Prismatic Cuirass (2/3)

One moment the crowd is distant thunder, rumbling far away; the next, high tide crashing onto a rickety pier.

Frenzied faces, crying faces, faces desperately clinging to sanity, swarming forward in a wave of writhing flesh. The heat of thousands of bodies pressed together, the stink of sweat and mud, the incoherent wave of noise, the earth trembling under ten thousand pairs of feet –

There is no distinguishing one person from the next. They're all grey, all drenched to the skin and shouting at the top of their lungs. 'Get off!' 'Give us the coach!' 'My son, he is dying, please save him!' 'Don't leave us!' 'Not that way!' 'Take us south, please!' 'The carriage, board the carriage!' 'Scum! Filth!'

The little giants have positioned themselves on either side of the door, and in between them stands Arkai with two daggers in hand. Not two steps separate them from the mob, who are only keeping their distance because the little giants are each swinging around a javelin.

The crowd surges as soon as soon as I take one step forward. One catches himself on the handle of Oon'Shang's javelin and is sent flying. Two others grab her legs like ants trying to fell a tree, but she simply picks them up by their tattered collars and tosses them as one would sprinkle seeds into a field.

'Keep away! Mind yourselves!' Arkai yells into the sea of voices. A man grabs him by the arm, trying to shove him aside. A flash of steel. Screams. Severed fingers. 'I warned you! Keep away!'

'Get him! Grab him!'

The mob piles onto Arkai, yelling and jostling, but the man is a shadow. Two hands slap onto his shoulders only to slip off as if they've grabbed a flopping fish. Someone charges at him, head lowered like a bull, but a swish of cloak later Arkai's knee encounters his face. Blood flies, but many of them are caked in red to begin with.

'Stop! Stop!'

Can't even hear myself. Their eyes – bloodshot and angry, so many and so mad – belong to a pack of wolves.

The little giants exchange a look. As one they stomp the ground with their left foot.

BOOM.

A shockwave ripples outward, etching cracks onto the highway and stumbling everyone on the spot. Creaking, the carriage begins to tilt sideways, but Oon'Shang holds out a massive hand and grabs it by the chassis.

There is a lull as the crowd staggers, briefly forgetting themselves.

Now or never.

With one decisive jab I plant the heraldry into the ground, only to encounter solid pavement. Dumb move. Got to keep holding it now; got to talk too, can't hesitate one second longer.

I open my mouth.

Please, let words come out.

If I was alone I would be hiding under the wheels, head buried in dirt, wondering when these people would just leave and stop looking at the ignorant young man who has no idea what he is doing. Kathanhiel is here, however – watching, waiting for me to say my two lines so she can start performing miracles.

Better get on with it.

'People of the north, I see your anger! I feel it! But it is needed no longer, for our saviour is here – our Lady Kathanhiel, hero of the Realms, slayer of the Elisaad Dragon!'

In her upraised hand Kaishen glows a fiery red, shrouded in a sheath of steam that rises in a billowing cloud; its ardent light effervesces through her cuirass of myriad stars, spinning sun-weaved ribbons into the white balm. She descends in a great wave of heat, puny rain vaporising upon contact with her shoulders; beneath her heels the pavement cracks in spider webs of dull yellow.

Arkai is the first to kneel. Casting his daggers on the ground, he drops onto one knee and lowers his head. Then the little giants go to their knees and put their arms across their chests. Oon'Shei fumbles for a moment as the javelin snaps in his hand; he throws it away, carefully so as to not hit anyone with it.

My turn now. Her light is so bright that feeling the cold wet earth under my knee is almost a relief.

Silence, then a soft swooping noise; the lost thousands, so obliviously angry a moment ago, have prostrated themselves before her. A woman is weeping, and never have I heard anyone weep so happily.

'Why do you cry?' Kathanhiel asks.

A shaky reply. 'M-my lady Kathanhiel, I cry because you're here at last, here to save us.'

The crowd murmurs in agreement.

Kathanhiel speaks softly yet her words carry easily above the rain. 'I am sorry to have come so late. Your disheartened faces, they bring me pain unbearable, for it is my fault that you were exiled from your homes. It is right that you're angry. I am angry at myself.'

Many voices rise up in denial. She shakes her head.

'Though I deserve it not, this failure of a hero will give her all to regain your trust. The Apex will be slain, and all your holdings shall be reclaimed; this I swear upon my sword and my life. Do you believe me? Are my words still of worth to you?'

The answer is yes. Men and women whisper it in reverence.

��Thank you, kind folk. In time an army will come thither in aid of the north, and if you remain here they might render you harm in their haste. Will you continue south, for my sake? The King will provide for you. If he refuses, tell him that Kathanhiel still has the knife in her boot.'

A few laughs. Everyone knows that story.

'Will you go? Will you weather this storm in solidarity, with compassion in your hearts?' More murmured agreements. 'Good. I am glad, and so very thankful, that despite all that have come to pass we are still fighting, fighting in defiance of all that is cruel and unjust. You may rest easy now, for I am here, and I will not stop until these lands are free of the winged plague, and your homes returned to you. Upon the name of Kaishen this I swear.'

Someone begins cheering, and in seconds everyone is on their feet whooping and clapping with hands possessed. A chant begins in the middle of it, driven by voices that have long shouted themselves hoarse.

Kathanhiel smiles and raises Kaishen above her head. A shower of red sparks fly from its tip.

The bards could never convey such a spectacle no matter how prettily they sing. In two short minutes Kathanhiel has turned the rioting masses into worshippers. Of course she did. She is Kathanhiel. I could have said anything, really, and she would still win over every heart in an instant.

As the crowd disperses, many come up to kneel at her feet and kiss her hand. While that carries on and on I stand awkwardly to the side with the heraldry, trying to keep my back straight and the smile on my face not so terrifying.

Arkai joins me, the scarf removed from his face. People still draw a wide berth around him.

'You did well,' he says.

I can't believe it – a compliment. 'I…don't think I did anything.'

'You get used to feeling that way,' he says, looking at Kathanhiel with a soft expression. 'Her brilliance outshines us all.'

'What'll happen to these people?'

He sighs. 'Years of vagrancy, of living from one meal to the next, of being ostracised by the people of the heartlands…but they have hope now. She has given it to them. She is very good at giving.'

'What do you mean?'

Arkai shrugs. 'It's her job.'

'Her job?'

He looks at me. 'Kastor, do me a favour.'

'Yes sir.'

'Keep your questions to yourself.'