The first thing Kibo noticed after landing was how quiet it was.
That was partly his doing. His contract wrapped him in silence the moment his feet touched the ground, and the sound of armor, boots, and the low murmur of four hundred men all faded to a faint blur at the edge of his hearing. He crouched between two rows of shields with his heart hammering and waited to see if anyone had noticed him.
Nobody had. A Greek soldier standing half an arm's length away adjusted his helmet strap and looked straight through him.
Okay, Kibo thought. That worked better than it should have.
He stayed low and started to move. The soldiers around him were arranged in companies of fifty, standing in neat blocks along the base of the great wall. Kibo counted eight of them. The front rank of each company held tall shields, and behind them stood spearmen, then archers in loose rows with their bows unstrung. At the back of every block, one man in a plumed helmet stood a little apart from the rest, watching the others and holding a short horn at his belt.
Officers. Eight companies, eight officers, one horn each. Kibo slipped between two blocks, keeping his steps light. If one blows, they all move.
He crept along the edge of the formation and studied the way it was laid out. The companies weren't bunched together. They had left wide gaps between them, wide enough for a squad to run through. At the far end of the line, a ninth group of about fifty men stood well back from the wall, close to a low ridge, with their shields still slung across their backs.
Reserves. Kibo almost smiled. Smart. And the gaps aren't gaps at all. They're lanes. He glanced up at the wall. The Babylonian archers were stacked in two towers, and a huge man in blue-and-bronze armor stood behind a shield that looked bigger than a door. If the front companies go in, the lanes let the reserves come around behind. Everything's set up so they can switch from watching to attacking in a few seconds.
It was a good plan, and that bothered him.
He kept moving toward the ridge. The closer he got, the thinner the soldiers became, until he was crossing open ground with nothing between him and the rocks except a few stray spearmen. He dropped flat behind a boulder and peered over it.
Three figures stood on and around the ridge.
The first he recognized at once. A tall man with a battle axe resting on his shoulder stood at the highest point, looking down at the army with a calm, flat expression. Kibo had seen that face before, on the western road, at the exact moment Celina had stepped in front of Magnolia. He felt something cold settle in his stomach.
Axe guy.
Beside him, sitting on a flat rock and flipping a dagger in the air, was a man Kibo had never seen. He was lean and fast-looking, with loose, restless energy, like a cat that hadn't decided yet whether to pounce or nap. He caught the dagger, grinned at nothing, and tossed it again.
That has to be the fast one. The one Squad Two fought on the eastern road. Kibo remembered Ren's description at the meeting: very fast, daggers, wind. Fits. First time seeing him, and I already don't like him.
Then he saw the third.
A young man crouched on a rocky outcrop above the other two, wrapped in a dark green cloak that almost vanished into the stone behind him. He had a longbow across his back, a hawk on a rock beside him, and he was perfectly still. Nobody was standing near him. Nobody was giving him orders. The other two didn't even look in his direction.
Kibo stared at him for a long moment.
Nobody mentioned this one. He tucked himself deeper behind the boulder. He's not with the soldiers. He's not following the axe guy either. He's got his own spot, his own space, and nobody's telling him what to do. He frowned. Same as the others. Everyone else runs their own piece of the board. He's the same kind of thing.
His eyes narrowed.
New face. New threat. And he's probably the one who spotted me first.
He had no proof of that. But the young man on the outcrop had his head tilted slightly, as though he were listening to something very far away, and his arrow was resting halfway drawn against the string. Kibo felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.
Time to go, he thought. But first…
He turned his head toward the distant palace, a pale shape on the horizon, and a slow, lazy grin spread across his face. He raised one hand and waved.
•••
On the ridge, Cyclone caught his dagger and glanced at the sky.
"Round one," he said. "How long until the Egyptians send someone out?"
"Longer than you'd like," Alexzander said. He was still looking at the wall.
"I'll bet you the next round of wine they come out within the hour."
"I don't bet."
"You should. It's more fun." Cyclone tossed the dagger again and caught it. "Twelve of ours went through the palace gate, and nobody blew a horn. Not one. Either they're very good, or they're very scared."
"Both." Alexzander shifted his axe against his shoulder. "Those twelve were pawns. They did what they were supposed to do."
"Pawns," Cyclone repeated, grinning. "I like that. That makes me a knight."
"It makes you loud."
"It makes me fast." Cyclone stood up and stretched, rolling his shoulders. "Think the boy with the gold light is out there?"
"He was unconscious."
"He's been unconscious a long time. People wake up."
Alexzander was quiet for a moment. "Maybe."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have." Alexzander glanced at the young man on the outcrop. The hunter hadn't moved. "The Emperor wants a measurement. I want to know which of them moves first, and which one breaks the formation. Everything else is noise."
"You're no fun." Cyclone's smile didn't fade. "This is a game. Pieces on a board. The Egyptians move, we move, they move again. Whoever gets bored first loses." He glanced over his shoulder. "And I'm never bored."
"You were bored an hour ago."
"I was waiting. That's different." Cyclone flipped the dagger. "What's the hunter looking at?"
Alexzander frowned. The young man on the outcrop had slowly turned his head toward the southern companies, and his hand was on his bow. His golden eyes were narrowed. "I don't know."
"He's twitchy."
"He's careful." Alexzander lowered his voice. "Let him."
•••
In the throne room, the sound of the bell was still echoing faintly through the walls.
Saijew stood beside Belshazzar's throne with his arms crossed, watching the doors. Naram-Sin stood on the King's other side with Mashkan resting against his shoulder, and Samira was leaning against a pillar with her arms crossed, balancing on one foot. The twelve unconscious Greek soldiers had been bound and carried to the cells below. The water on the floor had been mopped up, though a faint wet shine still clung to the marble.
"The wall's holding," Samira reported. "Ashur has his shield line set. The Greeks haven't broken formation, and they haven't fired a single arrow. They're just standing there."
"Standing," Naram-Sin said.
"Staring." Samira shrugged. "It's creepy."
"It's a game," Saijew said quietly. "They're moving pieces to see how we respond."
Naram-Sin turned his head. "A game?"
"They're not trying to win. Not yet. They want to learn." Saijew's eyes were hard. "Which of our guards panic. How quickly we react. What my recruits can do." He glanced at the empty space where the mirage had been. "And I've got four of them wandering around out there pretending they aren't."
Samira grinned. "Brave. Or stupid."
"Both." Saijew almost smiled. "Probably both."
Belshazzar rested his hand on the arm of his throne. "If the four are hurt…"
"It'll be on me," Saijew said.
"No." The King's voice was quiet. "It will be on whoever gave them a reason to leave." He studied Saijew for a long moment. "You're not the only one carrying children, General."
Saijew didn't answer. He looked at the doors, and his hand moved slowly to the glove at his belt.
•••
At the front gate, Poison walked along the line with his hands in his pockets and a bored expression on his face.
Twenty Babylonian soldiers stood in two rows in front of the great doors, their spears pointed at the street and their shields locked together. They looked disciplined. They also looked cramped. Behind them, the gate's broken edge still gaped open where the Greek soldiers had smashed through, and a few men were stacking crates against the hole.
Abraham walked at Poison's right with his notebook already open, and Sous followed a step behind, hands loose at his sides and his expression as calm as ever.
"This formation is bad," Poison said.
"It's solid," Abraham said.
"It's solid and bad." Poison stopped in front of the first row. "You've got everybody bunched around the gate. Anything that gets past the front line hits the second line, and the second line can't move without bumping the first." He pointed. "Spread the shields. Stagger the rows. Put the spearmen on the flanks and the archers behind. If someone breaks through, they run into a wall, not a funnel."
The nearest soldier stared at him. He was a heavy man with a gray-streaked beard and a scar across one cheek, and he had clearly been a soldier for longer than Poison had been alive. His mouth twisted. "We're supposed to take orders from a child?"
"Technically, I'm a vice captain," Poison said.
"You're a boy."
"Right now I'm the boy who spotted your mistake." Poison didn't smile, and he didn't back down. "You can keep standing in a bad line, or you can move. It's your gate."
The soldier's jaw tightened. He glanced at the others, none of whom said anything, and then back at Poison. "You don't know what…"
He stopped.
A sound had come from the side of the street, a faint scrape of metal on stone. Sous's head snapped toward it. Then a half-dozen Greek soldiers burst out of the alleyway across from the gate, swords drawn, crimson cloaks flying behind them. They had been hiding in the shadows between two buildings, and they were running straight at the line.
"Ambush!" the heavy soldier shouted.
The Babylonian formation tightened, but the Greeks were already on top of them. Poison didn't draw a weapon. He stepped forward and thrust out one hand.
A thick, green cloud of smoke burst from his palm and rolled across the street. It didn't spread. It formed a tight sphere around the six attackers, wrapping them completely, and nothing leaked past its edge. The Greeks coughed, staggered, and vanished into the green haze, their swords clanging uselessly against the ground.
The Babylonian soldiers backed away, coughing and covering their faces. Poison stood perfectly still, and his hand was still raised.
"One," Abraham said quietly.
Sous watched the cloud with flat, calm eyes.
"Two."
The cloud shifted. Somewhere inside it, a Greek soldier groaned and fell to his knees.
"Three. Four."
"Is that safe?" the heavy soldier asked, looking at the cloud with open horror.
"Five," Abraham said, not looking up. "Not if it goes on too long."
"Six."
Poison's expression was steady. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.
"Seven. Eight. Nine."
"Ten."
Poison closed his hand, and the green cloud vanished all at once.
Six Greek soldiers lay on the cobblestones in a half-circle, unmoving. Their swords had scattered across the street. Their chests were rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.
Poison shook out his hand. "Knocked out," he said. "Nobody's dead. Don't touch them without gloves for a few minutes."
The soldiers stared. A few of them backed away, glancing nervously at the green wisps still curling up from the stones. The heavy man with the gray beard looked at the six unconscious Greeks, then at Poison, and then at the cloud that had disappeared as if it had never been there.
"Those damn contracts," he muttered.
Poison raised an eyebrow.
The soldier exhaled slowly. Then he shook his head and turned toward the line. "You heard him! Spread the shields. Stagger the rows! Spearmen to the flanks!"
The Babylonian soldiers scrambled to obey. Poison watched them move, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across his face.
"Don't get cocky," Abraham said.
"I'm not." Poison wiped his forehead. "I'm thinking about it."
Sous looked at the six unconscious soldiers and then up toward the roof of the palace, and for a moment, his calm face softened slightly.
•••
On the palace's tallest tower, three figures sat in the wind.
Luna sat cross-legged near the edge with her vines coiled around her like a cloak. Sofia perched beside her with one knee drawn up, and Ren stood with his arms crossed, looking toward the distant southern wall. The sun was bright. The city lay spread out beneath them like a map.
"I can't see anything," Sofia complained. "It's too far."
"That's because you're not me," Ren said.
He raised one hand, and the light around his fingers bent. A thin, shimmering lens of air formed in front of his eyes, curving the sunlight into a clear circle. The distant wall jumped into focus. He could see the Babylonian archers lined up in the towers, the huge shield-bearer in the center, and beyond them the long rows of Greek soldiers waiting patiently in the sun.
"There," Ren said. "On the ridge. Three figures."
"Can you see Kibo?" Luna asked.
Ren scanned the plain. His eyes passed over the companies, the officers, and the empty lanes, and then he stopped.
At the edge of the Greek lines, near a boulder, a lone figure was crouched with one hand raised high above his head. He was waving at the palace as if he were greeting an old friend at a market.
Ren stared. "He's waving."
"What?" Sofia scrambled closer.
"He's waving at us. Right now, in the middle of the Greek army." Ren's voice was flat with disbelief. "He's not even trying to hide it."
Luna covered her mouth. "He's going to get himself killed."
"Show me," Sofia said.
Ren lowered his hand slightly and tilted the lens so the two girls could see. Sofia leaned in and squinted through the shimmering air, and her mouth fell open. There was Kibo, grinning like a fool, giving a lazy, cheerful wave toward the distant tower.
"Idiot," Sofia whispered.
Then something silver flashed through the air.
An arrow sliced through the place where Kibo's head had been a second earlier. He threw himself sideways with a startled yelp, rolling across the dirt as the shaft buried itself in the boulder behind him with a sharp crack. His eyes went wide. Another arrow followed, then another, each one landing closer to him than the last.
"Kibo!" Luna cried.
Kibo vanished.
He didn't run. He simply wasn't there, his body fading from the world in an instant. But the arrows kept coming. They whistled through the air, striking the ground where he had just been, then a little to the left, then a little to the right, then ahead of him. Each one landed exactly where he was about to be.
"He can't see him," Ren said slowly. "He can't see him, but he's still hitting the right spots."
"How?" Sofia asked.
"I don't know."
On the outcrop, the hunter drew a fourth arrow and let it fly. His golden eyes were half- closed. He wasn't looking at the plain. He was listening, tracking the faint absence in the world that Kibo left behind, the tiny gap in the noise that moved when he moved. Kibo had gotten farther away, and the silence had grown thinner. But it hadn't disappeared.
There.
The hunter lowered his bow slightly, steadied his breath, and aimed straight at the center of the silence.
Kibo ran. He sprinted across the open ground, past the gaps between companies, with his breath loud in his own head even though no one else could hear it. His heart was slamming against his ribs. He could feel the arrows landing behind him, each one a little closer, and he knew he couldn't outrun them forever.
The next arrow whistled directly toward the back of his skull.
He didn't see it. He only felt the air shift.
A hand snapped out of nowhere and closed around the shaft an inch from his head.
Kibo stumbled and fell forward, rolling onto his back, and stared upward. A woman was standing over him, holding the arrow in her fist. She was tall and athletic, with dark skin marked by faint scars across her forearms, and long black hair braided with dozens of golden rings that glittered in the sunlight. Her emerald eyes were bright and sharp, and she wore fitted black and white armor layered with bronze plating. She had come out of nowhere, crossing the open ground and slipping between the Greek lines so quickly that none of the soldiers had seen her pass.
She looked down at Kibo and snapped the arrow in half.
"That contract of yours is something," she said, with a faint smile. "I have a few myself."
She raised her left hand.
Rings gleamed on her fingers: blue, red, black, and white, each one resting on a different finger. On her left middle finger, a white ring caught the light. She tapped it once with her thumb.
The air shifted. Black and white wings erupted from her back, huge and sleek, with feathers that looked as though they had been carved from polished obsidian. They spread wide and caught the wind, and she lifted slowly off the ground until she hovered several feet above the dirt. Her braids drifted around her like banners.
Kibo stared up at her, and his mouth hung open.
The woman flared her wings. A burst of black and white feathers shot outward from them like a volley of blades, spinning through the air with a high, whistling hiss. They slammed into the Greek ranks, tearing through shields and knocking soldiers off their feet. Dozens of men fell at once, scattering across the ground in a sprawl of bronze and crimson cloth.
On the ridge, Alexzander's head snapped toward her. Cyclone stopped flipping his dagger. On the outcrop, the hunter lowered his bow and stared at the woman hovering over the battlefield. Every one of them recognized, in that moment, that something very different had arrived.
The woman was Asam.
Alexzander didn't speak. He pulled his axe from his shoulder and hurled it. The weapon spun through the air with a roar, crimson markings blazing along its blade, flying straight at her chest with enough force to split a boulder.
It never reached her.
A shape dropped out of the sky. A huge man in dark steel armor leaped from somewhere high above, his massive frame blotting out the sun, and swung an enormous curved greatblade across the axe's path. The two weapons met with a crack like thunder, and the axe was knocked clean out of the air, spinning away over the heads of the Greek soldiers and out of sight.
The man landed.
The ground shook. A wave of cold rolled outward from his feet, and the air itself crackled with frost. He drove his greatblade into the earth, and a massive spike of ice erupted from the ground, towering ten feet into the air and ripping through the ranks of the nearest company. Soldiers screamed. Some were impaled where they stood, others thrown aside, and the sound of shattered armor and cracking ice rolled across the plain. When the dust cleared, the spike stood like a frozen tower, glittering in the sunlight, with blood on the ice.
The man was Kahn.
He stood at his full height of six foot eight, a mountain in dark steel with a thick beard and bronze skin covered in old scars. He pulled his blade out of the ground and rested it against his shoulder. Then he turned and looked at Kibo, who was still lying on his back with his mouth open.
"You," Kahn said, in a deep, steady voice. "Boy."
Kibo blinked. "Uh… yeah?"
"Go to the General. Tell him we've arrived."
"Which… General?"
"The one who commands you." Kahn's dark brown eyes were calm. "Saijew."
Kibo scrambled to his feet. His legs were shaking. "Who are you?"
"Go."
Kibo hesitated for half a second, looked up at the winged woman hovering above him, and nodded. Then he turned and ran, vanishing silently into the dust.
On the palace tower, Ren lowered his hand, and the lens of light collapsed. The three of them stared at each other.
"Who," Luna whispered, "were they?"
Ren didn't answer. He was still staring toward the wall.
Down on the plain, Asam descended slowly, her wings folding in behind her until they faded into nothing and left only the black and white armor on her shoulders. Kahn stepped to the right, his greatblade resting easily on his shoulder, and Asam moved to the left. Hundreds of Greek soldiers stood before them, shields raised, spears lowered, and two figures in the middle of a battlefield looked very small.
Asam on the left. Kahn on the right.
Neither of them moved.