The Hanging City (31)

As Azmar pulls out a coil of measuring tape from his belt, the platform quakes. Softly, like it’s snoring, but Azmar freezes, his entire body tense.

Another shake, this one a little harder. Somewhere above us, the voices of trollis burst like blisters, interrupted by the distant sound of a horn. A hard word escapes Azmar’s lips, and though I’ve never heard it before, it has the sharpness of a curse.

My gut sinks. Fear tickles the base of my spine, the arches of my feet. I know what it is, what is has to be, but still I ask, “What?”

Azmar shoves the measuring tape into his belt. “We need to leave. Now.”

He’s right. He doesn’t need to answer.

The cliff shakes again.

Monster.





Chapter 7


Azmar hurries for the ladder, but he waits for me at the base of it. I move quickly, my injuries forgotten, and start climbing. “The center of the city is safest,” he says behind me. “Centra take shelter in food storage. Hurry.”

“You’re Centra,” I say, but I keep climbing, hand over hand, until I reach the stony lip of the next floor. It shakes again, and again, evenly. Like footsteps. I pull myself up, gasping when stone presses a bruise on my thigh. I start for the lift.

“No lifts during an attack. They’re not safe.” Azmar’s focus darts around, and he gestures west. “Stairs.”

I start to run in the direction he pointed, but the ground shakes and trips me. I fall hard on one knee and grimace. The little bit of sunlight we had vanishes. I look toward the open canyon and see something blocking the cliffside. Something dark and slithering.

Azmar grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet, retreating until we hit a wall. His grip doesn’t relent. He watches the moving body, jaw set. We’re close enough that I can hear his heartbeat. For all his demeanor of calm, it’s racing.

One finger touches his mouth, urging me to be quiet.

I watch the slick body pass. It reminds me of a snake, but its movements jerk, delineating legs. It must be enormous. Only a juvenile, Troff said.

My fingers tremble of their own accord. Forming my hands into fists, I focus on the monster and push my fear across the platform and into its black skin.

The monster and I jerk at the same time. My body instinctively pushes back into the rock as terror seizes it, and the monster’s movements come to a complete halt. I hiss through my teeth. It’s only fear. It isn’t real. It’s only fear. It will pass.

Fight or flee.

I can’t tell which the monster chooses, but it bolts away, clamoring over the city’s west wall, making it shake with the effort. I have a cold feeling that beasts such as this do not scare easily.

I pull from Azmar’s grip. “I need to go to the dock.” I limp for the stairs.

Azmar’s long strides catch me quickly. “Leave it to the Montra.” His hand on my back hurries me up the stairs. The shaking of the monster’s climb reverberates through them.

“I need to go.” Fear has burrowed itself into familiar places in my chest and the base of my skull. I crest the stairwell and spy another set of stairs ahead. The south docks are immediately to my right.

“Lark.” He grabs my shoulder, pulling me to the stairs. To safety. “You don’t need to prove yourself here.”

I dig in my heels. “I can help.”

So often I have not been able to.

Azmar studies me, his eyes shifting between each of mine. He’s probably looking at my bruises and doubting me. I would doubt me. If I couldn’t fight back my own kind, how can I fight off a monster?

Seeing him waver, I press, “The council assigned me to Unach for a reason.”

His head turns toward the stairs.

“She’s out there.” Unach’s on shift right now. I touch the hand still gripping my shoulder. “Let me help her. Please, trust me.”

Azmar presses his lips together, emphasizing the short tusks on either end of them. The city shakes beneath our feet. He says nothing, only steers me toward the south dock. Elation and fear swirl together in my middle, so tightly I’m dizzy with them.

I run onto the south dock. Four trollis already man the others’ ropes. I hurry to the chest and find the smallest harness, stepping into it and clipping it in place with practiced ease. Azmar is at the closet, pulling out belts and sheaths and knives. The ground shakes again. He hands one belt to me, then takes the liberty of securing another over my shoulder. I grab a rope, and he takes the other end.

“I’ll spot you.” He ties his end around his waist and looks at me directly. “Be careful.”

He doubts me. I can read it in his face, his posture. But he’s giving me a chance. It’s all I could possibly ask of him.

With my rope secure, I step off the dock onto the footholds. I grip the handholds tightly with my clammy hands and climb. The bruises on my legs and back fire in protest, but the higher I climb, the more numb they become. The four other monster slayers’ ropes lead upward, following a wet trail. Slime?

I reach for a higher handhold and grasp it, but as I pull myself up, I scrape my bruised hip. A startled cry escapes me. Gritting my teeth, I push strength into my limbs, imagining my arms are as thick as Azmar’s. Imagining I’m safe in a lift. Reminding myself that if I fall, he’ll hold the rope. Azmar will not drop me.

The city shakes in regular bursts under my hands, forcing me to hold steady and press my body into the outer wall. The monster runs. A strange sound, like a mix between a crow and a cat, tears through the air. The slime gets thicker. The ropes of my colleagues shift.