Rafen dropped to the cobbled ground on his paws, his sword and clothes vanishing as he assumed the shape of a wolf. The Tarhian cried out in horror, reeling backward. Two more pairs of legs in blue regimental pants rushed toward Rafen. He pounced and tore at flesh, then landed and pounced again. Three Tarhians now lay prone on the ground near the lacerated form of the old man.
Then a flash caught Rafen’s wolfish eyes – he turned and recoiled, even though he knew it was too late – the point of the blade was against his lean lower body.
With a scream, a woman jerked the fourth Tarhian back by the shoulders. He whirled around savagely, the sword gleaming while he swung it. Rafen resumed his normal form in a heartbeat, his blade again in his hand. In another moment, his own sword point had appeared between the Tarhian’s ribs as he pulled the man away from his mother. His heart was pounding so loudly all other sound was blocked out.
Elizabeth had collapsed against the side of a broken stall, her arm bleeding and her black hair half over her face. Rafen ripped his sword free from the Tarhian and kicked the body down onto the cobbles.
“Don’t ever do that again!” he screeched at Elizabeth.
She stared at him with wide, dark eyes.
“You could have died,” he said in a husky tone, dropping to his knees before her. “You almost did. Please, Elizabeth… Mother. Don’t you ever die for me.”
He sheathed his bloodied sword and pulled her to her feet, shying away from another bullet with her.
“Get back to the alleyway,” he said. Because they were not in the middle of the marketplace, they were still partially removed from the danger. However, Rafen didn’t want to be risking anything else with Elizabeth there.
“Help me,” she gasped, clutching his arm. “My head… I feel great faintness.”
He supported her and moved slowly because she was gasping with pain. Once in the cool darkness of the alley, he turned back to see the blue coats now dominated the marketplace, a mere fifteen peasants clustered together in their midst. Bodies covered the cobbles. Rafen forced back vomit.
“No,” he rasped. “I was going to fight—”
How could this have happened? It had been so fast.
“They were outnumbered,” Elizabeth said in his ear, tears gleaming on her olive cheeks. “Rafen, my son, you would have perished.”
It was then Rafen realized she had been feigning her weakness. Anger coursed through him, and he pushed her from him.
“There will be another day, Rafen,” Elizabeth’s soft voice said while she bound her own arm with a scrap of material from her dress. “There will be another day when you will win Siana. But not today.”
He hated himself for internally admitting she was right.
*
Sherwin stirred, his eyes opening a crack. He lay sprawled on his back on the cobblestones. Around him, weapons clashed, and voices shouted and groaned. A foot appeared within his vision. Sherwin rolled sideways to avoid being trampled. A wave of searing trembled through his body, his vision shimmering. Swaying, he struggled to his feet. He rubbed his forehead, and pain exploded behind his eyes. But he felt no bruise. He staggered forward, one hand before him to protect himself from the crowd.
He squinted, searching for the Ashurite. To his right, Asiel wheeled his bay horse around, galloping toward the northern wall. Answering hoof beats retreated into the distance.
“Fleeing so soon, my prince?” Asiel sneered loudly. His voice was edged with pain: blood streamed from his shoulder. Francisco, who had ridden toward the wagon, had shot Asiel just as he had attacked Sherwin, lessening the force of the Ashurite’s blow.
The people of the marketplace no longer bellowed and roared at Talmon. Now they fought his men. For every Tarhian that fell to the cobblestones, another surged forward, taking his place. More and more Tarhians, and fewer Sianians… The peasants’ heavy, blunt weapons disadvantaged them. Many Tarhians were equipped with rifles or pistols, and they shot at random. As Sherwin fought to the edge of the crowd, a bullet whizzed past his hip, hitting a filthy little peasant boy who was screaming. Sherwin froze as the boy clutched the bloody flower that appeared on his shirt.
“Father!” the boy said, without understanding. Then he fell.
Screams were tingling in the air. Every second, death left someone sprawling on the ground. The maddened crowd trampled them like horse droppings on the stone.
Sherwin was free. He had stumbled against the cracked temple dais, his face wet with tears as he gazed back. The pool of people rose and fell like a beast, swelling with Tarhians, devouring peasants. The Tarhians had formed ranks now, and they moved forward as lines, encircling peasants and mowing them down. Talmon was somewhere in the middle, barking orders, a pistol in one hand, a bloodied sword in the other. The sword was rising and falling; a head dropped like a stone, and Sherwin clapped his hands to his face.
He wanted to shout “stop!” but his throat was parched; his mouth was dry. He had lost his sword and his wagon.
Falling over his feet, Sherwin started to move right. He didn’t care where he was going. Any minute, he would hear a bullet and fall like the rest. He was looking for someone… Rafen. The name reverberated in his head. His eyes wandered to the ruined temple, and he wondered if the Phoenix existed, and where he was if he did.
Sherwin’s foot slipped, and he fell forward into a dusty crater. Strange things floated through his head… a corpse disintegrating behind a veil of agitated kesmal… Rafen telling him he had to take this corpse in a wagon to the Woods… bury it.
What more could anyone do than honor the dead? Sherwin pulled himself into a squatting position in the dust, his hands scraping the ground. His aching eyes had seen something. With shaking fingers, he retrieved a scrap of clothing: a sliver of a worn shirt? Perhaps Rafen would recognize it. Sherwin would call it Erasmus. He would tuck it into his clothes (he tucked it into his pocket) and take it to Rafen.
Rising unsteadily, Sherwin looked around himself. The crowd had fallen quiet. Talmon was speaking Tarhian to his assembled men. Fifteen remaining peasants huddled together, surrounded by guards. The ground was piled high with… Sherwin couldn’t look. Upturned stalls littered the place with fruit, fabric, teacups… A stray chicken hobbled through the wreckage.
“Sherwin,” someone whispered.
Sherwin started, turning left. Trying to stay out of sight, Francisco stood at his side. Sherwin knew it was Francisco because his clothes, despite their filthiness, were still princely. His face was streaked with dirt, and his dark blue eyes were clouded.
“You have to come with me,” he said. “Rafen wants you. Are you all right?”
Sherwin opened his mouth, trying to speak. He discovered he was sobbing. He wasn’t embarrassed. Francisco’s little gloved hand – so shiny, and almost feminine – rested on his shoulder. Though the princeling’s lips trembled, there was steel in his look.
“I know,” he said. “Come now… comrade.”
Francisco supported him, hurrying Sherwin with soft words of encouragement through the crater and past the rest of the steps. Strange snippets of previous life drifted across Sherwin’s brain – dull school history lessons when everyone had flicked rubbers and thrown bits of paper; shivering cold nights when he hadn’t slept because he’d known his uncle was coming home drunk; balmy spring days when he had sat alone on a street corner away from his uncle’s shabby apartment and cut clippings out from newspapers; odd, secretive moments when he’d discovered he could write poetry. None of it would have made any sense except now. The scenes of his life were a colorful collage, expressing the preciousness of existence.
Francisco helped Sherwin into an alleyway north of the temple. Darkness fell like a comforting curtain. As Sherwin’s sight adjusted, he made out the twinkling whites of people’s eyes. By the left alley wall, Wynne squatted beside an unconscious Roger, whose wound was bound. Elizabeth stood near them, one arm bandaged. Rafen watched her, his eyes anguished. His gaze flicked to Sherwin. Fai
nt relief eased the hard lines in his face fractionally.
“Francisco?” Elizabeth said, lifting her head and breathing shallowly. “It truly is you.”
Francisco looked her way, momentarily frozen. Then he turned
to Rafen. “Asiel hurt Sherwin. I do not know how he is.”
With a hand that had dried blood on it, Rafen held Sherwin’s chin, staring hard into his face.
“He’s been hit by kesmal,” he said hoarsely. “I can see it in his eyes.”
“You must go,” Francisco said. He glanced at Roger, who was propped against the alley wall, his chest rising and falling shallowly. Wynne looked at Francisco with suspicion.
“Yes,” Rafen said almost inaudibly.
“For sakes, Rafen,” Francisco said, almost exasperated, “it is not your fault.”
Rafen didn’t meet his eyes. He gently guided Sherwin to
Elizabeth.
“They would have rebelled another time, and they would have been dealt with in the same way,” Francisco said. To Sherwin, Francisco’s voice was a thin drone on the air, harmless and even comforting. Rafen wished he would stop talking.
“So you’ve seen your father do this before?” he snapped.
“He is not my father,” Francisco said, and his voice cracked. He lowered his head. “Why do you taunt me? You know that neither of us is responsible for what happened today. We both tried to do good, and our attempts were twisted. Do not be angry with me, my brother,” he said, choking on tears. “And do not despair either. Someday all this will be ended, and the rightful king will be on the throne, and the servant of the Phoenix will be free to do as he must.”
Rafen looked his brother in the eyes. Erasmus’ voice was speaking in his head, and it revived all the thunder in his mind. Images of the fire on the scaffold transfixed him.
“If we don’t destroy evil, evil will destroy us.”
He was destroyed. The Fledgling, the Sianian Wolf, had failed again. He wondered what Alexander would think of this when he finally arrived or when Rafen found him.
Yet, there was an answer to his thoughts. It was a word that, if it were visible, would be a drop of liquid gold, shot with orange: it would fall to the ground and splash into a million particles permeating every pool of life.
Zion.
Rafen’s hand moved to his phoenix feather. Maybe Francisco was right; maybe the pain would end. If only Rafen could look into the eyes of the Phoenix again, and be sure.
Rafen stepped forward, and he and Francisco embraced. Rafen blinked away boiling tears like pinpricks of fire. Shaking, he clasped his hands on the back of his brother’s coat. It was over too soon. With misted eyes, Rafen looked over at Sherwin, who leaned against the alley wall, his face blank and his eyes glazed. He had undoubtedly seen the worst of it.
“Rafen,” Francisco said, “I have placed horses for you at the other end of the alley.”
“Thank you,” he said, his throat constricted.
“Do not despair,” Francisco said again, looking with quiet strength into Rafen’s eyes. “You must leave now. Go back to the Woods. They fear the Woods.”
“Yes,” he said. “We will follow the river.”
Talmon’s voice echoed distantly from the marketplace. He was directing men to get rid of the corpses. Horsemen scattered toward the various alleys, searching for the Wolf and anyone who had fled.
Fresh panic quickening his movements, Rafen stooped over Roger, whose breathing was a rasp. “Help me, Sherwin,” he said.
Sherwin stirred stupidly. Elizabeth, who had been speaking quietly to Francisco, hurried over and helped Rafen instead. Wynne looked at Francisco. Her mouth moved – perhaps she meant to thank him. Then she flushed, turned, and followed the rest.
Halfway down the alley, Rafen froze, his sweaty hands still holding Roger under the armpits. He looked back at Francisco, who was turning to leave.
“Francisco!” he cried. He had thought his brother was following him. “You’re coming with us this time.”
“I cannot,” Francisco said simply. “I am sorry. I have the power to distract Talmon, to make your escape safer. I will use it. The stars watch over you, Rafen.”
“No!” Rafen said. “Please come. You will be killed for what you did today.”
“Yes,” Francisco said, without fear. He stood at the opposite end of the alleyway, an erect black figure. “I wish you well, my brother.”
Then he was gone.
Elizabeth’s face was ashen. “I always knew he was alive,” she said hoarsely.
Rafen made to shove his half-dead father at Wynne.
“I’m going to get Francisco,” he said numbly. Wynne did not lift a finger. “My brother – why do you not stop him?” he shouted suddenly at Elizabeth, turning on her. “Help me; I have to get him back!”
Elizabeth did not respond.
“You stopped me from going to my death. Why do you not stop my brother?”
“Rafen, you must fight for many more years to come,” Elizabeth said. She choked and looked away. A dead weight settled on Rafen’s heart.
“We must go to the horses,” Wynne said.
She seized Sherwin and steered him down the alley.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sherwin’s Gift
Francisco had not done any fighting, for the thought of taking a life chilled him horribly. Still, he had stolen a pistol and used it to defend Sherwin. Now he hurried through the marketplace, trying not to look down. After the colorful festival of that morning, it was a graveyard. Who had they all been? Someone’s grandfather, someone’s daughter, someone’s son. They were random shapes; strange, disordered messes of limbs after a hundred feet had trodden on them. The Tarhian soldiers lit grim piles on fire with torches, and the smoke rolled up to the brilliant spring sky.
“May I help Your Grace?” a soldier asked, stepping around the corpses. Lowering a torch, he bowed before Francisco and kissed the hem of his coat. Francisco recoiled.
“Leave me alone,” he shuddered. He was angry to hear tears in his voice.
“Your Grace,” the soldier said, amused. He bowed again and moved away.
Francisco staggered through the arms and legs of three hundred
people he didn’t know, yet suddenly cared about. His brain screamed insanely at him, and he forced himself not to listen. He was going to find Talmon. He was going to get him to leave, and Zion willing, take some men with him. Even if Talmon left behind soldiers, they would have less direction and insight without him, and thereby pose a smaller threat to Francisco’s family.
Where was that cursed king?
Francisco’s boot slipped out from beneath him, and he was on hands and knees, looking into a man’s lacerated face. With a wild cry, he leapt up again, trying to wipe his bloodied hands clean on his coat.
A cold hand grabbed his throat. Choking, Francisco struggled. The hand tilted his neck back so that he met Talmon’s eyes.
“Where have you been?” Talmon snarled in Tarhian.
Francisco tried to speak, but no sound came out. He felt curiously light. His eyes were popping.
“This was why you wanted to come here today. You have been helping the Wolf.”
There was no question in Talmon’s voice. He released Francisco’s throat, tore the stolen pistol from his belt, and shoved it into the hands of a passing soldier. Coughing, Francisco gasped in air.
“How could you do this to me?” Talmon said in a twisted voice. He rattled Francisco’s shoulders so his teeth clattered against one another. “You have ruined me. Master will return; he will discover that the peasant’s daughter has escaped, the Wolf is still acting, and the people will rally when their hero calls them.”
He grasped Francisco’s head and forced him to stare at the mangled corpses on the cobbles. “Do you not see?” he hissed. “They will die for him. There will be war after this. The people will rise again.”
“All the better then,” Francisco said, wrenching himself free. Talmon’s
brown eyes narrowed to slits.
“What are you saying?” Nearby, Talmon’s dogs barked as a guard tried to control them.
“No land should have to bear such injustice as this one has,” Francisco said.
“You have joined the Sianians.”
“I serve the Wolf,” Francisco said, despite the dangerous look in Talmon’s face. “And I serve his master Zion.”
Talmon seized his collar. “What are you saying?” he sneered. “You cannot mean that.”
“I am ready to die,” Francisco said, glaring at him.
The hard lines in Talmon’s face melted away. His mouth fell open. “You do not mean it,” he said. “No… my son. What have I done?”
He drew Francisco to him gently and clasped him in his arms. Francisco trembled against the embrace he now hated. Talmon released him, stepping back to look at him. “Are you hurt?”
“You almost strangled me,” Francisco said, breathing fast. “You tried to kill me!” he shouted. “And now you want me to be as your son again? No!” He lowered his voice. “I am not your son, Talmon.”
Sadness swept over him as he remembered Roger.
“I am not like you, Talmon,” he said. “I am not afraid of death. I will not serve a master I hate.” Talmon flinched. “I will not be chained to Nazt, so that the only happiness I can get is by pretending to love another man’s son.”
He stared into Talmon’s eyes and wished he could change this man. “I will fight for what is right,” Francisco said.
Around them both, soldiers stopped clearing up corpses and stared with scornful curiosity at Francisco.
Talmon’s upper lip trembled. His hands worked furiously. At last, he said in a cracked whisper in Tongue, “Then you are my better.” He straightened. “And you will be killed for it,” he said in Tarhian. His tone became clear and carrying. “Finish your work in ten minutes,” he called to his men. The soldiers he had gathered for the rebellion raised their heads to listen. “Members of the armed escort return to the palace shortly. Reinforcements journey into the Woods, in case the Wolf has fled there. Guards remain to man the gates and walls. Secure the city! If the Wolf is still here, he must not escape.”
The Sianian Wolf Page 25
