by Ari Marmell
Oh so carefully, she lowered herself to the shingles, muscles aching with the awkward effort. She released the window only when she felt the toes of both feet and the fingers of her left hand secure purchase on the many wooden edges, when the angle of her own body matched that of the roof. Now sidling sideways, pressed so tightly to the shingles that her blouse, skirt, and hair all threatened to snag, she gradually worked her way toward the main body of the house.
Twice, a conspiracy of shallow grip and numbed fingers nearly sent her tumbling to earth, and twice only a last-second scramble and years of training kept her aloft.
Who the bloody hell builds a roof this sharply sloped, anyway, gods damn it?!
Finally she reached the broader (and shallower, thank Morrow!) roof of the main body of the manor. Here, the slope was gentle enough for her to walk upright, so long as she watched her step. It took only another minute or so before she worked around a chimney, around a gradual corner, and to the edge of a large alcove. Within, a recessed window overlooked the great dining hall; one of several, positioned all around the magnificent chamber. During the day, they ensured that sunlight fell within, regardless of the time, and the enormous windows provided a touch of elegance at any hour.
They also provided a perfect sniper’s nest if anyone felt inclined to pick off the diners below.
The gunfire slackened, coming only sporadically now—which could mean any one of a half a dozen things, some positive, some disastrous—but still frequent enough for Dignity to be certain she’d heard right and guessed right. One of the shooters was, indeed, ensconced in this alcove.
Silent as a ghost’s whisper, even with the awkward footing, she crept nearer the niche. A flex of the wrist dropped her pistol into her hand. With a bit of luck, the sniper would be so focused on the room below that he’d be dead before he knew she was coming.
Dignity reached the edge of the shadowed recess, twisted sharply around the corner, gun raised . . .
A heavy forgelock discharged from within, aimed not into the house but directly at her!
Instincts honed for years on the grindstone of constant peril had her hurling herself aside, going with the momentum of her initial lunge. The shot was deafening, disorienting; her head rang like a cracked church bell, the breath went out of her as she slammed into the niche’s opposite wall. Only gradually did she become certain that the bullet had actually missed.
Two of them. Bloody godsdamned burning hell, two of them lurked in that single alcove. And while one was indeed hunched behind a rifle, chambering a new round intended for the room below, the other had clearly been watching for just such an attack from the rooftop.
Doubtless she’d been right in her earlier assessment: The entire point of this attack wasn’t to kill the baron, but to lure her out into the open. And, presumably, to kill her so the Khadorans had no competition for their bid with di Meryse.
Dignity rebounded from the wall, pistol belching its familiar muffled whump. The man who’d shot at her staggered back, groaning, hands closing on his suddenly blood-drenched gut.
She was on him, fighting through her own dizziness and disorientation, blade in hand. Even injured, he was able to throw out a hand in self-defense; unable, however, to do so fast enough to matter. Skin split, more blood sprayed, and at least he no longer needed to worry about the belly wound.
Now the sniper was on his feet. Leaving the long gun—an awkward weapon in the confines of the alcove—where it lay, he drew a blade and pistol combination not unlike Dignity’s own.
She dove, allowing her own pistol to fall away, launching a scissor-kick at her enemy’s ankles. The startled Khadoran’s shot passed harmlessly over her head, but he had presence enough to bound aside—an awkward-looking hop, but one that carried him beyond her kick.
Dignity spun with the missed attack, hoping to come up beside him in a surprise lunge, but either she was slower than she realized or he’d anticipated the move. She was up only on one knee when he tackled her, slamming them both down to lie with their heads in the now empty window frame.
Before she even realized it, Dignity was pinned. Her right leg was held fast, his ankle locked over hers. His other knee rested on her left thigh, an agonizing pressure digging deep into muscle and flesh, sending spasms through the entire limb. His knife was almost at her throat, held at bay only by her own blade—but she couldn’t get any real leverage with that arm, awkwardly pressed by the weight of both his hands on the crossed knives. Only her right hand remained free, but while she struck at his arm and shoulder, over and over, again she lacked the leverage for a meaningful blow.
The Khadoran was stronger, heavier. Given even a moment to figure out his peculiar leg-lock, she knew she could slip out of it, but he didn’t appear inclined to allow her that moment. The blades trembled, inched closer, and Dignity knew her arm was about to give.
Giving up the useless pounding, she let her free hand thrash about the edge of the alcove. Come on, come on, I know it’s here, come on . . . !
Her fingers closed on the stock of the Khadoran rifle.
Her opponent sneered. The length of the barrel, the size of the recess, and the awkward grip meant that Dignity had no means of turning the weapon around to fire at the man atop her—and the both of them knew it.
Instead, she dragged the weapon closer, smacking the butt into the Khadoran’s elbow. It elicited a pained grunt, but no more.
Then Dignity shifted her grip along the stock and pulled the trigger.
The weapon’s fierce recoil, easily absorbed against the shoulder of a trained shooter, proved rather harder to ignore against the nerve just below the elbow. Her opponent fell back with a cry, his arm gone momentarily limp. Dignity coiled her legs, wincing, teeth gritted against the throbbing in her thigh, and kicked up with both feet.
It almost wasn’t enough. He tumbled backward, hit the roof, so nearly caught himself . . .
And plunged over the eaves.
Dignity half-staggered, half-crawled to the edge, nearly toppling over a time or two herself. She needn’t have rushed. The Khadoran operative had landed head first; no chance whatsoever that he’d trouble her again.
She hauled herself to her feet and limped back to the shattered window, peering down at the dining room. The bulk of Surros’s guests and staff huddled in a makeshift fortification, the raised dais shielding them on one side, overturned tables on the other three. Probably the first time the bloody ostentatious hardwood actually served any good purpose. Several of the guards occasionally rose from cover to take a shot at the recessed windows, but the conflict had mostly become a standoff, each side waiting for the other to expose itself. Dignity couldn’t make out individuals huddled behind the barriers; couldn’t tell if Halcourt were living or dead. She could make out an array of corpses scattered throughout the chamber, servants and guards who’d fallen to the initial assault or died running for cover.
More than half of them were women with hair of various brown shades—women who, when viewed from a distance, could have easily been mistaken for Dignity herself. The snipers had apparently targeted them first, even in favor of armed guards.
It wasn’t remotely the first time in Dignity’s career that someone set out to kill her, but the heartless, methodical brutality coiled itself around her spine, squeezing like a ravenous constrictor.
She considered putting a few shots into the window across the room, but even if she could pick out a target within the shaded niche, the man with the bullets was currently beyond reach. Instead, she dropped to one knee and, after retrieving her fallen pistol, made a quick search of the other dead body. The blood was already tacky, congealing swiftly in the cold.
The baggy black outfit made sense for the attack, but would draw more than a little attention during a getaway. Dignity ripped the coat open already certain she’d find some sort of disguise or uniform beneath; her only question was what.
Brazen bastards, aren’t they?
No armor, of course; the bre
astplates, greaves, and such would be stashed elsewhere. But she recognized the rest of the uniform well enough. Anyone who’d spent more than a day or two in Leryn knew the black and gold of the Crucible Guard.
Bold, but a savvy choice. It would take time for reports of gunfire to make their way across Old Town, longer for the Guard to mobilize, but they’d arrive here eventually. At that point, another five or ten soldiers dashing about on various vital assignments wouldn’t draw a glance, be it first, second, or otherwise.
Dignity found herself at something of a loss; her duty to protect Baron Halcourt smacked headlong into her greater mission. She could make her way around the entire manor, hoping to catch each and every Section Three pair by surprise, but the odds didn’t exactly favor success. She knew, now, that she was the target of this operation; her death here could cost Cygnar the entire war. So what—?
She almost cheered aloud at the sudden rumble of hoofbeats and the shouting of a familiar voice.
Quickly as she could without breaking her neck, Dignity shimmied down the bricks and sprinted for the manor’s opposite side. There, indeed, was Lieutenant Laddermore, along with one of the baronial guards. (One? Hadn’t there been two?) At the moment, the Storm Knight had dropped from her horse to kneel beside a corpse—one of several strewn across the lawn, murdered long minutes before.
“Laddermore!”
The lieutenant had her lance raised and ready to fire before she realized who had called to her. “Dignity! What the hell—?”
“Khadoran snipers. Recessed windows around the dining hall. Too well ensconced for returning fire, but a few blasts from your lance should end this tolerably well.”
“I . . . Wait, what—?”
“No time. Just do it. Protect the baron.” And with that she was running again, this time away from the manor proper, ignoring the knight’s harried questions.
Carriage house. Has to be.
The small outbuilding, at the very edge of the Surros property, was the only logical spot—close enough for a quick regroup before the Khadorans retreated, sufficiently out of the way that nobody was likely to stumble upon their escape plan.
Indeed, casually shoved under a couple of saddles, Dignity found the expected bits of light armor, the right make and hue to complete the Crucible Guard disguises. She also found the corpses of several stablehands and a valet, shoved into Surros’s own carriage; more servants whose only crime had been to stand in Vorona’s way.
Lightning screamed its rage, followed by the first cry of thunder. Laddermore; good. One way or another, this would end soon. Dignity considered cutting the straps or otherwise sabotaging the armor, leaving Vorona’s people without their disguises—and then realized she had a better option.
Dignity carefully shut the carriage house door, leaving no trace that she’d been inside. Then, stopping only to grab some boots, a long coat, and a hat from various bodies on the lawn, she dashed through the front gate and out into the street. All she need do now was find a convenient hiding spot, and wait for the Crucible Guard to make their inevitable appearance.
***
“. . . ready to leave in an hour! You hear me? One hour! Why are you still standing here? Where the hell is Underhurst?! Ow! Careful, damn you!”
Katherine stood at attention in the wreck of the dining room, listening to Baron Halcourt shriek his orders while one of Leryn’s finest physicians cleaned and stitched the bullet wound in his arm. His Lordship was more than a little intoxicated—he’d refused more potent anesthetics than hard liquor, but made up the difference in volume—but drunk or not, Katherine worried that he wouldn’t readily be talked out of his decision.
“My Lord . . .” She approached him as cautiously as she would have unexploded ordinance. Shards of glass, mangled bullet fragments, and splinters of hardwood crunched beneath her steps, occasionally throwing her off her stride when a chunk refused to give. Around her, an endless array of servants carried large pieces of rubble from the room or swept smaller bits into wooden bins. Others scurried in the alcoves above or balanced precariously on vertiginous ladders, washing and repairing the frames in preparation for the installation of new panes.
They had, at least, waited for the bodies to be removed before starting work on the rest of the cleaning.
Neither the baronial armsmen nor the Crucible Guard were to be seen in the dining room-turned-war zone. The injured had been taken to their chambers to recuperate; everyone else patrolled the grounds, fingers twitching on triggers, working themselves into a frenzied state of paranoia. It was an even bet whether the first casualty would come from one of the household guards accidentally shooting someone, or from one of the barons’ tempers finally flaring beyond rational thought.
“My Lord,” she began again once she was close enough to command his attention without screaming, “I believe you ought to reconsider.”
“Reconsider? Reconsider?! They tried to kill me, Lieutenant! They sent gunmen into my home—”
Baron Surros’s home. But somehow, this didn’t seem the right time to correct him.
“—to assassinate me! What part of that should inspire me to reconsider leaving?!”
It would have been easier, of course, if she could mention the real reason—the military reason—that she and Dignity, at least, needed to remain.
Then again, judging by the wild look in his eyes and the alcohol on his breath, maybe it wouldn’t have been.
“My Lord, leaving aside the fact that it’s getting on toward nightfall—”
“Who the hell cares about the time?” The bottle flew, shattering on Katherine’s breastplate in a spray of glass and spirits. “What kind of idiot reasoning is that? Someone—Ow!” He looked prepared to bite the nose off the physician who worked on him. “I said be careful! Someone fetch me another bottle.”
“Leaving aside the hour,” she bulled on, trying not to squint against the fumes now rising off her armor, “if they want you dead, surely they have people awaiting you outside Leryn’s walls?”
Halcourt blinked stupidly and grimaced as though he’d bitten into something hairier than it should have been.
“Even if you reach the border alive,” she pressed, “there’s no guarantee the dwarves would permit you to pass. And if they do, you can be certain there will be a hefty price tag—monetarily, politically, or both—attached to it. And you’d still have the long trek through Rhul back to Cygnaran territory, during which any number of Khadoran operatives might be able to reach you.”
Halcourt began to rock like an anxious child, drawing a fierce scowl from the physician, who had to drop his needle lest the stitches rip themselves open. “I don’t . . . I don’t know. Where’s Underhurst?” Apparently, he’d forgotten that Dignity wasn’t one of his chief advisors any longer. “I need to talk to—”
“Um . . . Apologies, my Lord.” Knight and baron both turned toward one of Surros’s valets, a sweating young man who couldn’t keep from glancing at the patterns of dried blood on the floor.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he continued, spindling the hem of his vest in his fingers, “but there’s a gentleman here to see you.”
“Tell your master,” Halcourt ordered with a dismissive wave.
“My Lord, he specifically requested you.”
The baron surged to his feet, once more pulling the needle from the physician’s reach just as the man had been grasping for it. It hung from Halcourt’s arm, his own drunken wobble setting it swaying like a pendulum. “Do I damn well look like I’m entertaining right now?”
Katherine couldn’t begin to guess if it was the rage, the volume, or the reeking breath that drove the servant back two paces.
“Actually, it appears that the entertainment has already ended.”
The new speaker was tall, wrapped in a gray cloak, and spoke with a moderate Ordic brogue.
“He, ah, let himself in,” the valet explained. Every ounce of Katherine’s self-control went toward not smacking either him, or herself, in t
he forehead and shouting What do you not understand about security?
“Who the hell are you?” Halcourt grumbled.
The fellow lowered his hood, revealing a goatee that had probably once been meticulously styled, now made ratty by the rigors of travel. “My name is Oswinne Muir. Yes, really. You can close your mouth now, my Lord.”
“You—but . . . You . . .”
Katherine wasn’t at all drunk, but those mirrored her own questions pretty well.
“I’m here in the company of, among others, Corporal Serena Dalton, Second Cygnaran Army. I’m sorry we didn’t come to you sooner, but we’ve spent the last two days playing games of ceremony and diplomacy with Ministers di la Granzio and Chalerynne. Beastly amount of paperwork, too. Point is, my lord, we’re here, in part at least, for you.
“Is there perhaps somewhere we can sit where the chairs are actually still, well, chairs? And can someone get his Lordship some food and a strong tea? We have a great deal to talk about.”
The eastern sky was only just brightening, a nebulous aurora illuminating the swaddling clouds as dawn mixed colors across its palette for the coming day. Only the most steadfast of Leryn’s early risers had thus far braved the morning chill. They were little more than bundles of ambulatory furs and fabrics as they shuffled along empty streets that stank of recently extinguished gas lanterns.
Along one particular thoroughfare, maintaining as rapid a pace as surreptitiousness would permit, strode Dignity and her groggy companion. Ahead of them loomed one of the many gates of the innermost wall, the line of demarcation between the wealth and respectability of Old Town and the poverty of its neighboring district.
“Would you please slow down!” Engman Drew gasped at her. The old alchemist’s coat was rumpled, his trousers tucked into one boot but not the other, his hair still flat against one side of his head. If he gave the impression of a man dragged from his bed the instant that the Thunderhead Fortress guards began to admit morning visitors, there was a damn good reason for it.