The Fire King by Marjorie M. Liu

accompanying circumstances had changed. These men carried oddly shaped black sticks similar to what he had seen the soldiers in the wagon wield, and they were pointing them at the woman. They shouted deep guttural words that Karr would have understood in any language.
    Soria did not yield. The knuckles of her left hand were white and straining, her fist clenched so tight it shook. Karr had a fine view. Soria spoke quietly to the men, her voice far calmer than the tremble of her hand.
    One of the men aimed his weapon at Karr. Soria moved to block him, and another man lunged forward to grab her arm, yanking her close. He was fast but she was quicker. Even as she slammed against his body, her left hand came up in a blur and her thumb dug deep into his eye. Blood spurted and the man holding Soria screamed, jerking backward. He threw her away from him and Soria lost her footing, landing hard against Karr’s chest.
    The impact—and Soria’s elbow—knocked the breath out of his lungs, but he recovered quickly, meeting her gaze for one brief moment. Her face was very close to his. Karr could taste her scent, could feel the heat of her breath on his face. She was soft and warm, and very much alive. He realized, with some surprise, that he wanted her to stay that way. He was not done with her.
    “Free me,” he rasped angrily.
    “Too late,” she replied—and hissed in pain as the man she had attacked grabbed one of her braids and hauled backward.
    The man’s left eye was little more than pulp, his mask soaked with blood. Holding tightly to her hair, he kicked her in the ribs and then the stomach. Soria gasped, trying to curl into a ball, but he yanked at her again and began dragging her across the floor toward the exit. The sight broke something in Karr. Rage filled him—pure, striking bloodlust—and golden light clouded his vision until he felt blind. Muscles rippled beneath the iron bars, scales pouring upward through his skin. His shoulder blades tickled. His jaw began to lengthen, sharp teeth pressing against his lower lip. He snapped at the air, restraints cutting painfully into his body. Much more and he would impale himself. More than that, and he would slice himself into pieces.
    He was not certain he cared.
    The men froze, staring. Soria was still on the ground, trying to gain her footing, raw determination in her eyes. Her left hand was covered in blood. She leaned to her right, swaying unsteadily, and it seemed to Karr that she forgot, in that moment, about her missing arm. More pain flickered over her face.
    Karr heard another loud popping sound, similar to the sputtering that had presaged this entire encounter. One of the men jerked back, staggering. His companions began to turn, but more sharp raps rattled the air and Karr saw blood spray from small impacts in their masked heads. The men fell, one by one. Soria managed to roll sideways, barely avoiding them. She was staring at the doorway, where another man suddenly appeared.
    The newcomer was tall and fair, his hair a rare shade of red. He dressed in loose clothing the color of wheat, and silver flashed at his throat. He held in one hand a smaller version of the black sticks, pointed down at the fresh twitching corpses. He did not look at the bodies. He studied Karr. Then he considered Soria. He spoke to her quietly, and held out his hand.
    She ignored his help, standing on her own, swaying just slightly, enough that she placed her palm against her head. She was very pale. Somewhere close Karr heard more sharp pops, followed by screams. The redheaded man spoke again and Soria gave a curt reply before she glanced down at Karr. Conflict filled her eyes. Unease.
    “I came here to see if you could be trusted,” she told him.
    “Words are a poor substitute for action,” Karr replied. “Release me.”
    Soria hesitated. The redheaded man edged toward the door, where a young girl appeared, holding a very large knife. She wore startlingly few clothes.
    The man