Gates of Ruin (Magelands Eternal Siege, #6) by Christopher Mitchell (ebook reader for surface pro txt) 📕

another earthquake opened up a crack in the ground by the Central Pits. The stone buildings had been packed with refugees following the giant waves, but the collapse of the main arena had killed many and had driven the others away, sending them eastward to spill out into the countryside beyond the city limits, where thousands of other survivors had clustered. A solitary greenhide had lived through the destruction of the Blue Thumbs training facility, and was stalking the broken neighbourhoods, cutting down any Torduan it could find, and pausing to eat the flesh of those who had fallen.

The crack in the ground widened, and an entire row of tenements plunged into the hole as the ground beneath them buckled and rose. There were no screams, for the street had already been emptied of anyone still alive and, apart from her, there was no one there to witness its destruction.

She had searched for the ship that had been carrying Corthie and Silva, but there were dozens of such vessels littering the submerged coastline; broken hulls and snapped masts lay strewn by the new edge of the ocean, the wind fluttering the ripped canvas of the sails that sat half-buried in mud. The waves had borne thousands of bodies out to sea, and were in the process of pushing them all back inland again; they bobbed along with the tons of flotsam and debris clogging the wide bay.

She stilled, trying to listen for any signs of powers being used, but her skills at detecting other gods or mages were crude and unpractised. She could sense if a god in the same room as her was using vision, but over an area as large as that of Alea Tanton, any such signal was lost in the background noise of destruction. Silva could be alive, she knew; her self-healing powers should have ensured her survival if the ship had been hit by one of the waves, but she could be anywhere. The currents could have thrown her miles out to sea, or she might be one of the bodies bobbing in the bay, still too weak to swim to shore. Belinda moved away from the coast, and looked down on the fields and roads that lay to the east of the city. Every farmhouse had collapsed in the succession of earthquakes, but it was still the safest place to be, and exhausted, ragged groups of civilians had gathered there in their thousands. Granaries and barns had been plundered in the survivors’ search for food, and several farmers and their families had been murdered by desperate and hungry bands of looters. As well as the brutality, many small acts of generosity and kindness had been on display – people sharing what food and drink they had with strangers, and cases where men and women had run back into collapsing buildings to rescue those who had been trapped.

Finally, after searching for hours, she found Corthie. He was on foot, leading a horse southwards along the farm tracks to the east of the city. A man was with him, the same man who had persuaded her to revive Corthie in the cavern of Fordamere. He was limping and looked exhausted, but Corthie was urging him onwards, his will undimmed, and Belinda’s heart filled with love and pity at the sight. She wished she could enter his mind, to tell him to keep going, to tell him not to give up, but that wouldn’t have been fair. Like everyone else on Khatanax, Corthie was doomed.

She sensed a knock on her door, then realised it had been going on for some time. Her vision snapped back to her head and she sat dazed for a moment, the image of Corthie leading the horse imprinted into her mind.

‘Your Majesty?’ said a voice from through the door.

She stood. Her chambers were in darkness, as she had been using her powers throughout the evening and had not bothered to light any lamps. She walked through the shadows to the front door of her quarters and opened it.

Two men in Banner uniforms were standing outside. By their feet were two crates – one long and narrow, the other tall and wide.

‘Good evening, your Majesty,’ said one as they both bowed their heads.

‘Have you been knocking long? I’m sorry; I was… distracted.’

One of them glanced at her face, and she realised that her cheeks were wet from tears. She wiped them and tried to smile, but the muscles around her mouth wouldn’t respond.

‘We have a delivery for you, your Majesty,’ said the soldier. ‘The chief artificer sent us up here to make sure you received the goods in person.’

‘A delivery?’

He gestured to the two crates. ‘Should we bring them inside for you, your Majesty?’

She narrowed her eyes for a moment, then nodded, and the two men lifted the crates and carried them into her living room. They set them down on the rug by a low table, and bowed again.

‘Have you been given any orders to evacuate?’ she said.

The two soldiers glanced at each other.

‘No, your Majesty,’ said one.

She nodded. ‘Thank you for bringing me… whatever it is you’ve brought me.’

The soldiers bowed again, then left her quarters. She closed the door behind them and lit a wall lamp. The small flame grew, its light flickering around the grand chamber. She sat on a couch and looked at the crates. She leaned over and lifted the lid off the long, narrow one first. Inside, nestled upon a bed of straw, was the rebuilt Clawhammer. Its new handle glowed in the lamplight, the etchings and engravings standing out. Leather had been wrapped round one end as a grip, while at the other end, a new metal headpiece had been attached. It had been formed into the shape of a skull, and two of the three greenhide talons were protruding from the eye sockets, while the third was jutting out from the jaws. At the rear of the skull was a short, curved steel spike.