There were angry hisses at that and more makeshift missiles flew from the crowd at May and Hale. Urek saw the faces stretched in rage and incoherent hate, and sighed. Not only would they be taking on city guardsmen who outnumbered them several times over—even with Captain Festa and his sailors—it seemed that they would be taking on the city itself when they attempted their no doubt ill-fated rescue.
He took a slow, deep breath, and turned to the swordmaster as Grinner droned on. He waited for the man to give him some signal that the thing would begin, waited with his hand ready to grasp the sword concealed by the cloak at his back. He knew it would not be long now.
***
The big man’s anxiety was a palpable thing, but Darrell paid it little attention. Nor did he bother to listen to the empty platitudes and poorly-veiled boasts of the crime boss. Instead, his eyes were fixed on Captain Brandon Gant who stared out at the crowd from his position on the platform, an unreadable expression on his face. Did he see me? Darrell thought for what must have been the hundredth time.
He stood there, praying to the gods that the captain would look in his direction, would give him some sign, as the man’s gaze swept the crowd, though whether he was looking for any possible threats or for Darrell himself, the swordmaster didn’t know. Finally, the captain’s eyes did lock on him, and there was no question of it now. He gave one single, short nod, almost imperceptible, but it was enough, and the swordmaster felt a flicker of hope rise in him. They still had no plan, their chances were still almost nonexistent, but they would have help. “Come on,” he said to the big man, “let’s get closer to the front.”
Urek nodded, pulling Beautiful along, saying something about being closer to the show and how a lady such as herself deserved a better view. Whatever that was about, it got the woman moving, and Darrell didn’t have time to ponder it—he was too busy watching the captain. They were still making their way to the front when Grinner finished his speech, and the people around them erupted in riotous applause, as if the man wasn’t a man at all but some benevolent god come to the city to save it.
Give me just one chance, Darrell thought, thinking not just of May and Hale, but of Aaron and Adina, still missing, of Wendell and Leomin, of Caleb, and all the others who Grinner had betrayed. Just one chance, and we will show them that even a god can bleed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Balen didn’t normally consider himself a coward, but he realized, standing beside the first mate, staring at the dozens of guards and listening to the crowd cheer Grinner’s words, that maybe that wasn’t completely true. That maybe, given the right circumstances, all men could be cowards, and if ever there were circumstances for it, these were certainly them.
So far, at least, Thom hadn’t charged the platform, but there had been a panicked moment when the guards had first led Hale and May onto the stage. When the first mate saw her, Balen was sure the festivities were going to begin ahead of time. The older man had made a strangled sound of inarticulate rage, his body going rigid with fury, and Balen had been prepared to restrain him. Or, at least, to try. He was fairly sure—given the experiences of earlier in the day—that it would take far more than just him to keep the first mate back, if he took it in his mind to charge the platform in some suicidal attempt to save his lover.
Which, Balen supposed, is exactly what their plan—such as it was—entailed. But if he was going to die, he consoled himself with the fact that at least he wouldn’t be doing it alone. Unless, of course, all the others had decided it was a lost cause and abandoned him and Thom to their deaths. Ridiculous, of course, but that didn’t keep him from looking around frantically in search of his companions.
He let out a heavy sigh of relief when he saw the swordmaster, Urek, and the woman—was that a dress she was wearing?—standing in the front row not far away. He couldn’t imagine what had possessed the woman to wear such a thing, knowing full well the fighting—and most likely dying—that they’d be doing soon enough, but he supposed that, at the least, the men in charge of burying her wouldn’t have to go looking for something to dress her in.
She chose that moment to turn and saw Balen staring at her, gave him a wink and a girlish wave that sent his heart racing for all the wrong reasons, before turning back to stare at the podium. Gods be good, Blunderfoot, he thought, you’re doomed one way or the other.
***
Captain Brandon Gant was angry. He’d woken up angry, had dressed and gone to escort the prisoners angry, and events since then—such as that fool killing a man when he’d clearly decided against rushing them—had done little to improve his mood. He’d spend the day—and the days before it, if he was being honest with himself—mulling over the big crime boss’s recriminations, vacillating between righteous indignation and self-pitying acceptance. He had still been debating with himself as they made their way out of the castle gate, until he saw Darrell in the crowd, studying him with what had felt like a question.
It was a question that left Brandon Gant feeling unsure, unsteady, and it was one to which he’d had no answer. But standing on the platform, listening to Councilman Grinner prattle on about “justice” and “traitors,” his anger had grown into a full-blown rage, and the answer to the question the swordmaster’s eyes had asked—the same question he had asked himself a thousand times over the last few days—became clear. He would abandon his duty, abandon a life spent in service, branding himself a traitor and irrevocably so, because, in the end, it was better to be a good man than a loyal one.
All of which would most likely be moot, as he didn’t see much chances of finishing the day—or even the hour, come to it—alive. Eight guards shared the platform with him, not to mention the executioner himself, a man who looked all-too comfortable with the double-bladed axe he carried and one that, Brandon suspected, wouldn’t be too pleased at some man putting himself between him and the deaths he’d been promised. And if Brandon somehow managed, with the others’ help, to survive the first thirty seconds of what was coming, the dozens of guards scattered throughout the audience and standing around Grinner would rush the stage and put an end to all Brandon’s doubts and worries quickly enough.
He was so lost in thought he didn’t realize that all those gathered were waiting on him until one of the men nearest him nudged him with an elbow. Then Captain Brandon Gant, Commander of the City Guard, once proud defender of King Marcus himself, and until now at least, loyal servant of his royal daughter, Queen Isabelle, stepped forward before the waiting crowd, and if any rational thoughts made it past that jumble of emotions which he felt, then they were traitorous ones indeed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
May listened to Captain Gant recite her and Hale’s crimes in a sort of daze. Nothing mattered anymore. Not the dreams she’d once had as a child, nor the visions she’d had as a woman of how her life would be spent, not even the fear that she had felt cowering in the dungeons, a wretched, pitiable creature. She was all of those things: the hopeful child, the confident woman, the frightened wretch, and yet she was none of them. She did not even feel any connection to the woman who now stood on the platform in the center of the city, surrounded by thousands who had come to watch her death. She was that woman, but she was not her at the same time. She was a being without form or substance, a witness that floated above the scene, watching events unfold impartially and without any feeling one way or the other.
In that daze, nothing reached her, nothing seemed to have any real meaning. At least, that was, until the captain burst forward with a shout, and gave the executioner a hard kick to the midsection. The hooded man hadn’t seen the blow coming, and the double-bladed axe flew from his hands to land on the wooden platform with a thunk as he flew off the stage, crashing into several surprised people in the crowd.
One of the guards at her back gave a shout of surprise as the captain drew his blade and spun, driving the steel through the nearest—the man with the bloody nose—who let out a grunt of shock and agony, toppling to the ground
as the captain ripped the blade free.
There was a moment of frozen disbelief, one which the guards on the platform, the people standing in the square, even the captain himself, shared. Then everything happened at once. Several guards rushed forward with their blades drawn, intent on cutting the captain down, but they’d barely made it a step before Darrell, the swordmaster, leapt onto the stage and ran at them. He spun among their attacks like some dervish, his sword licking out to cut one guard on the wrist and, an instant later, striking another in the ankle. The guard screamed and toppled as his severed foot was no longer able to keep him upright.
Despite the swordmaster’s skill, it looked as if he would be overcome by sheer weight of numbers, but then a knife flashed through the air, embedding itself in the throat of a guard who’d been coming up behind him, and the unfortunate guard stumbled back, his hands going to his throat. May spun to look at where the knife had come from to see a hook-nosed man she didn’t recognize standing in the crowd and smiling grimly, another blade already raised to throw. Whether he got the throw off or not she couldn’t have said, for he was blocked from view as a big man climbed on the platform, followed an instant later by what looked to be another man even bigger than he was, this one—and if ever she thought she was dreaming surely it was now—wearing a dress.
A roar came from behind her, and May turned to see the crime boss, Hale, rise to his full height, knocking away the two guards who held him on either side as if they were children. He turned to her, grinning madly. It was all an act, May thought wildly, nothing but an act. And where have his manacles gone?
She watched, stunned, as the giant crime boss grabbed the closest guard and slammed his forehead into the man’s face. There was a crushing, crumpling sound, and the man let out a gurgle as he collapsed. But Hale was already moving on to the next. He grabbed the man’s shoulder in one hand, burying his fist in the guard’s gut. The air exploded from the guard’s lungs in a woosh, but Hale wasn’t finished. He took hold of the guard’s ankle and—with seemingly no effort at all—lifted him above his head and threw him through the air where he soared over the heads of the nearest people and landed somewhere in the crowd, out of May’s sight.
Grinner shrieked in rage from where he stood beside the platform, and the guards gathered around him started forward only to have more people materialize on the stage as if from nowhere—sailors, judging by their attire—to block their path. The sailors fought with a surprising viciousness, using the small, cruel knives they carried on the onrushing guards. But for all their fervor, May could see they would not hold out long against the better-trained and equipped city guard. Even as she watched, one was cut down, a guard’s blade carving a bloody ruin into his chest.
The unfortunate sailor fell away screaming and another man May thought she recognized—Balen, a part of her confused mind thought vaguely, that’s Balen—leapt onto the guard’s back, bearing him down onto the wooden platform and burying a knife in the guardsman’s throat. The first mate looked nearly as terrified as the guard he’d ambushed, but he didn’t hesitate, charging the next closest guard and kicking him off the steps and into other guards trying to climb the platform.
May blinked dully. Once, the woman she had been would have known exactly what to do, but she had become something else, been made something else by her time in the dungeon, and she only stood, waiting for what would happen. She felt a tug at her wrists where they were manacled behind her back and craned her neck to see a man—a boy, really, as he looked to be no more than fifteen—grasping at her manacles. “J-j-just a minute, m-m-ma’am,” he stammered. “T-the manacles are old, so it makes them a bit t-trickier.”
May frowned, opening her mouth to tell the stranger, whoever he was, to leave them, for surely when Grinner saw her free he would punish her for it, but a second later there was a metallic rattle and the manacles fell to the platform at her feet. Too late, she thought, a stab of panic piercing the fog that had settled over her thoughts. He’ll see. He’ll see, and he’ll be so angry. He’s always angry.
She saw a guard rushing toward her, his sword raised. May knew she should run or hide, should do something, but she only stood and watched her death come. The man was only a few steps away from her, would be on her in another moment, when someone barreled into him, tackling him to the platform. The newcomer was wiry, with a thin frame packed with corded muscle, and when the guard tried to rise the stranger grabbed his head in his hands and slammed it down onto the wooden platform once, twice, three times.
The guard’s struggles stopped after the third impact, and the wiry man had just begun to rise when another guard emerged from the crowded melee on the platform, swinging his sword. The thin man cried out in surprised pain as the blade sliced a gash into his arm, and he stumbled away. As he did, his face turned so that May could see it, and she gasped. “Thom?” The words came out in a rasping croak, and if the man heard he gave no sign. He clamped a hand over his wound, hissing in pain.
The first mate started to turn to his attacker, but before he could another guard charged him, tackling him to the ground. The guard jerked a dagger from his belt, raising it over his head to strike. Thom lashed out wildly, hitting the man in the wrist and sending the knife flying to where it landed only a few feet in front of May.
She stared at the knife, her mind trying to process everything that had happened, everything that was happening. Then a strangled hiss from the two struggling men snapped her back to the present. The guard had his hands wrapped around the first mate’s throat, and despite Thom’s wiry strength, the guard had all the leverage, and the first mate was unable to break his attacker’s hold. His face was turning a deep red, wheezing sounds coming from his throat, and it wouldn’t be long before he lost the ability to struggle altogether.
The guard screamed in shock and agony as the knife buried itself deep into the meat of his shoulder. May stared down at her hands where they held the blade’s handle, baffled and disappointed at once, for part of her didn’t remember moving, didn’t recall bending down to scoop up the knife from where it had fallen. As for her disappointment, it came from the part of her that did remember, the same part that had aimed for the back of the man’s neck, and would have ended his life, had his struggles with the first mate not caused him to move at the last second.
The guard swung a backhand at her, striking her in the face with enough force to send her stumbling away. He rose from the wheezing first mate who appeared to be close to unconsciousness. He growled incoherently, ripping the blade free of his shoulder, and stalked toward her.
She watched him come, cupping her hand against her face and staring at Thom, her thoughts racing, the pain of the blow having served to banish the fog that had settled over her mind. Thom was alive, but barely, his chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly. He had come to save her, and he had nearly died and, what was worse, she had come close—far too close—to standing there and watching it happen. Anger blazed within her, the heat of it scouring away the filth, the desperation and hopelessness that her time in prison had grown within her, and she let it have its way, let it burn away the pathetic thing Grinner had made her, the wretched creature she had let herself become.
“Come on, you bastard,” she hissed at the guard, and the sound of her own voice, raised in defiance, helped to wipe away the last vestiges of her despair, not that she thought it would do her much good, in the end. The guard was wounded, but he was also well-trained and armed with a knife, while May had no training and a quick glance around the platform showed that there was no weapon near to hand. So she faced the man, a silent snarl on her face, aware of the irony that she would discover her will to live only to be executed after all.
“Fucking bitch,” the man spat, brandishing the blade coated with his own blood. “I’ll kill you.”
“No. You won’t.” The guard spun at the sound of the new voice, but not quickly enough to avoid the axe blade that cleaved through his neck.
Hale let out
a growl as he kicked a foot into the dead man’s midsection, ripping the axe free as the body went tumbling along the platform, leaving a trail of blood to mark its passage. Then he turned to May. Battle raged all around them but, for the moment, the two of them existed within a small pocket of calm. The crime boss walked to her, looking her up and down. “You alright, lass?”
“Oh yes, I’m glorious,” May said sarcastically, but she didn’t bother trying to hide the grin that spread across her face. The odds were still stacked terribly against them, and chances were they’d still die before the day was over, but she couldn’t help the pleasure that filled her now that she had, once again, found herself. She studied Hale. Before, he had seemed only inches from death, but his strength, if it had ever been gone, had returned to him in full, and he stood covered in the blood of the gods alone knew how many of Grinner’s men, the double-bladed executioner’s axe looking natural in his hands. “It was all an act then?”
The crime boss grinned, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Maybe not all. I’d be lyin’ if I told you I minded those two bastards carryin’ me here, gave me time to take a rest. But it seems I’m not the only one who was actin’,” he said, eyeing her. “Gods, lass, I have to admit you even had me fooled.”
May snorted. “I had myself fooled.” Her expression grew solemn. “Thank you. For helping me. For bringing me back.”
Hale grunted. “Ain’t no cause to be thankin’ me, lass. The place you went, can’t nobody in this world bring you back from but you. Now—” He paused as a guard separated himself from the melee on the platform and rushed him. Hale stepped to the side, dodging the man’s blow and swinging the axe with an almost contemptuous ease. Ribs cracked as the axe caved in the guard’s chest, and he collapsed in a shower of gore. “Anyway,” the crime boss said, glancing around the platform and speaking as if nothing had just occurred, “save your thanks. From where I’m standin’, it looks like we’ll be seein’ that fucker Salen and his Fields soon enough.”
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