but he followed the flow of King Garadul’s soldiers. Kip himself was like a beacon, burning as he was in the misty morning. But the light made his vision lousy. It was like holding a torch: if you held it over your head, you might see into the darkness, but if you held it between yourself and the darkness, you weren’t going to see anything at all. Kip was the torch. He couldn’t see much, and he didn’t care. He could see the men streaming away from him, some of them seeing him and just running like hell, but others seemed to be running toward something. A meeting place, a rallying point. Where King Garadul would be.
Kip barreled around a corner into the backs of half a dozen soldiers. They hadn’t seen him and he couldn’t stop. He ran right over them in a mess of screams and burning flesh and curses and blood and a struggle just to keep from falling as he stepped on body parts. He swung his arms in big sweeping motions, fire and blood and blades unleashed into a crowd.
And it was a crowd. Kip had made it. There were hundreds of soldiers here. He could see dim flashes of the winking armor of the Mirrormen on the other side of the square. Then he was subsumed, folded into the loving arms of battle. There was no morning mist. No counting of his foes. No deciphering the shouts of his enemies into plain language, orders that might help him know what was coming. There was only the roar coming from Kip’s own throat, the hammering of his own heart, the pulsing life that was his magic. There was only the burning in his muscles, the resistance his arm felt as a bladed arm cut into a man’s torso, and the freedom as he pulled it all the way through.
The world closed in on Kip. He could barely see, barely turn his neck within the green armor. It drove him crazy. He needed freedom. He couldn’t be trapped. He was an animal. He crashed through ranks of soldiers as they formed against him. His sweeping arms snapped spears like nothing. He bludgeoned heads with his closed fists. Tore men off his back and snapped their spines in his hands.
Then, abruptly, the ranks parted in front of him. All except one man, who didn’t move aside in time, and Kip saw two rows of ten musketeers each. The first row was kneeling, the second row standing, all muskets pointed at him. Someone shouted, his voice a command. And Kip saw the one soldier between him and the musketeers. The man heard too, and understood. Kip saw the panic on his face.
The musketeers loosed a volley. Fire and smoke leaped like a pouncing, snarling lion from their muskets. Kip saw the soldier cut down, even as he steeled himself against the blast.
The musket balls hit him like a fist, many striking at the same time, and a few instants behind the first, carrying him like a punch’s follow-through. He was swept off his feet.
A cheer went up. Kip’s head swam and he felt the green luxin going soft all around him.
No! I can take punishment. That’s my gift. That’s my talent.
A musketeer ran over to Kip, pointed a blunderbuss at his head. Something streaked by the man’s head—an arrow?—but missed. Kip grabbed the yawning mouth of the blunderbuss and pulled it to himself, stuck it right to his forehead, and pressed green luxin down the barrel. The man pulled the trigger and the breech exploded.
Kip jumped to his feet with inhuman strength. He stomped on the screaming musketeer and looked at himself. He could see the lead musket balls, flattened, inside his green armor. Like they’d shot a tree. The bullets had penetrated, but been stopped. Kip laughed, damn near insane. He was bulletproof.
Ignoring the musketeers, several of whom were running away while the rest were reloading furiously, fumbling with their ramrods and powder horns, trying to ready another shot, Kip looked for King Garadul. These men were no threat. They couldn’t bind him. But he couldn’t see. So he pulled green luxin around him and made himself taller. Simple.
And there he was. Surrounded by his Mirrormen, King Garadul was mounted, shouting at a drafter beside him, pointing at Kip. The drafter’s skin was bright blue, but even as she gathered her magic, something streaked out of the sky. The woman’s hands opened limply and blue poured out