he saw a huge swarthy man chased down and surrounded by a dozen Mirrormen. Something defiant was written in the man’s stance, but the Mirrormen had muskets on him from every angle.
Ironfist.
“Have I gone mad or is that Commander Ironfist?” Kip asked.
“Sir?” a man standing next to Kip’s horse asked.
“Move!” Kip shouted. “Move!” With a few curses, the men parted for him.
“Kip! What are you doing?” Corvan Danavis shouted. From his angle, he couldn’t see Ironfist.
Kip barely heard him. He dug his heels into the horse and held on for dear life. Breaking free of hundreds of nervous men, the horse ran. Kip was tossed around like a sack of pomegranates being crushed to juice and seeds. The horse galloped along the edge of the docks, going in the right general direction—but it wasn’t slowing down. Kip pulled hard on the reins, but the horse had its bit in its teeth. And it wasn’t letting go.
The Mirrormen saw Kip coming and yelled. A few had time to discharge shots. Kip swore a musket ball licked his ear with a hot tongue.
I am the stupidest person I have ever met. As the horse streaked toward Ironfist and his captors, still not slowing, Kip kicked his feet free of the stirrups and jumped out of the saddle, diving for the Mirrormen.
Whatever he’d done before with all the green luxin that had cushioned everything—this time he didn’t do it. He missed the Mirrormen and hit the ground hard, flipping over and over, smacking his cracked, burned left hand hard against something. It felt like fire traced through every joint in his hand. He smacked his head, skidded on his back, clothes tangling him up, and tried to stand.
He was facing the city. There was no one that direction. He turned toward Commander Ironfist, got his feet tangled, fell. Caught himself with his left hand. Tears sprang out of his eyes unbidden. Agony.
“No!” Ironfist screamed.
Kip was tottering on one knee, dizzy, propped up only by his shrieking left hand. He wanted to fall on his back, show these men he wasn’t a threat, beg them not to hurt him.
I spend more time on my back than a rent girl. Enough.
One of the men had his bayonet fixed. He was stepping toward Kip. Kip pushed himself up—off his left hand. The fire of pain shot up his arm.
Kip just pointed his ruined left hand at the Mirrorman and made that fire shoot back down, propping himself up on his good hand. Flame roared out and engulfed the man. He baked, his mirror armor useless.
Staggering to his feet, Kip threw more and more fire into the guards. And then he found out why Corvan had said he wouldn’t want to draft for a month when you were lightsick. His stomach boiled; he puked.
He couldn’t keep his feet. The dizziness and nausea dropped him like he’d been cut off at the knees. His stomach cramped so hard he bent in half, curling into a fetal position, still puking, splattering vomit on his own pants.
Once again, Kip the Charging White Knight manages to do nothing.
He was dead. He knew he had to be dead. The men had been charging at him and he’d killed at least one of them. They should have killed him by now.
“Let go of the rest of the luxin. It’ll make you sick again, but it’s better, I promise. Now, boy! I can’t carry you and draft at the same time!”
“Ironfist?”
Kip cracked his eyes open, saw dead men scattered around and Ironfist standing over him, his fists bearing spikes of bloodied blue luxin. Ironfist had cuts and dried blood and powder burns everywhere. He wore blue spectacles close to his eyes, the earpieces tied tight around the back of his head. His ghotra had been knocked off his head, and his hair was singed on one side. How had the man gotten away after commandeering a cannon? Surely the whole of King Garadul’s army had fallen on him.
Nonetheless, here he was. Bruised, exhausted, injured, but not so hurt that he couldn’t save Kip one more time.
“Now!” Ironfist demanded. “I’m lightsick myself. I know what I’m asking!”
Kip let go of the rest of the luxin and threw up again, his insides heaving, all of his viscera trying to rush out of his mouth.
But then, miraculously, he did feel better. Almost able to stand. Ironfist grabbed the shoulder of his shirt and lifted him bodily to his feet.