by Wren Handman
The guards at the gate barely spared them a glance before waving them through, and Taya kept gawping as they walked in. The city could not have been more different from her home if someone was trying to do nothing but spin her head. Florentio had been flavored in a Sephrian way, it was true, but it was barely a town, and it hadn’t seemed so foreign. But this…
Easily three times the size of Novosk, the roads ran smooth and flat, and every building seemed at least four stories tall, and all made of that same smooth pink stone. There were walks on the side of the roads meant for pedestrians, so you never had to dash out of the way of a horse or a cart, and runnels between the roads and the walks carried dirt and filth to the sewers, so no one had to step over filth as they went. And the people! Not just Sephrians, it seemed, but people from every country walked the roads, and other continents as well.
“So, this is Labaci,” Taya said, trying not to sound too impressed.
“Three times the size of the next largest city,” David said proudly. “Our streets are all straight—they run in perfect parallels throughout the city. They’re numbered, and the numbers start from the center and work their way out: east, west, north, and south.” He pointed to what seemed a magical invention—a sign on the street corner to tell you the name of the street you were on. It had small black lines on it with the number of the street they were currently on. “98 South and 93 East.”
“Ashua—it must take a while to count all the stripes if you get lost!”
Ryan chuckled softly, just the barest hint of a laugh behind the mask of darkness that was his face, and it felt like a victory to Taya. Every time she connected with him it seemed that way, and she thought it happened more and more of late.
“We have to pass through some dangerous places. Keep a hand on your purse strings,” Ryan advised, and she laughed.
“I would if I had one.”
It took two hours to reach the rebel stronghold. It was similar to the one she had seen in Novosk, a large building which seemed abandoned but turned out to be a thriving citadel. There were far more rebels here, more than Taya could count: she guessed at least a hundred. When they had talked about a small force breaking into the palace, she had pictured in her mind just their fifteen soldiers, but she realized how foolish that had been. Of course the palace would have guards, and there would be a fight here. This, in terms of war, was a small strike force.
David took her to the leaders, who directed her to a room for “non-combatants” and left her there. There she met the ancient steward, Darren’s once-grandfather, who seemed to greet her kindly but have little recognition of who she was. He was very busy, though, and his nerves were frayed from having been smuggled into the city in a crate of hay. He was here to verify in front of the city and the nobles that Darren was the rightful heir to the throne, and thus ensure that there was no dissent to Darren’s ascension. It was a much warmer reunion with Darren’s foster mother, who not only recognized Taya, but had several kind words for her. It was a strange encounter, layers of things not said, but at one point she rested a hand on Taya’s arm and told her she would have been proud to have Taya as a daughter-in-law. It was a simple thing, and likely spoken only out of kindness, but it put a smile on Taya’s face for the rest of the day.
She spent the day walking around, introducing herself to new faces and saying hello to familiar ones. She was surprised at how many people she didn’t know seemed to know exactly who she was, and more than one superstitious soldier asked her to touch their sword, or held her hands in theirs for a moment. Liam told her they believed that she was good luck; his tone implied that he thought the whole thing was absurd, but she caught him touching a lock of her hair as she walked away. He mumbled some excuse about a fly and hurried away. She knew Jeremy and Darren must be here, since Liam was, but she didn’t see either of them throughout any of her wandering.
It was that night, as Taya was preparing her bedroll in the most secluded corner she could find (which wasn’t terribly private), when she finally saw Jeremy. He appeared around a knot of men with a wide, relieved smile at the sight of her.
“Jeremy! I thought I might have lost you in the throng,” she said fondly, hugging him.
He pulled her so close she thought she might melt into him as he ducked his head briefly against her neck. And then as soon as it had begun he was pulling away, clearing his throat as if embarrassed.
“I would always find you,” he assured her, but then he ducked his head and continued speaking, his words tumbling fast. “There is something important I need to discuss with you, Taya.”
“What is it?”
“I, well, I am not sure if I am asking a favor of you, or granting one to you,” he admitted, meeting her eyes again, “and either way I am not sure I’m doing the right thing. But, here we are. I have spoken much with the men who traveled with us, and even with the men who are newly arrived. It seems tales of you have spread like wildfire.”
“I noticed that. Why is it, did they tell you?” she asked, trying to pretend she wasn’t pleased by all the attention.
“You saved their lives,” he reminded her. “You saved their king. You journeyed with us from the beginning, and lost everything for our cause. You curse like a man, play dice like a shark, and pray like a child—you know they’re calling you the Wild Maidie?”
Taya burbled out a laugh. “Wild Maidie? What a thought!”
“Well, they are all having it, and others too. They say you are their lucky charm. That Yariel begged his mother to send you to us on his behalf. That the gods would be angry if you weren’t with us.”
“You want me to come?” She gaped.
“Like I said, I am torn. It is dangerous, and there is no worldly reason for you to be there. But…every good general knows that a battle is about more than numbers. It is about the fire your men have, and you give them fire, Taya. They believe that if you are there they are unbeatable, and so if you are there they will fight as if they are. But there will be battle, and I cannot guarantee your safety, though I can promise it will be my first—”
“Of course I’ll go!”
“Think about it,” he admonished, though he clearly knew his warning was meaningless.
“I can use a sword well enough to hold someone off until someone else gets there. I have this…feeling, Jeremy, this strange and itchy feeling, like there will be a purpose for me there. I can’t explain it, and I know I’m no Wild Maidie, know I’m not touched by the gods. They leave us to our own stories, let us write our lives as we will. But I feel it, that I have some part to play in this. I feel it,” she said, with an eloquent shrug.
“Then it’s decided,” he said, but his tone was dark and he seemed defeated.
“And Darren agreed?”
“Not even a little,” he admitted. “But I plan on announcing that you are coming in front of everyone. He won’t be able to object without looking like a hypocrite, and he won’t risk that in front of his supporters. He needs these men.”
“He won’t like that.”
“I know.”
“Don’t look so dire,” she teased, slipping her hands onto his shoulders.
“These are dire times,” he said, but he did not move away from the comfort of her hands.
“I think you just need a little fire,” she whispered, and kissed him deeply.
Startled, he put his hands on her waist by instinct, and returned the kiss with a longing that left her breathless. She wished there could be more, but they were interrupted in the beat of an eye and he left her, flushed and grinning, with a wall to keep her balanced.
Sometimes it felt to Taya like she was a bit player in some grand epic being put on by a traveling show; she would be ninth or tenth in the billing. There was so much happening around her, so many threads she felt like she was grasping only at their very edge. So much had gone into creating this night, and she was awed by the intelligence and grace with which the coup had been planned.
Elise, the lover of
the woman Taya had met at the cottage, greeted the rebel army at a small side gate reserved for laundresses. Behind her were a score of women with fierce expressions and nervous hands. Taya could only imagine the terror they had been through these months (or years?), plotting treason in the heart of the usurper’s palace.
The plan was not simple, but Taya was privy to only a part of it. The bulk of the fighters would be slipping through the palace quietly. They would eliminate and replace the bulk of the royal guard—those whose loyalty they did not believe could be bought or bargained for. With the goddess’s grace they would control the palace before anyone knew a revolution was happening. There would be fighting at the gates, as they convinced the city guard that the battle was lost before it began, but once it became clear that they controlled the palace, and that the king was dead, the battle would hopefully be short lived.
Jeremy and Darren were moving directly to the throne room to confront the king—Taya would be with them. David was commanding another troop, so they said their farewells, and Elise led their small band into the back tunnels that the servants used. There had already been an insurrection of the lower class and those still loyal to the king were restrained in the kitchen. There had been only five casualties on the opposing side, and two on that of the rebels. Leanne would be proud of her beautiful lover, and beautiful she was. Taya could not help but think what a lovely queen she would make, and wondered if Darren would ask for her hand, if she would agree to the match for politics, though her heart lay elsewhere.
Finally they found their way to the passage that opened into the throne room. Darren looked over them once, as if to speak, but he only nodded and opened the door. They poured through with battle cries, and roared down upon the startled guards with the fury of a thousand slights. With the pain of exile in their hearts they trampled the first few before anyone could draw a sword in defense, but the surge of their advantage didn’t last. The guards quickly rallied, and there was a rain of arrows from the balcony above. Taya hoisted a large shield up, protecting herself and the men to either side, as the battle was joined in earnest.
David snuck down the passageway, his heart pounding thickly. To his right and slightly behind him, Ryan slunk with daggers raised. They were almost at the gate. He felt the moments sliding by, each step nearer to the confrontation. It would surely be a massacre, and some gentle part still left from his younger days quivered at the thought. Revolutions by necessity were violent, blood paid by blood, but still he somehow wished that it was only the guilty who would suffer. These men of the city guard were no murderers, no usurpers. Still they stood between victory and defeat, and there was nothing for it. For a brief moment he thought of Taya, and her constant prayers to her goddess. He wondered if a prayer to Yariel would have some effect on the coming battle, but chided his foolishness. They had been blessed by Marce this morning. Yariel, if he was watching, knew already that their thoughts were with Him.
He saw the gate rise in front of him and switched his sword briefly from one hand to the other, wiping his palm against the leg of his pants. Sweat could be deadly in a fight. Any slip, any tiny distraction, could end it all. He glanced sideways, giving Ryan a brief nod, and then focused his attention on the battle ahead. He gave the signal, his hand slicing savagely downward, and then there were screams in the air, and blood, as swords bit into unsuspecting flesh.
There were no battle cries from the attackers here, no hint of their presence before they struck. It was swift and merciless, and they had taken out five of the seven defenders before a cry could be raised. One of the two men managed to grab hold of the warning bell, and as its first peal echoed through the still air he was sliced down with a mighty sword stroke. The other ran for the gate, his sword through the mechanism to lodge it in place. David swore—through the gate he could see a squadron of the startled city watch running toward them. David saw Paul rally the troop, moving to intercept them, and he ran for the gate mechanism, hoping to close it before it was too late. He grabbed the sword and pulled with groaning muscles, but when it finally came loose he saw it had cut a vital cog. His men were standing shoulder to shoulder, overwhelmed by the number of fresh assailants. If he could not close the gate soon, they would be cut to ribbons.
David swore under his breath and abandoned his sword, hearing it clash to the pavement as he wrapped both arms around the wheel and gave a mighty groan. If he could lift the mechanism, even for a moment, he could raise it past the broken cog and engage the mechanism. In answer the gate groaned and began to slowly lower, the city guard rushing to push themselves in before it fully closed.
He had forgotten the guard who had used his sword to jam it, crouched between the wall and the small rebel force. He felt a sharp burn, pain exploding through his back, no time for a reaction, no time to reach the sword lying uselessly on the ground beside him. There was time for only a single thought, before the world grew dark and he felt himself collapsing.
“Ryan…”
Chapter Seventeen
TIME SEEMED TO SHIFT around Taya into a murky collection of blood and sweat and men’s cries. They had not expected the king’s guard to be prepared for the attack, and as the seasoned fighters battered their small force, more and more fell to the ringing steel. Taya shadowed the walls, unarmed, until a glancing sword blow nearly removed her head and she fell to the ground, panting in fear and exertion. She grabbed a sword from a fallen man, not seeing whether it was friend or foe, sending a prayer to Ashua for his departed soul. She was no match for the king’s guards, certainly, but she battered at men who got too near and beat hasty retreats, and luckily most decided there were more dangerous foes to pursue. She thought she likely helped the fight very little, but she did not endanger the lives of her friends, and for that she was eternally grateful. She knew how dangerous the situation around her was growing, and in desperation she looked for Darren. He was fighting a guard, blood streaming from a shallow cut on his forehead, and she watched as his sword bit into his assailant’s neck and the guard went down, gurgling wetly. She saw his jaw clench, and fought against bile rising in her own throat. Darren leapt over the fallen man, eyes searching for the king. He had retreated to an antechamber as soon as the fighting began, and Taya rushed to his side, pointing out the room in question. His eyes were wild, and the hand wrapped around his sword was white.
They entered the antechamber and a hush seemed to fall, like a bolt of velvet let loose around their shoulders. The king was standing at the rear of the room, his back pressed against the wall. Though he should have been afraid he seemed smug and confident, his chin raised and eyes blazing. Taya was struck by how much he resembled Darren, and yet how different they were as well. In front of him were two guards, dressed in black armor, their swords raised. They wore a braid of red around the edge of their uniform, setting them apart. Three against two. Two highly trained, specialized elite fighters against…a sailor and a seamstress.
And then, swifter than thought, one of the guards turned upon the other and cut him down. The fight was brutal and quick; the second man never saw the first blow coming, and it cut through the gap between his helmet and his neck, near-severing his arm. He rallied for a spell, adrenaline no doubt the only thing keeping him alive, but everyone knew the fight was done as soon as the first blow landed. There was blood, and sobbing near the end—every man becomes a child in death. Taya felt her eyes blur, and knew that was crazy, but couldn’t stop herself. He had trusted his companion in arms, and been betrayed.
The king stood stunned. Whether from fear or simply shock it was hard to say, but his back was rigid and his eyes blazed.
“You will never live down this shame,” he spat.
The second man removed his helmet. He was of middle age, with a strong jawline and deep lustrous skin. There was an odd sort of peace to his expression, where Taya had expected rage.
“Lord Dendarii killed my brother,” the man said, “in your usurpation. Where was honor when he drugged his drink and killed
him sleeping? Where was honor when you paced beside him and drove a knife into your brother’s sleeping heart? There is no place for honor in the Sephria you have created. I only hope I live to see the world that I no longer belong in, because of what you made me. Your Majesty,” he added, directing the last at Darren. “I will wait without.”
He left. Taya wished she could beg him to stay. Surely he saw the fight was not over yet? That Darren could still be taken down by this usurper? He wore a sword at his belt, but even as the doors slammed closed he made no move to draw. She made a quick decision and dropped the bar across the door—at least this way no guards would come to sway the fight in their direction. It was two against one now.
The two men faced off. They made a sad sight. Peter Octarion was tall and imposing, his eyes hooded and the crown snug on his brow. His beard was thick and carefully trimmed, and though he was aging, his build was still imposing. In sharp contrast, Darren’s outward appearance was of little more than a sailor, and somewhat less. His hair was matted with sweat and blood, the stubble of a beard shadowing his face. His shirt was ripped and torn, and his face was contorted by a miasma of rage and loathing.
“Killed ’im in his sleep, did ya?” Darren said, standing with his legs splayed, blood dripping from his sword, “At least he never knowed what you were. That’s a mercy, I s’pose. Ya know this is the end. Surrender to the justice ’a the realm, or face the fury ’a the sea.” His voice resonated in the small space, his passion threaded through with rage.
King Octarion looked at him for a long moment and then, horribly, he chuckled. “The fury ’a the sea?” he drawled in a mocking rendition of Darren’s slang. “You cannot even speak properly. How do you expect to kill me properly?” he said.
Darren’s fist ground tighter against his sword hilt, and his mouth parted in a snarl. “The dungeon’s too good for the likes ’a you. Draw a weapon an’ fight, or I’ll cut ya down,” he said.
