The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  And suddenly we’re out of time. “Raes!” he shouted. “Get the gangplank!”

  Tossing his spent pistol aside, he drew his sword and charged the bewildered-looking Patriot who’d shot Peter. Behind him, back at the stern, there was another pistol shot, but he couldn’t spare the time to look. Andy can take care of things.

  He reached the guard, who was just tossing his pistol aside and going for his own sword. Marcus didn’t give him the chance, dropping into a straight-forward lunge that took the man in the belly and came out between his shoulder blades. Hot blood gushed over Marcus’ hand, and the Patriot slid forward and died with a gurgle. Marcus pull the blade free and let him fall, looking up in time to see Raesinia sprint past him.

  The Rosnik was connected to the pier by a pair of heavy lines, and an articulated gangplank that came up to the level of her deck. This was lashed in place by a lighter rope, and Raesinia drew a knife and began hacking at it, even as the guards on the pier started to come up. Marcus realized immediately that she wouldn’t make it—someone else was climbing up the rope ladder where Peter had fallen, but they wouldn’t be on deck in time. He spun and stepped up beside Raesinia, swinging his sword blindly with a wild roar.

  His sudden appearance out of the darkness was enough to startle the first Patriot Guard on the gangplank into lurching backward, where he lost his footing and toppled sideways with a yell, splashing into the gap between the edge of the pier and the boat. The man behind him had better balance and a pistol in his hand, and Marcus threw himself down just as he pulled the trigger. As soon as the shout sounded, Marcus popped back up, swinging his sword low and catching the Patriot in the shins. The blow and the pain sent him sprawling, too, and he caromed off the end of the stone pier with a nasty crunch before hitting the water.

  “Shoot them!” someone on the pier was shouting. “Fire!”

  “Got it!” Raesinia said.

  Marcus ducked and took hold of the end of the gangplank in his off hand, while Raesina grabbed it with both of hers. They lifted the folding wooden bridge until it was clear of the Rosnik’s deck, then let it fall, scraping against the side of the hull as it went. Once it was clear, Marcus grabbed Raesinia and dragged her down again, as three or four muskets boomed from the pier. Balls zipped overhead, and at least one thocked into the hull.

  “You all right?” Marcus said, one arm over Raesinia’s shoulders.

  “Always,” she said. “Remember?”

  “Marcus?” Andy shouted. “I think there’s more of them downstairs!”

  “Balls of the fucking Beast,” Marcus said, rolling back to his feet and running hunched over across the ship. The deck of the Rosnik was several feet higher than the pier, which meant the musketeers there didn’t have a good shot at anyone who didn’t expose themselves along the rail, but that didn’t seem to stop them from trying. By the volume of fire, there had to be at least a dozen of them.

  At the bow, Viera was aboard, along with two more women volunteers, Maple and Zimona. The pair were sisters who’d been targeted by the seedies after they cracked the skull of a man who’d come to demand protection money, and they’d been eager to help. Maple, the elder, was moving to Raesinia’s side, but her sister was on her knees and looking a little gray, spattered with blood Marcus assumed was Peter’s. Viera, knife-slim next to the pair of formidable Docks women, followed Marcus toward the midships stairway.

  Andy was already waiting there, the Patriot who’d been on guard unconscious and bleeding freely. She held his musket in one hand. With her were Gavin, a balding, muscular Borelgai who had once been some sort of gardener, and another former Leatherback named Brask. Nell, another one of Jane’s young women who’d left the troop to stay behind with her sweetheart, was just coming up the rope ladder. A set of stairs went from the level of the main deck down to a thin wooden door, which already had one splintery hole in it.

  “I tried to open it, and he took a shot through the door,” Andy said. “Missed me, but not by much.”

  “Is there another way down?” Marcus said.

  “There’s a cargo hatch,” Brask said. He had the thick, heavy build of the men who loaded and unloaded ships for a living. “But you need a crane t’ get it open.”

  “Marcus!” Raesinia said. “They’re climbing up!”

  Marcus swore again. “Andy, get the guards’ muskets and pistols. Fire off a few shots to make them keep their heads down, but don’t stick yours up if you can help it. Get the bow crew to help you, but send Viera back here.”

  “On it,” Andy said, hurrying toward Raesinia.

  “Everybody clear of the door,” Marcus said. Nell made it onto the deck and came to join Gavin and Brask, a pistol clutched in one hand. “I’ll try and get him to shoot. Gavin, you think you can break that door down?”

  The big gardener gave it an appraising glance, then grunted. Marcus left him at the top of the stairs and circled around to where he’d dropped his pistol. Retrieving his weapon, he lay flat on the deck, just above the door—one deck below, the Patriot Guard with the itchy trigger finger was right underneath him. From that position, Marcus could reach down and touch the top part of the door. Holding his pistol by the barrel—still warm from the earlier shot—he swung it as far down as he could, hard, against the door.

  This had the desired effect. The pistol’s butt slammed hard against the wood, and the guard inside fired, punching another hole in the door but hitting nothing more than the staircase. Gavin, waiting for the shot, ran full tilt down the stairs and put his shoulder to the door. It broke with a crash, and there was another pistol shot. Marcus heard a gasp and a grunt, and Brask, following close behind Gavin, passed underneath Marcus with a long knife in his hand. Marcus pushed himself to his feet and circled around, hopping down onto the stairway.

  The Patriot Guard was dead, two smoking pistols beside him and Brask’s knife in his throat. Gavin was slumped against one wall, moaning and clutching his side, with blood slick under his fingers.

  Didn’t think he’d have a second one, Marcus thought, with the numb feeling that always came over him in the midst of a battle. It was the detachment of a commander, watching men fall all around you, and knowing that you couldn’t care about it, not yet. Get the job done first.

  “Get Gavin back on deck,” he told Brask. “Nell, make sure that’s the last of them.”

  “Yes, sir!” she said, voice squeaky with fear but determined. Only in the moment after he’d done it did Marcus realize what he’d just done, ordered a girl not yet twenty to go in search of armed men in the midst of a firefight. Get the job done. Marcus stood aside to let her pass, then went back up the stairs to find Viera coming his way, lugging her oiled-leather sack.

  “Wait until we know it’s clear down there,” Marcus said. “Then do what you need to do, as fast as you can.”

  “You can count on that.” There was a feverish light in Viera’s eyes. “We won’t want to hang around here any longer than we have to.”

  Musket-fire was still coming from the front of the boat, so Marcus ran in that direction, hunching over again to avoid poking his head up. He saw Raesinia and Andy, lying side by side, aiming through the gaps in the rail while exposing themselves as little as possible. Once they fired, they slithered back to accept a fresh musket from George the Gut, who was reloading as fast as he could. Maple was down, lying slumped against the rail, and Zimona was pulling at the back of her sister’s dress in tears. Walnut, beside her, hacked at the arm-thick lines tying the boat to the pier.

  “Leave those,” Marcus told him. “We’ll never get the anchor up anyway. Get her out of here!”

  Walnut nodded and pulled Maple’s deadweight away from the rail and out of sight of the musketeers below, Zimona trailing in his wake. Marcus watched the big woman’s limp, dangling arm and thought, Get the job done first. He lay down and pulled himself up beside Raesinia to look at the pier.

/>   As he’d guessed, there were close to a dozen Patriot Guards down there, taking cover among the stacks of barrels and coils of rope that littered the pier. One lay in plain view, obviously dead, while another crawled determinedly away from the boat, trailing a slick of blood from his leg. The rest were loading and firing as fast as they could, a thick haze of powder smoke already hanging over the pier like a dirty cloud lit from within by muzzle flashes.

  “A couple tried to climb up the ropes, but Andy bashed one over the head,” Raesinia reported. “The other jumped into the water.”

  “I think they’re trying to keep us busy while they figure out what to do,” Andy said.

  “Fine with me,” Marcus said. He flinched at the sound of a pistol shot, muffled by the wooden deck. Nell must have found something. “You two keep this up. I’ll go help Viera.”

  He had only a moment to reflect on the absurdity of using the queen like a common ranker. Shuffling back from the rail on his elbows, he looked over his shoulder at Walnut, who had dragged Maple to safety. The big man caught Marcus’ eye and shook his head; Zimona was bent over her sister’s corpse, sobbing. Damn. Marcus pointed at George, indicating that Walnut should help load—he would make too big a target at the rail. Walnut nodded, patted Zimona on the shoulder, and loped across the deck as Marcus ran back toward the stern.

  Nell was emerging from the stairway, a smoking pistol in one hand. “There was one left,” she said, beaming at Marcus. “But I got him.”

  “Good work. Is Viera already down there?”

  “With Brask,” Nell said.

  “Help Andy and Raes,” Marcus ordered, and went down the stairs himself.

  Gavin lay to one side, a crude bandage wrapped around his waist already clotted with blood. His breathing was ragged. Beyond, a short passage in one direction opened into the cargo hold, while the other way led to two cabins, both with their doors already broken open. The corpse of a Patriot Guard was sprawled behind one of them, a bloody hole where one eye should have been.

  Marcus turned into the hold. Viera was at one end of it, adjusting something, while Brask stood looking down at a massive wooden crate. Marcus joined him, and found one of the huge steel tablets nestled within, packed in straw like wine bottles ready for shipment.

  “This is what we came for, isn’t it?” Brask said.

  Marcus hesitated, then nodded. They hadn’t told the volunteers the whole story, of course, only that the mission was important to stopping Maurisk. Brask frowned, then made the sign of the double circle across his chest.

  “Good,” he said. “Glad we’re destroying this heathen stuff. Gives me the creeps just to look at.”

  Good enough. “Viera, how long?”

  “A couple of minutes,” Viera said, not looking up.

  “Brask, get Gavin up on deck,” Marcus said. The wounded Leatherback probably wouldn’t make it, but they owed it to him to at least try to get him to a cutter. “I’ll get the boats ready.”

  “Got it,” Brask growled.

  Up above, the fire from the pier had slowed down. Marcus suspected the Patriot Guards were low on ammunition, and in any case their own smoke cloud was so thick now they were essentially firing at random. Andy fired back periodically, just to reassure them someone was still there, but Raesinia and Nell had moved back from the rail.

  “Nearly there,” Marcus said. He ran a quick mental count in his head. “We’ll leave one of the boats. George, get the one we came in. Walnut, you take the one at the stern. It’ll be a little crowded, but we’ll get clear.”

  “I don’t think Zim will leave Maple,” Walnut said.

  “Carry her,” Marcus said. “We haven’t got time. Then help Brask with Gavin. He’s hit pretty badly.”

  “Right.”

  Walnut strode across the deck and grabbed the shrieking Zimona around the waist, pulling her off the prone body of her sister. He carried her to the stern, without apparent effort. George, hampered somewhat by his namesake gut, was lowering himself back down the rope ladder to the other boat.

  We’re going to pull it off, Marcus thought. It had been bloodier than he’d wanted—he’d hoped to avoid a fight altogether—but the Patriots were out of options. They can’t rush us, and they don’t have the angle to pick us off. They could blow us out of the water with the guns, but that would defeat the whole—

  Something moved, on the deck. Marcus blinked and looked down—the shadow of the foremast, cast by the bow lantern, slanted right beside where Nell was excitedly recounting the story of her encounter with the Patriot to Raesinia. A long, sharped-edged shadow, and right at the edge of it . . . a hand?

  Marcus’ perspective swam. A black-gloved hand, gripping the lit part of the deck. Then, in one swift movement, a lithe, dark form pulled itself out of the shadow of the mast like a swimmer hoisting himself out of the water. Marcus caught the glitter of obsidian and started to scream a warning.

  Too late. The newcomer grabbed Nell’s arm and used it pull himself to his feet, sending her staggering in front of him. As part of the same, elegant motion, his other hand drew a long knife across her throat, leaving a spray of arterial blood in its wake. Raesinia was just starting to turn when the man spun, slamming a balled fist into her midsection. As she doubled over, he grabbed her hair, jerking her head back, and brought his knife up to her throat.

  “Hello, Colonel.” Ionkovo’s voice. His face was obscured behind the faceted obsidian mask of the Penitent Damned.

  Damn, damn, damn. Andy, still lying at the rail, rolled over and froze. There was smoke trickling from the barrel of her musket, which meant that she’d already fired. George was over the side already, Brask and Walnut helping Gavin at the stern. Nell, eyes very wide, took a couple of tottering steps and then keeled over like a collapsing drunk, a crimson pool of gore forming from the weakening pulses from her neck. Her heels drummed a tattoo on the deck, then stilled.

  “Not a bad plan,” Ionkovo said. “But I don’t see how you expected to get away with it. A suicide mission, perhaps?”

  Raesinia was gasping for breath, knife pressed against the soft skin of her throat. But her hands were moving, one clutching the other. She drew one finger down the other palm, over and over, but it took him a moment to realize what she meant.

  That night, at Twin Turrets. She’d drawn the knife across her palm, to demonstrate her power. “I can’t die.” Raesinia’s eyes found Marcus’, and her gaze was fierce. Don’t do anything stupid.

  Marcus met Ionkovo’s gaze, eyes sunken behind the gleaming mask. There was a steady malevolence there, but also a touch of morbid humor. He knows. But he doesn’t know that I know.

  Without moving his head, Marcus glanced at the stern. Brask and Walnut had already taken Gavin over the side, and he could see Viera at the rope ladder. She took one look at the frozen tableau on the deck and started climbing down to the boat. Smart girl.

  “Lie down on the deck, Colonel,” Ionkovo said. He looked down at Andy. “You, too, unless you’re eager to see your friend get a red smile.”

  “If you hurt her,” Andy said, “I’m going to paint the deck with your brains.”

  Marcus was trying to count heartbeats, but his pulse juddered so wildly he couldn’t be certain. But it can’t be long now.

  “Colonel?” Ionkovo cocked his head. “What are you waiting for?”

  In the hold, a tiny piece of clockwork went click and made a spark.

  The blast sounded like a cannon going off, and the Rosnik lurched as though a giant had kicked it. Ionkovo staggered, but his grip didn’t falter. He flipped the knife in his hand and drove it up, through the soft underside of Raesinia’s jaw and upward into her skull. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed to the deck as Ionkovo let her hair slip through his fingers.

  Andy screamed and charged the Penitent Damned, only to be intercepted midway there by Marcus, running in the oppos
ite direction. He grabbed Andy by the waist and lifted her bodily off the deck, heading for the bow rail. Ionkovo was saying something, but it was drowned out by a much larger blast, this one from the stern. Bits of flaming wood pinwheeled through the sky, and the rear mast began to topple with a groan like an enormous rusty hinge. The shock slammed Marcus and Andy against the bow rail, which snapped under their combined weight. Marcus kept a firm grip on Andy as they went over the side, splashing into the water a few feet below.

  Marcus did his best to keep Andy’s head above water as she thrashed and swore, but she got a mouthful in spite of his best efforts. This quieted her a bit, and by the time she’d coughed it up she was composed enough to tread water on her own. Rosnik was sinking fast, with a hole across her keel by the bow and the whole of her stern blown out below the waterline. Before long, only her foremast was visible above the surface of the water.

  The water was bitterly cold, and Marcus could feel himself losing feeling in his fingers already. He kicked, his boots slowing him, and turned in a circle. Without Rosnik’s lanterns, the water was dark, but Patriot Guards were still milling about on the pier, and their lights gave him a brief glimpse of one of their boats, not too far away. He grabbed Andy’s arm and pointed, and she gave a convulsive nod and started to swim.

  George the Gut, leaning so far over he came close to swamping the little craft, helped first Andy and then Marcus into the rowboat along with a generous quantity of river water. Zimona was curled in the stern, sobbing, and with all of them soaked, it took Marcus a moment to realize Andy was crying, too.

  “What the hell happened?” George said. “I was getting ready to cut loose when I heard the shouting. Where’s Raesinia and Nell?”

  “He fucking killed them,” Andy said. “That’s what happened! That fucker—”