“You can’t be mad at me, Jo,” Berius soothed with a charming smile. “You know you missed me.”
Joan relaxed her stance, and she let her smile show. She chuckled like a teenage girl succumbing to those gorgeous ljosalfar eyes.
“Alright, Berius, you win. Plus, Jenny is happily married now.”
“Ooo,” Berius cooed. “Is he handsome?”
“Oh, get lost, Berius! Get out of my sight.” Joan was both laughing and shouting at the same time. “Cayne’s downstairs. Go. I never want to see you again.”
Berius smirked and blew a kiss at Joan. He headed for the red door, down the stairs to the Gold Monk’s speakeasy.
* * *
The large stone table of the Underground had become a proper war table, with a stretched-out map of the city and coins or tiny stones used to represent squads and troops. Edgard and Helena both leaned face to face over the table. Anir stood arms crossed, listening to the plan that was unraveling. Cayne’s finger hopped from point to point on the map while she spoke. Jules sat beside her.
“They moved Azera to the Bastion this morning.” Everyone’s posture stiffened upon the mention of that place of countless horrors. Cayne swallowed before speaking again. “But it gave me an idea.” She paused to make sure she had everyone’s attention. “The abandoned sewers run from the south side to the east side. Parts of it connect to the new network, especially the tunnels close to the city center. There is direct access to the waterway that runs below the Bastion.”
The Bastion was the emblem of terror. It was the first thing Jules had noticed had changed upon his arrival in this time. It was the fortress built under Charles Goshawk’s order, first to serve as military stronghold and honor the Final Solution, then to keep anyone opposing the new regime behind bars. A block of solid sand marble with no windows that stood in the middle of the capital as a firm warning. They did not expect prisoners to escape because they built it to be inescapable. How many dark elves had been tortured in there? How many of the Iskalan tribes had been brought there to die? How many Bravan citizens who defied the monarch’s rule had spent decades starving in there?
But the Bastion was not only a prison. It was an arsenal. With more weapons than men in the Bravan Army.
Cayne took a deep breath for what she was about to say. “We seize the Bastion and make it ours,” she declared. “We have men and women willing to fight, but we don’t nearly have enough weapons to even stand a chance against the Bravan Army. We take the Bastion, and that problem is solved. Then we go for the Castle of Gold.”
She expected the clan leaders to oppose her or shout or be shocked, but none reacted as such. Instead, they listened, eager to hear more of her plan.
Another clan chieftain had joined them at the war table—the Tazman warlord Noah. He had eyes darker than night and armor that gleamed like Tazman white gold. His earth-brown skin was adorned by red tattoos that told the stories of his roots. Noah had no wish for Bravoure to doom itself more than it already had. He had come to the Wolf Pack of his own will, with his men, to end this for once and for all.
“The Bastion was built to keep people in,” Cayne said. “We can use this to our advantage.”
“How so?” Noah asked.
“They didn’t plan for a breach from the outside. Not with a full-scale army, at least.”
“What about the City Watch?” Edgard asked in concern. “The moment they sound the alert, we’ll be overrun.”
Cayne snickered. “We have barrels of fire medicine staged across the capital. We’re going to blow them up at the exact same time, causing a mass diversion the City Watch won’t be able to ignore. Guards will be scattered to every corner of the city. In the meantime, our main troops will collapse the Bastion floor and take it from underneath.”
“So,” a man’s voice from behind them began. He clapped in his hands once and rubbed them together. “Is this where the party is happening?”
“Berius!” Cayne exclaimed. She ran to him and gave him a hug and a tap on the shoulder. “You came.”
Berius gave the others greeting nods. “More than once today.”
“Pff!” Cayne gave him a shove, and he chortled loudly at his own words. “Over a hundred years old, and you still talk like a teenager.”
“Hey, you remember that expression your father always said?” he probed.
They simultaneously said, “You don’t stop playing because you grow old, you grow old because you stop playing.”
For a moment, they were laughing together, rejoicing for their reunion. Coming from the Falco-Dallor family, Cayne’s father had followed in Iedrias’s footsteps and joined the Magi Academy of Bravoure. Berius’s mother had been his teacher years and years ago. Berius had seen Cayne grow, always regarding her as a little sister.
The voices of the others dragged her back to the present. Cayne did the introductions with Berius and the people he had not yet met. Jules was one of them, and he was particularly intrigued by Berius’s eyes and face. Something about him was oddly familiar.
And then it hit him, as they shook hands. The green eyes were the tell.
“You look exactly like that douchebag elf I know,” Jules compulsively said, not thinking about the words he had used.
“Well, nice to meet you too,” Berius said with a wide smile. He awkwardly tapped on Jules’s shoulder. “So, I guess you’ve met my father already?” He turned to Cayne, seeking confirmation.
She and Jules nodded simultaneously. So, here was Luthan’s son. Jules had briefly seen him on Luna, as a little boy, not even spoken to him once. He had never wondered what had become of him. Now he knew. Berius decided to leave it at that, for now.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asked.
Cayne showed him the map and reiterated the plan in briefer terms. Berius nodded at every pause. The others listened to Cayne again, engrossed in thoughts, pondering on potential suggestions.
“There is one thing, though,” Edgard awkwardly interrupted. “Sure, the Bastion’s history is dark, but there are genuine criminals in there. Are we sure we want to free them?”
Cayne swallowed. “We won’t set them free.”
“But it could happen, right?”
“What do you have against genuine criminals?” Helena, leader of the mercenary clan, asked with an exaggerated frown.
Edgard chuckled nervously. “Nothing against mercenaries like you, Helena, don’t get me wrong.” He ran shaky fingers through his hair. “But there are”—he whispered the next part—“cold-blooded murderers.”
“This is something we have to count as accepted risk,” Cayne declared. “I’m sorry, but it’s like this.”
“Okay...” Edgard conceded. “But what about Galies? The declaration of war has already been sent. Aren’t we doing this for nothing?”
“We’ll send people to fix things with Galies, but we have to take control of the city if we hope to achieve something.”
“So,” Jules began after one more moment of ponder. “Which troops where?”
Noah took a step closer to the war table before Cayne could answer to that. “My men are warriors. We’ll help with the siege.”
“My men are mercenaries,” Helena said. “We can do both.”
Edgard hesitated, still nervous, unsure of this plan and everything related to it. “I just have guards and diplomats.” He shrugged, apologetic.
“That’s fine, Edgard,” Cayne reassured. “We’ll need you in case negotiations take place. I wouldn’t be surprised if the general would want a word after we take the Bastion. Plus, we need your eyes on the castle. And since you have access, it’s a goldmine for us.”
Only Anir, chieftain of Angao, remained. He had been silent all this time. Actually, Anir was silent all the time, but this time, he took a step forward and uncrossed his arms. “We have fought against bigger than prison guards. We will assist with the siege.”
“What about your men, Cayne?” Helena asked.
Cayne drew a determined sm
ile on her face. Her eyes flickered with a more-than-ready flame. “They will be everywhere.”
A sudden sound caught everyone’s attention. A soft yowl that came from underneath the war table. Jules peeked, lifting the map to see under it.
It was Luky. The catling had been sleeping all this time on a pillow of hides under the large stone table. No one had noticed him.
“Are you guys finally done?” he asked, yawning and rubbing his yellow eyes. “Can we go fight now?”
His pupils adjusted and widened to their maximum size when he saw Berius.
“Berry!” he exclaimed, happy to see the man he called godfather.
Berius smiled, and Luky instantly jumped in his arms. He praised the catling for how big he had grown. Jules was a little confused. Luky had never once told him of Berius. Nor of their relationship and how close they seemed to be. In two years, Jules had never heard that name! Who was this Berius guy anyway?
Cayne turned back to the group of clan leaders. “Time to rally our troops, rebels.”
They each acknowledged with nods and marched away from the war table, each in different directions. While Luky and Berius caught up on each other’s lives, Cayne and Jules discussed the plan again. Not because they wanted to make sure every corner case had been considered, but more to reassure themselves that it was a solid plan. Jules looked one more time at Luky, who rolled on the floor while Berius tickled him. He knew how Luky craved for danger and always managed to get himself in the weirdest, scariest of places. Luky needed to stay out of this one, at least until the battle was over.
And what kind of battle? The whole plan relied on the City Watch considering the scattered explosions as a threat. What if they did not? What if they ignored them and labeled them minor activity from disgruntled people?
“I can see it in those beautiful blue eyes of yours, Jules,” Cayne said. “You’re worried.”
“I just can’t stop thinking that we’re taking a huge gamble with those explosions.”
“We have to, but you know the City Watch almost as well as I. They’ll take anything as an excuse to march into the city weapons brandished.”
True. They had even taken him prisoner once. It might happen all over again.
“Aren’t you scared?” Jules asked, his tone strict and stern.
Cayne inhaled deeply and exhaled with her words. “I’m more scared of how civilians will react. We know the city is this close to blowing up. What if the siege turns into a full-on civil war?”
Jules shrugged and clicked his tongue. “Then we’ll definitely have enough men to take down the Castle of Gold.”
“We can’t expect disorganized angry mobs to unite. That’s exactly why anarchy doesn’t work. They’ll need a leader, a guide at best.”
Jules smiled. He did not respond to Cayne’s last words. She tapped on his shoulder, mumbled something about needing to be somewhere. Jules could see her as a leader. Why not? She had led the city’s Wolf Pack this far. She was definitely more than capable and deserving of that role. Just like her ancestor, David Falco. Jules gazed upon Luky and Berius without really looking at them. He spent a moment remembering the man he had admired long ago, the commander. The feeling he now had in his gut was irrefutably similar to the one before the Battle of Orgna. Both first and second time. The battle was near. He could feel it. He embraced it. Jules never really thought of that time anymore. This was what two years in the future does to someone. His present was now. But the memory of David sparked something warm in his heart. A flame he only realized now that he thought he had lost. Jules smiled again, ready to face the day to come. The endgame.
The Wolf Pack
The Nobles
11
Siege
Bright sun rays pierced through the clouds at last. Bravoure slowly recovered from the long stormy night with a rain of golden drops over the capital. General Corax stood by one of the windowpanes in the Great Hall of Kings and Queens, watching the south-west awake from the tumultuous night. There was no movement, no sound of horse carriages or people getting ready for the morning market. Only the quiet peace of a summer day. Now that the condor was out of the way, Corax could focus on preparing his army for what was to come.
Foolish Azera, Corax thought. Incompetent at best. She had seduced the people with her sparkling blond hair and bright blue eyes. Her promises to make Bravoure better, to seek redemption. Bravoure was never meant to heal. She did not need to. Scars make one strong. Scars define one. Bravoure’s scars made her the imperialistic force she was today. And it would not be long before Galies would learn the meaning of it.
Or maybe not… Corax smiled. He had never sent a convoy to Sud. Nor had the envoy to Galies actually boarded that ship. But Azera would never find out, now, would she?
“General,” one of Corax’s guards said and saluted with his hand to his temple. “They’re here.”
Ah! His guests had arrived. Corax signed the guard to let them in. There were three of them this time. They greeted him with solemn smiles. Corax always found their appearance a little odd, like they wore these long dark purplish robes for some sort of spectacle. But they were clerics, after all. Clerics were always up for a display of fine-grained dramatics. One of them, the one in the middle, took a step toward the general. It was Father Gale. He was one of the Prophets of Mort that had advised him after Phorus Adal’s strange disappearance. Gale had never said a word about it, and Corax never dared ask.
Father Gale stared a little longer than necessary.
“I did what you said,” Corax said first. “I sent the empty galley.”
The man’s smile turned crooked. “Great,” he sang. “How did the monarch take the news?”
“With enough anger that I could lock her up.”
“Have you heard from Sud?”
“The dragon won’t be getting in the way.” Corax snickered. His eyes in Sud had made sure the only dark elf left in the kingdom would stay in his prison. “This dokka would rather rot on savage sand than ever set foot in the capital again.”
They both laughed, but it was a quiet chortle. Father Gale eventually left the room with his two followers, his smile still stretched across his face. General Corax lingered in the Great Hall, proud but a little confused. Eager. Whatever the Prophets of Mort had in store, it was something grand.
There was never meant to be a declaration of war. This was a power play to destabilize Azera so she could be removed easily. One step closer to the ascent to the throne. That was all this was about: retaking the golden throne. Restoring the Bravan King’s legacy.
Democracy was never meant to work. Give the people influence over who governs, and the man in power ends up being the one who shouts the loudest. People are gullible. People will believe anything if you throw legends or gold at them. Azera promised order and prosperity and only delivered anger and confusion. The Prophets of Mort understood that. And they knew exactly how to take advantage of the city’s volatility to restore power. At least, that is what they had promised. The Wolf Pack, those terrorists that had been like needles in his knees for the past decade, were about to be crushed by this grand stratagem.
General Corax was still caught in his thoughts when the blast of a distant cannon shook the ground. It was far away, but it had still managed to cause a tremor in the Great Hall. Corax instinctively looked up to check if the ceiling would fall. Even the tapestries of red and gold still wavered gently from the shock.
Confused, Corax called for his guards. They trotted to him, eyes rounded, unsure themselves of what happened.
That is when another distant roar echoed, but this time, it came from somewhere else.
“Explosions!” a guard shouted from the galleries above the throne room.
“They’re all over the city!” another guard added.
Corax had to think fast when another blast shook the ground. He knew his recent actions would draw the Wolf Pack out, but this was earlier than expected, too early. The silence outside transformed int
o a cacophony of panicked shouts. Repetitive thumps and clang of guards in plate armor beat left and right in search of orders. Corax pointed north and south, shouting, “Make it stop!”
Guards swarmed out of the castle and into arbitrary streets like they had no idea where they were going but had to go anyway. General Corax shouted orders in both Common and Bravan at the same time, then he turned to the one last guard in the throne room and launched a “Get the garrison!” in his direction.
The ground shook above their heads. A distant roar of crashing thunder. Cayne looked up, protecting her eyes from the dirt that flaked off the ceiling. Behind her was a platoon of over a hundred warriors and mercenaries.
It was a simple plan, really. Sewage tracts from the Bastion discharged in the waterway connected to the abandoned Bravan sewers the Wolf Pack knew so well. It was just a matter of taking the tunnels that led to the bottom of the fortress and making their way up to the roof of the four watchtowers, where artillery cannons were posted. Control the cannons, and the fight would be sealed.
Another explosion, followed by vibrations above the earth. Cayne pictured what the city was like in that moment. Fires, screams, shouts from the garrison scattering into the streets, scavenging for clues about what in Hell was happening. Cayne could hear them all inside her head. It was better to focus on that than on the fact that her heart was about to squeeze itself to death.
Cayne was dead afraid. The sweat on her palms made it difficult to hold her sword. The anxious spasms in her arm made it even harder. Cayne had lived a life preparing for this, but now that the day had finally come, she was frozen.
A gentle elbow gave her a push on the waist. “This is my second siege. How about you?” Jules asked with a jocular smile. His tone lit up the mood instantly.
Cayne nervously chuckled. She shook her head to return to her anchor in the here and now. “I’m a first-timer,” she whispered.
Tempest of Bravoure Page 14
