The scouts were right. They had just enough men to stretch a perimeter around the Quarry. One with a thousand gaps easily exploited. The rest of the Ophidians were consolidated at the top of the ramparts. The lifts were the key here. Any damage would be detrimental to what comes after. Ashur split his Rangers in half, each circling around opposite ends of the Quarry. They picked off patrol after patrol along the way. Both Ranger parties closed in on the ramparts where the Ophidians relaxed. The skeleton crew lazed around playing cards or chitchatting. They were still unware of the imminent attack.
Ashur unholstered the flare gun at his thigh and pointed it straight up. One squeeze of the trigger and the fiery rocket shot high into the sky for all to see. No more than a second later the Ranger Division moved in. Their pincer attack took the Ophidians off-guard. Ashur swept through their ranks, his khopesh carving a path for his Rangers to follow. The sky above rumbled something fierce. The looming clouds crackled almost as soon as the flare entered their mist. Scarlet lightning arced out from where the flare had entered as if it had triggered a detonation. One that painted the battle in bright shades of red.
Each colorful flash reflected off Ashur's polished blade. These Ophidians had grown too used to driving trucks and beating exhausted slaves. There was a time, back when they served different masters, that he feared them. Only now, cutting through them like butter did Ashur truly see Ira's genius. She found a use for brutes such as these and still found a way to dull their claws.
A flipped table and all its contents went spinning through the air followed by a tossed ranger. Ashur buckled down to avoid the table. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a face tattooed Ophidian charging him from behind. The glint of a dagger shined in the assassin's grip. Ashur caught his attacker's wrist and squeezed. His hoary strength overpowered the younger man, forcing him to drop the dagger. Ashur slammed his forehead into the Ophidian's nose, feeling the bone break against his forehead. The wannabe assassin toppled to the ground.
More Ophidian's fell by the second, some even fleeing though not very far. Ashur had anticipated such a retreat and had marksman posted in the trees, picking off those that ran. The battle raged at its most intense near the lifts. The Foreman wielded his pickaxe with one hand and a ranger in the other. He had the poor man by his leg and swung him as if her were a toy. One crossbow bolt scraped the Foreman's bald head and another buried itself in his shoulder. Roaring and spitting pink phlegm the Foreman tossed the ranger at his companions knocking them down like bowling pins. He moved to finish them, but Ashur's Lieutenant jumped in his path. Her twin short swords slashed out in a protective semicircle.
Ashur tried to help but he was blocked off by a pair of cutlass wielding Ophidians. They advanced on him, slashing and poking for weak spots. The pair were experienced and worked well together. He might've known they're names once upon a time. Ashur traded blow for blow with them, both depleting each other's aura. They might have gained the upper hand if not for fatigue. It was obvious they weren't used to a fight that lasted longer the first few strikes. Ashur on the other hand controlled his breathing, allowing him to close on both his winded opponents.
The arc of his khopesh was neck level. The first Ophidian dodged underneath it, but his partner wasn't so lucky. The man's head toppled from his shoulders upon hitting the ground. Enraged, the last Ophidian made a desperate all for nothing stab at Ashur's heart. The attack left the man vulnerable. Ashur's khophesh bit into the Ophidian's side deep enough to nick the spine, but the man's cutlass pierced through the fleshy part of Ashur's body below the clavicle. An unfair exchange. One Ashur was willing to accept. He wrenched his blade free and shoved the dying Ophidian out of his sight. The cutlass pulled free from his shoulder as its master fell.
With them out of the way Ashur returned his focus to where the Foreman was raging. The brute's pickaxe had impaled the Lieutenant through the leg, hooking her like a fish. Her pierced thigh was torn to ruin leaving a bloody path where she had been tossed around and dragged with every swing. Despite delivering crippling strikes the Foreman persisted. He swung at a ranger and the Lieutenant was finally thrown free of the pickaxe's snare, her trajectory heading towards the ledge of the Quarry.
Ashur sprinted for the ramparts, his heart beating violently. He jumped up and caught the woman midair before she could fall to her demise. The landing was rough. Ashur held her up so that he alone skidded across the stone ground. Color had drained from her scraped face and out her leg. He stroked her hair and whispered her name, but she was unresponsive in his arms.
"Medic!" cried Ashur.
They arrived in answer to his call. A flock of three. Their hands stained from those they've already tended to. Ashur left her in their care.
The fighting had died down. Only the Foreman remained standing. A squad of Rangers surrounded him. Like a cornered Ursa he lashed out at any who came close. Ashur stalked towards him while he was distracted with the others. He leapt up, swinging down at an angle. The blade slashed across the Foreman's back from shoulder plate to kidney. The slash might as well have been a paper cut for the large man swung around without a second thought. He caught Ashur with his forearm and sent the Ranger Captain tumbling through the air. Ashur rolled in the gravel. Several others rushed to his aid, but he waved them off.
With a signal from Ashur, a pair of his best marksman shot specialized crossbow bolts each with a long length of rope attached to their nocks. Both bolts pierced a leg each. Their tips extended into four spikes like that of a grappling hook. The Foreman staggered. Ashur moved to the marksman's side and helped tug on the rope. The spikes from the specialized bolts dug into the Foreman's flesh, bringing the beast of a man down to his knees. Several others moved in to finish the job.
"Wait," ordered Ashur, "I want him alive."
The Foreman turned towards the Captain, his large shoulders heaving up and down. "Captain Ashur, you're making a mistake."
"No, I'm correcting one." He gestured to his Rangers, "Restrain him and the others that are still breathing."
He turned in the direction of the lifts where the medics tended to the Lieutenant. One of them met his eye and shook his head. Grief welled in his throat. Ashur stifled the cry and forced it down. The acidic sorrow settled in his stomach like bile, burning a hole in his gut. She wouldn't be the only one. Many lives would be lost this day both here and in the Mud District. As his Rangers went to work cleaning up the scene he walked towards the lifts and stood at the rampart's edge. Above him, the restless storm kicked like a baby disturbed from sleep. Down below an untold number of faces stared up at Ashur. The sight of them filled his chest.
"You're injured." Said one of the medics behind him.
"See to the others first. How many did we lose?"
"Seven dead." Said the medic, his tone hoarse. "More than twenty wounded. Captain, what do we do now?"
Ashur stared a while longer before responding, "Proceed with the plan. We move tier by tier starting from the bottom. Remember, there are wolves amongst them. We must be careful in weeding them out. By nightfall I want the bottom levels emptied and gathered up here."
"What for, sir?"
"Because, for some, we will have to explain the meaning of the word freedom."
The clamor of combat brought everyone out from hiding in their caverns. Mole rubbed the dust from his goggle lenses and squinted up at the figure above. The silhouette of a man stood on the rampart's edge looking down at them all. A crimson storm brewed in the clouds beyond him. He was too far away to make out any details, yet he was clearly visible against the red sky. Mole realized with a start that it was the same image he saw in his dreams. The figure stood as if a god and with a single hand gesture would set them all free. Mole had assumed himself in that role. He was wrong and glad for it.
Distant tremors buzzed beneath their soles. The earth groaned as if woken from a deep sleep. Then as sudden as the answering of thunder to lightning the floor shook. The auction house pitched to one side, throwing people off their feet. Anything that wasn't bolted to the floor slid and tumbled down the angled slope. Confused screams were swallowed by the thunderous breaking of the street. Its roar washed over them, spilling its destruction out like a crashed wave.
Ira Glass blinked black spots from her vision. Seeing double, she rolled onto her side and pushed herself to her hands and knees. The back of her head ached. She touched the spot where it hurt ever so gingerly and her fingers came away wet with blood. The entire wall where she landed had become a heap of people, furniture, and all the items up for auction. By the look of it she was lucky. People were strewn about in a tangle of limbs struggling to untie themselves. The nearest person had their legs pinned against the wall by the auctioneer's bulky desk. The woman's face contorted in pain. Ira crawled towards her.
"Are you alright?" she asked, having to shout above the rabble.
"Help me!" Pleaded the trapped woman.
Ira took hold of the side she could grasp and pulled. The desk was heavier than it seemed. Ira could barely budge it, but she kept trying. The woman feebly pushed at the desk, sobbing all the while. Her cries were one of many that filled the tilted auction house with an otherworldly pitch.
"Ms. Glass!" Alvaro, her bodyguard who accompanied Ira into the auction house scrambled over the bodies of others to reach her. He appeared unhurt from the fall. "Let me get you out of here."
"No." said Ira more harshly than intended, "Help me with her."
"But, Ms. Glass-"
"Lift." Alvaro obeyed like he always had, loyal as he was. His questioning her only came out of concern for her own protection.
The two of them together lifted the bulky desk off the woman's legs. With a grunt, Alvaro pushed it over into an empty corner. The woman sagged to floor, clutching at her broken thighs. Broken they may have been, but at least they weren't bleeding. Ira knelt to further help the woman but Alvaro took hold of her shoulder.
"Ms. Glass, please…" His puppy eyes were begging. Ira saw that he was not indifferent to the suffering of the others. Alvaro merely valued her life over them. She could not fault him for that. Ira relented after seeing others amongst the heap helping those seriously injured. She followed Alvaro, both of them climbing on their fingers and toes up the tilted floor and to a shattered window that provided them escape. The big bodyguard heaved her up and over. Ira Glass dropped into the street and lurched forward into Ward's arms. The grizzled bodyguard took her weight as easily if she were a child.
"Are you hurt?" asked Ward his concern plain in his voice.
Without answering she looked beyond him. Thick dust choked the air like a fog. People emerged from the haze shambling as if lost. The whole Bazaar had been torn asunder. Its ruptured ground creaked and cracked as it settled into place. The few wandering people she saw were shell-shocked mute. Compared to the typical humdrum of the Bazaar it was disturbingly quiet albeit for the occasional piercing cry for help. Every agonized scream escaped from the smog as if it were the fleeing echoes of a nightmare within.
Ira had left Ward to guard outside the auction house. Like Alvaro the man appeared uninjured as if immune to the chaos around them. With every pain lanced throb from the back of her head Ira regretted not learning to harness her own aura. Noting her blood matted hair Ward moved to clean the injury. Using a handkerchief, he always kept in his breast pocket, he dabbed the back of her head after wetting the cloth with his water canteen.
Ira pushed his tender hands away, "What's happened?"
"I don't know." He confessed, "But the whole city, it's-We got to get you out of here. It's not safe."
Ira turned to where some poor merchants were crawling up from the fallen street like corpses from their graves. Her mind raced. Thoughts of the people, the districts, and Oren swirled. A distressing fear ate away at her from the inside. The memory of her conversation with Augustus Clementine hissed its presence. I won't stop even if I have to bury this city in its own blood. His last words to her. She knew then as she did now the veracity of his rage. But that's all it was…Rage. Hatred. They fueled him as they once did her. Yet, she stomped out that fire. She knew she did. Spool's death would've left him broken, unless-
"Ira."
Both Ward and Alvaro were looking at her with worried expressions. Ira hid what fear she had from her face. They didn't need to see that. She wouldn't insult their true faith in her by giving cause to doubt it.
"To the Citadel then." She ordered.
On they went. Ward and Alvaro flanked her sides. Their natural positions. Her left and right hands. Word and Will. Ira trusted them more than she ever did Oren. Her own blood. They had been with her since the beginning. Ward served her father before her. He had always been loyal to the Glass household. His support was the only reason her succession of her father didn't cause a schism in the family business. Alvaro was the first person committed to her outside the family business. Once belonging to a rival trading family, he pledged his service and loyalty when she helped the man avenge the assassins that butchered his own family. That act became a talent of hers, turning former enemies into allies.
As they walked Ira glimpsed the full extent of the destruction brought upon Refuge. Homes were destroyed. Roads splintered. People were panicked. City Guard rushed about in the confusion as if unsure what to do. She could hear the sirens of their police cars going off all around the city. Ira couldn't remember the last time she saw or heard of them. There had been little need for law enforcement in the city before the Mud District's uprising.
Would you go so far, Augustus? Too blindly lash out at all the city? The more she thought about it the more that possibility seemed real. Paranoia had become an old friend over the years and now it was back like a bad rash. The Trade District looked to have taken the brunt of the damage. At least compared to the Flower District. There was no telling the state of the Craft, Buffer, or Mud for that matter. But if they were any worse than the Trade then they would have had to be eradicated. Assuming that was not the case then in truth, what was hurt the most she valued the most. So rather than an indiscriminate act of terrorism, perhaps this was a calculated attack on her?
Attack with what? She knew that even if he wanted too, Augustus didn't have any means to wreak this much havoc. There were the crates of Dust he stole during his hit on Vulcan's truck delivery. They were enough to cause some damage, but nothing on this scale. How could it?
The cracks that ran along the main road of the Flower District raised the asphalt, creating a bumpy terrain to tread across. A passing car had swerved into the front of one of the casinos, breaking multiple slot machines, each spilling out piles of Lien. There were looters already picking the scene clean. Ira knew this to be an inevitability. In the wake of such careless destruction there are always those seeking to use it as a foothold. They will be dealt with in time. A squirrelly man with a banjo stood on top of the crashed car playing a screeching tune that filled the quiet district.
Alvaro sneered, "Leave it to the flower petals to try and make a song out of something like this."
Ward squinted at the looters flocking the crash site. "Teal will see them dealt with. He is a man who pays his debts with money or otherwise."
Ira stared at the banjo musician whose eyes tracked her as they passed by. Sharing a gap-toothed smile, he winked. Ahead of them the doors to the Bloom Club opened. Five suit garbed musicians stepped out, instruments in hand. In their lead, the young woman swung her baritone saxophone down so that she gripped the neck and held the bell pointed in their direction. A red glow radiated from the open keys of the instrument.
"Get down!" Warned Ira Glass as she dove for cover behind a parked Vulcan car.
Before she even hit the cement sidewalk a stream of fire roared to life from the saxophone's bell lips. The flames engulfed the other side of the car Ira hid behind. Alvaro and Ward shouted out in alarm but their words were lost in the racket of gunfire. The car shuddered from the blasts, its windows and side mirrors blowing apart.
Alvaro slid across the car hood and dropped down next to her behind the car. He had his Dust imbued pistol out and his hair was singed from the flamethrower's kiss.
"Run!" he screamed before standing to fire off a few rounds across the street. Alvaro knelt to reload, the movement practiced and efficient. He stood to return fire faster than his opponents anticipated judging by the startled yelps after each shot. Just as Ira was about to stand Alvaro was knocked down by a scattered blast to his chest. He stared straight up at the sky breathing slowly as if he were just winded. With each ragged breath, his shirt wept red.
Ira stared in disbelief, watching as the life drained from her friend's eyes. In one of the many pieces of broken car mirror Ira caught hint of a shape behind her. Grabbing Alvaro's pistol, she whirled around and put two ice shards in the banjo player's chest. The man dropped his assassin's blade which clattered onto the ground. He took hold of one shard and attempted to yank it free from his chest but the ice didn't move. The grimy street performer looked at her, his jaw hanging open as if he couldn't believe it. He teetered on his heels before falling straight back.
Two City Guard prowlers, their lights blaring, turned onto the bumpy street. Before they even opened their doors to get out both cars were engulfed in torrents of flame. Ira used that window of distraction and ran. Of the Fretless Siblings, the two saxophone women were keeping the City Guard busy. The red-faced trumpeter was on the ground with multiple icicles piercing his body. Ira had no idea if he was alive or not. Ward was still on his feet, grappling with the young drummer of the Fretless Siblings. The old man's daggers clashed against the youth's drumsticks. The exchange of strikes left the drummer on the ground bleeding from several slashes.
Ward moved to finish him off when the celloist's strings caught Ward by the throat like a garrote. The woman had been hiding behind a car for cover but emerged when her brother was in trouble. In her hand, she wielded a four-pronged whip comprised from parts of her cello. She yanked back on the whip, pulling Ward away from her brother. The string tightened around Ward's throat.
The last Ira saw of her lifetime companion he was flailing on the ground, asphyxiated. Finger nails plucked at the elongated cello strings constricting his neck and to Ira's horror they actually played a chord. She didn't look back again. Ward's strangulated visage haunted her steps. The way his eyes bulged and darkened. Nothing like the kindly face that once bounced her on his knee when she was a child.
Ira fled the Flower District, using her knowledge of the city to make a quick escape. Tears welled in her eyes. Above the billowing chaos, the Citadel loomed, a pillar of Refuge.
Colton Moss made it his life's mission to drown today's troubles in wine. He vowed never to stop until his wife and whatever was going on below disappeared in a stream of opaque thought. It almost worked too until Ira Glass barged into his office unannounced. The Tradeboss looked in a panic judging by her sweaty brow and rugged appearance. She was yelling at someone on her scroll. He'd never heard her raise her voice before. It sounded desperate. At the end of whatever call that was Ira chucked her scroll across the room where it chipped the nose of one of Moss' stone sculptures from Vale. The disregard for his belongings left the councilor bitter.
"What's going on down there?" he asked, his voice slurred and lethargic.
Ira moved to his desk and took the rotary phone and started to dial. "We've been betrayed."
"Did you tell her about me?" asked Moss.
"What?"
"My wife…She left me this morning. Did you tell her about what it is I do?"
Ira shot him a furious glare, "What you do?! Besides from your whores and your wine you don't do much! Oh, except of course starting fucking fires that spawn rebellions! Other than that, no, I suppose you don't do anything at all that your wife or any other sane being might find appalling."
Moss pulled the dagger out from where it was stabbed into his desk and slashed at her. The blade sliced deep across her side. The look on her face was one of perplexed disappointment. There was always that glint of dissatisfaction when she looked at him. Even as the blood spurted from her body she seemed more disappointed than angry. Moss watched her fall backwards, tumbling down the step and over the sofa. He stood like a child with the dagger trembling in his hand, unaware of what he had just done. The realization of his actions sobered him some.
He inched forward, "Ira?"
From behind the sofa Ira Glass hurled one of his empty wine bottles at him. The glass clonked him in the head, splitting his nose. A gush of blood blinded his eyes. By the time he blinked them clear Ira had a gun in her hand. Where the fuck did she get that! Moss clambered over his desk, narrowly avoiding pointed shards of ice. They shattered against the back wall and tore apart his collection of art. Pieces of sculptures and paintings were sent flying. The shrapnel chips of ice shattered the large office windows, allowing the chill air to flood the room.
Curled in the fetal position, Moss hid behind his desk. He stayed down there until all he could hear was the breeze. Slowly, he picked himself back up.
"Ira?" he called out again. There was no answer but the wind. Retrieving his gifted dagger, Moss followed the trail of blood leading from the sofa to his office elevator. A bloody print smeared the down button. The list of floors above the elevator doors dinged G, ground floor.
Taking his time to adjust himself, Moss moved back to his desk. He needed to call someone. Teal would know what to do. Moss started to dial. Reaching the last digit, he picked up the phone only to realize he cut the cord when he swung at her. The snipped wire dangled from the phone like a cut umbilical cord. His lifeline to the outside world.
"Shit."
The ice melted by the time the office elevator dinged once again. The doors parted and Roland Teal stepped through followed closely behind by a young woman with a baritone sax slung over her shoulder. The Patron slowed his advance upon noticing the defaced state of the Citadel office. Councilor Moss shot to his feet from behind his desk.
"Roland!" he exclaimed, "I've been trying to reach you."
"What happened here, Moss? Where is Ms. Glass?"
"She was here…Not too long ago. We got into an argument. You see, my wife…my wife left me and-"
Teal swirled one white gloved hand in the air before clenching it tight as if he were a conductor cutting off his band. "Councilor, I honestly don't care. Just tell me what it is that transpired between you and Ms. Glass."
Moss bit back a snarky reply knowing that after what he had done, Teal was someone he needed as an ally. "She came in maybe a half hour ago. You just missed her. She looked panicked, I'd say. I didn't have time to decipher why until she started shooting at me."
"Ira Glass tried to kill you?" asked Teal in disbelief, "Yet here you stand, soiled but unharmed."
"I was lucky." Explained Moss, "I managed to get in close and cut her."
Teal noted the blooded dagger on his desk, "She's wounded? Then this blood trail here…and the elevator-"
"Hers." Confirmed the councilor, "She left in a hurry."
The saxophone lady who had done nothing but scowl at Moss this whole time then leaned in and whispered something in Teal's ear. Whatever it was the snazzy bartender nodded his head in agreement, prompting the woman to take her leave. As she departed Teal walked around the office with his hands clasped behind his back in the same pompous posture he always possessed.
"Do you have any idea what's going on right now?" asked Teal, sounding genuinely curious as to what Moss knew.
The Councilor moved to the shattered window and looked out to the city below. The wind buffeted him back from the ledge some, but he stood his ground. A mixed cloud of dust and smoke hung over the city. The lack of wind down below caused the cloud to linger. Only when it floated high enough did the currents sweep them away. The main districts looked in ruin all except the Administration District, which seemed spared for the most part.
"I know somethings happened. We've been attacked. Atlas, I'd guess. No matter how secure she thinks she is, there's no way she could stop every leak. Those brown foots must've sent word to them up north. Atlas would've sent their specialists and this…this is step one. To break up the hard surface before sucking up the goo underneath."
Teal walked up behind Moss, his footsteps crunching down on scattered pieces of glass. "I must admit, I didn't think you had such an imagination, Moss. When the council first sent you down here I was dubious. Had they sent another chew toy for Refuge to play with until it broke? Yet you arrived, the picture of authority. Regal, handsome, and well-spoken. Then you called that meeting. I still remember your face, the sheer ignorance. Like a child you wandered into the middle of the play thinking you were the lead. But let me tell you something, Moss. You were always ever the foil."
Five fingers pressed into his back. Just lightly enough to push him forwards. Moss struggled to regain his balance, the wine sloshing in his stomach making it difficult. He teetered on the edge of the office windows, before pitching over completely. Down he plummeted. Head first. He opened his mouth to scream but the rushing air filled his lungs. The poofy looking cloud of dust below did nothing to soften his fall.