voice caught in his throat. “The Kendra Shrine.”

The cloisters of the monastery were filled with prayers and panic in equal measure. Built high into the hillside, the ancient campus commanded an excellent view of the provinces to the west. It was with silent terror that the novices, prylars, and ranjens assembled for dawn mass on the square were witness to the streaks of sunfire falling from the sky to strike the distant blur of Korto’s conurbation. The sounds of the detonations were only now reaching them, the shock wave rumbles rattling the ornamental stainedglass windows in the halls.

Then the first blast fell on Kendra, hitting the compound of service sheds and habitats for the visiting penitents at the base of the hill. The concussion turned the ancient glass to molten bullets, the plume of hellish flame behind it erasing the cluster of stone buildings in a heartbeat. The next shot came and tore the tallest towers from the high levels of the monastery. A construction that had stood on the surface of Bajor for thousands of years, that had weathered wars and famines and storms beyond counting, now cracked and crumbled under its own weight, stone breaking with a mournful cry that carried down the valley. No more strikes followed; there were other targets scattered across Bajor’s dayside to be prosecuted. No more were needed at Kendra. The damage was done, fires and collapse spreading with roaring, snarling fury.

The sound made Vedek Arin freeze where he stood, halfway down the length of the grand corridor toward the shrine. The polished floor beneath his feet shook as if wracked by an earthquake. His calling as a servant of the Prophets warred with his instinct for self-preservation. The Orb…Dare he leave it to whatever fate was to come, trusting in his gods to preserve it so that he might flee—or should he enter the shrine and carry out the ark holding the Tear, risking his life to venture inside and perhaps be buried alive? A way behind him, a huge chandelier made of brass and crystal tore free of the ceiling and struck the ground with a colossal crash. Arin’s terror leapt a hundredfold and he gaped in panic, rooted to the spot by his fear. He took a hesitant step toward the shrine; he registered that the doors were hanging open. The priest staggered forward, and his foot touched a rent in the floor where a stone tile should have been. He pitched forward, crying out, and he struck the stonework hard. The impact dizzied him, pain blurring his sight. “Prophets…” he called out. “Aid me…”

Strong hands dragged him to his feet, and the vedek blinked. There was blood in his eyes from a streaming cut on his forehead that sang with pain. Cascades of dust and falling tiles were impacting all around him. “The cloister…”

“It’s coming down, Vedek!” He recognized the voice, saw the man who was holding him up.

“Osen?” He staggered. “What…Were you inside the shrine?”

“I came after you!” insisted the ranjen. “We have to get out!”

“But the Tear of the Prophets is still in there!” cried Arin. “We can’t leave the Orb of Truth!”

Gar was dragging him away. “The Prophets will protect it,” he shouted over the grind of stone on stone, “and we must protect ourselves!”

Great chunks of the walls and the pillars supporting them were impacting all around them now, and finally Arin surrendered to his fear, letting the young priest drag him away, out of the building.

Outside, the vedek stumbled and fell to his knees, turning in time to see the monastery groan like a dying man and collapse in on itself in a final tide of noise and gray-brown dust. The clouds of powdered stone and ash washed up and engulfed the monks, coating them in the cloying powder, painting them the color of ghosts. Arin looked up into the sky and saw white fire falling toward the horizon, in the direction of Janir and Ashalla.

In Dahkur, dawn had still to break across the city, but the streets were choked with people and vehicles desperate to flee the conurbation. Streetscreens were showing live broadcasts from the destruction wrought in Korto, and the citizenry was panicked.