by Cara Witter
Kenton wouldn’t like, but she had to tell them the entire truth.
“We stand on the brink of annihilation. Our way of life, our faith, and our very lives are threatened. Together we can overcome this great evil. The gods themselves stand with us in our fight. They have given us champions, destined to band together to defeat Diamis and Maldorath. You may find this hard to believe, but your very own Nikaenor is the bearer of Mirilina.”
Standing against the wall next to Delyn, Ronan grimaced. She remembered his comment about Delyn never thinking of him as more than a child, not after knowing him his whole life. Perchaya saw confusion crossing the face of many of the people, followed by doubt. A few of them looked back at Delyn, who, even if he had his doubts, gestured back at Perchaya, indicating they should listen to her.
Perchaya had to convince these people of who Nikaenor truly was. “You’ve all seen his skin change, haven’t you?” she said. “You thought it was a curse, but it’s the blessing of Mirilina. The god sign. He is her bearer, and he’s going to claim her. You’ll be able to watch him hold her in his hands.” She hoped that was true, anyway. “But something’s happened. Nikaenor has been taken by Diamis’ soldiers.”
There was more unsettled murmuring at this.
“By the gods,” one of the men said. “Bearer or not, we can’t let them take Feldan’s boy.”
At the back of the room Ronan smiled at her, and Perchaya continued.
“I’m not going to let them take him,” Perchaya said. “I’m going to fight. What of the rest of you? Will you wait in your homes until the Age of Blood is at your doorstep? Or will you strike with me now, when there’s still hope?”
“Who are you?” the woman in the front asked. She glanced over her shoulder at Delyn, then back at Perchaya. “You say you know the Alwyns, but I’ve never seen you.”
If she’d had any confidence that telling them she was Drim would hold weight with these people, she would have done so. If anyone in the Five Lands still had a good opinion of the Drim, it might be these people—those who hated Diamis and were devout in the worship of their god. But she couldn’t risk it. Foroclae had fought against Diamis, but not on behalf of the Drim. “I’m a friend of Nikaenor’s, a traveling companion of the bearers. I watched while the new queen of Tirostaar picked up Nerendal in her own hand and ascended to the throne. If news of that hasn’t reached Ithale yet, it will soon.”
She paused for effect. “If there’s an Ithale left when the soldiers are done with it.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the room, as the people turned to look at their neighbors. And then a man toward the back of the room, who wore a torn cap low on his head, spoke. “If the Alwyn boy is the bearer of Mirilina and we don’t help him, she’s liable to turn us all into Nichtees. And we’ll deserve it, too. But even if it’s a lie, those soldiers never had any business in Ithale, much less rousing us all in the middle of the night. You know they backhanded the Rittel boy right into a wall, when all he was doing was answering the door? Enough is enough. Time we gave them what’s coming to them. And if we’re rescuing a godbearer while we’re at it, Daleth dia Mirilina.”
“Daleth dia Mirilina,” others responded. The room rumbled in agreement. And at the back of the room, Delyn nodded at her.
She had their support. Perchaya smiled, and she wished for a moment that Kenton could be there to see this.
She hoped he would have been impressed.
Twelve
Perchaya helped Delyn make the last preparations. She checked their dubious arsenal, scraped together from the personal collections of the townspeople, and confirmed the locations of those positioned along the street. There were a few roving groups of soldiers still searching houses and keeping people off the streets, but most of the troops seemed to have concentrated at the entrances to town or returned to the encampment. She looked out into the night from the second story window of one of the larger houses in town, trying to discern the rebels among the shadows. The Sevairnese helmet she wore was heavier and hotter than she had expected, and sweat trickled down the side of her face and along the back of her neck where her hair was gathered up into it.
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm as she stared down at the deceptively deserted-looking street below. The carts and barrels had all been arranged perfectly, jutting out at off-set angles from the buildings onto the narrow street. They’d been carefully placed, one by one, over the last few hours. They only had an hour or so of night cover left, but everything was in place.
It was absurd to think of how things had changed so dramatically in mere hours. It hadn’t been so long ago that she had been drinking, talking with her friends and Nikaenor’s family, and dreamily contemplating a night in a soft bed. Now here she was, wide awake with adrenaline in the wee hours of the morning, the would-be rescuer of her captured friends and the instigator of a revolution against the most powerful army in the Five Lands.
One contingent of it, anyway. But given the state of her nerves, it might as well have been every soldier Diamis could muster.
Delyn turned away from his lantern, a hammer ready in his meaty hand. “Traegan’s group has gone to attack the soldiers on the main road to town.”
Perchaya’s lips felt dry enough to crack. She crouched next to two men with bows and arrows in hand.
And then Perchaya heard it—the beginning. Shouts of men in the distance. Traegan and his small band of fishermen had struck with their harpoons, attacking the mass of soldiers guarding the road south, the one they needed to take to find the encampment.
The men would be running now, and with any luck, a large number of soldiers would be following.
Her heart thudded in her chest. She met eyes with one of the archers who knelt in front of her, a small middle-aged man with ragged brown hair and an honest face. He smiled nervously, then returned to looking back out the window. She did the same.
The galloping of horse hooves reached her ears before she saw the fishermen round the corner.
“Ready, men,” Delyn said, probably more for morale than anything. The fishermen were running, coming around the corner onto the street where the ambush waited. Just as they reached the street, three soldiers on horseback appeared, seconds behind and gaining with every step. Perchaya gasped as the soldiers lifted their swords and bent forward in the saddle, ready to strike.
Before they could do so, a handful of men with long, wickedly hooked poles leapt from their hidden positions and knocked the soldiers from their horses, two of them spearing the soldiers through as they did so, and the third killing the soldier as he flailed on the ground. Even as her stomach turned at the sight, Perchaya breathed out a sigh of relief—their timing had been perfect.
The archers at the windows pulled their bows taut, picking the men off as they lay on the ground.
Perchaya heard mumbling next to her. The archer she had exchanged glances with before was muttering a fervent prayer to Mirilina, his fingers wet with the spit of his benediction.
Next came the soldiers on foot. Perchaya gripped the edge of a table, standing tall to get a better look at them over the heads of the archers. There were at least twenty, and they were faster than she had expected. They shouted as they saw the fishermen just ahead, dashing through the serpentine path of carts and barrels, over the inconspicuous netting which lay across the dirt. When they had nearly passed the window, Perchaya reached up and covered her ears. She still heard the loud crack, like a falling tree—a Vorgalian shock globe used to stun men in battle.
Arrows rained down onto the street, but Delyn laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and pulled her away from the window. “Go now,” he said to her. “You don’t need to watch.”
He picked up a second smithing hammer—holding one in each hand—and headed down the stairs where other townspeople were waiting.
Perchaya nodded numbly and followed. She did
n’t want to see this, didn’t want to witness the death, but felt like she owed these people at least that much. She and her friends had brought this down on them, and she alone had talked them into fighting back. Even the soldiers on the street weren’t the true enemy. She would have been surprised if a single one of them other than Erich knew the cause for which he fought.
Whatever happened to these people tonight rested on Diamis’ head, but also on hers.
Perchaya glanced quickly down to make sure her uniform was all in place and strode towards the staircase. Just as she was descending the creaking wooden steps, Delyn yelled, “Now!” Even knowing it was coming, she still startled and grabbed the wall to keep her footing.
Sound charms shook the night, and Perchaya heard the cries of townspeople flooding the streets, overwhelming the soldiers. From here, they would push through the city, taking all the territory they could from Diamis’ men. As she hurried down the stairs, she could hear the screams and yells, the twanging of arrows and clanging of spears against steel. She didn’t need to see the scene; it was playing out involuntarily in her head. The nets had been drawn up, the soldiers trapped and partitioned into groups within the ambush site. The townspeople crowded into the first and second floors of the buildings attacked with arrows, spears, gaffs, hammers—anything they could gather from their homes and shops to use as a weapon. The soldiers were dying under the barrage, picked off like fish in a barrel.
Perchaya felt sick. She ran out the back door, the sounds of battle louder, filling the air. At the entrance to the stables, she called out “Dala” as softly as she could while still being heard over the clamor. It was the identifying word that they had agreed to use, suggested by Delyn. It meant ‘freedom’ in Foroclaean.
After a long moment, a lantern flared in the darkness of the stables. Three men in Sevairnese uniform stood before her. Saddled horses whickered behind them.
One of the soldiers smiled beneath his helmet. “Ready?” Ronan asked.
“Ready,” Perchaya replied.
Another of the men—Cade, Perchaya had learned—gave her a less certain smile. He seemed so young, even though he was probably close to her own age. He was said to be the fastest runner in town, a claim which would be tested soon.
Perchaya grabbed the reins of the brown and white spotted horse they’d chosen for her and led him out of the stable. “Let’s move.”
The small group quickly mounted up. They looked ready, if slightly nervous. A couple of the horses stamped and snorted impatiently.
With a sudden flick of the reins, Ronan started off, the others following close behind, racing along the deserted back street. Perchaya’s heart raced along with them.
It wasn’t long before they reached the contingent of soldiers positioned at the main road out of town. There were about thirty of them now, which was more than she had expected after so many ran into the ambush. Likely, after the battle had begun, this group had been reinforced by other guards who’d been stationed along the town’s border. If so, then this might have achieved her other purpose—giving Daniella, Jaeme, and Sayvil a chance to slip out of town if they were holed up somewhere.
If they hadn’t been found by now.
As they approached the lines of soldiers, fully armed and ready, Perchaya willed every ounce of belief and confidence she possessed into Ronan, who slowed about ten feet away from the soldiers. He wore the most decorated uniform from the bar—a lieutenant, if Delyn was correct. Perchaya kept her head down, not wanting to betray them by letting them see her features.
“Ambush!” Ronan called as they neared, his Sevairnese helmet drawn low over his head. Of all of them, save Perchaya, he could speak with the least hint of a Foroclaean accent, and the soldiers would cetainly notice if they were being addressed by a woman. “The soldiers in town have been caught in the square. They need help, but we believe a group of townspeople are headed this way. We’ll report to the general if you’ll aid the others.”
Perchaya’s group slowed only slightly. If they got into a long conversation, these men would surely notice that they’d never seen any of them before.
But the front guard in the road contingent nodded, turning to his men. “You five, stay here,” he said, motioning to a group on the left. “Blow the horn if there’s trouble.” Then he and the rest of his men ran down the road, leaving room on the street for Perchaya’s group to continue.
She waited until they’d passed the soldiers to breathe a sigh of relief. There was certainly a group of townspeople headed this way. She wondered if those men would live to realize they’d unwittingly let them through.
They raced wordlessly onward along the hard dirt road, away from Ithale and southward. Toward Kenton and Nikaenor, she hoped. Please, gods, she thought. Let them still be alive. All she could hear as they rode was the clopping of the horses’ hooves, but it was the sounds of murder behind them that still filled her mind.
As they approached the area where Malvin was said to have encountered the soldier, Perchaya heard the faint sounds of horses galloping toward them. She held her hand up, hoping the riders behind her could see in the moonlight, and pulled to a stop. The others followed, and wordlessly she indicated for them to get off the trail and into a forested area along it.
It was only a few minutes after they had carefully secreted themselves behind some trees that they saw the group of riders race by. There were about fifteen of them, all soldiers, all riding hard. They had already heard about the ambush, it seemed. Which meant that Perchaya and the others were not far from the encampment.
And it was emptying of soldiers, as planned.
When the soldiers were well past, they continued on, more slowly than before. Ahead were numerous tents, set in rows and partitioned off like small streets. The terrain around the encampment was lightly wooded—enough to hide them in the darkness.
They followed the perimeter of the camp, staying in the trees. One tent in the middle was larger than the rest by quite a bit, with banners snapping in the wind. Probably where they would find General Dektrian.
Farther along, toward the back of the encampment, they found the prisoner’s tent. It was low to the ground like the others, with no unusual markings. It was distinctive only in that, while the rest of the encampment seemed quiet, this simple tent was surrounded by eight guards.
Eight. Perchaya breathed out slowly. It could be worse.
“Alright, Cade,” Ronan whispered. “It’s time.”
Cade nodded and scrambled off. Perchaya focused her attention on the tent in front of her. Kenton had to be in there, unless . . . No, she told herself. He’s not dead. Diamis wanted him alive.
Perchaya and her companions waited. She could hear the sounds of the soldiers’ voices faintly but couldn’t tell what they were saying.
Then a large orange fire burst from the center of the camp. Her breath caught. The fire Cade had set after dousing the the general’s tent with alcohol was larger and burned much faster than she had anticipated.
“Fire!” a voice called, and Perchaya recognized it. Erich Dektrian was here—he hadn’t ridden out with the others.
The soldiers saw the fire just as quickly. “Water!” one of the men shouted. All around camp came calls for men to wake, bring water, snuff out the flames. Perchaya worried for the safety of Cade, who should be escaping now.
Four of the men guarding the prisoner’s tent broke off running towards the fire, with a yelled command to the others to stay behind.
“Four is still too many,” Ronan said nervously, echoing Perchaya’s own thoughts. When Cade returned, they would have four themselves, but all with limited experience in combat. The tent was too far from the trees for the group to have an element of surprise, and although their third man, Jexton, had a bow and arrows, Perchaya wasn’t willing to risk hitting Kenton or Nikaenor through the tent.
“So we go with the alternate pl
an,” Perchaya said. She hoped she sounded more confident than she was. She began to strip off her uniform, revealing her night dress beneath.
“Good thing I have a lot of energy, then,” said a voice from the side, causing Perchaya to practically jump out of her skin. It was Cade, breathing hard. “When we kick these pigs out of Ithale, you need to tell my dad that all my running wasn’t such a waste of time, after all.”
Perchaya grinned, her heartbeat settling down again. “I’ll do that.”
They waited a moment for Cade to catch his breath and strip off his uniform, and then Jexton and Ronan grabbed Cade and Perchaya by the shoulders and pushed them ahead. The four of them stumbled toward the prison tent. The guards eyed them warily as they approached but didn’t make any sudden moves. One stepped forward, just as Ronan said, “More of the group the general wanted. We caught them hiding in the town.”
The guards hesitated. “Tent’s full,” he said. “Take them around to the other.”
Perchaya tried to control her panic. There was another? They hadn’t seen one so heavily guarded, which meant Kenton must be here, didn’t it?
There was no time for discussion. Ronan immediately adapted their plan. Instead of shoving Cade forward at the guards, he gave him only the slightest nudge, such that the guards in front of them probably didn’t notice.
Cade ran.
“Get him!” Jexton yelled. There was a second of shocked indecision on the lead soldier’s face before he motioned to another and the two ran off after Cade with Jexton behind, running for show until he could slip away into the trees.
Perchaya twisted as well, trying to appear to take advantage of the situation. Ronan did a convincing job of pinning her to the ground with his club as the other soldiers approached cautiously.
Just as they started to bend down to grab her by the shoulders, Ronan and turned his club to the backs of their heads. With two sickening whacks, the soldiers crumpled to the ground. Perchaya scrambled to her feet, standing with Ronan over the bodies of the soldiers. Perchaya stared down at them, almost too horrified to feel victorious.
