“We should be down there,” Varanus said.
There was a bang as Ekaterine shot one of the enemy soldiers in the crowd with her rifle. She glanced at Varanus and nodded, though she did not necessarily agree with the statement.
“Mmm hmm,” she said.
Varanus gripped her sword and exhaled. She wanted to be down there in the thick of the fighting. But while the past week had reacquainted her with combat, it was a kind of short, vicious fighting for which she was best prepared, with few people and no bystanders.
“Oh, look at Margaret,” Korbinian said. He was leaning over the railing and pointed across the room. “Can she be fleeing? What a curious thing.”
Alarmed, Varanus looked away from the melee and toward Margaret and the other conspirators. She saw Margaret’s executioner, Fairfax, pull Margaret down from the table, all but dragging her master to the door—though surely Margaret could not be resisting too hard, or Fairfax would not have had the strength to pull her along. Iese backed away alongside them, and Thoros went last of all, shielding their escape. Varanus looked at Zawditu, but the general was too heavily engaged in fighting to give chase, though she clearly saw the traitors escaping and redoubled her efforts to reach them.
“I’m going after them,” Varanus announced.
Ekaterine looked at her, startled. “You’re doing what?”
Without bothering to reply, Varanus bounded onto the railing, pulled her mask down over her face, and jumped.
“This may not be a good idea,” Korbinian noted, as he fell toward the floor beside her.
“I know,” Varanus told him with a smile.
She landed on the table a little ways from the end, collapsing to one knee with a painful smack while keeping her sword raised high above her. She was bruised from the impact, but nothing was broken. Rising, she ran for the far end of the table, her eyes locked on Margaret as Fairfax pulled the woman toward the door, shouting something indistinct about needing to withdraw to a safer position.
Ahead, Zawditu fought against Alexios of Anatolia and two Shashavani of the Shadow, trading blows back and forth and striking at any others who tried to intervene. Though their situation was desperate, those soldiers who had not yet given up seemed to have regained much of their courage. Perhaps they had convinced themselves that, if they fought well and hard, they would still win the day and break the loyalist forces once and for all.
And, Varanus realized, it might actually be true. Both sides were almost evenly matched, even after the mass defections. And the traitors who remained were very well armed.
Zawditu struggled to advance, tilting her head with each thrust to see past Alexios. Her mouth was set in a scowl as she cut and thrust at Alexios and the others like a woman possessed, desperate to get past them and put an end to Margaret’s treachery. Fighting was the only option, for she was too tall to slip under Alexios’s reach, and the way was too narrow to go around him.
Lady Zawditu is too tall, Varanus realized, but I am not.
As she reached the fighting at the middle of the table, Varanus ducked under a spear as it was thrust at Zawditu, ducked again beneath Zawditu’s blade that swept down to parry the spear, and jumped to a nearby chair. She bounded to the next chair and leapt back onto the table. Alexios saw her, of course, and he stabbed at her with his sword, but Varanus rolled beneath the strike. A moment later, Zawditu seized the opening and thrust her sword into Alexios’s chest, forcing him to face her again and leaving Varanus free to continue on. In gratitude, Varanus drew her knife and threw it into the back of Alexios’s leg. Alexios stumbled from the injury, and Zawditu took the opening and drove her sword into his throat.
Varanus picked herself up again, ran to the end of the table, and leapt for the door. A soldier loomed to the side of her as she landed, and Varanus slashed him across the face before running into the corridor.
* * * *
Margaret and her cohorts made no attempt at stealth in their retreat, and Varanus followed them at a distance as they made their way to one of the side gates. There they stopped, and Varanus concealed herself in the shadows to observe them and wait for an opportunity to strike. Having finally run them to ground, Varanus was suddenly faced with the question of just how she expected to kill three Living Shashavani at once, not to mention their bodyguards.
“It is a puzzle, isn’t it, liebchen?” Korbinian mused as he knelt beside her, resting his chin on his hand.
“Hush,” Varanus murmured.
At the gate, Thoros turned back and shouted at Fairfax, “We should not have fled! It will be disastrous to our soldiers’ morale!”
“I merely suggested what I thought to be prudent, My Lord,” Fairfax answered, her tone cold and professional. “Forgive me if I overstepped my authority, but I saw little hesitation from you at the time.” She looked at Margaret. “My Prince, I trust you have seen the wisdom in my actions. I could not allow you to be taken.”
“More likely killed,” Margaret mused. Though she tried to appear calm, it was obvious that she was seething with anger. “No, you were right, Master-At-Arms. We will wait here until the day is won to make our return to the hall all the more triumphant.”
“Assuming all is not lost,” said Iese, his voice sullen.
“Why should we be lost?” asked Thoros, idly testing the weight of his sword, the same sword that had killed Father Vaclav. “We have the advantage of numbers, even without the scholars.”
Fairfax hesitated for a moment and then contradicted him: “Forgive me, My Lord, but we do not. Perhaps in total, but our soldiers are scattered throughout the house while theirs came in force. And there were many among our ranks who surrendered. If we were not outnumbered before, we surely are now.”
Thoros turned on Fairfax and raised his sword. “I should cut out your tongue for your impudence, child of shadows! Know your place. You do not contradict the Living, and you do not contradict me!”
“Pardon, My Lord,” Fairfax said, lowering her eyes. But Varanus could tell that she did not mean it, and perhaps Thoros realized it as well.
“Enough, Thoros,” Margaret snapped. “Though she speaks out of turn, the Master-At-Arms is correct. We are outnumbered. We must trust Boris to hold his ground and break the enemy.” She scowled. “Though I am again given to question his abilities. He assured me that all entrances had been sealed. Clearly they were not. Just as he assured me that the Army would gladly join our side, even Zawditu and her officers, given a sufficient show of strength.”
“And they did not,” Iese said. He ran his fingers through his beard. “If only Caroline’s cult had done its duty and murdered them all when they fled into the countryside.”
Margaret frowned. “Indeed, there are a great many ‘if onlys’, and I am displeased by them.” She began pacing back and forth upon the threshold as the bitter wind of winter blew in from the frozen night. “I promised my king a victory, and it would have been delivered had it not been for the failure of those under me. But it is upon my head that the blame for this shall fall. You realize that, do you not? I was the architect of our victory, but instead I shall be remembered as the architect of our defeat, simply because those who served me could not carry out the tasks I gave to them!”
Iese and Fairfax drew back from Margaret, perhaps sensing danger as her tone grew shrill and frantic. Thoros kept his distance as well, but his attitude seemed more dismissive than cautious.
“The Winter King was to arrive in springtime, and I was to present an orderly house. Instead, I have been undone by chaos and incompetence!”
“I am beginning to question whether there truly is a ‘Winter King’ at all,” Thoros grumbled. “I believed it at first, but I grow skeptical.”
“Do you?” Margaret demanded. “You question my word, Thoros?”
“I do,” Thoros answered coldly. “I think that perhaps you invented this mysterious lord a
nd master, this faceless conqueror from the wilderness, to give us all greater confidence in your fractured plan. ‘Only a few months, and then a godling shall descend upon the valley and rule us with might and majesty.’ Either you are lying, Sister, or you are quite insane.”
In a rage, Margaret took a few steps toward Thoros, her face contorted. Thoros drew back and raised his sword defensively. Fairfax rushed toward them—though not between them, Varanus noted.
“My Lady, My Lord,” she said to them, “infighting will do us no good, not at such a time.”
Margaret paused and folded her arms.
“This is true,” she said. “But you will watch your tongue, Thoros. The Winter King is real. I have seen our master with my own eyes, as did Teimuraz.”
“Teimuraz is dead,” Thoros remarked. “He cannot vouch for it, can he?”
There came the sound of hurried footsteps from down the corridor, and the others turned toward them. Varanus pulled herself further back into the shadows and tucked herself into a ball to avoid being seen. Presently, she spotted Boris the Muscovite running toward them as swiftly as he could manage with a mangled leg. He had been grievously injured. One eye was missing, one arm was hacked almost cleanly off below the elbow, and his good hand clutched at his chest, where it bled from numerous wounds. He shuffled to a stop before Margaret and fell to his knees.
“Boris, what is the meaning of this?” Margaret demanded.
“My Prince, forgive me,” Boris gasped, “but we are lost.”
“What?”
“It is true!” Boris coughed a few times and spat blood onto the floor. “My troops have been broken, scattered, to be hunted down by Zawditu’s forces. It is like the first day again, only now the positions are reversed!”
Margaret turned away, making noises of anger and disbelief. “Not possible!” she snarled. “Not possible!” Then she turned back and looked at him. “You fled?” she asked.
“What?”
“You fled,” Margaret repeated. This time it was not a question. “I made you my general, Boris, and I instructed you to lead my soldiers and defeat my enemies.”
“My Prince, I swear—”
“Instead, you failed to deliver me the whole of the Army,” Margaret continued. “You failed to destroy Reza’s band of outlaws. You failed to find and seal whatever gate Zawditu’s forces have used to enter. You have failed even to hold your position in battle!” She took Boris’s chin in her hand and scowled at him. “You are failing me quite a lot, Boris. Perhaps you were a poor choice. And now you have abandoned your men and fled when I required you to stand firm against my enemies.”
“I did everything I could!” Boris protested. “Everything within my power! I came to warn you that we had lost the day!”
“You should have held the line,” Margaret said, “and sent a common soldier to warn me.”
In a panic, Boris motioned to his mangled body. “I did my best! I would have died had I remained!”
Margaret looked into Boris’s eyes and said softly, “You should have died. And I will correct that error.”
“No! Please—”
Margaret took Boris’s head in her hands and twisted it around until it had nearly reversed. Boris let out a dying gasp, and his body fell onto the ground.
“Master-At-Arms,” Margaret said, gazing down the corridor.
“My Prince?” Fairfax asked, stepping forward.
“You are my new general,” Margaret answered. “For whatever that is worth at such a time.”
“It is worth the world, My Prince, I assure you,” Fairfax replied. “We have suffered a grave defeat, it is true, but that cannot be helped. You gambled and you lost.” When this made Margaret glance toward her angrily, Fairfax took a step back and added, “If you escape now, there will be time and opportunity to plan revenge. But if we remain, you will die and your work will come to nothing.”
Margaret snarled for a moment, and then she threw back her head and laughed. It was a bitter, desperate noise.
“How right you are, Fairfax,” she said. “There is nothing for it. We will escape by the southern pass. Come....” She paused and turned her eyes in Varanus’s direction, peering into the shadows. “What is that?”
The others turned toward the shadows and slowly approached. Varanus felt her breath catch in her throat, and she knew that she had been discovered. Better to get in the open where she could fight or flee as necessary.
She stepped from the corner and walked to the center of the hallway. Thoros gasped at the sight of her, and his eyes flashed with anger.
“You!” he shouted.
“The masked bogeyman,” Fairfax said softly. “The Plague Doctor that haunts my soldiers. I have heard of this one.”
“The one that escaped me,” Thoros said. He lifted his sword and pointed it at Varanus. “But you will not escape me now, little rat.”
Margaret sighed. “Thoros, we have no time for this. Fairfax, kill it.”
“No!” Thoros barked, holding up his hand. “No, this one had the gall to escape me. I will deal with it. Go on ahead. I will meet you shortly.”
Iese shook his head and said, “You are a fool, Thoros. There is no time!”
“Go!” Thoros repeated as he slowly advanced on Varanus. “I will meet you at the southern pass.”
“As you wish,” said Margaret, walking toward the gate. “But be quick about it. We will not wait for you.”
“This will be very quick,” Thoros answered with a chuckle.
Varanus considered running. It was probably the most sensible thing to do. But she simply could not bring herself to flee from the fiend that had murdered Vaclav. She would surely die facing Thoros, but what sort of friend would she be if she did not attempt revenge?
In fact, Thoros made the matter very easy for her. Shouting violently, he charged her the moment his comrades had departed through the gate, bringing his sword down at Varanus from above. Varanus dove sideways and avoided the blow, but Thoros quickly recovered and thrust at her with tremendous speed and precision, stabbing her through the side. He drew out his sword and swung at her again, aiming for her head. Varanus ducked under the blow and dove forward. She hit the ground, rolled, and as she came up on her feet, cut a slash across Thoros’s exposed arm.
Thoros did not seem to care, nor did he pay any mind to the next dozen cuts and slashes that Varanus managed to inflict. But Varanus certainly felt each and every blow that Thoros heaped upon her, until her bones cracked from the strain, and her flesh bled freely.
“You should give up and die,” Thoros remarked. “Simply kneel and show your throat. I will cut off your head, and all of this will go away. You’ll be free.”
“Free?” Varanus asked, scoffing at the word. “Like you ‘freed’ Father Vaclav?”
Thoros frowned, having heard her speak for the first time.
“I know that voice...” he said.
Without hesitation, he bounded forward again and struck Varanus upon the side of the head, sending her to the ground and knocking the mask from her face. Varanus’s head ached from the blow, but she fought through the dizziness that threatened to take her and stood again, brushing away the hair that fell across her eyes.
“You!” Thoros cried, sounding astonished and perhaps even ashamed. “The child! Iosef’s student?” He suddenly laughed. “I assumed you were dead.”
“Brother Teimuraz tried and failed,” Varanus said. “You tried and failed. Twice.”
“I will not fail this time,” Thoros snarled, and he lunged at her again.
Varanus scampered backward to avoid the attack and dove in past Thoros’s range. Thoros tried to disengage, to bring his sword to bear again, but Varanus stabbed him in the belly, driving her sword in to the hilt.
At first she felt a sudden rush of triumph as Thoros’s face contorted with pain and astonish
ment. But before she could congratulate herself on having felled the bloodthirsty Goliath, Thoros grabbed her by the throat and threw her into the nearest wall. Varanus hit the stones with a crack and slid to the floor, momentarily stunned. She struggled to rise as Thoros approached her, pulling her sword from him and casting it aside as he came. But Varanus had scarcely risen to her feet when Thoros grabbed her again and threw her across the hall.
Varanus landed on the ground, gasping for air. Her starved and battered body cried out for nourishment, preferably mortal blood, and there was nothing she could do to sate it. But the pain and the hunger and the fear of the moment flooded into Varanus like heat, pooling with her anger until she shook with energy, suddenly more alive than she had been for ages.
Grabbing her sword and snarling like a beast, Varanus ran at Thoros. She ducked under his next swing and sliced him across the belly, making him howl. Turning back, Varanus thrust her sword upward, preparing to drive it beneath Thoros’s ribs. But there was a flash of steel, a burst of pain, and the blow did not land. Instead, Varanus’s sword clattered onto the ground, still gripped by her now severed hand.
Shaking violently, Varanus collapsed to her knees as her blood flowed from the stump at the end of her forearm. There was little blood left in her, but what remained now spurted upon the floor, leaving her dizzy and weak. Varanus struggled to get up, to attack again, but she simply could not.
Thoros laughed and crouched before her.
“Not so confident now are we, little rat?” he asked. “I told you it would be easier if you gave up and died. Instead, you have wasted my time, and I will make you suffer for it.”
“Go to Hell,” Varanus said. “Perhaps the Devil can teach you some manners.”
Thoros snarled and replied slowly, “I will enjoy killing y—”
As he spoke, Varanus summoned up her last reserves of strength—what little remained after two weeks of starvation—and punched Thoros in the face, forcing her severed stump of an arm into his mouth and spraying her blood down his throat.
The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Three: A Long-Awaited Treachery Page 29
