by Claire Luana
The king and his guards had been routed in their attempted flight and were now retreating back up the platform in the face of the advancing Aprican soldiers. Wren shoved aside her annoyance at Hale’s comment and scrambled up the steps behind them.
Madness reigned on the platform. Lucas crouched over his sister, his sword drawn. Wren shuffled towards them, trying to stay low. Hale’s team was now on the platform, fighting against the king’s guards, and other Aprican soldiers who had made it through the crowd were pulling themselves onto the platform. The rest of the royal family huddled together behind their wall of soldiers.
“Wren,” Lucas said, “are you all right?”
“Yes. You?” Wren breathed.
“I’m all right, in case anyone cares,” Ella snapped.
“I told you there would be an attack,” Wren snapped back, flinching as the dancing battle of two men came their way, then retreated back towards the other side of the platform. “I told Willings, too.”
Lucas looked at Ella sharply. “Wren warned you?”
“It’s a little late for blame now,” Ella said coolly.
Thom had reached the edge of the platform. “Wren!” he called. “We have a way out!” There was a cloaked figure beside him who could only be Trick.
“Go with Trick and Thom.” Wren pointed. “The Apricans intend to execute the entire royal family.”
Ella’s eyes widened, and for the first time, she looked afraid.
Lucas got her to her feet, and they helped her off the side of the platform into Thom’s outstretched arms. “You too,” Wren said.
“Not without Virgil,” Lucas said.
Wren hissed in frustration. “Fine. I’m getting Callidus and the others.” She pulled a knife from Lucas’s belt, shoving it into her own. She looked back at the other side of the platform, where the fighting was growing more pronounced. Most of the Cedar Guards were down now, and the two Black Guards looked like they had been wounded. The crown prince and the king had their swords out now.
“Be safe,” Lucas said, pulling her into a rough kiss.
“You too,” she said, leaving bloody handprints on the brocade of his jacket.
Chandler was the closest of the four guildmasters, and so she ran for him, standing on her toes to try to loosen the noose around his throat. “Always good to see you, Wren,” Chandler said. Even though he looked worn and tired, she caught a twinkle his eye as he said the words.
“Likewise. Now let’s get you free.”
“Wren, look out!” Thom screamed from below.
Letting instinct seize hold of her, Wren dropped, her knees hitting the wood of the platform with a painful thud.
The executioner’s sword stabbed the air above her where her torso had just been. Wren twisted to behold him, fear slithering up her spine. The man was huge, clothed all in black, with a black leather hood obscuring the top half of his face. He grinned at her, baring teeth dark and stained from chewing tobacco.
With only a knife to defend herself, she needed to stay out of reach of that sword if she wanted to live. Or too close to reach. Instead of getting to her feet, Wren lunged at him, trying to tackle him with her shoulders.
Though he oofed in surprise, the man hardly moved, standing as sturdy as a rock. But moving him wasn’t her objective. She whipped out the knife and sliced at the forearm of his sword hand, once, twice, three times.
The executioner bellowed and dropped the sword. “Guild bitch,” he spat.
“At your service,” she said with feigned distain, offering a mock little bow.
He came at her surprisingly fast for such a large man.
She hardly had time to dodge to the side and miss his blow. She scrambled and stomped on the instep of his foot before burying her knife in his gut. Elation surged in her. She might beat this man.
He grunted in pain. And then his fist came at her, connecting with the side of her head in an explosion of stars.
Wren staggered away, tasting the metallic tang of blood in her mouth. The knife had stayed in the executioner’s stomach, and now he retrieved it, throwing it to the side, where it skidded across the wooden boards of the platform and off the other side. She risked a look at the other side of the platform, where Lucas was locked in a desperate battle with an Aprican soldier twice his size. Hale was hacking his way through Cedar Guards, his eyes intent on the king. There would be no aid. She revised her assessment. She would probably not beat this man.
The executioner lunged at her again, swinging his massive fist. She ducked and punched him in the stomach where crimson blood was leaking from the knife wound. He wheezed in pain, but his hand shot out and grabbed her around her throat, locking about her neck like a shackle. He bared his teeth as he raised her above the ground, her feet scrambling uselessly for purchase in the air.
Stabs of pain shot through her neck, poking brilliant stars in her vision. Her lungs burned as she gasped for breath, finding none. She kicked out with her feet in a desperate play for any contact and was rewarded when her shin connected with the man’s groin. But it wasn’t enough. He doubled over slightly but narrowed his dark eyes and squeezed harder.
“Wren!”
She heard Thom’s panicked shout from the ground, but it was too late. He was too far away to do anything, even if he could.
Wren’s vision was growing dark now, and she had only one last desperate move to try. “I know who you are,” she croaked, though she had no idea. She needed to intrigue him, to get him to draw her closer.
“What are you talking about?” he snarled, pulling her closer.
It was close enough. She shot her hands out, and with desperate snatching fingers, plunged her fingers into his eye sockets, grasping for the delicate flesh of his eyeballs. He roared with pain, releasing her. As he did, she fell to the platform, bearing with her the disgusting cargo of one of the man’s eyes.
He went berserk with pain, roaring and stumbling, holding his hands to his face while blood poured from between his fingers. Wren gasped for breath, cradling her battered neck, the world tilting around her as oxygen flowed back to her brain. The executioner was stumbling between Callidus and Chandler now like a drunken top, roaring in agony and fury. He staggered into Callidus before recoiling and falling to the side. Right into the lever that would plunge Callidus to his doom.
Wren inhaled sharply, sending a symphony of pain through her neck.
The executioner fell over the lever, sagging to his knees, the bulk of his body shoving the lever forwards before he tumbled over the side of the platform.
The wooden boards under Callidus parted beneath him. Her guildmaster dropped from sight, the dancing of the rope the only sign that he might, by some miracle, still be alive.
Chapter 38
“Callidus!” Wren heard herself scream his name, saw the platform gape open beneath his feet as if in slow motion. Her eyes met Thom’s in the crowd, and she was sure the horror in his was reflected in her own.
Thom sprang into motion, running towards the platform, ducking under the wooden structure to grasp Callidus’s quivering body. He wrapped his arms around Callidus’s legs and hoisted, trying to lessen the pressure on the rope. Wren looked down as Callidus took a hacking breath, his face a violent purple.
“Cut him down!” Thom hollered, looking up through the hole at her. His instruction shook something loose in her shocked brain. Wren whirled, looking across the platform for her knife. It had fallen to the ground with the executioner when he had gone over the edge. But there. The executioner’s sword, discarded by McArt’s feet.
She ran for it and snatched it up, bringing it to bear on the thick rope. The angle was awkward and the rope was tough, but she sawed back and forth, making progress through the rope.
“Hurry!” Thom shouted.
“I am!” she cried, desperation in her voice. The final strands of rope were taking an interminable length of time to cut, but finally, the rope snapped apart, the coil snaking down into the hole in the platform.
Wren bent over, panting, her hands on her knees.
Thom and Callidus had fallen to the ground, Thom’s arms around Callidus’s waist. Thom scrambled up, ripping the rope off of Callidus’s neck.
“Is he all right?”
Thom was inspecting Callidus, his hand placed gingerly against Callidus’s temple.
Callidus’s eyes fluttered open. “Took you….long enough…” he wheezed.
Thom let out an incredulous laugh and hugged Callidus. “He’s all right,” he called to Wren.
Wren’s heart unclenched and she let out a breath of relief, straightening. But there was no time for relief. The fighting was still thick on the other side of the platform, and the other three guildheads were still chained, nooses tight around their necks. “See if you can find the keys on the executioner’s belt,” she yelled down to him before running to Chandler, McArt, and Bruxius, freeing each of them in turn from thick ropes holding them.
“Wren!” Thom called from below, tossing her a ring of keys. It soared through the gray air and flew through her outstretched hands, missing her completely.
She hissed in exasperation, scrambling after them and seizing them in shaking fingers. She undid the guildmasters’ shackles, and Bruxius stretched wide, cracking knuckles and joints as the collar and chains fell off his massive bulk. “Whose side are we on?” he asked, nodding to the fray that continued on the other side of the platform.
The guards’ numbers had dwindled alarmingly. Two of the Imbris princes had fallen, their emerald jackets stained crimson. It was down to the king, Crown Prince Zane, and one Black Guard against three Aprican soldiers and Hale. Lucas and Virgil crouched over their mother; it appeared she was still alive.
Wren hissed through her teeth. They should have been gone by now. “I think we’re on our own side,” Wren finally said. “I need to get Lucas and Virgil to safety. The rest of the chips will fall where they may.”
“I’m with you,” Bruxius said. “You just saved our lives. Least I can do is help your friends.”
Wren nodded in gratitude, swallowing a question about his knife wound. If he thought he could fight, he could fight. She needed all the help she could get. Wren turned to Chandler. “Thom and Trick have a way to safety. Go with them. We’ll catch up.”
Bruxius helped the other two men off the platform, lifting them off the side and dropping them gently on the ground. Thom and Callidus had emerged from below the platform; Callidus leaned heavily on Thom, his arm around his shoulder.
“I’m getting Lucas and Virgil,” she said. But when she turned, she found the scene had already changed. One of the Aprican soldiers was sliding his sword out of the crown prince’s gut—the man slumping forwards onto the platform, blood bubbling from his lips. The soldier bared his teeth in a hideous celebration, and the lone Black Guard seized the opening and stabbed him though the spine with a vicious thrust.
It was just King Imbris and the Black Guard now against two Apricans and Hale.
Lucas surged to his feet and picked up a sword, running at the nearest soldier. “Lucas, no!” she screamed. The soldier parried Lucas’s blow and turned to face his new opponent.
A stream of curses ran through Wren’s mind. Why did Lucas have to be so noble? His father didn’t deserve protection, wasn’t worth Lucas risking his life. Wren and Bruxius ran to Virgil, who now stood, watching with his blood-soaked hands over his face in horror. “Virgil,” Wren said when she reached his side. “We need to go.”
He turned to her, a blank look on his face. After a moment he seemed to register who she was, his eyes clearing somewhat. “I won’t leave my mother.”
“Virgil.” Wren looked down at the waxen face of the queen. She was gone. Even in death, she seemed gentle, kind. She hadn’t deserved such a violent end. Wren struggled to hold herself together, feeling herself fraying. She didn’t want to see anyone else die. “She’s gone. She wouldn’t want you to risk yourself over her.”
“I can’t leave her.” Virgil was shaking his head like a wild man. He wasn’t thinking clearly.
Frustration and despair welled in her. Maybe Lucas could convince his brother to leave. She turned to see Lucas dodging a feint, coming back with his own lunging strike. The soldier whirled, moving behind Lucas and slashing him across the back with a powerful blow.
“Lucas!” Wren screamed, moving towards him, not sure what she expected to do. The soldier had a grim smile on his rugged face as Lucas fell to his knees before him, exposed for a killing blow. But Bruxius was faster. He barreled towards the man with startling speed, crashing into him with the strength of an ox, bearing him to the ground. The sight of Lucas bleeding and prone seemed to rattle Virgil to his senses, and Wren and Virgil both hurried to his side. Virgil explored the wound with delicate fingers, his shoulders slumping with relief after a moment. “It’s shallow. He should live.” Lucas’s eyes were blinking rapidly, his breathing coming in shallow hisses.
Wren let out a sob of relief before her eyes widened and she scrambled back, out of the way of the toppling Black Guard, who fell to the platform with a thunk, his dead eyes staring vacantly at them.
Wren balled her cloak in her hands, pressing the wool gently against Lucas’s back while she surveyed the grisly scene.
King Imbris was alone. His sword was lost somewhere in the fighting and he held only a dagger in his hand. The kings’s teeth were bared, his face like a rabid beast, cornered and wild. It was Hale who stood opposite him, his sword at the ready.
Bruxius and the remaining Aprican soldier were still locked in battle—two titans crashing against each other.
Hale’s hair had fallen out of the bun he normally wore it in, and the golden strands hung about his face like an ominous halo. His face was twisted with grief and anger, his eyes bright with vengeance. He was terrible to behold. “Hale, don’t!” Wren screamed, but he didn’t even look at her. He couldn’t kill the king. Not like this. It would be all he ever was—his future—his whole identity. If he gave in to revenge, what would be left of him?
Virgil scrambled to his feet and ran towards the two men and rounded between them, facing off against Hale, his hands outstretched.
What in the Sower’s name is the fool doing? Wren thought, looking down at Lucas, whose blood was soaking through the fabric of her cloak.
“Don’t do this, Hale,” Virgil said, his voice calm, diplomatic. He seemed to have come back to himself, despite the number of his family members who lay bloodied on the boards.
Hale seemed to pause, his sword tip drooping slightly. Wren held her breath, watching the scene.
Bruxius had just dispatched the last Aprican soldier and now stood, his chest heaving. If Virgil talked Hale down, the Apricans could arrest King Imbris. They could see him tried for his crimes. Real justice. Not a bloody coup.
“I’m a friend of Wren’s. I know you. You’re not this man. You’re not a killer. You’re a confectioner.”
“Out of my way, Imbris,” Hale said.
But Virgil didn’t move. “Whatever my father has done to offend, I’m sure we can make amends. We can find a way past this.”
Wren winced at Virgil’s words. They were wrong.
Hale’s face darkened. “Can you bring back the dead, priest?” Hale lifted his sword, and Virgil backed away a step.
Virgil replied. “There is no one who can bring back the dead, not even the gods. But is this what the ones you lost would want of you? Would want you to become?”
A tear slid down Wren’s cheek and two words ripped from her mouth. “Hale, no.” They were quiet, twisted, because she knew, as she had before, that Virgil had said the wrong thing.
“This is exactly what she would want,” Hale said, and he plunged his sword into Virgil’s chest.
Wren felt the pain of Virgil’s death in her own chest, as if Hale’s sword had pierced her through instead. Wren crumpled against Lucas, glad he was too far gone to see his brother die.
The king spun and dashed for th
e edge of the platform, not even waiting for his son’s body to hit the platform. He was going to jump, try to make a run for it.
Hale bellowed in protest and pulled the sword from Virgil’s body, vaulting over it at the fleeing king. Hale was faster, moving more quickly than Wren thought any man could. Hale swung the sword, and with one clean motion, beheaded King Hadrian Imbris of Alesia.
Bruxius knelt at Wren’s side. “We need to go,” he whispered. “Before your surly friend remembers we have one more Imbris.”
Wren didn’t want to move Lucas in this condition but saw it must be done. She must save Lucas. She clung to this single shining thought, a buoy amongst the horrors crowded in around her, threatening to pull her down into shadow. She helped Bruxius gently roll Lucas onto his back, wincing as his blood flowed anew. Bruxius lifted Lucas up into his arms.
Wren straightened and found Hale standing a few feet from them, his once-golden head drooping, his sword limp in his hand. When he saw her and Bruxius, bearing Lucas, he bore himself up.
Wren took a few steps, positioning herself between Hale and the other men, realizing with painful clarity that Virgil had just sacrificed himself the same way. “Do you feel better?” she asked, blinking through refracted tears. Her words sounded thin, as faint as a gust of wind. “Now that you’ve avenged her, has your sorrow gone?”
“You know it hasn’t.” Hale’s voice was as scratchy as gravel, his gaze haunted.
“Let us go,” Wren said. “I’ll get them out of the city. They won’t bother you or your new friends.”
“He’s a threat as long as he’s alive,” Hale said hollowly.
“No one has to know he’s alive but us.” Wren gestured to the emptiness around them. The sounds of fighting rang in distance as the other Aprican soldiers no doubt seized other parts of the city. But on this platform, in this moment, they were blessedly alone.
“Wren!” Thom shouted from the edge of the square, now empty but for the bodies littered about. “The bulk of the Apricans forces are in the city. Our exit is only safe for a few more minutes. We have to go now.”
