The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Tharek!” Dayne shouted, pounding on his own bars. “Don’t!”

  Each movement precise, Tharek snapped Toscan’s arm, sliced a line down the side of his body, and then removed the keys hanging at his hip. He let the man drop as he unlocked the irons on his wrists, which had been utterly ineffective at slowing him down.

  Toscan wasn’t dead, but he was no longer screaming. Instead he whimpered as he attempted to crawl away.

  Tharek opened his own cage.

  “Tharek, listen to me,” Dayne said. “It isn’t too late for you to do the right thing. The just thing.”

  Tharek ignored Dayne, instead opening Lannic’s cell. He dropped to his knees and picked up the dead man, cradling his head in his arms. “I’m so sorry,” Tharek said quietly. “I didn’t see it in time. I couldn’t save us.”

  Toscan reached up at Dayne. “Please . . . please . . .”

  “No more,” Tharek said in a low whisper. “Pawn to the Parliament. Pawn to the marshals. No more!”

  He rose to his feet and walked out of the cage.

  “Tharek,” Dayne said, hoping for anything that might reach the man. “You are a Spathian. True to crown and country and God.”

  Tharek walked almost casually over to Toscan, who struggled to take another breath and crawl to the doorway. Tharek spat on Toscan’s face, then raised his boot and brought it down on the marshal’s head.

  And then again.

  And again.

  He bent down and relieved the body of its sword.

  Then he smiled at Dayne with dead eyes.

  “Don’t worry, my soft brother,” Tharek said. “I’ll free us all.”

  He walked out of the chamber. Then the hallway outside was filled with screams.

  * * *

  Colonel Neills brought out an army squadron, and Barton and Millerson dragged some of their fellow Parliamentarians out of their homes, gathering an impressive parade to march to the plaza. The group they had pulled together were mostly Traditionalists, but they grabbed a few Functionalists and one Mintie—Greydon Hale, with his comely Tarian escort. This wasn’t out of any attempt to bring about multi-partisan unity, not for Barton. They brought anyone they could get, as quickly as they could. Barton was pleased he had managed almost twenty-five. Many had chosen to stay locked in their homes with their Tarian guards.

  They found Parliament Plaza in a state of wreckage, but controlled. Constabulary and marshals had dozens in irons, while Yellowshields and priests tended to the injured. With their military escort it was relatively easy to cross the plaza to the Parliament stairs, though given the situation they chose not to bother with the formality of each man entering by his archduchy stairs. They went up the closest set of stairs and pounded on the door.

  Slowly it creaked open, with a young marshal revealed behind it. “Good sirs.” He nodded to all the Parliamentarians in Barton’s train. “I presume you want entry to the floor.”

  “That is our purpose,” Barton offered. Strictly speaking, Millerson was the ranking member in the group, as the 3rd Chair of Sauriya, but he was deferring to Barton in the whole enterprise. Barton mused that Millerson was taking their respective roles in the Grand Ten literally. If they needed to speak to the people, he would have stepped up. Since this involved the Parliament, Barton as the Parliamentarian needed to take charge.

  That was exactly the sort of sewage that Millerson would spout as part of his Grand Ten rhetoric. He believed in the trappings, not the history.

  “All right,” the marshal said. “But just you all. We can’t have those army boys coming in here. You understand, sir.”

  “Fair enough,” Barton said. “Thank you, gentlemen. You may wait out here. Assist the Constabulary and the rest in any way that you can.”

  They all started to file in the one door.

  “That means you as well, madam,” the marshal said, nodding to the Tarian woman.

  “I have a charge, and I will not leave him,” she said.

  “She’s fine, really,” Barton said. “She’s a Tarian after all, pledged to our safety.”

  “I understand that, sir, but I can’t have any more . . . at the very least she has to leave her weapons behind.”

  She wordlessly unbuckled her belt and let her sword drop to the ground.

  “Shield as well, madam. I know about you Tarians.” At this, she balked.

  “Go ahead,” Hale said, as if his encouragement would be the thing to push her over the edge. Her face said otherwise, but despite that, she surrendered her shield.

  The last of them in the building, the marshal closed and barred the door again. “Might I suggest you take the floor right away,” he said. “We’re still in the process of clearing out the gallery.”

  “The gallery is closed? And empty?” That could be troublesome. A session of the Parliament required a quorum of members to be legitimate, but it also had to be open to the public.

  “The people must be allowed to observe,” Millerson offered. “It is crucial.”

  “The people were pretty blazing unruly,” someone said from the stairwell to the floor. Montrose, that hardened Saltie, came up the steps, limping without his signature walking stick.

  “How bad was it?” someone asked him.

  “Pretty blazing bad,” he offered. “Brawling in the gallery and on the floor.”

  “On the floor?” Barton noticed a decent bruise on the side of Montrose’s face.

  “Come, quickly,” Montrose said, taking in the size of the group. “We have much we can do with you here.”

  Montrose led them all down to the floor, where an assorted gathering of Parliamentarians paced about listlessly, most of them with a few scrapes and bruises. The gallery was all but empty, save a few regulars from the press. Good enough to fulfill that requirement. The boxes were mostly empty as well, supporting staff absent. That hardly mattered, in terms of procedure. The Tarian woman took her place up in Hale’s box.

  “I call for a count!” Montrose said. “We have not yet had the count, and I’m calling for it!”

  “A count is called for! We will call those assembled for this session of the convocation!”

  Perry, that delightful obstructionist bastard, stood up. “This is a—” He stopped at a glare from Montrose. Barton noticed more than a few bruises on Perry’s face. “An excellent suggestion.”

  They called the count as everyone took their chairs and after a few minutes the assembled number had been identified and placed.

  Wells took his place at the podium, rapping three times on it. “We stand now at sixty-two present. We have a quorum assembled. Be it heard, today is the thirteenth of Joram, in the year 1215. The Parliament of Druthal has been convoked. A quorum has been achieved. This august body is now in session.”

  Cheston Porter stood up, and though usually the very sound of his voice would drive Barton mad, he was thrilled to hear what he said now. “Be it heard and be it known, today is our one hundred fiftieth and final session of this convocation. We are to close and settle, and retire to our respective archduchies at the end of session. Some will return, and some will not. Men will stand for election, and the voice of the people will continue to be heard.”

  Barton breathed a sigh of relief. Seventeen times he had heard that speech by various High Chairs of the Floor, but never before had it meant as much to him. Now it was official. Once the session was closed, the convocation would officially end.

  He had done it.

  Wrennit stood up. “I understand we are under a great deal of duress at this juncture. Despite that, we must endure. We must be strong. And we must, as my esteemed colleague said, close and settle.” He held up a sheaf of papers. What was Wrennit up to? “This is the expenditure and taxation plan put together by Misters Mills, Pike, and LeDois. It has been made available for all for several weeks. I propose that it be put to vo
te.”

  Porter blanched. “The . . . the proposal is stated. Do any support bringing this to vote?”

  A few hands went up.

  Barton was about to boil in his chair. What was Wrennit trying to do? That proposal would never pass, as the Crownies and Minties hated it with a passion, and the Frikes would vote against it in solidarity. Even with Populist support it would—

  Barton noticed the numbers in the room.

  It would pass right now.

  The current session had a clear majority of Dishers and Books. As long as no one played games with the gravity, it would pass just fine.

  Barton hadn’t planned on this. He had intended the session to open and close without incident. It was an exciting prospect. If they could get their plan passed during this convocation, then the whole agenda would be steps ahead.

  Montrose stood up, looking like he was about to pass a stone. “It must be said, because in this case it is true. This is, indeed, a matter most grave.”

  Wrennit scowled. Barton didn’t bother to do the math. It was possible some of the Frikes would break ranks, and that could get it over. But in the end, it didn’t matter. Two minutes ago he hadn’t even considered it a possibility to pass that plan, so nothing had changed. As long as no one called for the votes he didn’t want called at all—and with this session, these people, he didn’t see that happening—this vote could be called and fail. All that mattered was the convocation closing. Everything else was sauce for the meat.

  One of the other Crownie Chairs stood up—Torest, the High Chair of the Call, was among the absent. “So it shall be. Place it to a vote.”

  Suddenly a loud crack came from the boxes. A man in a marshal’s uniform—but no marshal Barton had ever seen. In fact, he recognized the man as one of the Patriots from the museum. With sword in hand, irons hanging from his belt, and covered in blood, he stood over the inert body of the Tarian woman. She lay on the ground, still breathing, but with her forehead bleeding, and the desk she had been sitting at nearly split in two.

  “Hold, good gentles,” the false marshal said. “For the people would speak now.”

  Chapter 24

  HEMMIT’S HEAD WAS POUNDING, like nothing he had ever felt before. It was a regular, relentless bang. Like metal hitting metal.

  That wasn’t in his head. That was a real sound.

  He slowly opened his eyes.

  “Maresh?” His dear friend was hovering over him. Where was he? How was Maresh even here? Where was Lin? What was happening?

  “Ssh, Hemmit, careful,” Maresh said. “I was beginning to think you’d never wake up. What happened to you?”

  “I don’t even . . .” Bang. Bang. Hemmit turned, let his eyes focus. A young woman lying on the ground next to him, in Tarian uniform, pale and covered in a layer of sweat. Cold hard stone beneath him. He could see bars beyond that. Iron bars.

  Bang again.

  Hemmit tried to sit up.

  “Slowly,” Maresh said, helping him. “Tell me what happened.”

  Hemmit was finally able to see what the banging was, where he was. He was in some sort of cage, and Dayne was there as well, kicking the door of the cage with all his might, again and again.

  “I was outside, when a riot—Lin!”

  “Lin was with you?” Maresh asked. “She was all right?”

  “No, I don’t . . . I was trying to get her up, get her out. She blew herself out, like a candle. Trying . . . to bring you.”

  Dayne paused in his assault on the cage door to look down at Hemmit. “And I came.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Foolishness,” Hemmit said. “She and I managed to infiltrate the Patriots, to get close to Tharek. Get the story.”

  “Did you get a story?” Dayne asked, kicking again.

  “I got roped in, is what happened. Lin and I both.”

  Dayne stopped kicking again. “Were you part of what happened to Yessinwood?”

  Shame burned in Hemmit’s chest. “Indirectly.”

  Dayne glowered and kicked at the door again. It wasn’t budging.

  “I didn’t know what was happening exactly, and I couldn’t do anything without ruining our cover!”

  “I’m sure that’s a comfort to his family.”

  “Easy, Dayne,” Maresh said. “We’ve made plenty of mistakes, all. Look where we are.”

  “Where are we, exactly?” Hemmit asked.

  Maresh answered while Dayne kept kicking. “In the marshals’ holding cells. That dead man there was the Chief Marshal. He was also the secret leader of the Patriots. The public leader was that dead man over there.”

  “Who killed them?” Hemmit feared he knew the answer.

  “The Chief killed Lannic,” Dayne said. “And then Tharek killed the Chief. And probably everyone else who got in his way.” Another kick.

  Hemmit rubbed his head. “Dayne, please stop that. You aren’t doing any damn good.”

  “We’ve tried everything else,” Dayne said. He kicked again. “Tharek took the keys, no one responded to our calls.”

  “It’s an iron door!” Hemmit said. “You can’t—”

  “Maybe I can’t,” Dayne said. “But I have to do something.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” Maresh said. “Just like that Bridge thing.”

  Dayne stopped his kicking, and laughed. “That’s not the lesson from the Question of the Bridge, Maresh. The coward does nothing, doesn’t turn the switch, because he doesn’t want to get involved.”

  This sounded familiar. The Question of the Bridge was something Hemmit had read in his philosophy classes before he dropped out of the Royal College.

  “So that’s the answer?” Maresh asked. “You pull the switch?”

  “The logician pulls the switch,” Dayne said. “He calculates that one life lost is better than five, and accepts that.”

  Dayne stepped back and slammed his whole body against the door.

  “A Tarian doesn’t accept that.”

  He slammed his body into the door again.

  “A Tarian doesn’t accept one choice or the other, that someone has to die.”

  Another slam that made the whole cell vibrate.

  “The only answer is you run like blazes, you jump on that track, you do everything in your power to stop that cart and save every life.”

  Dayne threw himself at the cell door, and with a horrible crack, it flew open.

  “Because you’re a goddamned Tarian, and that’s what we do.”

  * * *

  Dayne wanted to do more for Lannic and Marshal Chief Toscan. Even if this entire mess was their fault, it was unseemly to just leave their bodies unattended and festering in this cell.

  “How is Jerinne?” he asked. Maresh checked the girl while Hemmit stumbled to his feet.

  With Maresh’s prodding, Jerinne mumbled incoherently, and she seemed to be approaching consciousness.

  “Where are we going?” Hemmit asked.

  “For now, just out.” Dayne indicated out of the holding chamber. “You two help carry Jerinne. And stay back.”

  He didn’t want to look at Hemmit. He knew that the man hadn’t betrayed him, that he had meant well trying to find out more about the Patriots. But that didn’t change the fact that he failed, and people died.

  Like you failed Lenick Benedict, a voice drove through his head. Like you failed Master Denbar.

  Dayne drove those thoughts to the back of his skull as he went into the next room, fearing the horror he was about to see.

  It was even worse.

  The floor was littered with dead marshals. At least eight, but the bodies were in such a state that there may have been more. Dayne was shocked that Tharek—that any Spathian—was capable of slaughter on this level. He had read some of the stories about Oberon Micarum, The War
rior of the Grand Ten, that he had always presumed were legend and exaggeration. Seeing this, so many marshals—not common folk, but trained peacekeeping officers—killed with such precision, such mastery, Dayne started to believe those legends were true.

  Tharek was clearly a Master Spathian in skill, even though he never advanced beyond Candidate. Dayne wasn’t sure if he could possibly match that skill. Sholiar had tested his patience, his judgment, and even his wits, but never pure fighting arts. He had defeated Dayne with trickery. Tharek, on the other hand, was an open book. He was pure righteous anger and martial skill.

  Dayne knew perfectly well how a Candidate who had failed as much as he had might never make Adept. But this man?

  Dayne looked back to the door, where Maresh and Hemmit had just brought Jerinne through. Both of them looked like they were about to throw up.

  “This is my fault,” Hemmit said. “I could have done more. Been a man, like you are.”

  “Don’t hold me up as some paragon, Hemmit. I’ve made more than my share of mistakes.”

  “Well, I’m not making any more,” Hemmit said.

  “Can we please move on?” Maresh asked. “I can’t be in here any longer.”

  They left the chamber and were in a hallway, presumably leading to the Parliament, definitely the path taken by Tharek. The trail of dead made that clear. The hallway branched off the other way, which led back to the church.

  “You two get Jerinne out of here. Get her to a hospital ward, get the Tarians. Get her safe.”

  “You’re going after Tharek?” Hemmit asked. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

  “I should, I have to.” Dayne put his hands on the two newsmen’s shoulders. “If you come, Tharek will try to kill you to distract me. I cannot fight him while having someone there to protect. My only chance against him is to be committed to the fight.”

  “All right,” Hemmit said. “I just feel we should do something else . . .”

  “Just get the truth out there, Hemmit. That’s what you do.”

  Dayne approached Jerinne’s limp form and cradled the girl’s head in his hands. Jerinne opened her eyes, but it didn’t seem as if she was really looking at Dayne.