Shield and Crocus Read Free Page A

task.
    A red shape settled into focus beside First Sentinel. Blurred Fists was thin, but heavily muscled, a life-long athlete. Beneath his mask, his hair was receding, or would be if he hadn’t taken to shaving his head the year before.
    To any but another of the red-skinned Pronai, Blurred Fists’ movements would be twitchy, spastic. Their race’s metabolism put all others to shame. They matured faster, moved and reacted more quickly, and died sooner. But despite his incredible speed, Wenlizerachi was one of the most reserved men First Sentinel knew. The Pronai had learned at a young age to slow down for the other races, talk at their pace so he could be understood, and even more, so he would be taken seriously.
    Blurred Fists’ raiment was a tight, red running suit with a painted pattern of a black fist on a red background on his chest. A red mask hid his identity, his features distinct unlike First Sentinel’s.
    The Pronai nodded to his old friend. “You made it.”
    “Where are we needed most?” First Sentinel asked.
    Blurred Fists shifted through five poses in an instant, pondering. “The school. It’s alive, the doors are mouths. It’s already digesting them.”
    Children. City Mother, spare them. The City Mother was hidden away in the tower on The crown, her ears and eyes shut to the voices of the people. For decades, she’d heard and obeyed only the oligarchs. Once, she’d spread compassion and maternal love. Under their power, the City Mother kept people afraid, placated. First Sentinel doubted that she heard him since the tyrants bound her, but still he prayed.
    “Take me there.” Blurred Fists dashed to the corner and waited for First Sentinel, who followed in a run, aching as he went. The dounmo was wearing off. He’d left in too much of a rush to make the elixir he drank before missions, so his collection of injuries were making their presence known, old companions he couldn’t be rid of and never liked.
    Some of the unchanged were helping the new Spark-touched; others took up clubs and knives to drive them out. First Sentinel learned long ago that he couldn’t help everyone, but it didn’t stop the guilt. These days, guilt was all that was left to him. And rage. Without Selweh to put it to good use, I’d burn out in a year, and take the Shields with me.
    When they reached the school, it was chewing on something that First Sentinel prayed was a chair. Pointed teeth burst from a crimson mouth, its lips as long as a fullgrown Ikanollo was tall. The building itself had turned a sickly shade of green, square walls replaced with a bulbous mass of mottled skin, oozing sores, and random scales.
    The school walls sported more mouths down the street, similarly arrayed with leg-length teeth. The walls of the school rose and fell as it breathed through wheezy nostrils where the windows had been. Youthful cries for help echoed from inside, along with the sound of mastication.
    First Sentinel turned to Blurred Fists. “Get inside and start pulling the students out. I’ll try to break some of these mouths open to provide exits.”
    “Good luck.” By the time First Sentinel felt the slap on the shoulder, Blurred Fists had disappeared into the maw of the school.
    I should be used to that by now. First Sentinel had fought alongside four generations of Shields from Blurred Fists’ family, ever since he met Blurred Fists’ great-grandmother during a food riot.
    First Sentinel drew his fighting staves from his belt and stepped forward to study the door. It spat out a pile of bones and licked its lips as he approached. First Sentinel took a step back, recoiling at the stench.
    The teeth were large, the enamel thick and tough. The sticks wouldn’t do anything, shock gloves barely more. The maw opened to reveal three rows of teeth, ingrown on one another, covered in grime despite being less than an hour old.
    The mouth distended out from the fleshy wall and took a bite at him. First Sentinel jumped back, the