by J M D Reid
“You should get back,” Avena said. “You don’t know how to fight.”
“I know how to keep from getting my head split open!” Miguil snarled as more skirted around the edge of Ōbhin’s whirl of humming death.
Blood splashed across the cobblestones as the Qothian danced. For a moment, Avena watched him. She could almost forget his sword dealt death. Everything felt natural as he flowed from one attack to another. Her feet suddenly felt heavy while his glided.
“Avena!” Smiles barked.
The shout drew her attention back to the fight before her. She gasped at the sight of the attacker lunging at her, knife in hand. She grinned. The energy pumping through her veins had her shouting like a hero in a story, Boan Sword-Arm facing the darklings, Captain Branglid holding back the Roidians at the Battle of Corpse Pass, or Affoni defending her virtue from the Harwood Bandits. She lunged forward and—
Her foot stepped down on the front of her skirt. It jerked her off-balance. She tried to recover as the dagger thrust at her. She gasped, a sudden wave of fear knifing through her exhilaration. In her panic, she tripped herself and fell onto her backside, legs tangled in the layers of petticoats. Her eyes focused on the triangular point lancing for her. Everything seemed to go so slow. Despite learning to fight, she felt that helpless girl again facing the whitewash.
Smiles, cursing, shouldered into the attacker, a lanky youth with cheeks smeared in soot. He stumbled to the side. He whirled and slashed wildly at Smiles. The guard snapped his binder down on the youth’s wrist. Purple light flared. The scrawny youth stumbled back, cursing in pain.
Smiles didn’t spot the second rioter, jerkin stretched over a round belly, swinging a rusty sword at Smiles’s arm.
“Smiles!” she screamed, the name roaring from her lips for what felt an eternity.
He pivoted, but too slowly. She scrambled to stand, to help him. The sword missed Smiles’s arm as he yanked his upper body back, but his legs didn’t move as quickly. The blade slammed down into the meat of his thigh, cutting through leather pants and biting deep into flesh.
Arterial red spurted as the blade wrenched free.
Chapter Sixteen
“No, no, no!” Avena gasped as Smiles roared in agony. He collapsed onto his back, clamping his hand over his leg. Crimson flowed over his fingers, boiled around his digits.
She dropped her binder, feet scrabbling over cobblestones. As she reached Smiles, Ōbhin appeared, his blade slashing, taking the fat man’s head off. He whirled to face the rioters, shouting fury. Her heart constricted as she fell to her knees beside the wounded guard.
“Elohm’s Colours!” cursed Smiles. “Jilly’s gonna kill me. She just stitched these pants.”
“Smiles . . .” Avena whimpered. “Keep pressure on the wound. Don’t pull away.”
“And the blood,” Smiles muttered, his face paling. His eyes grew glossy. “Gonna stain.”
“Miguil!” she shouted. “Fetch Dualayn’s medical bag!”
“Right!” Miguil croaked.
“Don’t stop pressing on it,” she said to Smiles, panic gripping her heart. Too much blood pumped out of him. “Hurry, Miguil!”
If I hadn’t tripped . . . whipped through her mind, flailing her soul.
“How is he?” a grim voice asked. Ōbhin.
She glanced up. Men groaned. Some staggered away, clutching severed limbs. Others lay on the street, bleeding out if not outright dead. Crimson dripped from Ōbhin’s jerkin. It ran down his sword and dripped from the tip. It no longer buzzed.
“Bad,” she said, voice brittle. “Miguil!”
“Here!” her promised gasped. “Elohm’s Colours, there’s so much blood. S’not good.”
She ripped the leather bag from Miguil and wrenched it open. She fished out bandages. “Okay, Smiles, pull your hand away. Right now.”
“Can you get the blood out ‘fore Jilly sees it?” he asked, voice slurred.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Miguil.
“Shock,” said Ōbhin. “He took a bad wound.”
“Just pull your hand away,” Avena said, the bandage ready.
Smiles’s hand didn’t so much as pull away as fall to the side. Blood spurted from a deep gash. She thrust the bandage over it. The boiled, white absorbent wool soaked crimson in a heartbeat. She felt the pulse of his life through it. With one hand, she applied firm pressure; with the other, she reached into the bag and pulled out a long strip of cloth to bind the wound.
“That is serious,” Dualayn said. “Oh, dear, this is not good. And I hear more coming up behind us.”
“We have to hurry,” Ōbhin said. “Bandage him and get him in the wagon. Miguil, unhitch the carriage horses; we’re abandoning it. Move!”
Miguil darted away as Avena tied the strip of cloth tight about Smiles’s wound. He groaned, pain crossing his sallow face. A greasy pall of sweat covered his forehead. He grit teeth and then panted, his chest rising and falling.
Dualayn pressed a healer against Smiles’s thigh above the wound. The topaz, wrapped in gold wires in a complex pattern about the faceted gem, blazed with a deep-orange light. Smiles groaned, blinking.
“Will that heal him?” asked Ōbhin.
“In time,” Dualayn said. “For now, we have to slow the bleeding. Knit the artery together so we can move him.”
“Get in the wagon, Avena,” Ōbhin said, his eyes flicking up the street.
“But—”
“Now!” Ōbhin spat, fury in his gaze. She wilted beneath his wrath. “Do you hear that?”
Shouts, crashes, and smashing glass roared closer. She glanced down the street to the larger intersection. The other rioters were nearing. She swallowed then snagged up her fallen binder and Smiles’s. She rushed back to the wagon, skirts swirling, tears building in her eyes and clinging to her lashes.
Her body shook as she climbed into the back with the three patients from the hospital. She felt doused in ice water. It all happened so fast. In a moment, her mistake had almost cost Smiles his life. And they were still not out of danger yet.
She rocked herself as she sank into the hollow nothing in her soul.
*
“Come on,” Ōbhin growled, feeling naked with his resonance blade sheathed at his side. His black-gloved hands carried Smiles towards the back of the wagon with Miguil. The carriage stood abandoned in the middle of the road.
Beyond lay the carnage he’d wrought.
The images burned in his mind. He’d maimed today. Killed. Not in the cold emptiness of the last few years, but awake, with full of fright Avena, Dualayn, and the others. He’d unleashed all his talent and skill to keep his companions unharmed, and Avena had made his slaughter pointless.
Smiles bled bad.
The wounded man groaned as he and Miguil shoved Smiles into the back of the wagon.
“Careful, careful,” Dualayn said, his hands stained with blood. He wiped it on his waistcoat, unmindful of his finery. “You’ll damage what I repaired.”
“No time,” snarled Ōbhin, glancing behind him. Smoke curled over a nearby roof. The sound of rioting swelled. The mob was smashing their way into the intersection, breaking everything in their path in a glut of pointless rage. Ōbhin panted, hot from the fight. His leather jerkin trapped in the heat of battle. “Miguil, get us moving!”
The groom nodded, his face pale. He raced down the length of the wagon and climbed onto the bench. Ōbhin scrambled up into the back, sitting on the tailgate as it lurched into motion. The horses freed from the carriage neighed and snorted, their eyes wild.
Blood filled the air.
It dripped from the black sable leather. Ōbhin stared down at a rivulet running across his glove. Miguil smacked reins, urging the draft horses to trundle along. Dualayn placed the healing topaz on Smiles’s thigh above the wound then pulled out a needle and fine thread.
“Avena, child, I need you,” Dualayn said, his voice calm.
Avena rocked, her bloody hands clutching her ski
rt, ruining the fabric. Her eyes peered sightlessly ahead. Ōbhin’s jaw tightened. She had no place charging up. Why did I teach her? She’ll get hurt just as fast knowing how to fight.
The wagon passed the killing field. Men groaned where they lay on the ground, clutching bleeding limbs. Some struggled to aid friends. Ōbhin didn’t want to kill a single one of them. Hatred blazed as they glared at him. He weathered the weight of their gazes as Miguil turned the wagon left, fleeing the riot gripping the heart of Kash.
What choice did I have? he asked himself. They would have cracked all our heads with cudgels. Their blood ran hot. They would have violated Avena.
His stomach curdled.
“Avena, child, please, I need your help,” said Dualayn. “You have to hold the topaz while I stitch him. Avena!”
Avena shifted. Her vacant eyes twitched. Their emptiness sent a shiver through Ōbhin. Then she blinked and shook her head. Her jaw worked. Confusion flickered across her expression for a moment.
“Father?” she asked.
“Phelep needs you,” Dualayn said softly. “He is not out of danger yet. I must stitch him up so the healer can work with more efficacy. You’re the only spare hand I have.”
Ōbhin’s hands balled into fists. Fit only for death . . .
As Avena crawled to Smiles, Ōbhin peered in the direction they raced. Miguil drove the wagon down the empty street. They passed doors closed tight, storm shutters shut and latched. Word was spreading. His shoulders rolled. He glanced behind them.
Smoke boiled around the Rainbow Belfry, staining the blue sky and drifting with other markers of death. An itch grew between his shoulder blades. Why would the city guard kill the high refractor? It was madness. The king had to see what would happen. Right?
Ust’s foul words rippled through his mind. Had Handsome Baill made the shot? Was this sanctioned by the Brotherhood? What reason would Grey have to destabilize the king and sow discord in Kash?
Money. Opportunity for vice and crime.
Ōbhin clenched his fists, gloves creaking. Cracks appeared in the rivulets of drying blood. Some flaked off while thicker bits oozed.
“Ōbhin!” Miguil shouted.
Ōbhin peered ahead and groaned. A brawl spilled into the intersection. The city guard retreated before a mob of Whites and Greens. Clubs cracked, sending rioters falling limp to the ground. The guard’s heavy gambesons and steel helmets shielded them from the worst of the mob’s attacks, but they were too few.
“Go right!” Ōbhin said. “That alley. We can fit through it.”
“Tight,” muttered Miguil as he hauled the reins.
The horses turned, their harnesses jingling. The wide street they were on allowed them to turn into the narrow alley. Shadows fell around them. Buildings flashed by within arm’s reach on both sides of the wagon.
They burst out into chaos on the other side. The horses shied as Miguil cursed.
“Gray fingers!” guards shouted to the right, driving back a group of men who were throwing trash and rocks at them.
One struck the wagon side as Miguil hauled the reins left. The horses neighed and whinnied, hooves clattering on cobblestones. The wagon lurched. The three sick groaned as they slid into each other. Dualayn looked up in annoyance.
“I am trying to stitch his leg. I cannot do that with the wagon performing such violent maneuvers.”
“We’re trying not to die,” Ōbhin muttered, feeling useless.
“Right, right, perspective,” Dualayn said and looked down. “Easy to forget perspective.”
“Yeah,” Avena echoed.
The color had returned to her cheeks. Her bloody hand gripped the topaz, staining it with Smiles’s life. The amber light shone between her fingers, dancing across her face.
“The True Briflons!” roared from an alley to the right.
Ōbhin ducked a wine bottle hurtling from a mob of young men who spilled out onto the street paces away from their wagon. All sported white armbands, a few with swollen knots on temples. They roared and raced after the wagon.
Their boots thudded as they pursued. They wielded their makeshift weapons. A chair leg hurtled from the crowd, spinning with force. Ōbhin rose and swept it to the side with his drawn blade. The wagon hit a pothole.
His feet shifted. His balance was lost.
“Black-cursed Tone!” he gasped and pitched forward.
He hit the edge of the tailgate and tumbled off hard. He slammed into the road, landing with bruising impact on his shoulder. His arm went numb as sharp pain flared across his collarbone. He rolled twice and came to a rest on his back.
The young man racing at him snarled, charging faster.
Ōbhin pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. His sword arm throbbed. Bones ground on bones, sparking pain down his arm and across his back. Angry, snarling faces rushed at him, closing the distance in heartbeats. He whirled and lurched into a run, legs stretching out before him.
Rocks hissed past him. A turnip struck the cobblestones before him, bursting apart into moldy pulp. The wagon clattered ahead. He held his right arm tight to his body, numbing fire blazing in his shoulder.
“Get the gray-fingered bastard!” the mob roared behind him.
A rock struck him between the shoulder blades, blunted by his leather jerkin. He stumbled, almost tripping, but caught himself. He threw a look behind him. They were snapping at his heels. The nearest rioter clutched thick cudgels. One in the back threw another bottle.
It tumbled end over end and bounced off his already numb shoulder.
Agony flared.
He snarled through clenched teeth, his legs stretching out faster before him. His daily exercises kept him running as the burning settled into his muscles. He tasted blood in his mouth. Avena waved at the wagon, shouting something lost to the roar. She looked at Miguil.
He’s not stopping, realized Ōbhin.
Avena shouted again. Dualayn looked up. He wiped at his forehead with his sleeve.
Ōbhin’s boots pounded down the cobblestones. Another rock slashed past his ear and bounced on the pavement before him. He pushed himself. The stitch in his side flared. His boots thudded hard on the ground.
Miguil turned the wagon to the right. The horses neighed. The iron-rimmed wheels rumbled over the road. The wagon slowed as it rounded the turn. Ōbhin snarled and threw every ounce of energy he had into his sprint.
The mob’s roars whipped at him.
Avena reached out a hand for him as he closed. He cut a sharp angle for the corner as the wagon cleared it. Any moment, it would pick up speed, outpacing him again. This was his only chance. Glass shattered at his feet, dark-brown shards peppering his boots. He cleared the corner.
Miguil cracked the reins.
Avena leaned out with her hand.
He snagged it, engulfing her dainty hand in his sable grip. He seized her and pulled.
She gasped, yanked forward by his weight. Her eyes widened as she lost her grip on the wagon’s edge. He caught her gaze, this moment almost stopping as he realized they were both about to tumble across the road.
The mob roared behind him.
Dualayn’s arms seized Avena by the waist and stopped her plunge.
Ōbhin crushed her hand, holding tight as Dualayn hauled Avena back. It jerked Ōbhin forward just enough. He seized the wagon bed with his left hand and pulled. His feet left the pavers. He rolled onto Avena’s legs, pinning her beneath him as he blew heavy breaths.
A final moldering turnip struck his left side, busting into slimy rot. The mob stumbled to a halt, winded while the wagon clattered on.
Chapter Seventeen
Avena trembled as she watched Dualayn run the topaz over Ōbhin’s shoulder as the wagon cleared the gate. A stream of guards was rushing towards the city from the slums. She hugged her skirts again, wanting to sink back into that helpless terror.
She’d only wanted to help Ōbhin and Smiles. There were so many rioters. Their patients were in danger. She had the means to fig
ht. One more person swinging a binder would help them with the odds. She couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.
She’d vowed to never be helpless again, but . . .
Her gaze fell on Smiles’s stitched leg. Fresh bandage covered the wound. He groaned as the wagon rocked, no longer slipping into shock. He would survive. In a day or so, with a few more applications of a healing jewelchine, he’d only have a scar.
Proof of her last mistake.
I’m wearing skirts, she berated herself. Heeled boots. How could I expect to have good footing? Idiot! The men hadn’t needed her. Ōbhin could have routed the rabble by himself. The way his blade carved through flesh . . .
Revulsion gurgled through her. The damage he’d done horrified and fascinated her. The fight hadn’t lasted long, and yet so many men lay dead or dying. He’d killed with ease. He’d flowed through them like they were buckwheat before the farmer’s scythe. No hesitation or fear.
They were bad men, she told herself, struggling to swallow the lie.
They were angry men. Frustrated men. They’d just witnessed the king assassinate the high refractor. Her arms tightened on her knees. Kash had always felt safe to her. She knew there were parts of the city, especially in the slums, that were dangerous, but a woman shouldn’t have to take up a binder to fight during the day.
She glanced back at the city and blinked at how far away the walls were. She looked around and realized they were almost to the manor, passing through the Breezy Hills Slums. Children and women sat on roofs, staring at the smoke drifting over Kash. Hardly any young men, or middle-aged ones, were in the streets.
The clatter of the hooves changed as they crossed Tendril Bridge over the Blue Tendril. They passed their neighbors’ estates, their guards all out in force at the gates, brawny men in gambesons or chainmail, swords belted to sides with cudgels or partisans in hand.
Fingers and Bran stood out before the gates to Dualayn’s estate. Fingers clapped a hand over his brow at their approach then he barked something at Bran. He opened the gates and darted through them as Fingers moved aside. The older guard had his gambeson on, the padded undercoat worn beneath armor. It added more bulk to him.
