Resurgence

by Alex Janaway

  ‘He seems to think the Nidhal can do all his fighting for him,’ she said looking at Devlin.

  He shrugged. Thought for a moment. ‘You want to know who has military leverage?’

  ‘Just asking.’

  ‘Cade, we haven’t got a military. I’ve got a score of effectives.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘Owen’s lot? Not sure what side they’d fall on. If Cadarn was still around, I reckon I could’ve talked him into it. The marines? They seem flexible. And from what I hear, the Admiral is a sensible guy. But Owen’s still in charge and he’ll swing behind whoever will give him his war.’

  ‘Cade? Are you seriously talking about defying the Emperor?’ Issar asked.

  ‘Haven’t we been doing that already?’ Cade responded. They’d cleared house for a reason. They’d made sure the decision-makers weren’t Emperor lovers.

  ‘I know, but I thought we did it just to protect ourselves.’

  They were drawing close to the villa. It was funny. It even seemed like home to her now. Issar was right. All this, everything they’d been through, was to protect themselves, to ensure they called the shots. There wasn’t much else they could do now. And there was only one bully left. Was she really ready to stand against the Emperor? Could she even dare?

  CHAPTER 85 – MICHAEL

  Michael waited under the eaves of a leaning tenement building, just opposite the barn they were using to house the Gifted. He corrected himself, the barn they had been using to house the Gifted. There was but one occupant now. It had grown dark. Enough time for his head to clear from the buzz of too much ale. He didn’t know why he waited, why he was being so furtive. There was no one to question his motives. He’d watched one of the locals, a woman, enter the barn at dusk. She was carrying a bucket. Inside would be enough food and water for an evening meal. The woman had left ten minutes later. She had used no key, had not made herself known to any guards for there were none. All the gaolers had gone to fight. None had returned.

  Time to move. He picked up the sack he’d collected from the barracks and hoisted it over his shoulder. It clanked a little.

  He drew a knife from within the folds of his cloak as he crossed over the street. He paused at the door, listening for any warning sounds. He tried the latch. It opened without complaint. Michael stepped inside.

  The barn was not large. The floor was covered with blankets. There was a faint smell of urine. At the far end was a small room, an office of sorts. And a window looking out. The gentle glow of moonlight shone through it, casting an elongated square against the shadows on the floor.

  He padded over, his feet making almost no sound, and knocked on the office door.

  ‘Yes?’ a puzzled voice sounded from the other side.

  Michael set the sack down and opened the door. Sitting at a small table, where a tiny candle burned, Yarn was reading. There was a plate with bread and cheese before her, a pitcher and mug next to the plate.

  ‘Do assassins usually knock first?’ she asked.

  Michael eased in and closed the door behind him. ‘I’m no assassin.’

  ‘An executioner, then,’ she said, with a small smile. ‘I suppose there can be some civility in that case.’

  Michael shrugged, unsure what to say, and not sure that he had the courage to say it anyway.

  ‘It’s alright. I half-expected it would be you. In fact, I’m glad. I heard we’d won but details on who survived were scant.’

  ‘Yes. We defeated them.’

  ‘For now?’

  Michael shrugged again.

  ‘And did they fight well, my sisters and brothers?’

  That he could answer. ‘They fought with honour. Bravely, to the last. It was my privilege to stand with them.’

  She nodded.

  ‘To the last,’ she said, quietly. Yarn closed the book and placed it on the table. ‘Well,’ she announced in a far lighter tone. ‘My last days have been quite comfortable. The locals have looked after me far better than the soldiers ever did. I’ve been well fed, watered and rested. There’s even been some sympathy. Imagine that?’ She stood. The chains securing her arms and legs clinked. ‘Do I get a say on how I go? A quick death?’ She eyed the knife. ‘Or does the Emperor want me to suffer with a thousand cuts?’

  Michael looked at the knife, put it away. ‘I don’t give a damn what the Emperor wants.’

  A dozen emotions flashed across Yarn’s surprised face, before it settled on her old, sardonic half-smile.

  ‘Father! Do my ears deceive me?’

  ‘And don’t call me that.’

  He fished around the inside of his robe, found the pocket, retrieved a set of keys.

  Yarn’s eyebrows rose. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Hold your arms out.’

  She did so, and he set to unlocking her shackles.

  ‘You want to fight me to the death, then?’

  ‘No.’ Michael knelt, did the same to her ankle restraints. ‘Not you.’

  He stood as Yarn massaged her wrists. ‘Michael. What’s going on?’

  He sighed. This was it. Time to do the right thing. ‘Your death, mine. It doesn’t matter. As long as he goes. As long as it all goes.’

  Yarn studied his face. She nodded. ‘You understand it now. Don’t you?’

  He did. Gods help him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what’s to be done?’

  What indeed. ‘He wants you dead. And Cade. And Ellen. The Riders too.’

  ‘Ellen? She’s still alive?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ellen was still with the Nidhal. No one had thought to collect her. ‘And she is changed. Different. She is not just a Gifted. She has a power like … magic.’ He could still hardly believe it.

  Yarn puffed her cheeks. ‘I always knew that girl was special.’

  ‘She is a threat.’

  ‘And the Emperor can’t have that, ay?’

  ‘His mind has gone. I saw it. But I did not want to believe it. I wanted to trust in him. I ignored what my eyes showed me, what my gut was telling me.’

  ‘It’s always easier to believe the lies we tell ourselves. It makes life easier.’

  ‘But not when it puts my friends at risk.’

  Yarn barked a laugh. ‘Friends, now is it? I told you, Michael, you couldn’t hide from your humanity forever. As it goes, neither could I.’ Yarn smiled ruefully. ‘And I ask again. What’s to be done?’

  Michael turned, opened the door and pulled the sack in, depositing it in front of her. She opened it up and looked inside. ‘Hmm. I’m not sure it will fit me any more.’

  ‘Only needs to work the once,’ Michael replied.

  Yarn raised her head. Her eyes glinted. ‘Yes. I imagine you are right.’

  Michael and Yarn made their way through the streets of Brevis. It was late, dark and seemingly devoid of all life. Even the taverns were closed.

  ‘That’s a shame. I would’ve liked a last drink,’ Yarn stated.

  ‘I’ll buy you one when we are done,’ he replied absently, keeping them to the darker shadows cast by the buildings lining their path.

  ‘Promises, promises,’ she chided.

  They stopped at a crossroads. A gentle breeze brought the smell of the sea. Michael breathed deep. It calmed him.

  ‘I don’t know why we are skulking,’ said Yarn, far too loudly for his liking. ‘I mean. Who are we hiding from, exactly?’

  Michael shot her a wounded look. ‘From guards and … everyone.’

  ‘You do realise that it’s the middle of the night? And so what if they see us? Do you think it really matters?’

  ‘I–’ He stopped. Actually, it didn’t. ‘Come on,’ he ordered brusquely. He stepped away from the shadows into the middle of the street.

  As they carried on, he glanced at Yarn. She was smirking.

  ‘At least put your hood up,’ he suggested.

  She sighed theatrically. ‘Fine,’ and reached for the cloak she wore over her armour to tug the hood forwards.
/>   They marched the last few minutes in silence. Michael could feel his tension build but Yarn appeared as cool.

  The Emperor’s villa hove into view. A torch burned in a sconce secured to the railing. Two Nidhal stood within its circle, flanking the gap in the railing leading to the steps.

  ‘Are you sure there’s no easier way in?’ Yarn whispered. ‘No garden wall we could have climbed over?’

  ‘I’ve only been here once!’ hissed Michael. Did she never let up?

  Yarn sniffed.

  Michael pulled his right hand deeper into the sleeves of his robe.

  They joined the guards, who had already been quietly watching their approach.

  Michael nodded to both. ‘I must see the Emperor.’

  Neither Nidhal moved. One looked at the other. Back at Michael.

  ‘Sleep.’ It growled out.

  ‘I understand. But this is important.’

  The Nidhal shook its head.

  Michael stepped closer and raised his left hand in a pleading gesture.

  ‘Please I mu–’

  Something clattered off the railing to the left. Both Nidhal turned their heads. Michael shot his hand out and pushed it against the Nidhal’s chest. The Nidhal fell back against the brick pillar of the entrance. His right hand emerged from the sleeve, clutching his knife. He stepped close and stabbed it into the side of the Nidhal’s exposed neck. He covered the Nidhal’s mouth with his free hands, pulled the knife free and stabbed again. The Nidhal’s knees gave way. Michael slipped his arms under its shoulders, gently lowering the warrior to the ground. He stood. Yarn had finished. The guard in front of her was slumped against its pillar.

  He waited a moment. Listening for a reaction. Looking for any movement within the windows of the property. Nothing. All was dark and still.

  Michael had his shortsword in his belt already, but he leant forward and retrieved the longer blade carried by the Nidhal. It was long, slightly curved, with wicked, serrated teeth.

  ‘I recall being told you rescued the Emperor in a similar fashion,’ Yarn said as she recovered a buckler from her target. She carried her own shortsword.

  Michael recalled that too. He also regretted it. And as he’d drunk his beer earlier that day he had wondered how things would have been different. But they were what they were. And he was here now. ‘Let’s go.’

  He walked up the short flight of steps and tried the door, gently forcing down on the handle. There was a click. Was it unlocked? He pushed but the door barely moved. He tried again, pushed harder. The door was pushing back, like someone was on the other side. There was a tap on his shoulder.

  ‘Step back,’ Yarn whispered gently in his ear.

  He did so, making way for her.

  She squatted, studied the door, cocked her head. ‘This was why you brought me along.’

  He heard the gentlest of scratching sounds coming from the other side of the door. After a few moments she stood, indicated that Michael should try again. He did so and the door opened inwards.

  He stepped into the hallway, the light from outside illuminating the space. Hovering directly in front of him was a rectangular piece of wood. The door’s securing bar. Yarn stepped up next to him, reached out and plucked it from the air. She smiled and laid it on the ground before closing the door behind her.

  It occurred to Michael that the Gifted would have made perfect assassins. If the Empire had had a mind to use them that way. Then another thought struck him – who was to say they hadn’t been?

  Yarn gave him a questioning look. He pointed upstairs to a long balcony. He figured it was the sensible choice. Yarn followed him as he took the stairs in the centre of the hallway. They climbed quietly, taking their time on the bare marble. At the top they were presented with a choice: left or right? Both directions led along short corridors flanked by doors. Another considered look from Yarn. He tilted his head. We go right.

  They crept along the passage. Michael trying each door, but there was a solitary one at the far end. Surely a suite? He pointed at that, Yarn motioned he should proceed.

  He moved on. This really was the last moment. No going back. He took a deep breath and reached for the door. It opened.

  Even in the gloom, it was easy to see who it was.

  Father Llews stood before him. His mouth open in an ‘Oh.’

  For a moment Michael did not know what to do.

  Yarn did.

  Father Llews stepped back and clutched his throat. He tried to speak but only croaks came out. Yarn pushed past Michael. A blade flashed and buried itself in Llews’ stomach. Yarn twisted then pulled it free. Llews looked at the wound then up at Michael, shock spread across his features. Michael knew that look well. Llews turned and staggered a few paces back into the room. And fell to his knees.

  Yarn looked at Michael. Her grin was feral.

  ‘If nothing else, that makes it all worthwhile.’

  A flash of white made Michael look beyond her into the room they had entered. It was a sitting room of sorts. In a doorway to the left stood the Empress, wearing her nightclothes. Her hand was to her mouth. A thought came. The Empress and Father Llews? Together? Yarn saw his face and turned to look at the Empress. Who screamed.

  ‘Damn!’ Yarn advanced on the Empress who watched her in horror. The Gifted stepped in close and cut her throat.

  Michael blinked in shock. ‘What did–?’

  Yarn turned, leaving the Empress bleeding out on the floor. ‘No time!’ she hissed, and pointed her blade back the way they had come. Michael whipped about. A door had opened at the end of the corridor. The light spilling from the room behind outlined the shape of the man standing within the frame. The Emperor. There was shouting, guttural and harsh. A door to the side opened, someone stepped out in front of the Emperor and ushered him back inside his rooms, shouting commands as they did so.

  ‘Come on!’ Michael took off at a run, back down the corridor. A Nidhal barrelled into him as he reached the steps, driving him against the wall, his sword fell away, the breath knocked out of him. He started to push back, but the Nidhal was already falling away. Yarn’s sword was dripping. He retrieved his blade.

  Yarn nudged him and pointed down the stair. ‘There’s more.’

  He went shoulder to shoulder with her as two more Nidhal charged up the stairs. Michael did not wait, he stepped forwards, sword at high port and cut savagely. The Nidhal fell away. More Nidhal came, and he used his height and his reach to bring powerful strokes down on the warriors. He beat a sword to one side, severed a hand, aimed a kick at an exposed chest and a Nidhal fell back. Next to him Yarn worked efficiently, blocking strikes, stabbing with precision, and more Nidhal went back down the steps. Within moments, he counted six dead warriors. They had been foolish to charge against those who held the high ground. Below in the hallway someone was getting organised. Warriors were forming a line, some had shields.

  ‘Duck!’ Yarn shouted.

  An arrow whizzed by his head.

  A Nidhal was nocking another to his bow. Those with shields were advancing to the steps, others gathering behind.

  Michael knew they could not hold the stairs. Better to charge them. He gathered to jump.

  ‘Hold on!’ Yarn flicked a small throwing knife into the air. Its climb slowed, stopped, it turned on its axis then was flung forwards directly at the archer, striking its shoulder. The arrow fell to the floor.

  The Nidhal had reached the steps.

  Yarn pushed Michael towards the other corridor. ‘You finish this. I’ll hold them here!’

  Michael shook his head. There were still a good dozen left down there.

  She pushed him again, the corridor now blocking his view of the stairs. ‘No arguments, you big lug. Go and do the right thing.’

  He wanted to stay, but she was right. He nodded.

  She flashed him an evil grin, then turned away to face their foes.

  Michael looked at the Emperor’s bedroom. He rolled his shoulders and started to run. He
turned on to his side just as he struck the door. It flew inwards and someone crashed away from where they had been bracing the door. Michael tumbled on to the floor. Another Nidhal charged at him. He had no time to bring his weapon to bear so he let it drop and got down on to one knee.

  He stood and twisted as a thrust sword scored across his side, snagging in his robe. He stepped in and punched the wielder as hard as he could, right in the snout. Cartilage gave way and they staggered back. It looked like Immayuk.

  Michael spun, assessing the scene.

  There was the Emperor, wearing nothing but a nightshirt. He stood at an inner doorway, a sword in his hand. He was motionless.

  Confusion clouded his face. Michael took the opportunity to shed his robe. It would only slow him down. The other Nidhal was gaining its feet, a guard within the Emperor’s chambers. He had not factored that in. Immayuk was still down, but not out. Three then. The room was spacious, high-ceilinged, sparsely furnished. Some room to move. He drew his shortsword.

  ‘Michael?’

  Michael had dreaded this. Why had all of his combats of late involved discussion?

  ‘Michael? Why are you doing this? The assassin is outside.’

  Michael snorted. The Emperor thought Michael was here to protect him.

  The Emperor frowned. Then realisation finally dawned.

  ‘Kill him!’

  The guard form the outer door advanced first, his sword swinging. Michael swayed out of the way and chopped down, severing the arm. Then the Emperor engaged. He took a long pace and lunged. Michael turned the blade, flashed out with his free hand and backhanded the Emperor away.

  Immayuk was climbing back up, his face a bloody mess. He snarled something unintelligible. Then he started to make wide diagonal sweeps of his sword, a similar weapon to the one Michael had carried. Michael stepped back a pace, let another sweep go by, and then it was his turn. He closed the gap, swung his sword up to block a downward cut then drove his elbow into the already mangled face of his opponent. Immayuk staggered but Michael did not let up. He pulled his sword back then drove it forwards into the stomach of the Nidhal. Immayuk grunted and looked up in surprise. His eyes shifted to something behind Michael, who turned, and took a knife deep into the right side of his chest.