“Gods behave,” cursed Fourstaile, breaking the silence. The stout woman walked with Lyrua, picking at her shoulder where her arm had been. “Torfinn! Where is Captain Torfinn?” She spun around, looking for Torfinn with an urgency Lyrua had never seen in the calm woman.

He came running up from ahead of them, sidling through the groups of Spellwards that marched on every side. Ove landed next to her just as he arrived. The Captain matched pace with Highward Fourstaile.

“Highward?” Torfinn said, his salute as crooked as his charred tunic. How did a man attuned to Fire manage to get so much of it on himself?

“Where is Lyskilde? She should hear this as well.” The Highward spun again, screaming Lyskilde’s name. Then, after a moment of thought, she added another name to call. Lyrua did not know who ‘Johnny’ was, but she was eager to learn what the fuss was about. All she knew was Fourstaile’s head had suddenly begun wiggling, and now she was bothered and summoning Wards by name.

She turned to Ove, who was running her hand through Athen’s hair as he lay asleep on Lyrua’s back. “What happened? Where is Lander and Toldremand?”

“They killed that shrill,” said Ove. “If you watch Lander closely, you can see that he got hurt on his leg,” she squawked quietly in laughter. “Not badly, but he will pretend he didn’t get hurt at all as he limps about with out the mana to fix it.” She cocked her head at Lyskilde as she arrived with another woman. “The shrill said some thing odd to Lander before he mashed its brains. I bet we are about to find out what.”

The two women saluted Fourstaile, and she spoke immediately. “I have just received a message from Highward Toldremand, via Captain Gottfred: ‘Beware the glass in the dust’. A dubious warning from the dying breath of one of the shrills, but obviously I mean to take it quite seriously.” Both Lyskilde and the woman she assumed was Johnny blanched, and Lyrua was beginning to feel annoyed at being left out.

“What does that mean?” she asked, “and why would we trust a shrill?”

“It means there is a dracolisk in the Dust Quarter,” Fourstaile scratched at her missing arm again, “and we would trust a shrill because they only speak to the living if they believe their words will cause harm. In this case, I believe the harmed are not intended to be us, but those who brought them here. The shrills did not come here to die, they came to feast and cultivate their strength. They were denied that, and it died wishing death upon their collaborators by betraying their ambush. The shrills’ twisted optimism may have led it to believe we would even destroy each other.

“As for the dracolisks, I am the worst one to ask.” Fourstaile turned her flowery head to Lyskilde and Johnny.

“Gods above,” Johnny said. “I’m dying to know how they would even get a dracolisk. Would they bribe him? How would they keep him secret?”

Fourstaile shook her head, “Those questions are not productive now.” What remained of the once lively vines and perky leaves of her hair now sagged weakly under the weight of dried blood. Her three remaining chrysanths were pale and withered.

“If they have a dracolisk,” said Lyskilde, sounding almost as unconvinced as Johnny, “we cannot have everyone grouped up. One good look and every one of us is a glass effigy.” She tugged her collar nervously. “I’ll describe the strategy simply. Four small teams in a diamond formation around him. Whoever he’s looking at focuses on not getting glassed, which means staying at exactly the distance of the length of his claws so he will miss if he spins, and defending against the glass with Water and the tongues with Fire. Whoever is behind him gets on his back and rids him of his prismatic scale so he can be killed.”

“You certainly make it sound simple,” Fourstaile said. “How many Wards do you need?”

“Without knowing his size, it’s hard to say.” She rubbed her chin with the curve of her hook in thought. Despite the night’s violence, the hook was clean. “The one I killed was as tall as a shrill. You would want eight Wards with all their mana, and attuned to Water or Fire.”

“That many? For someone you could kill on your own?” Fourstaile tapped her foot. She seemed to be losing patience. She must regret that she was the only Spellward who had not patrolled the Glass Desert. She hated being ignorant more than Lyrua did.

Lyskilde seemed to be somewhere else for a moment, staring off at nothing.

“Unless you know someone who can cast Absence of Illumination, Heat Death Ray, or the like, safely.” Johnny cut in, “The idea is to keep everyone alive.” She eyed Lyskilde’s hook from behind her frayed brown curls. “And… whole. Water or Earth are the best for blocking their vision so they can’t glass you, but obviously there is little earth in Manataklos, which makes Water easier. All the Wards know the strategy though. We just need eight with mana.”

“We could make do with four Water casters,” Lyskilde added, coming back to the conversation, “but I’d want to have at least sixteen Wards.”

A sound came from the distance like someone calling out and Lyskilde turned her head. Lyrua strained to listen to both as the Highward continued speaking, but the noise had already ceased. It did not sound like danger, and that was likely why Fourstaile ignored it, until the company started to slow down, and the florafolk teetered on the tips of her toes to see what was going on ahead.

“We have twelve fresh Spellwards on the way from the King’s Arch,” the Highward said, landing on her heels. “The others will be out in the city… cleaning up.” She turned to Torfinn, “Send the twelve most exhausted Wards you can find to bed.” The Captain saluted her and stopped walking to allow his men at the back of the march to meet him.

Fourstaile quickened her pace, nudging through groups of Spellwards with her vacant shoulder. Johnny and Lyskilde followed her, so Lyrua hurried to keep up in spite of Athen weighing her down.

“I’m dead if I so much as step off a stair the wrong way, so it will be the two of you, our reinforcements, and Captain Gottfred.” Fourstaile turned back to look at them, but lingered on Lyrua as if trying to decide whether she approved of her following closely.

The company of Spellwards stopped before Lyrua reached the front, and when she arrived there, she finally saw the Dust Arch, a bastion in the night, with just a hint of dawn playing off of its topmost edges. Beneath it, Lander stood carrying his metal expansions in the form of two massive blades, and he did seem to subtly favour one leg as he walked towards them. He did a good job hiding it, she may not have noticed if Ove had not pointed it out. Without his armour, he kept himself wrapped up in his cloak as if it served as a substitute.

She was incredibly relieved to see him safe, and Toldremand and Gottfred as well. If only Lander were in better shape, and less splattered with blood, she might have given him a hug. And perhaps asked him to carry Athen for a while. Gottfred stared off absentmindedly as though listening to the call of his bed, but Toldremand looked like closing his eyes too long would put him to sleep for the winter.

“Toldremand!” Fourstaile shouted. “We will have Gottfred, Lyskilde, Johnny, and the twelve reinforcements from Captain Volmer’s company engage the dracolisk. If it exists.”

“Slow down, Four.” Toldremand rolled his shoulders, “My body aches like a shrill is chewing it. What hour is it?”

Fourstaile, who was usually quick to think and act, hesitated. Dawn was upon them, the golden rays of the sun already washed the towers in brilliant light. Realisation crashed over them like a wave and the Spellwards turned their heads. The monstrous Citadel glowed in the light of the new day, suspended by the seven Arches above the city basin. The impossibly high Tower of Manataklos directed all attention to the heavens.

“It is time for the Bell,” Lyrua said, catching on. But the front of the Dust Arch was one of the worst places to be if they did not want intimate experience with the source of the district’s name.

“The Bell!” Fourstaile bellowed. “Spellwards away!” She swung her arm back the way they came and they all turned and launched into a sprint. It seemed silly for folk who did not baulk at shrills to flee from dust now. Not that Lyrua had any desire to wear a coat of the stuff either.

Lander dropped his expansions in the street and took off as though his fathers had caught him gambling again. One hand on his tricorn, he bolted past the Spellwards with no mind for his injured leg.

Lyrua focused on the Tower as they ran. They had gone barely twenty feet before it dropped, sliding smoothly into the centre of the Citadel. It was a hundred foot drop, but the Tower was so tall that the difference was barely distinguishable by the eye.

As it fell it dragged the massive chains that linked it to the bell towers and every sound in the city receded and vanished like a blanket caught underneath. It was quieter than a winter night as the tower slammed whatever lay inside, and a pulverising reverberation shook the city.

The Seven Bells shattered the dawn silence in succession, Gabreel’s bell in the Church quarter was a high pitched chime that always gave Lyrua goosebumps. The sombre clang of Faaldet’s followed, and Lyrua felt Athen stirring on her back from the clamour. The bells ended with Quareel’s aggressive gong in the Military District, and the natural sounds of the city returned.

Now the dust would come, ejected by the Dust Quarter’s bell tower through a breach made by arrogant nobility with no regard for the folk who lived there. And it would swallow them. Her Spellwards were too exhausted, too drained to do anything about it. So a thick coat of dust at best, and a deadly case of dustlung at worst, was their reward for persevering through the night, for protecting her, her son and her unborn child. No, she could not allow it. She stopped running. She would not allow it.

“My Lady!” Ove called, fluttering to a stop and spinning to face her.

Before she could speak again, Lyrua bent to let Athen off her back. His eyes were beginning to open.

“Take him,” she commanded.

Ove took Athen and cradled him in her wings, with her cloak flipped over her head to shelter them. Some of the Spellwards moved as if to aid her in some way, but Ove waved them back.

Lyrua had practised spells her whole life. Longer than the Spellwards. She was weaker because she never did anything for herself. She never had to protect anyone. She rarely felt the rotting, aching agony of failure. She allowed her power to atrophy instead of develop. Now, she thought, it may not be enough, but she would try anyway.

An avalanche of dust exploded from the Arch, and she focused her mind. She envisioned her soul as a jar, and her mana was sweet honey milk. She drew it all. She mixed it with what little mana she could pull from the light of the dawn. She needed something large. Solid, like her barrier spell. But she did not have time for that. A web was more efficient. She stretched out threads of Light like the thin nets used by the night patrols until it covered all of them, and the Light casters who saw what she was doing corralled all the Wards tightly together so she could cover a smaller space.

Then she expanded the threads of her net to stretch like a sheet and seal the gaps. She wanted to think of something to say, to fulfil the Verbal component, but could not. But she did remember Toldremand. He forgot his spell. Just as she had forgotten the component… The Sacrifice.

Lyrua raised her arms as she completed the spell and sacrificed her memory of it. The dome snapped solid. She winced as it fell an inch to the ground and cracked along the bottom. Part of the side crumbled and it rested lopsided. She had carelessly made it in the air.

When the dust hit the barrier it burst into a pallid cloud. Tiny bits of debris pinged off the barrier, leaving small cracks on the top and front as their surroundings were coated in the dry substance.

Numbness in her legs made them fold on their own and she collapsed on the street. Her head reeled from the exertion and her breaths were ragged. Her arms tired, so she lowered one to lean on. The barrier began to fray at the edges but Gottfred took the burden from her. She let her arm fall to her side. Dust had ceased pouring out of the Arch and the city was now quiet. The right sort of quiet. Still, it would be a few minutes before the dust settled.

Gottfred’s mana soon depleted and the barrier vanished.

Athen stared at her, mouth agape with wonder. He squirmed out of Ove’s arms and crawled the short distance across the street, throwing his arms around her shoulders. “You never told me you were so powerful, mother! You protected everyone!”

“You see why I tell you to practice?” Her cheeks were growing hot. All the Spellwards were looking at her. They seemed glad. They smiled, they leaned on each other amicably. Despite everything that happened tonight. It made her feel hopeful.

“That’s our Queen!” Toldremand said. Many of the Wards echoed the sentiment cheerfully. “Sits around letting everyone else do the work most of the time, but she’s on her feet when she has the confidence to believe she can make a difference.” Not so many of the Wards spoke up for that, and she was glad they did not. Toldremand howled with laughter, with his hairy arms crossed before his chest.

“It was only dust,” she said defensively. “And stop calling me Queen.”

“And we’re only Wards,” Gottfred said, brushing a bit of the settling dust off his arms, “but you shielded us anyway. So as I said before: we will not.”

Lyrua sighed. She could make them stop, if she truly wanted. Perhaps Ove was not the only one who could read her.