by K A Dowling
A traitor to her country—that was what the heralds cried only the day before. Emerala the Rogue was woman guilty of sneaking pirates into the midst of Chancey—of using witchcraft to harbor them within her home. It is a laughable charge, truly, and yet it is just enough for the bloodthirsty Chancians, and it is a stroke of luck for Alexander. No one will be surprised when Emerala the Rogue is whisked away by pirates, not after the countless rumors that she has spent the spring cavorting with fearsome brigands.
He thinks on this, smirking into the growing gloom. Across the street the Hawk is staring pointedly at him, still cupping his ear. It is not the rabble in the square that he hears. His golden eyes narrow. He jabs a finger into the street. Alexander leans forward, listening intently.
After a moment, he hears it—the slow creak of uneven wheels upon cobblestone. It is accompanied by the clatter of hooves. There is a whinny, sharp.
Here she comes.
Alexander glances around the darkened street. It is empty. Silent.
Exactly how it should appear. His men have disappeared into the doorways and windows and walls, blending into the shadows carried in upon the silver moon. They await his signal, their blood rushing, fingering their daggers.
We’ll fight them with our blades, he ordered them earlier that afternoon. It’s too dangerous to use our pistols. We don’t want to attract any more attention than we need.
The men had been all too eager for the chance to slit golden throats. They hungered for the agility and grace of hand-to-hand combat. He knows they will obey his order. He also knows that the guardians will most likely follow the same tactic. They, too, will be reluctant to attract any attention. If word gets out that the guardians have lost control to pirates the city will be thrown into pandemonium.
He breathes deep. His cheeks fill with air. Here we go.
“She’s coming,” whispers a voice in his ear. The Valiant. Alexander nods, bringing his finger to his lip. The Cairan glares at him from underneath a wild mop of curls. Beneath his free arm he holds an angry looking black cat. The animal is thin with matted fur. One ear is ripped, nearly missing, perhaps pulled off by some stray dog. Its green eyes gleam like discs in the silver moonlight. They watch him with a dislike that is identical to the Cairan that clings to its midsection.
“This had better go as planned,” the Valiant murmurs.
“It will if you keep quiet,” Alexander hisses back. He eyes the crooked blade in the Cairan’s shaking fist. He wonders if it is fear from which the young man shakes, or if it is anger. He hopes it is the latter. He hopes the Valiant will live up to his namesake.
Down the street, the first of the guardians have come around the corner. They march on foot, their eyes scanning the shadows. Their hands are tight upon the hilts that protrude from their leather scabbards. A sound emanates from the dark, trash filled alley. A younger guardian, green with inexperience, jumps at the sound. Alexander rolls his eyes. The Hawk can never pass up the chance to have a bit of fun. He is like a tiger with its prey, playing with his food before he eats it.
An older guardian slaps the young soldier hard on the back. “What, are you frightened of the dark? Keep yourself together, Private.” One gold strip bands his upper arm. Alexander does not know what this signifies, but he assumes the man is of a higher ranking position.
The carriage rounds the corner as well, dragged along by two black horses. Their gold reins gleam beneath the silver moon. They toss their heads, nostrils flared. Their ears are flat against their scalps. The whites of their eyes match the froth that seeps out around their bits. They sense the imminent danger, even if the guardians cannot.
“Get control of those animals,” the older guardian orders. His voice is sharp. His eyes peer into the darkness. There is the crack of a whip snapping against the air and one of the horses lets out an agitated whinny.
The barred black carriage is nearly eye level with Alexander. It clatters slowly by, the wheels rising and falling with jarring rhythm upon the uneven grey stone. The two horses are just before him. The smell of sweat and earth tickles his nose. He feels the Valiant tense at his side and he knows what the man is thinking.
Emerala is inside.
The Valiant’s voice reaches his ear in a hiss. “Now?”
“Now.”
He watches as the Valiant sets down the cat and gives it a light kick on the rear. Spitting in irritation, the scrawny black cat darts out beneath the legs of the horses. Already on edge, the two animals let out frightened shrieks. They rear up upon their hind legs, kicking at the darkness with wild black hooves. The carriage swerves wildly, nearly missing a cluster of alarmed guardians.
“Keep control! Keep control,” the older guardian snaps repeatedly. The man at the front of the carriage tugs on the reins, trying in vain to soothe the frightened animals. Several of the guardians have drawn their pistols. They peer into the settling dusk, searching for the invisible aggravator.
There is a hiss, followed by a bitter meow. The cat darts out of the way of the flailing hooves and races, back arched, into the safety of an alleyway.
“You fools. Put away your weapons,” spits the guardian in charge. “It was only a cat.”
There is the sign.
Within seconds the whole of Alexander’s crew has descended upon the horde of guardians, their daggers and cutlasses gleaming as silver as the moon. They slip out of the shadows from every direction, dropping down from rooftops and climbing up from sewer drains. Alexander sees the first of the guardians go down, their ankles slashed open by daggers from below. A few of his men surface, grinning and reeking of piss, their blades dripping crimson.
The night air is overtaken by the sound of clashing swords. They fight in eerie silence, each side trying to prevent the waiting Chancians in the square from hearing the battle. In the midst of it all, his laughter the only accompaniment to the reverberating song of swords, is the Hawk. His face is splattered with blood. His eyes are bright beneath his brows.
Gold blood bleeds red, Alexander thinks wryly.
His gaze turns to the carriage. He gestures for the Valiant to follow him. Two guardians are upon them as soon as they slip into the streaming silver moonlight. Alexander brings his sword up just in time, sparring the swing of a singing blade. His arm quivers with the shock of it. His pulse quickens beneath his flesh. He shoves the guardian backwards, matching him thrust for thrust. Each time the blades connect he feels something spark within him. His heart is pounding against his chest. He fights the urge to cry out in exultation. He realizes that the wild joy upon his face is contrasted by the fear in the eyes of the young guardian across from him. Within a moment, he knows he has him. He kicks the blade from the slumping boy’s hand at the same time as he bring his cutlass down flat across his scalp.
He does not kill him, but only knocks him unconscious. He does not have the will to kill the boy—it had barely even been a fight.
At his side, the Valiant is doing his part. His swordplay is weak—clearly he has not had much opportunity for practice. And yet the Cairan is strong. The muscles of his arm tense as he snaps the neck of his opponent, his hands gripping the skull of the newly deceased guardian. The body goes limp in his grasp. He thrusts it aside, retrieving his crooked sword from the ground where it fell.
They reach the door of the carriage. No one else is around. The battle has moved further down the street.
Too easy, Alexander thinks. But he does not have the time for doubt. His men are doing their job well, that is all. They are skilled fighters, and fearless. The guardians thrive upon the fear of their enemies for victory. They depend upon it. They are nothing without it, only dogs with their tails between their legs.
He gestures for the Valiant to join him by the carriage. Sheathing his cutlass, he watches as the Cairan does the same. It takes two of them to pry open the door, so tight are the black hinges. As soon as they do so, Alexander’s senses are assaulted by the sharp smell of decay. He pulls his undershirt up over his
nose.
“Damn them,” curses the Valiant. His face is contorted in disgust. It is dark within the carriage, but there is enough moonlight trickling in the open door for them to make out what lies within. Two Cairans, newly killed—ropes still secured about the raw flesh of their necks—lay side by side upon the cold, black floor. Pinned to the bodice of the woman is a piece of parchment. Alexander reaches in and rips it off of her corpse. The slanted writing is done in a lazy hand. The pen blotted several times, rendering the ink almost illegible.
For your troubles.
“Damn them!” the Valiant curses again, louder this time. Alexander crumples the parchment into a ball. His skin feels as though it is on fire. They knew. The bastards. This was all for show.
Where is she?
The battle is still raging all around them, and yet the tide is quickly changing. More guardians have arrived in droves. They beat Alexander’s men back, driving them towards the sea. At the back of all of them, his dark gaze scanning the skirmish from the top of a rearing mare, is the notorious Corporal Anderson. He is frowning, chewing his lip in consternation. In one gloved hand he steadies his steed by her golden reins. In the other, he grips a grey, lifeless head. Alexander stares at the scalp through the silvery gloom. Mouth agape and face splattered in blood, and still it is recognizable. It is one of his crew. His blood boils.
“Retreat!” Alexander shouts. His crew has already begun to race back into the shadows before the word crosses his lips.
“Are you mad?” the Valiant roars, grabbing at Alexander’s shirtfront. He wrenches him towards his nose, glaring at him through bitter, green eyes. “They still have her. They still have my sister.”
Alexander grimaces, prying the Valiant’s fingers from his collar. “Not here, they don’t.”
Anderson is as still as stone at the far end of the street. The head dangles from his fist. Their eyes meet. He does not smile. The dark lines upon his face are grim.
“Kill them,” he commands his men. “Kill them all.”
CHAPTER 25
General James Byron
James Byron hears the ringing clash of steel long before he reaches the ambush. His blood thickens in his veins and he lets out a low curse, drawing up his reins. Beneath him, his stallion draws to a clattering stop. The beast tosses his head, the whites of his eyes rolling. Dismounting hard, he holds up a fist for the soldiers behind him.
“Halt!”
The column of guardians that march behind the prisoner’s carriage falls still. The steady cadence of boots echoes through the alleyways, petering off into eerie silence. In the sudden quiet, the shivering ring of sword against sword becomes louder still.
“Anderson was right,” he growls beneath his breath. “Damn him to the Dark Below, he was right.”
The corporal had insisted upon sending out two carriages—one false wagon to go ahead, and a true prisoner’s cart to follow. When Byron denied him his request, Anderson went to the king.
She’s a wicked woman, your Majesty, he explained. She has dark powers working for her. I would not let anything go to chance.
Corporal Anderson is hardly a religious man. He attends mass and he knows the prayers, but he is a man of logic—of rational thought and cold, hard war tactic. He does not believe in the Evil. If he does, he feels no fear of it. Yet he knew exactly how to play into Rowland’s hand. He left the great man quaking in his throne, crossing himself in fear.
Do whatever you need to do, Rowland told him. The witch must be executed tonight.
Standing at the head of the carriage, Byron lets out a stream of curses under his breath. He scans the darkness up ahead, his mind churning. It doesn’t take long for the frantic clatter of boots against cobblestone to reach his ears. Someone is coming.
He draws his pistol, ignoring the worried snort of his steed. From the shadowed street up ahead, he can just make out a flash of gold as a breathless guardian rounds a corner. He is running as fast as his feet will carry him, the wind catching in his billowing golden cloak. The side of his face is spattered with blood.
“General Byron, sir,” pants the man, drawing to a stop only a few feet away. Byron recognizes him at once.
“Private Abel. What news?”
“We’re under attack,” Abel manages through gasps. “Our men are dropping like flies.”
Rage broils within Byron, hot and heavy. “How?” he snaps. “They’re civilians. Finishing them off should be simple for soldiers of his Majesty.”
Abel fidgets nervously beneath Byron’s glare, one hand pawing at the fast drying blood in his eye. “With all due respect, sir, it isn’t the Cairans.”
Immediately, Byron realizes what has gone wrong. He does not need to ask, although he does so anyway, his voice as cold and as stiff as ice.
“Who is it?”
“Pirates. They’re coming out of the ground and dropping like flies. We can’t take them alone.”
Byron grits his teeth, the muscles in his jaw twitching. A spasm of pain has begun to throb behind his eyes. He glowers at the private before him with contempt, feeling unusually angry—feeling the rage within his chest climbing inexplicably higher. The sight of Private Abel wiping furiously at his blood spattered face only serves to ignite his wrath still further.
“Are you frightened of a little blood, private?”
Abel pauses midway through reaching into his uniform for a handkerchief, his pallid face turning crimson beneath his superior officers stare. He opens his mouth to speak, but Byron speaks first, unwilling to hear whatever it is the private might stammer out at him.
“There’s no reason to be frightened of men. That’s all those pirates are—men. Nothing more. Your fear is a disgrace to the uniform you wear.”
Abel nods, his face reddening impossibly further. The fast drying blood disappears against his skin. Holding up a hand, Byron lets out a sharp whistle. Moving on cue, the guardians behind the carriage pick up their march.
“Head out,” he calls, watching them maneuver past him and down the street. “Swords at the ready! Keep your eyes open, men! These brutes don’t fight fair and they don’t fight clean. Use whatever means necessary to put down their numbers and clear the streets.”
His voice carries out across the night without so much as an echo, swallowed immediately by the pounding of boots against stone. He watches them until they disappear around the corner, listening still to the distant ring of steel—the screams of the dying.
Only when they have gone does he turn his attention back to the private before him. The soldier is watching the column of guardians retreat around the corner up ahead, the discoloration in his face finally beginning to normalize.
“Private Abel,” Byron barks. The young soldier jumps, turning to face him.
“Yes?”
His better judgment crying out for him to stay behind and do the job himself, Byron orders, “Stay back. Guard the gypsy. Perhaps a woman will not frighten you as much as a man.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Byron glowers down at the private for a moment more before glancing over his shoulder at the prisoner’s carriage. The towering, barred structure is silent and still in the dark. From behind the bars, he can just make out two, glimmering emerald eyes watching him. He locks his jaw, his teeth grinding hard against one another, and heads off down the street after his men.
The road ahead is empty and dark—the marching cadence of the soldiers has turned to the discordant rhythm of battle. He walks slowly, his head pounding as he leads his stallion through the narrow roadway. In spite of the battle raging ahead, he feels no pressing urge to rush—feels no drive to run to the defense of the dying.
Why, he asks himself, did I leave that useless sod to guard the carriage alone?
He is about to turn back when a figure barrels out of the darkness and slams into him full force. He grunts, absorbing the blow as fists rain down upon his chest. Releasing the reins, he snatches at the flailing shadow before him, taking hold of the narrow
, pallid wrists and holding the figure at arm’s reach. Two furious blue eyes stare out at him from a pale, pinched face, and he immediately recognizes the Cairan woman from the cathedral. His heartbeat quickens needlessly, sending his blood rushing through his veins.
“Great After,” he curses. “I could have killed you.”
She ignores him. Her voice is a hoarse cry of desperation. “Where is Emerala?”
He swallows thickly, still grasping her wrists within his fists. She is inches away from him, her braided hair cascading around her face in curling locks of brown. A heavy cloak of midnight black enshrouds her narrow figure, rendering her darker than a shadow in the street.
“It isn’t safe for you out here.”
“As if you care,” she hisses. “What have you done with my cousin?”
“Nothing,” he swears. “I haven’t touched her.”
“You swore to me—you swore that if she handed herself over, those prisoners would go free.” She spits at his feet. “You’re nothing but a liar.”
His anger threatens to explode within him. The pain behind his eyes is unrelenting. Quick as a flash, he grips her chin between his fingers, jerking her gaze up towards his face. She struggles against his grasp, her shallow breathing audible in her throat. Her bosoms heave beneath her tightly laced bodice.
“I never lied to you,” he nearly snarls. “I’m not the one in charge. I follow orders, nothing more.”
“Does blindly following orders absolve you of all responsibility, then?”
Her words are cold. He thrusts her away from him, watching as the stormy blue of her gown billows out around her narrow frame.
“Where is Emerala?” she demands a second time.
“Why do you hate me?” he asks, surprising even himself with the question. Her eyes narrow dangerously. He continues, adding, “I’ve done nothing to you—nothing to hurt you, nothing to bring you any sort of harm.”
Her chin rises in quiet defiance. “Are you truly so dense that you believe your actions have not caused me harm?”
