“I don’t give a flea off a dog’s ass who runs this city,” Fenn snapped. “Be it you, Mora or some fisherman’s byblow! This city means nothing to me.”
Serrana laughed at that. He heard her walking around behind him. “Why did you send men to kill Ogeron the Brick and Crekus Brin?” he asked. She stopped walking, her steps falling silent. “How long have you worked for the Shadowy Sun?”
A moments silence. Then she was back in front of him. “You continue to surprise,” she said grudgingly.
“Where you with them when you tried to overthrow Prince Markus?” he asked.
“How else do you think I paid for it?” she said with a laugh. “A courtesan doesn’t have that kind of coin. And I don’t work for them, idiot! I am one of them! The Shadowy Sun, the hidden masters of this world! Who make the pillars of heaven shake with but a twitch of our fingers! We are everywhere, see everything, every secret if ours to know! And one day we shall emerge from the shadows, and every living thing beneath the sky will kneel down at our feet, and on that day our power shall be complete!”
Her voice rose to a high pitch at that, her eyes staring off into the distance. Fenn waited a moment, then cleared his throat. “Did ou practice that speech in front of a mirror?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This is me you are talking too, not a pack of punters in a third-rate playhouse! ‘Who make the pillars of heaven shake…’ You would have made a fine actress…”
Serrana advanced on his, dagger reversed, her eyes glittering. She stabbed down, and Fenn flinched, expected pain and blood. Against his will his eyes closed. A moment later they opened and looked down, where the knife quivered in the seat of the chair, barely an inch from his manhood.
He met her angry gaze, saw the burning hate in her eyes. “That was uncalled for,” he said.
She yanked the knife free. As she did, a door opened and Miro Tamelan walked. “It's starting,” he said.
“Take this wretch to the window,” Serrana commanded. Two of her minions approached the chair, then halted at a word from Tamelan.
“Let me do it,” he said with a smile, place a hand to his temple and concentrating. Fenn felt a crawling on the back of his neck, a sign of the Aethyr, and them with a gasp felt the chair lift up, carrying him with it. It drifted across the floor, headed to a wide window at one end that looked out onto the city below. For a moment Fenn expected Tamelan to keep going, throwing him magically out the window, then letting him fall to his death…
Tamela exhaled sharply, and the chair dropped down to the floor. Fenn grunted as it landed, and he heard a slight crack from the back, felt some of the wood splinter. He looked out the window, and saw the great Square of the Schools below. A long table was placed in the center, surrounded in turn by contingents from all four of the Great Schools, acolytes and Arcanists alike looking on each other with open hostility and suspicion. Around in turn was a crowd of cityfolk, watching the events silently under the eyes of a company of lancorails.
Drums beat and horses sounded, and the crowd parted to let the Grand Masters approach the table, resplendent in their robes, accompanied by large entourages of Arcanists and acolytes, bearing shimmering staves that were the mark of their office. One by one they sat down in their designated seats at the table; Sircha Scanthi of the School of the Rose, Petro Yussa of the School of the Chrysanthemum, Caspaar Viin of the School of the Hyacinth...and some fellow Fenn didn't recognize for the School of the Tulip.
“My deputy,” Miro said by way of explanation. “As far as the world knows, I am abed this day with a terrible fever. It’s a shame, Guscari is a decent fellow, and what’s about to happen might be considered an injustice…”
The other Grand Masters looked on this as suspicious. “Where’s Tamelan?” Yussa asked in a voice loud enough for Fenn to hear from his vantage point.
“Sick,” came the reply.
“I’ll bet he is.” Yussa started to rise. At that moment another sound echoed across the square - the tramp of booted feet. Another company marched into the square, one hundred strong, escorting General Ludovar Mora, resplendent in his gilded armor and crested helm. He moved through the crowd, past the arcanists and acolytes and took his place at the head of the table. The Grand Master’s looked at him, their suspicions plain to see. All thought he was bought and paid for...yet where was Tamelan? Yussa started to stand, opening his mouth to say something.
And then Mora laughed, his voice carrying across the square, the herald of their doom. “Fools!” he declared, drawing a pistol from his side. “I will enjoy ruling this city! Take them now!”
And with that the mercenaries closed in. Screams rang out and the crowd scattered running for their lives, as lanorails drew their swords and began cutting down Arcanists left and right. Men in robed tried to flee, and fell as swords and daggers opened their necks, felling them before they could summon their magic and get a spell off.
Which didn't stop many of them from trying. Around the table magical energies of many colors spouted, as men of the Schools summoned the Aethyr, their lips speaking the words, their hands twisting into the gestures of summoning, calling on the power that shaped creation itself to do their bidding.
Yet they were only men in the end, and too slow. Around the table, Caspaar Viin stood, a fireball forming between his hands. Mora laughed and raised his pistol, shooting the Grand Master of the Hyacinth School in the face. Caspaar shrieked and fell back, and blazed into flames as the fireball turned on him and set his clothes on fire.
Yussa raised his hands, lightning crackling around his fingers. His mouth open to shout the incantation...but steel came out instead of words, a sword thrust into the back of his head, a full foot of the blade emerging from between his teeth like a horrid metallic tongue. The mercenary holding the other end twisted the sword slightly and with a dull squeal pulled it free. Yussa dropped back down into his chair, blood pouring from his mouth as he fell face-first onto the table.
Scanthi was on the ground, his head nearly removed from his shoulders. Tamelan’s deputy fell beside him shirking for a moment as a flurry of sword stabs took his life. The flagstones around the table were red and slick with blood. The last of the Schoolmen fell, one of them crying out in agony for a long time, his voice carrying through the air to Fenn, the death wail of the Schools and their regime over Kirondaal.
Ad for a moment, Fenn felt a twinge of sadness. Only a moment, mind, the Schools had brought this on themselves with their incompetence. They left Mora into the city, turning their fate over to mercenaries with no loyalty except their own purses. And yet, and yet...it was a hard way to die.
“Look out there,” Serrana whispered in his ear. “Is it not a lovely sight? Those scholars spent so much time in their towers that they forgot how the rest of the world lives! They honestly thought Mora could be bought. They gave him the money that he used to pay for this coup. Even now the rest of his men are going through the city, killing off anyone who might lead a resistance. A lot of men are going to die...but that is the price for power. The future is paid for in gold and blood.”
“So long as you’re not the one giving out either,” Fenn said calmly.
Serrana frowned. He should have been panicking by now... “I should just kill you,” she said, raising the dagger to his throat. “You’ve lost, Fenn! I win this round.”
Fenn grimaced as the steel edge kissed his throat. “Well played,” he said. “A fine plan well executed. But…”
“But what?”
“The game isn’t over.” He felt his arm turn with the ropes. There...near the base, the back of the chair was about to break. “I already made my move.”
Serrana sneered. “You have no moves left, Fenn…” Then she turned as the door opened, and a man came in. One of Mora’s lancorails, his studded leather armor smeared with blood. The knife fell from Fenn’s throat as she opened her mouth to speak.
“He’s going to tell you that most of Mora’s sellswords are still in the b
arracks,” Fenn said. All eyes turned to him, and he met their glares with a smile. “The General called them there this morning, for a good breakfast before the killing began. Porridge, eggs, bacon...a fine spread that Longhand Luuk and his skags dosed with...well, I don’t what they used, but it likely caused those fellowsto fall asleep before they cleared their bowls. If you go to the barracks now all you’re likely hear is a great deal of snoring. The only mercenaries who are upright and able to fight are down there in the square with the General...enough to kill those poor fools from the Schools, not enough to take Kirondaal…”
“Shut up!” Serrana shouted. Then she whirled to the mercenary. “Is this true?” she demanded.
The mercenary nodded, face pale with fear. “Every word,” he said.
Shouts came up from the square. Fenn looked outside, where Mora was waving his sword about and bellowing orders, the mercenaries swiftly forming into ranks. Several of them overturned the long table to use as a barricade, kicking bodies out of the way. From the streets beyond came a sound sure to chill the blood of any intriguer or would-be tyrant...the tramp of countless feet, the deep voices and shouts of an angry mob.
“Right on time,” Fenn said.
“What hellfire is this?” Serrana went to the window, looking out in shock as armed men emerged from the streets leading into the square. Their armor was battered and worn, the banners rising above their heads threadbare and faded. The swords and halberds they clutched were dusty and speckled with rust after years spent in cupboards, attics and cellars...yet they were freshly sharpened, and held by men who hadn’t forgotten their use.
“The Grand Master’s disbanded the old city militia,” Fenn said with a wide grin, “but they didn't put much effort into disarming them. Most of those fellows kept their gear, and have spent the last years drunk and angry over their dishonor. All they needed was a leader to follow.”
Drums beat, and the militia companies marched into the square. Men carrying firelocks moved before the pikeman as if this were a proper battlefield, trails of smoke rising from the burning lengths of matchcord fitted to their weapons. Walking behind them, wearing a steel breastplate and holding a drawn sword was Captain Oleyvac. Beside him was Jassoc du’Ryliac, who held a tall standard from which fluttered the flag of Kirondaal.
“Oleyvac!” Mora bellowed across rh square. “You backstabbing son of a whore! Stand your men down, or I swear by the Saint...”
“Gunners, present your arms!” Oleyvac shouted, his voice carrying over the noise. Ahead, the arquebusiers formed into two ranks, those behind aiming between those in front. Shouts and cries rose from the lancorails, many of them shoving one another as they tried to take cover behind the table.
“Take aim!” Oleyvac roared, a fierce look of anticipatory bloodlust visible even from where Fenn sat.
Fenn looked away at the last moment, closing his eyes as Oleyvac gave the other to fire. He heard the roar of the guns, followed by the screams of the dying. When he opened his eyes, Serrana, Tamelan, and both of the thugs were at the windows, staring down at the carnage below, where a third of the mercenaries were on the ground, many more wounded and the rest struggling to resist as the militiamen closed in to finish them off.
Now. Fenn flexed his arms. The ropes dug painfully into his arms, and a moment later there was the welcome snap of wood as the back of the chair broke. One of his arms tore free and he stood. The thugs turned, just in time for Fenn to swing the chair still tied to his other arm, using it as a large makeshift club. The chair smashed into the nearest thug, shattered into pieces and dropping the man instantly.
Fenn grabbed the broken leg of the chair from the floor and whirled about. The remaining thug stood near the door, drawing a dagger from his belt. He raised to high, ready to charge, then stopped as Tamelan left the room.
“Our business is done here,” he said as he went through the door. “We should go.”
Serrana glared at Fenn, then slipped her own dagger back into its sheath “Another time,” she said, moving through the door. The thug was the last out, slamming the door shut. A moment later Fenn heard a click as the lock was turned.
“Bugger!” He ran to the dot grabbing the handle. Locked tight...he stepped back and gave it a hard kick, clicking his teeth at the pain running up his leg. He steed back, ready for another go, then fell to the floor as a spate of gunfire sounded on the other side. The door shivered as bullets smashed into it, one of them striking the lock and causing it to swing open.
Fenn scrambled back. He grabbed the chair leg and stood raising it high and ready for whatever came through. He’d sell his life dear, come what may…
Kalin poked his head inside. “Please don’t use that...what is that? Firewood?”
“Took you long enough.” Fenn tossed the chair aside.
“We had to wait for the slaughter to end before a way opened into the house. It’s a blood pit out there, Fenn, you evil bastard…”
“Price has to be paid, so long as I'm not the one paying.”
Kalin came into the room, flanked by two Red Shadows. They handed him a pair of loaded pistols and the longknife.He took them gratefully, the weight welcome in his hands. He then looked out the window, shocked at the carnage in the square.
The militiamen were finishing off the last of the mercenaries, clustered at the base of a tower in a bloody heap. The flagstones were stained red, the dead scattered across. Lying prominently by the overturned table was General Mora, his golden armor recognizable even under the blood and gore...which was fortunate, since at some point he'd been decapitated. Oleyvac stood nearby, holding Mora’s head in his hands, carefully spiking it on a spear held by one of his men. With a laugh the spear was raised high, the militia of Kirondaal cheering loudly at the sight. At a bellowed command from Oleyvac, they marched out of the square with the Generals severed head carried before them as a standard.
“Suns and Spirits,” Fenn muttered. “What have I done?”
Then before anyone could offer an opinion on the subject, he left the room, Kalin and the other men falling behind. They entered a corridor painted a pale creamy white, with various pictures depicting religious scenes handing from the walls. Near the end a streak of blood was splashed on the walls, along with a pair of bullet holes. No sign of a body, but a set of stairs went down, which they followed.
At the bottom, Fenn saw the thug who left with Serrana, slumped by the final star, head propped against the wall. One hand clutched his hip, blood darkening his trousers.
“Where is she?” Fenn asked, standing before the man.
The man looked up at him, face pale with pain. He waved his hand towards another door at the end of a hallway. “There,” he grunted.
“Much obliged.” Fenn stepped over fellow and kept on going. The others followed after, with Kaling bringing up the rear. Fenn heard him offer words of encouragement to the wounded fellow. “Cheer up! Many a man has walked away thigh-shot with nothing more than a limp!”
“Go to hell…”
“Now, that was uncalled for!”
Fenn pushed open the door. Sunlight flooded in as he stepped out into a courtyard...then stepped back as guns fired and balls bounced off the stone walls of the house. He ducked back inside, raising one of the pistols and thumbing back the trigger.
“What in hellfire?” he breathed.
A ship sat in the middle of the courtyard. Squarish and flat-bottomed, with a tapering upswept prow and a blunt, slightly inward stern. If placed on the water, the vessel would have wallowed like the most ill-built lakeboat ever conceived by a drunken shipwright. Yet this was not a ship meant to sail on lakes and oceans.
A tall mast rose up from the center of the desk, and jutting out from the side were a pair of side sails. Men were milling about the stern, carrying in bags and crates of provisions. When Fenn appeared in the doorway a shout of alarm rose, and they ran through the open cargo door in the stern, which closed up behind the last man to make it aboard. On the main two men ap
peared and fired off muskets. These missed, they pulled pistols, then ducked as Fenn fired back. Kalien and the other Red Shadows came out after him and opened fire as well.
Puffs of dust and wood splinter rose up from the hull as their balls hit. Then they all felt a tingling on the backs of their necks as the Aethyr was summoned. A moment later the ship lifted off the ground, rising up from the courtyard.
Serrana appeared at the railing, looking down into the courtyard as the ship carried her skywards. She saw Fenn, and waved at him mockingly. Then she stepped back and vanished from sight.
Men climbed into the rigging of all three sails and opened sheets of canvas, which bulged out as they filled with a strong northern wind. The ship cleared the walls surrounding the building and picked up speed, headed over a city caught fully in the throes of revolt, the militiamen streaming through the streets below, hunting down their enemies and securing their grip on power.
Then Kirondaal passed by and the ship was sailing over the lake.
“She’s gone, Fenn,” Kalin said as the ship disappeared into the distance.
“I have eyes, Kalin,” Fenn replied. But not for long, I wager. Not for long.
Epilogue
It was the custom of Markus Incelidar, Prince of Galadorn, to receive reports on foreign affairs while at his breakfast, as a balance between pleasure and annoyance.
“Not a single man sworn to the Four Schools remains alive within the bounds of Kirondaal.” Lord Sevvan Incelicar, the Prince’s nephew and heir, stood by the table, glancing down occasionally at a slate on which one of Kord’s men had written some notes. “All the Grand Master’s are confirmed dead, save for Miro Tamelan of the Tulip School, whose body has yet to be found. Any Arcanoists who escaped the slaughter in the square have likely fled the city by now.”
He paused for a moment, as his uncle placed a spoonful of eggs flavored with pepper on a small square of toast, popping it into his house and washing it down with a mouthful of watered wine. “Continue,” he said after swallowing. “What of Mora’s sellswords?”
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