Upon the Flight of the Queen

by Howard Andrew Jones

  It took the young woman only a moment to register the instruction and then hurry up the stairs.

  “You two—get to the windows on the stairwell and keep watch.”

  Still more squires filed into the hallway, along with some citadel soldiers, protesting that they should hold the wall.

  He didn’t have time to argue with them. “Close and seal the doors!” While this order was being carried out, Rylin turned again to the acting governor. “Varama knows of a hidden exit. Are you aware of it?”

  Feolia cocked her head in surprise.

  “Come along, then.”

  “What about the rest of our people?” the governor asked.

  “I’m going to do what I can, but the odds aren’t good for any of them, or us.”

  Sansyra returned, Varama leaning heavily against her. It might have been wishful thinking, but he thought he detected a little strength in the alten’s step.

  One of the squires he’d sent to watch from above called down. “Alten! The Naor are all over the courtyard now! Some more are coming closer!”

  “How many?”

  The second ranker fell silent. Presumably he was counting. From somewhere close by came the twang of bowstrings followed by a shout from outside, and Rylin guessed the small band of Alantran archers he’d seen earlier was finding targets.

  The milling squires and soldiers, dismayed and shocked, parted for Varama as Sansyra guided her behind the stairwell. The pale blue alten stopped at the wall beneath it, her eyes roving over a gray stone partly covered over by the stiff tapestry of an archer on a hilltop under wintry skies. Her lidded gaze settled upon the stone where the fabric archer’s arrow was pointed. She then pressed into it. Unfortunately, she didn’t have much strength at her command.

  “Sixty-six,” the counting squire announced to a room whose interest had moved on. Someone outside the citadel let out a cry of agony that was abruptly silenced, and a celebratory whoop went off above. “Sixty-five.”

  There was nothing remarkable about the shoulder-high stone Varama labored against, not even when Rylin examined it with his inner sight. He dismissed the idea that Varama was confused or mistaken, then gently brushed her aside to place his own palms to the area. It was as cold and gritty as its neighbors.

  There was barely space for two hands on the masonry, and Rylin found himself wishing his stronger friend Lasren were there. He’d been too busy to think about him for days. Somewhere in the wilds Lasren was probably still hunting the falsely declared enemies of the realms, Kyrkenall and Elenai.

  Suddenly the stone gave way a little, sinking back into a recess, and Rylin halted in surprise before pushing further. He heard a low thunk, felt a vibration through his fingertips. The governor called to him, but he scarcely heard, for a jagged section of the wall in the shadow of the stairwell swung inward. The door was no higher than his shoulder and three feet at its widest. Its edge was uneven, so that when closed it would better blend into the surrounding wall. Rylin peered inside and saw the top of a wooden ladder secured against the far side of a stone shaft leading into darkness.

  It wasn’t the most inviting of openings even in these circumstances, but the squires shifted in expectation and the councilor beside the governor muttered a prayer.

  “Where does it go?” she asked.

  Rylin looked to Varama for the answer. “Deep,” she whispered. “Far. Safe’ty.”

  “You heard her. You.” He pointed to the nearest squire. “Get a lantern. And candles.”

  The councilor offered, “There’s a supply room just down the corridor. I’ll show you.”

  As she spoke, Rylin discovered an even larger band of people had arrived from deeper in the citadel and now waited behind them. Some were soldiers, and some were additional squires, but dozens were ordinary citizens, including children and elderly. Rylin searched their frightened faces, looking for Denalia, Aradel’s niece, and didn’t see her.

  “Can all of these people fit?” he asked Varama.

  She nodded. “Them first.”

  He frowned, but acquiesced. Varama for some reason wanted to remain behind until last; maybe she was gathering her strength to manage the ladder. He’d just have to work quickly. There were hundreds normally within the citadel and fortress and there surely had to be some still above. He couldn’t fit the whole city into the tunnels, but he could certainly get as many as possible. Better to rely on those who knew the building.

  “You six,” he said, pointing to a group of Alantran soldiers, “come with me. We’re going to search upstairs.” He pointed to the squire Lemahl, and the governor and counselor. “Search the main floor. Get everyone that you can. Sansyra, stay here by Varama. You two, monitor the door. And everyone else—get down the damned shaft!”

  He waved on his charges and they came with him up the stairs. “We have to move fast, and I don’t want to leave anyone behind. But don’t you dare shout that ‘we’ve found a secret exit,’ right? The Naor might hear.”

  That seemed to make sense to them, and they declared assent. They looked nervous but eager. Probably they were glad for the direction, the sense that they were involved in something that wasn’t hopeless.

  “You know this whole building better than me. You three, take the second floor. Spread out. Alert the archers to fall back to the window overlooking the main entrance. The rest of you come with me to the third.”

  From outside came another roar. Damn. He’d momentarily forgotten about the wyrms. How could he be so stupid? If he were to die pulverized by thousands of pounds of stone, then at least he’d be killed while he was helping people. But could he get Varama into the shaft before everything collapsed?

  He left the soldiers to search the third floor and climbed to the fourth, racing from room to room, through open doors and calling every twenty paces.

  He found a handful of frightened young servants hiding in a storeroom on the fourth floor and sent them down.

  Searching beyond was another issue altogether, because above the fourth floor the fortress was composed of seven towers, some of which were linked by crosswalks but not all on the same floor. He climbed one, made his way to a balcony overlooking an inner courtyard and managed to catch the eye of another band of archers who’d taken up a post in the south tower. He waved them over and pointed to the ground floor and one of them raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  He dared not be gone for any longer. He found the soldiers ushering a handful of additional refugees down the stairs, and joined them.

  By the time he’d reached the landing leading to the second floor, the archer on duty at the window shook his head and pointed down. “There’s a score of Naor in the courtyard and they’re getting a ram to bash in the doors.”

  That hadn’t taken very long. “Some archers are coming in from the south tower. I’m not sure where it meets up—get them here, and fast.”

  “Yes, sir.” The bowman hurried away.

  Below, Varama and Sansyra were still waiting. Alone. It was the first time he’d ever seen the squire’s face brighten at the sight of him. He also noticed a large bruise rising on her cheek.

  The soldiers he’d brought with him started onto the ladder. The rest of the hall was empty.

  Sansyra sighed in relief. “Thank the Gods you’re back, sir.”

  “I’d pray to them, but I’m not sure I’d thank them. Did the other three who climbed with me return?”

  “Yes, with more soldiers and servants. They already descended.”

  He turned to Varama. “Where do the tunnels get you out of the city?”

  “Just inside.”

  What was the point of that? “Just inside?” He couldn’t contain his disappointment.

  “Exit’s in west wall. West wall fell.”

  Right. There’d be no way out from there. He’d have to get them out some other way, but on the bright side, Varama’s sentence structure was improving. “Are there other entrances to the tunnels?”

  She nodded.

&nb
sp; “Where?”

  She answered his question with one of her own. “Your plan?”

  “Semblances,” he said, unconsciously imitating her shortened manner of speech, and saw her gaze sharpen as she immediately understood. “I’ll gather as much information as I can about our foes, find a way out for us. And sow a little chaos if I’m lucky. Do you still have your semblance?”

  She fumbled with the pouch on her belt, and frowned as her own fingers obeyed only sluggishly. Sansyra hurried to help.

  “You guard her with your life, Sansyra. Do you understand? We need her.”

  “Yes, sir. I know how important she is.” Sansyra spoke with great sincerity, and an implied rebuke, as if to say she had always known and who was he to just now be noticing?

  He deserved that.

  Something huge rattled into the outer door, like a giant’s fist. He glanced at the portal, saw it quaver. As impressive as the citadel walls were, the doors themselves looked more serviceable than fortresslike. Probably no one had ever expected that enemies would get so far.

  Sansyra handed him Varama’s small belt pack, her gaze seeking his, but he focused instead upon Varama, whose strange eyes fixed him with a particularly intense stare. “Three more entrances … simpler to find.”

  “Yes.”

  The oaken door bar rattled in its holdings as the Naor rammed it again. Up above he heard footsteps on the stairs. The archers. They’d damned well better hurry.

  “Temple to Vedessa,” Varama said, then paused to breathe. “North corner. Niche panel of praying man. Press.”

  “The second one?”

  “Third tier. Below Merivan’s Archway. Fountain of maiden. Third full stone left of her foot.”

  “Right.”

  There was the sound of splintering wood and Varama pointed toward the door.

  “They’re getting close,” Rylin agreed. “You’d better get down. I’ll ask about the third later. I’m going to use one of the faces from these dead Naor—”

  “Throw down ladder.”

  “What?”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Stand up body. Look well. Then pitch down hole.”

  “The hole? You mean where the ladder is? Why?”

  She stared at him. The archers he’d called to from the tower had finally reached the landing directly overhead, and the doors were splintering. It was hard to think. “Oh. Oh!”

  Of course. The body of the Naor man whose face he meant to steal needed to be hidden so Rylin didn’t look like a dead man’s twin, one lying right in the path of the Naor, and easily visible.

  “Sansyra, come with me.” He raced to one of the dead men. “Hold that one up.”

  She looked puzzled, but bent to lift the corpse.

  Outside the Naor counted, their meaning clear even though their borderland accent mangled the words: one, two, building to a three. There was a mighty grunt and the doors rattled. And cracked. He could see some light through the splinters, but for now they held.

  Sansyra hoisted up a scruffy-looking Naor by the shoulders.

  “Make him stand.” Rylin had to make sure he got the height right.

  The archers finally reached the spot just before the door, their eyes wide in alarm. More than fifteen of them.

  Rylin thumbed them toward the ladder and they hurried on. One of them exclaimed in amazement before they started down.

  Damned if that particular Naor body didn’t have a nasty cut through his shoulder. That would look a little strange to take as a semblance, wouldn’t it?

  “Next one,” Rylin said.

  Sansyra released the dead man, and with a look over her shoulder at the door, lifted another.

  This body was much better. There was a lot of blood on his cuirass and on his hands, but no noticeable injuries. His head lolled, of course, and his eyes were rolled back, and he smelled like he’d voided his bowels on death, but Rylin assumed the semblance he took on would move like a living person, and he’d work not to mimic the scent as well. He tried to imagine him with normal eyes.

  After a long moment, he reasoned he had memorized the man’s face about as well as he was going to manage. “All right, toss him down the shaft.”

  He stepped back to the opening to the shaft only to discover that four archers were left in front of the thing, watching as one of their fellows descended gingerly.

  Rylin would have summoned his best “dressing down” voice if it hadn’t been for the Naor within earshot. “Are you daft?” he demanded through clenched teeth. “Move your twice-damned asses! Go! Go! You want the Naor to find you?”

  His urging brought a renewed sense of energy, but the door splintered with a resounding crash behind them. Rylin peered out from under the shadow of the stair and saw daylight shining through a head-sized panel in the door. The wood was bowed in around it. Two or three more good hits and the Naor would be through.

  “Damnit!” Rylin gnashed his teeth as the final archer headed down.

  He grabbed the shoulders of the dead man and, with Sansyra assisting, dragged him to the hole. A faint golden glow, as of a candle, pooled perhaps twenty feet below. Two archers hurrying down the ladder were dark blots. He might have reached down and touched the head of the nearest.

  “On your left,” he called into the shaft, then lowered the corpse out on the left side of the narrow ladder well, and released.

  There was a frightened curse from below, cut off by the splintering smash of the door finally giving way.

  As the Naor shouted, Sansyra kissed him on the cheek. “Luck. I was wrong about you,” she said, and stepped to the ladder. Varama saluted him once, then got her hands on the rungs. She looked back as Rylin fussed with the recessed stone. He wondered why he hadn’t bothered to ask how to close the thing. Fortunately, pressing hard popped it out and set the door sliding into place. As it closed, he watched his friend and mentor descending very slowly, carefully, closely warded by Sansyra. The door closed securely and then the seam vanished as if he had dreamed it all.

  He heard footsteps behind, and grasped one of the two little semblance stones, willing it to life around him as he sank against the dark back of the stair. He wished he’d had a chance to examine himself in a mirror to make adjustments. The image of the Naor was laid over his own features, or at least all that he could see, for those boots and dark animal skin leggings weren’t his own, nor was the blood-stained scale cuirass. The soldier he’d chosen didn’t have the leather of the other frontline troops.

  As he heard booted footsteps hurrying forward, along with the groan of soldiers on the move, he realized a proper scale mail shirt wouldn’t be quite so flexible as it seemed to be in his slumped position, and so he shifted slightly.

  “Something’s moving!” a stranger’s voice drawled. It was a man, naturally. There were no women to be found in the Naor military.

  Two soldiers with bared swords hurried around the stair side to confront him.

  So much for playing dead and then sneaking out behind them. Rylin would have to pretend injury and do some talking. A bad idea in front of agitated and highly suspicious soldiers, especially when he had no idea what his face looked like. Would he have a dead man’s slack and staring eyes?

  He groaned and shifted, put his hand to his face, his eyes half-closed. At least he hoped his eyes looked half-closed.

  He peered through his fingers at the Naor who rounded the corner. They were in their twenties. Bearded, muscular, these must have been an especially valued regiment, for they were garbed in matching, well-fashioned mail shirts and metal caps with nasals. They looked competent and dangerous, probably experienced veterans meant for a quick thrust at the citadel.

  He heard an officer barking orders to advance with caution, deploying men away to stairs and halls. The fellow’s voice was heavy, with an accent that butchered soft vowels. “Scouts said at least a hundred withdrew inside here,” he called. “Stay sharp!”

  Rylin sat up, hand still to his head, as dozens of men hurried past i
n small groups, throwing open doors. Some marched swiftly up the steps.

  One of the soldiers who’d found him first remained. His question held the barest hint of compassion. “Is that your blood?”

  “Don’t think so.” Rylin hadn’t heard the voice of the man whose image he’d stolen, so he was speaking with his own. He spoke haltingly, doing his best to imitate the roll of the Naor accent.

  “What unit were you with?”

  Damn. Of course they’d ask that. He groaned, mumbled a number, and rubbed the side of his head.

  “Three?” the soldier asked. “Did you say three?”

  He had, but he hadn’t expected it to be heard.

  The man’s dry chuckle faded as he was joined by another soldier. Rylin pretended it took effort to rise, setting a hand against the wall behind him. He deliberately tapped his head against the wall and moaned. It had hurt more than he’d planned.

  Before him now was a Naor officer, obvious from the blue plume in his helm and the better gear—the cuirass looked of sturdier make, the lines of the helm were better fitted and rounded, and a cloak draped his heavy shoulders. Impassive blue eyes stared at him.

  “I think he took a head blow, sir,” the soldier reported. “He said his unit number was three.”

  “He’s one of that lot Tarjesen sent ahead,” the officer replied crisply. “You have anything to report, soldier?”

  “I’m not sure, sir,” he said slowly. He approximated their drawl, but spoke thickly to disguise his voice. He needed to hear a little more of them actually talking.

  The officer breathed out a swift sigh. “Do you know where the enemy went, and how many there are?”

  Rylin had a sudden inspiration and held up three fingers.

  “Three?”

  The soldier’s expression cleared. “That’s what he was trying to tell me,” he said by way of explanation.

  “There were only three defenders?” the officer asked him. He looked doubtful.

  “Three Altenerai.”

  The officer’s eyes widened to show his whites. “Others. Archers?”

  Rylin waved his hand down the hall.

  “Upstairs?”