The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  “I’ll take care of it,” she said. “I’ll bring the light forward when it’s safe to move in.”

  Giforte shuffled forward, making the boat rock and rasp ever so slightly against the wall. Winter thought Rose winced.

  “One of mine,” the vice captain said in a hoarse whisper, “or one of theirs?”

  “No way to know.” Rose shrugged out of her jacket and pulled her thin undershirt over her head in one fluid motion. Giforte gave an embarrassed cough, though it was so dark that all Winter could make out were silhouettes. “Does it matter? One scream and we’ve had it.”

  “Just . . .”

  “I’ll do my best.” Rose stepped out of her trousers, folded them neatly, and handed the bundle of clothes to Winter. It was heavier than it should have been, and she could feel several hard, flat metal shapes through the cloth. “Hang on to these.”

  Rose slipped lithely off the boat and into the water with barely a splash, setting the little craft to rocking once again. Her legs cut the surface once, and then she was underwater. Winter couldn’t see where she came up.

  “She works for you?” Cyte whispered to Raesinia, incredulously.

  “More or less,” Raesinia said.

  “Quiet.” Winter was straining her ears for the sound of a gunshot, or even a scuffle. There was nothing.

  “What if she doesn’t signal?” Cyte said. “How long do we—”

  “She’ll be fine,” Raesinia said. “Trust me.”

  A moment later, a bright light came on, glinting off the water. Winter started paddling forward, first one side and then the other, while Raesinia took up the other paddle and helped fend off the walls. After a few dozen yards the passage ended in a larger chamber with a protruding stone dock. Rose sat on the end of it, naked and dripping, holding a lantern in one hand and a rope in the other. She tossed the latter to Winter, who hauled the boat alongside and tied it off.

  “Any problems?” Raesinia asked, as they stepped carefully onto solid ground.

  Rose shook her head, accepted the bundle of clothes from Winter, and dressed. She moved with a total unselfconsciousness that reminded Winter of Jane. In the lantern light, Winter could see that she was a good deal more muscular than she looked when dressed, and that her skin was covered with thin white lines. A star-shaped lump of scar tissue marred the inside of one breast, and her arms were practically crosshatched with old wounds. Giforte pointedly looked away, and after a fascinated moment Winter did likewise.

  The body lay at the base of the dock, under a black leather coat that covered it like a shroud. Winter walked over to it and found it was a young man, dirty and bearded, with a single puncture wound just below his ear.

  “He had a pistol,” Rose said, coming up behind her and holding the weapon out by the barrel. “Make sure it’s loaded.”

  Winter checked the pan and the barrel and confirmed the pistol was charged, then wedged it somewhat awkwardly in her belt. She already had another pistol there, and an old cavalry saber on her hip. It felt better than she wanted to admit to be carrying weapons again. Raesinia had refused any armaments, but Giforte carried a sword and pistol and Cyte had a rapier. Rose had fended for herself.

  Once their little party had gathered in the light of the lantern, Rose gestured at the corridor leading back from the dock.

  “From here it’s not far to the main stairs. Two levels up from here is where they’ve got the new prisoners. Then there’s another three levels of ordinary cells before the ground floor. Captain d’Ivoire and Danton are in the tower above that. I don’t expect to see anyone on the stairs, now that Jane has started making threatening noises with the ram, but there’ll be guards on the cells.

  “Raes and I will go and find Danton. Vice Captain, most of the men guarding the prisoners were your people. Do you think you can convince them to stand down?”

  “If they know what’s good for them,” Giforte growled.

  “Winter, Cyte, go with him, in case there are some Concordat soldiers mixed in. We’ll break the others out and come down to meet you.”

  “What if you run into trouble?” Winter said.

  “Then you’re in charge. Do whatever you need to.” Rose lifted her lantern. “Let’s go. And remember to stay as quiet as you can.”

  —

  The first turn of the spiral stairs was completely dark. Rose crept ahead while Winter followed with the lantern almost completely shut, leaving just enough light for the others to see the steps. After they crossed the first landing, more light began to leak down from above. Rose held up a hand, shuffling up the steps at the center of the spiral, until she’d gone just barely out of sight. She edged back just as quietly, frowning.

  “Two men on the landing,” she whispered. “Armsmen. I can’t take both quietly. Either one of you can take one”—she glanced at Winter, then at Giforte—“or we can try it your way.”

  “Let me talk to them,” Giforte said.

  “Just don’t make a lot of noise.” Rose glanced at the ceiling. “The Concordat people have got to be close.”

  Giforte nodded, straightened his back, and went up the steps with a reasonable approximation of parade-ground swagger. The others followed, keeping a half turn back. On the landing, the two green-uniformed Armsmen lounged against the wall on either side of a doorway. They straightened up at the sound of footsteps, but the sight of Giforte’s uniform confused them for a crucial second while he stepped into the light and gave them a good look at his face. They started to salute, but Giforte waved a hand.

  “Keep quiet,” he barked in a stage whisper. “Both of you.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the man on the left, coming to attention so stiffly he vibrated. His companion, older and wider of girth, squinted suspiciously at the group now coming into view up the stairs.

  “Sir?” he said. “Beg your pardon, sir, but we were told you had tried to surrender the fortress to the rebels, and were to be detained on sight.”

  “Circumstances have changed, Sergeant,” Giforte snapped. “I had direct orders from Captain d’Ivoire to begin negotiations. When Ross found out, he tossed the captain in a cell and took over.”

  “Fucking Ross,” the younger Armsman said. “I always said he was a snake.”

  “But . . .” The sergeant hesitated, looked at the four young women.

  “Representatives from the leaders outside,” Giforte said. “I’ve agreed to release the prisoners on this level, who were in any case illegally detained by the Ministry of Information. In exchange, we’ve been guaranteed safe passage away from the fortress. Captain d’Ivoire and I will take all responsibility to the minister and the king.”

  That was enough for the sergeant, who saluted. “Sir. Yes, sir!”

  “Where are the rest of our men?”

  “About half are here watching the cells, along with two or three black-coats. The others are up at the barricade. Ross wanted to pull everyone off, but we had orders from the captain himself to guard the prisoners.”

  “What about the prison levels above us?”

  “Empty up to the ground floor. Ross has got everyone waiting for the big break-in. I think he still has men on Danton up in the tower, though.”

  “Right.” Giforte glanced over his shoulder. “It sounds like you should have a clear path until you get to the tower.”

  “I can handle a few guards,” Rose said. “Raes, stay a half turn behind me. Let’s go.”

  “The problem here is going to be breaking the news to the rest of the Armsmen without anyone raising the alarm,” Giforte said.

  “Uh . . . I don’t mean to interfere, sir,” said the sergeant, “but I don’t think Ross will surrender on your say-so. And he’s got a lot more men than we do.”

  “One thing at a time.” Giforte looked at Winter. “Any ideas?”

  “What’s the layout of this level?” Winter
said.

  “There’s a sort of anteroom through here,” the sergeant said, indicating the door. “After that passages run in either direction. One way is where we’ve got all the women and kids. The other is the men.”

  “How many people in the anteroom?”

  “None, now,” the Armsman said. “We were using it as a break room, but Ross called everyone up.”

  “Perfect. Vice Captain, you wait in there. Sergeant, you go down to the cells and ask one of your friends to step out for a moment. Say that Ross is asking for reports on the prisoners, or something like that. Once they get the picture, send them back and get another one.”

  “What about the Concordat people?” Giforte said.

  “I don’t think it’ll be hard to convince our fellows to hold a gun on them,” the sergeant said. “Hell, I’ve been itching to do it myself.”

  “Cyte and I will watch the stairs,” Winter said. “I want every one of those guards to see nothing but green uniforms.”

  Giforte nodded decisively. “Come on, Sergeant. Let’s spread the news.”

  “We can keep a better watch about a half turn up,” Cyte said. “That way we can keep an eye on the next landing.”

  Winter nodded agreement, and they started up the steps as the three Armsmen disappeared into the dungeon. Oil lamps flickered in wall brackets, casting uneven shadows. After the door below closed, a deep silence returned, broken now and then by muffled muttering.

  “What if something goes wrong?” Cyte said, quietly.

  “Then we’ll hear the screams,” Winter said. “Or the gunshots.”

  They settled down to wait. Winter knew from experience that time stretched like taffy in situations like this one, turning minutes into endless hours. She wished she had a pocket watch so she would know when to really start worrying. Although, in the end, what good does worrying do?

  There was a sound from above, faint at first but getting louder. Footsteps on the stairs, and the sound of voices raised in conversation.

  “They’re coming down,” Cyte said. Her voice was tight.

  “They may not come down this far. Maybe they’re checking the cell blocks.”

  “What if they do?”

  Winter let out a long breath. “Then we take them. As quietly as we can.”

  “Take them.” Cyte put her hand on the hilt of her rapier, testing the grip. “Right.”

  Turn around, Winter willed the footsteps. Go back upstairs. You’ll live longer, and so will I.

  Two pairs of black boots became visible around the curve of the stairs, followed by the flapping tails of two black leather coats. Winter drew her saber and waited another heartbeat, then rushed them.

  Two Concordat soldiers, both with shouldered muskets, came into view. Running up the steps robbed Winter of most of her speed, and the soldier on the right had a split second to react. He brought his musket up crosswise, ready to parry a cut at his chest or hit her with the butt. Winter, breathing hard, caught him off balance by stopping several steps short and whipping the heavy blade around in a low cut that caught him on the inside of the knee. The joint practically exploded, the soldier’s leg bending stomach-twistingly sideways, and he toppled past Winter and started rolling downward.

  She barely had time to sidestep the injured man before the other one came at her with a bellow, musket raised in both hands over his head like a club. Winter blocked the swing and nearly lost her weapon and her footing from the force of the blow. Before he could take advantage and shove her down the steps, Cyte came into view, rapier extending in an awkward fencer’s lunge on the uneven footing. The thin blade went into the man’s armpit, found a gap between his ribs, and sank smoothly nearly to the hilt. He fell backward with a gurgle, dropping his musket, and the hilt of the rapier was jerked out of Cyte’s hands.

  Winter looked over her shoulder to see what had become of her own victim, but her head snapped back around when Cyte shouted her name.

  “Winter! Up there!”

  Looking up, Winter got a glimpse of a third man, a quarter turn behind the other two and already taking to his heels. She swore and vaulted the corpse of Cyte’s victim, clawing for the pistol at her belt. There was no time to check the pan again. Just a moment to level and fire—and even if I hit him, they’ll hear the shot—

  She pulled the trigger. The weapon went off with an earsplitting bang, and she saw the man’s coat flutter, as though a passerby had given it a tug. But the ball missed his body, cracking wildly off the stone wall beyond, and before Winter could reach for her other pistol he was up the stairs and out of sight.

  “Balls of the Beast,” Winter said. She turned back to Cyte. “There’s going to be more of them in a minute. Come on, back to the landing.”

  “I . . .” Cyte gestured weakly at her sword, which was still embedded in the Concordat soldier. His hands scrabbled wildly at the air, and blood bubbled in his mouth.

  Winter grabbed the hilt, planted her foot on the man’s side, and yanked the weapon free as he shuddered and died. She handed the thin blade back to Cyte, still slick and red, and pulled another pistol and a pouch of ammunition from the body. Then she grabbed the girl’s free hand and pulled her down the steps to the landing, where there would at least be flat ground to fight on.

  Her own victim was there, head cracked and leaking blood from his tumble down the unyielding stone stairs. She pushed him aside and turned to Cyte.

  “Are you all right?” Winter said.

  “Fine.” Cyte was staring at the sword in her hand as though she didn’t know how it had gotten there. “I’m fine. I just . . .”

  “I know,” Winter said. “But you have to focus.”

  Winter hated having to act so hard. It made her feel like Davis, someone who could cut men down and laugh about it later in his cups. But there’s no time. The man she’d shot at would make it back up to the others on the ground floor, and surely they’d send a larger force—

  “Cyte. Cytomandiclea.” The sound of her assumed name seemed to bring the girl back to herself a little. “Do you know how to load a pistol?”

  “N . . . not really. I’ve never . . .”

  “Shit.” Winter went to the door and hammered on it. “Giforte? Are you in there? They’re on their way down!”

  There was no response. Winter cocked an ear at the steps and fancied she could hear the pounding of many feet. She grabbed Cyte and pulled her up against the inner wall of the spiral.

  “Stay here until they get close,” Winter said. “You don’t want to give them a target if they decide to shoot at us. And stay on the landing, away from the stairs. It’s no good giving them high ground to fight from.”

  “But . . .” Cyte’s mind was catching up with events at last. “There’s too many! They’ll kill us.”

  A rational debater would have told her that this was, after all, what she’d volunteered for. Davis would have just screamed at her. Winter shrugged, patted the girl on the shoulder in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, and went for the dead soldier’s musket. This was loaded, and wonder of wonders, the fall had not knocked open the pan and spilled the powder. Winter cocked it, went to one knee at the bottom of the stairs, and settled down to wait.

  She didn’t have to be patient long. A clatter of boots preceded the arrival of the Concordat troops, coming down the stairway two by two. Winter took aim before their heads came into view, tracked their motion for a moment, and fired. The musket’s report was even louder than the pistol’s, and the weapon delivered its familiar kick to her shoulder. This time her aim was better, and one of the leading black-coats was punched off his feet to sprawl bonelessly on the steps.

  Winter tossed the musket aside and threw herself flat. As she’d expected, the keyed-up soldiers returned fire, filling the stairway with a deafening cacophony of thunder, broken by the zip and zing of ricocheting balls. Smoke billowed fro
m the barrels and locks of their weapons, puffing around them like a localized thundercloud. It hung motionless in the still air, and the men came charging through it with tendrils of gray clinging to their coats, brandishing their bayonetted muskets like spears.

  All that kept Winter alive through the next few moments was the fact that the bayonet, so impressive in glittering ranks on an open field, was far from an ideal weapon for close-quarters combat in a stairway. She pushed herself to her feet as they pounded toward her, and faded to the left as the first pair closed. The man on that side came at her at a run, stumbling slightly as he leapt off the last stair and hit the landing, intending to run her through like a lancer. Winter’s parry caught the musket barrel behind the bayonet with a clang of steel on iron, forcing his arm wide. His momentum carried him into her, and she brought the curved hilt of her weapon around and slammed the pommel into his face with all the force of his running start behind it, bowling him over as if he’d run into a clothesline at a gallop.

  The second man, more cautious, checked his run and thrust his bayonet at her as she stepped clear of the falling body. Winter twisted away from the point and slashed wildly at him, but the length of his weapon kept him at a safe distance. He backed up and tried again, and this time she barely caught the wicked point of the weapon with her saber and battered it aside. Her clumsy return stroke cut only air. She backpedaled, acutely aware that there were only a few steps of flat ground behind her before the downward stairway resumed.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another Concordat soldier vault the body of the first and try to cut around to her right. He’d overlooked Cyte, who’d been pressed tight against the wall on that side. She brought her rapier up and lunged, this time with perfect form, as though on a fencing strip. The tapered point went through the soldier’s leather coat, into the small of his back, and emerged somewhere in the vicinity of his navel.