Ioth, City of Lights

by D P Woolliscroft

  “He’s right,” said Crews. “We need to get them out. I don’t expect them to treat with us for their release. I will get ready.”

  “Admiral. Wait,” said Trypp. “I suppose we are going to have to get them out, but you’re not going.” Crews looked affronted at the order. Trypp realized that he’d probably misspoken. “I mean, you can’t go. Once we get them, however it is that we manage that, then we have to get out of here. I think our time here in Ioth is over. Can you get the ship ready to leave? And get us past the Pyrfew fleet?”

  Crews considered the request. “Agreed,” he conceded. “It is time to leave. I’ll have The Seal ready off the coast and a boat prepared to take you there.”

  “Good. You should probably take the staff, Katterick, and the other ‘guest’ we have in the pantry with you. Mot, Florian. Get ready. Joe, rustle up the rest of the Ravens. We’ll leave after dark.”

  “I’m coming too,” said Fin.

  “You’re more than welcome, miss,” said Trypp. “Get yourself ready then, too. I assume you’re not going out in that dress. Do you need to borrow some knives?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Fin smiling. “I came prepared.”

  Motega felt the welcoming excitement in his stomach. Attacking a fortified prison with a handful of soldiers and an assassin? Sounded like the perfect way to end Wintertide.

  Motega ducked down low as he ran across the flat rooftops, a few feet away from the edges of the buildings they traversed. It was dark now, and celebrants filled the streets as they drank and sang along to the bands that bugled the night away. Ioth guards and Pyrfew soldiers mingled with the locals, the former presumably unaware of what had happened earlier in the day. Stray paper lanterns floated up into the air, released sooner than they should by people who got carried away or couldn’t wait, bringing isolated exclamations of appreciation from the onlookers, craning their necks to watch their flight into the night. That so much of Ioth was looking to the sky was hardly going to make their mission any easier, but Motega had to trust that their dark clothes, and keeping low until they got to the Cage, would keep them undetected. That or just hope that anyone who did see them would just mistake them for over excited revelers.

  With Motega was Trypp and Fin. Trypp was wearing his usual black suit for night-time jobs. Fin had emerged in similar garb to that which Lady Chalice had worn that night over the summer in Hoxteth’s house when they’d first gotten involved in this whole escapade; he supposed this was the Hollow Syndicate uniform. He had to admit that she did look particularly good in the tight-fitting clothes, though he thought now probably wasn’t a good time for compliments.

  They were across a small canal from the buildings that fronted onto the main square, and before long they saw the three-story fortified building that was the Cage, Ioth’s main prison house. It was an anomaly on the square. All the other buildings were grand ornate affairs, owned by wealthy merchants or the property of the city itself. But the Cage had the look of a small fort; square, constructed of stone, with bars over the small number of windows. There was a main entrance on the square, and they knew that was guarded; besides, it was also way too out in the open to try anything. Not that they didn’t expect guards elsewhere—Motega was sure that Pyrfew soldiers would be posted discretely around the Cage—but if there was killing to be done, then it would be better executed in the dark.

  Stopping opposite the ugly building, they looked down at the private canal-side entrance that led to a single steel door and the entrance to the jail. Two men stood in the shadows nearby, and in the dark he couldn’t make out which side they were on, but he would bet that they were Pyrfew soldiers. And that the door would be locked. Motega sat cross legged on the flat roof, Fin having been briefed what he would do as he reached out with his mind to Per, who flew in the sky above.

  He became one with the bird and immediately sensed something strange. Per was spooked. Sorting through the memories of a bird was not typically an easy task, but there was an image front and center in the bird’s mind. An eagle had been in the air recently. Was this the raptor of the birdman that Fin had described leading the Pyrfew force earlier that day? Motega imagined what he thought would be warm positive memories for Per. Soaring on the breeze of a clear blue sky. Diving to snare a hare hiding in the long grass. The bird became less wary and Motega was able to guide him down from on high to swoop over the top of the Cage. A couple of passes and he had what he needed.

  Motega opened his eyes and gestured Trypp and Fin closer. “Three up top, and there’s a door to the inside at the corner nearest. Below. Rope. Top. Understood?” he whispered. They both nodded; Fin’s face hard and a glint in Trypp’s eye.

  He picked up the dragon bone bow, already strung, and pulled an arrow from his quiver. One of his specially made arrows with a small iron loop cast behind the head. He tied the end of a spool of thin rope securely to the loop and set it down next to him. He pulled a second arrow and saw that Fin was ready with her compact bow. She’d told him she was a good shot, and he hoped to shit that she hadn’t been exaggerating her skills.

  Below first. They both stood, arrows notched, and fired a split second apart from each other. Fin’s arrow thudded through the exposed throat of one of the guards and he slid to the floor. Motega’s arrow took his target in the eye, and it must have passed through his skull and got caught in the mortar as the body hung there silently, feet twitching.

  “Show off,” whispered Trypp.

  Now he needed to do the same trick shot again. He pulled back the arrow with the rope attached and took aim. Hitting stone wouldn’t do the trick. He had to hit mortar, get the arrow head nicely lodged in there. He pictured in his mind the arrow flying straight and true to its target, pulled it back another inch, his back straining with the effort, and released. It shot through the air and hit, the fletching quivering in the air from its sudden impact. He gave a quick tug on the rope. It was secure.

  Two heads popped over the low wall on the roof of the Cage. The sound of the arrow’s strike had drawn the attention of two guards. He reached for another arrow, drawing and releasing with practiced speed, which apparently Fin had too. Her arrow punched through the chest bone of one of the guards—she was a good shot. Motega’s took the other in the mouth before he could voice a sound.

  He and Trypp grabbed hold of the rope, pulling it taught, and Fin tentatively stepped on to it, finding her balance. She looked back to make sure they had a firm grip—Motega hoped he did, otherwise she’d be going for a swim pretty soon—and she lightly ran across to the Cage. Reaching up to the top of the wall, she pulled herself up with ease and flipped her leg over. Then she disappeared from sight. Motega counted to himself, reaching twelve by the time she returned to the wall, waving with a knife in her hand. She must have taken care of the other guard. Trypp took out a metal spike and small hammer and drove it into the roof of the building; hopefully the owners were not home, but they had not had a chance to fully case out where they would be working. All being well they would also be gone soon. Motega tied the rope off and Trypp dashed over the tightrope to the roof of the prison; he and Fin moved out of sight.

  Motega waited, an arrow knocked in case other soldiers appeared by the canal entrance or on the roof that he might have missed. Per glided in to land beside him and then hopped up onto his shoulder. Motega hadn’t wanted to be left outside but Trypp had overruled him. Fin was adamant that if they were quiet, she could take care of a handful of soldiers, and even any locks she might encounter, but Trypp wanted to be there to make sure when it came to any crafty picking that was required—she might have had more schooling than he, but Trypp had years of experience on her. They did promise that if they came across any more significant resistance then they would return back to the roof to assess their options.

  He gave it a minute and then spoke to the falcon that was comfortably perched by his ear. “Go and find Florian,” was all he said, and the bird leapt into the air, his wings buffeting Motega’s face.r />
  Minutes passed. From the direction that they had come came an unlit boat, poled silently by a single figure at the rear. He knew that six others were waiting inside as it slowly glided to a halt by the canal door of the Cage, the dead guards a ghastly sentry. They waited on the boat, and Motega saw Florian look up to find him. He raised a questioning hand, and all Motega could do was answer the gesture with a shrug. He had no idea where Trypp and Fin were.

  All of a sudden, the canal door swung open and Motega could see the flashing teeth of Trypp shining in the dark. Florian and the remaining six Ravens filed off the boat and in through the doorway. Motega put the arrow he had been holding back in his quiver, fixed his bow to his back, checked his axes and then cut the rope. He stood on the edge of the building, rope in hand, and looked down. Florian was waiting on the stone platform, his arms outstretched as if expecting an embrace. Motega puffed his cheeks and blew. This was a pretty stupid thing he was going to do, but then again, he had no intention of being left behind.

  He stepped off the edge.

  Gripping the rope tightly he swung like a pendulum, the water rushing up to meet him before his parabola guided him into the waiting arms of his friend. His face smashed into Florian’s chest and he almost bounced off and back into the canal but Florian grabbed his wrist and hauled him back.

  “Thanks,” whispered Motega. Florian winked in reply.

  Motega walked through the door that Trypp still held open, noticing a cut on his upper arm that bled freely. “Are you hurt?” he asked in a hushed tone as he unrolled a strip of bandage that emerged from a pouch at his belt.

  “I’ll be fine. A little more trouble than we hoped,” said Trypp. Motega gave him a look that his friend correctly interpreted as you were supposed to come and get me, pulling a little firmer on the bandage than was perhaps necessary. “Don’t worry.” Trypp winced, then cocked his head toward the black figure of Fin who stood inside, twin sai in her hands. “She’s really fucking good. Bit over confident, but fucking good.” It took a lot for Trypp to be so effusive in his praise—he’d once described Florian as being a better than adequate swordsman—so Motega was impressed.

  On the other side of the door was a corridor that led to a set of stone stairs. Fin and Florian were at the front of the group that waited in line for further instruction. Fin signaled for Florian to stay where he was as she crept silently down the passageway, past a door half way down that was open, likely where she and Trypp had come from, before walking silently up the steps. The oil lamps lining the wall flickered, casting ghostly shadows of their group against the corridor wall. While he waited for Fin to return, Motega watched the silhouettes in fascination; they looked like monstrous versions of themselves, distended limbs and long pointy noses. It seemed appropriate for what they were about to do.

  Fin returned and whispered something to Florian, he said something in reply and then turned to Cherry and Syd behind him to whisper something. The message was passed down the chain until Joe turned to Trypp and Motega.

  “Up the stairs is the main cell block. At least twelve there. Maybe more at the other end. When Twins gives the signal, we’re going to brush them.”

  Motega and Trypp looked at each other. His friend raised an eyebrow.

  “Brush them? Do you mean rush?” whispered Motega.

  Joe smiled as the gears in his brain stopped grinding. “Oh, yeah. That makes more sense.”

  Motega didn’t have time to worry what else the Raven had heard incorrectly, because Florian raised three fingers in the air. Two. One.

  Ten pairs of feet ran toward the stairs, Motega with his axes in hand, silent except for the slap of leather on stone and his own heartbeat that pounded in his head. He couldn’t see shit. Stuck at the back and a bunch of big men in front of him, all he could hope was that someone wouldn’t fall over as they would all end up arse-over-tit in a heap. That would hardly be the way to make a surprise attack.

  And then he was up the stairs and they’d spread out, so he was able to assess where they were. It was one huge room, as high as the whole building with cages lining the long walls opposite each other. Wooden stairs in the center of the room led to two levels of gantries. Not all the cages were occupied but plenty were, and sitting at a couple of tables nearby were two groups of green and gold soldiers. They were eating, or playing cards, or picking their arses for all he cared because he just picked one and ran toward him.

  Motega snarled, one axe raised above his head. The soldier’s eyes popped wide; simultaneously he tried to grab his blade that was on the table and push his chair away from the table. He grabbed the blade but the chair toppled backwards and the soldier with it. Motega’s axe smashed into the table, its arc sailing through where the soldier’s head had been seconds before.

  The man in green and gold rolled away from the chair and got to his feet. Somehow, he had kept hold of his sword, but Motega was on him. Left and right. Overhand. Slash. The soldier tried his best to parry but some blows landed, bashing against his chain armor but not biting through. The soldier parried a strike and Motega yanked down his axe, snagging the blade and pulling it away from the soldier’s body. Motega slammed his other axe into the soldier’s midriff and he doubled over; his stomach likely full of steel links. But the soldier didn’t have long to worry about that as the second blow came down and cleaved the back of his skull open.

  Motega breathed. Looked around. Chaos and carnage surrounded him. The slow Pyrfew soldiers were dead in their seats. The faster ones were making a show of a fight. A tall soldier had been wise enough to grab a spear from somewhere, and Motega saw it shoved through a Raven’s stomach. Morrissey, he thought. The tall one kicked the body off the spear and turned to help a comrade who was mismatched against Florian. Motega was about to run to help him when he saw more Pyrfew soldiers charging from the other side of the dimly lit room. He hollered a warning and moved in that direction.

  Ahead of him a Pyrfew soldier was fighting Joe, and it seemed a shame to let an unguarded back go to waste, so he finished off the stupid sod. He grabbed Joe and pulled him along as he ran to meet the coming onslaught.

  He couldn’t say how many there were. More than five, less than fifty, and it was not a time to start a fucking headcount. He took in a deep breath as he ran, and everything melted away except for the soldiers in front of him. They were close together. They didn’t seem to have a plan, other than charge. This would be good.

  Motega pushed Joe away from him, off to his left, so he would have room. Motega’s eyes fixed on the one in the center. A woman, sword raised, waiting to cut him down. Steps away, he fell to the floor, feet first, sliding through the legs of the woman. Her swipe cut air. Motega’s trailing axe chopped the soldier next to her in the shin and Motega felt the vibration in his arm from the tibia snapping. His momentum knocked the legs of the woman from under her and she landed behind him in a heap. The soldier behind her was surprised to suddenly be in the thick of the action, and Motega kicked him in the balls from the ground, his heel feeling the squidgy resistance.

  He breathed again. Climbed to one knee and parried a blow on the haft of his axe. The Pyrfew blade slid down until it was stopped by the hand guard. Motega’s other axe swept upward, reverse handed and sheared through the soldier’s chin. Blood and teeth rained down.

  Another breath and he was on his feet, chopping at another soldier. His blows beat a rhythm on the steel of the soldier’s blade and armor, like the beat of the dancer on the Bhiferg. Finally the soldier dropped to one knee, clutching a broken arm and Motega finished him off.

  He sensed movement behind him. The woman he had knocked off her feet. And there was one in front of him too. Motega quickly shuffled away, turning a half turn, to get his back close to the wall. Staying in the thick of it any longer would be a death warrant. There were still a dozen green and gold figures. Some had continued their run toward Florian and the other Ravens. A couple had stopped to fight Joe and it didn’t look like he was doing good. Two
more soldiers joined the ones that were advancing on Motega. He continued to back away and gave them the pleasure of his scariest face, but unfortunately, they fancied their chances with numbers on their side.

  Then the left most soldier crumpled to the floor, a figure in black behind him. She left the pointed knife stuck in his back, swiveled and pushed her other blade into the chest of the next soldier in line. Motega knew this was his chance as the other two turned to face the black demon that had descended on them. Motega roared and leaped forward. One axe chopped down and severed the sword hand of one of the soldiers. He kicked the other one in the side of the knee, sending him off balance, but not busting the leg as he had hoped, his foot sliding off the chain mail.

  But Fin had relinquished her weapons, and as the soldier stumbled toward her, she spun a round house kick to the side of his head, sending him tumbling back toward Motega like a bouncing ball. He stuck out his foot, sending the soldier crashing to the ground. Motega planted a knee in the prone man’s back and bashed his head with the blunt side of his axe.

  Motega stood and looked around, but he was only greeted by the panting figures of those who had accompanied him; or at least, those who were left. There were only eight others left. The wings of the Ravens had been clipped but there would be a time later for mourning. It was now that he heard the shouts from the people kept prisoner, it had all just been noise to him before, everything else blocked out. He stepped over the bodies that were strewn about, easily two dozen, just wanting to get out of there before anyone else turned up. Fin walked alongside him after she retrieved her weapons, approaching Trypp and Florian who were rummaging through the belt pouches of dead soldiers. They both stood at the same time, each of them jangling a set of keys.