“You think you’re protecting the Rebellion’s secrets from me?” Andon chuckled. “You’re either very confused or very good liars.”
“I’m both, actually,” Doric said. “Hagon is a terrible liar, though.”
“Hagon? Your name is Hagon?”
He nodded and raised his chin proudly. “I am Lord Hagon Sefra.”
“Really?” Andon seemed to size Hagon up. “How’s your wife?”
Hagon’s proud look melted away. “You knew Shayna?”
Andon nodded.
“She’s… gone. Died aboard the prison ship during our rescue.” Pride returned to Hagon’s features. “She went down fighting like a goddess.”
“Yes, she did.” Andon looked at Debra and seemed to think for a moment. “Cut them loose.”
Debra was taken aback. “You sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Andon replied. “The emperor’s spies might know a lot of things, but they sure as all that’s sacred don’t know what happened aboard that prison ship.” He looked at Hagon. “A lot of people died that day, including my sister, Lucilla. She and Shayna were close.”
Hagon and Andon stared at each other in silence as Debra cut the ropes.
“Wait, so you guys are with the Rebellion?” Doric asked, massaging his wrists as he got to his feet. “Then you can take us to Drusus.”
“Wish we could,” Andon told him. “That’s actually why we’re here. There’s been a massive raid. The entire Capran cell has been dismantled.” He looked back at Hagon. “Drusus is dead.”
* * *
“Arrest the Prince!”
The Legionaries formed around the gallows glanced between Fadan and Varinian, hesitating.
“The Prince has been aiding the Rebels,” Varinian pressed. “By order of his Imperial Majesty Tarsus V, arrest him!”
This time, his command was obeyed. A sergeant stepped out of formation and advanced towards the prince.
Out of the corner of his eye, Fadan saw Phaedra take a step forward. Stop! he ordered.
She froze. This isn’t going to work.
I know what I’m doing.
It doesn’t look like you do, Sabium chimed in.
The sergeant grabbed Fadan’s hands and placed a pair of shackles around his wrists.
“You don’t have to do this,” Fadan told him.
“I… the Governor…” the man mumbled.
Fadan turned around to face the crowd. “I am Fadan Patros. Crown Prince of Arrel.”
Whispering broke out across the plaza.
“I’m here for the same reason you are,” the Prince continued. “Because innocent people are being murdered here today.”
“That’s quite enough,” Varinian told him from atop the gallows, but the crowd seemed stirred by Fadan’s words, and there were some scattered shouts of protest.
“I consider my father’s orders to execute these people to be immoral, illegal, and wrong in every conceivable way.”
“I said enough!” Varinian drew his sword. “You will be quiet, or I will silence you myself.”
Fadan ignored him. “I might be the Prince, but my voice alone is not enough. I need yours as well. Join me and we can end this injustice.”
“Soldier.” Varinian aimed his sword at the sergeant. “Gag the Prince.”
The crowd booed, and there were even a couple of insults thrown their way.
“I appreciate your situation, soldier,” Fadan told the sergeant. “But you have a decision to make.” He addressed the remaining line of Legionaries. “You all have a decision to make.” Then, he looked up at General Vardrada. “All of you.”
A stone shot through the air, originating from somewhere in the middle of the crowd. It struck Varinian’s chest, clanging and ricocheting harmlessly off his armour plate. The Governor spun, eyes wide with rage, searching the crowd for his attacker. Another stone hit him, this time on his back, followed by a third one that missed its target and fell at his feet.
“Traitors!” Varinian shouted, seething. “Legionaries, disperse the crowd!”
“Maniple, shield wall!” the sergeant commanded.
The soldiers raised their shields, interlocking them, and the shouts and insults intensified, rocks and pebbles raining on top of their helmets.
“Disperse this crowd immediately!” Varinian insisted. “Use force if necessary.”
“You do not have to follow that order,” Fadan told the sergeant.
The sergeant hesitated, and Fadan could see the looks of uneasiness on the Legionaries behind him.
“We’re the Legion,” the sergeant said. “We do not disobey our orders.”
“You can obey my orders instead.” Fadan looked up. General Vardrada was staring at him with an intense look, and he looked right into her eyes. “You’ve been made into the tools of tyrants, oppressing and murdering innocent civilians. That is not why the Legion exists. Your duty is to the empire and its people. You can still make your own decisions.” He raised his shackled wrists. “Your oaths do not make you prisoners.” He spread his arms and his hands went through the rings of the manacles like they were made of steam. The shackles clattered to the ground at his feet, sending the crowd into a frenzy of cheers.
“Long live Prince Fadan!” someone shouted.
“Long live Prince Fadan!” the crowd echoed.
Varinian’s face went red. “By order of his Imperial Majesty Tarsus V, all practice of magic is punishable by death. Sergeant, execute the Prince immediately!”
The man glanced from Fadan to Varinian, hesitating.
“Sergeant, I gave you an order!” the governor shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.
The crowd began to push forward and met with the Legionary’s shield wall, who pushed back, trying to hold their ground.
I’m getting you out of here, Phaedra said.
Stay. Put. Fadan commanded.
“Sergeant, you will kill the prince immediately, or you will be court-martialled for disobeying orders and conspiracy to commit treason.”
Sweat trickled from beneath the man’s helmet. “I’m sorry,” he told Fadan, then grabbed his sword. “I’m under his command.” The blade’s metal made a scratching sound as it slowly left the scabbard. “I’m sorry.”
Fadan! Sabium called.
Stay. Put.
The Sergeant raised his sword and closed his eyes. “Goddess forgive me.”
“Belay that order!”
The sword froze in the sergeant’s hand.
General Vardrada stepped forward, blue cape billowing behind her. “Sheath your weapon, soldier.”
The crowd became suddenly quieter and stopped pushing on the line of Legionaries.
“What?” Varinian asked in utter disbelief.
The General ignored him and looked at the prince. “Imperial Majesty, what are your orders?”
Fadan stepped around the sergeant and climbed the steps of the gallows. “Release the prisoners.” He pointed at Varinian. “And arrest that man.”
The crowd went insane.
13
The Heist
For as long as Eliran could remember, there had been plenty of people in her life capable of turning her stomach with anger. Back before the Purge, there had been the Trilara twins, who liked to chase her across the school corridors, hidden from sight, setting fire to her hair with magic. Then, in Ragara, there had been Justinian, an arrogant Arreline boy who liked to torture every girl he had a crush on, and there were plenty of them. Even in Eliran’s class, Persea’s chosen, most students didn’t really like each other, and since they were so forced to compete, most of their time was spent in an attempt to aggravate one another. Not to mention Persea herself, of course. The woman had made psychological torture into an artform, designing tests where no student could pass if not at the expense of the others, maintaining an atmosphere of intrigue and distrust, all while policing their every move and choice, a frown permanently etched on her face.
Out of all these people, however, no
ne could drive Eliran to the limits of rage quite like Darpallion.
“How would you know about the crate?” Eliran demanded, blue sparks flying off her fists. “And how would you know it’s what I’m after?”
Darpallion took a defensive step back. “Easy, Eliran. I can explain.”
“Start talking!”
“My gang. Or, rather, my former gang,” the bard mumbled, hurrying to his explanation. “We were hired by this woman – Astoreth is her name – to escort the crate from Saggad. We’re part of her security detail.”
“So?”
“So we weren’t the only ones hired for this job. There are five other crews involved. You could fill the damn crate with gold and it wouldn’t be enough to pay for all that muscle. Whatever is in there is clearly very valuable, and all of a sudden you show up. Surrounded by a company of fugitive dragon hunters, no less.” Darpallion opened his arms. “I put two and two together.”
“And you say you can help us get it?” Aric asked.
For a moment, Eliran had forgotten about their audience, but she was happy to see Aric there, calm and collected, judging the situation without her own personal bias getting in the way. The mission, after all, was more important than her feelings.
“Well, I put it where it is,” Darpallion replied.
“I already know where it is,” Eliran said.
“Then you know it’s as well guarded as the emperor himself.”
Eliran gritted her teeth. “I have reinforcements on their way. They’ll be here in five days.”
“You don’t have that long,” the Bard said, shaking his head. “You’ve seen the tall ship in the harbor. It belongs to your enemy. This Astoreth, who I’m now assuming is an Archon, is preparing some kind of maritime expedition. She’s been loading the ship with supplies for days and she’s about ready to depart.” He took a step forwards. “I can help, Eliran. Let me.”
“He knows about the Circle?” Aric asked Eliran.
“He was well trusted in the rebellion,” Eliran replied, her lips twisting as if the words tasted sour. “A trust he threw away and spit on.” She turned to Darpallion. “What’s in it for you?”
Darpallion straightened. “I’ve been marked by the paladins. No noble will grant me patronage for fear of being associated with the rebellion. For the past couple of years, I’ve been forced to associate myself with the worst scum in Arkhemia. The only crowds I get to play for are drunkards who can barely tell the difference between wine jugs and piss pots.”
Eliran crossed her arms. “Forgive me if I don’t break down in tears for you.”
“I want back in.”
“Back in?” Eliran asked amusedly. “I don’t decide who joins the rebellion and who doesn’t.”
“Surely not. Simply allow me to help you. When you have your… whatever it is, take me with you to Ragara and tell the higher ups about my contribution. You’re well respected. A good word from you will go a long way. That is all I ask.”
“You really expect them to let you back in?”
“What does it matter to you?” Darpallion asked. The bastard had the nerve to sound hurt. “By then you’ll have accomplished your mission. Convincing the bosses to trust me again will be my problem.”
Eliran considered it for a moment, then looked at Aric. For some reason, just looking at him seemed to calm her down. “What do you think?”
“Doesn’t seem like we have much to lose,” Aric replied with a shrug.
Eliran sighed then turned back to the bard. “Alright then. What’s your brilliant plan?”
Darpallion clapped his hands once, triumphantly. “Excellent! Let’s get to work.”
* * *
“This is the port of Tabriq,” Darpallion said, indicating the model he had built on the floor using religious paraphernalia, like chalices and dawnstar chords, pilfered from a cabinet behind the altar. “Nothing more than a set of run-down warehouses and abandoned buildings. Back before the Purge, when the dragon blood trade was still legal, this place was abuzz with activity. Today, it is but a husk, the perfect place for any large-scale, clandestine operation such as the one Astoreth is conducting.” He pointed at a worn prayer book next to the gold chain that indicated the waterfront. “The crate is being held here, in the old customs building. To get to the building, we need to pass through two different gates: the main port gate, which gives us access to the fishing section, and the commercial section gate. Both are heavily guarded.”
Aric raised a hand. “Gates means walls. We can jump them.”
“Afraid not,” Darpallion said, pointing at the trail of candles indicating the walls in question. “Both walls are manned, one guard every couple of feet. And these are not your garden variety thugs. No, sir. We are talking about seasoned mercenaries, veterans of the expeditionary legions.”
“Do they have Syphons?” Eliran asked. “Because if they don’t, I could—”
“What do you think?” Darpallion asked, cutting her off. When Eliran didn’t reply, he continued. “Moving on. Once at the customs building, we’ll find that every side door and window has been walled shut, leaving only one entry point: the main entrance. A ten-inch-thick, steel reinforced beast of a door. Which is fine, because tearing it down would be too noisy anyway. Make no mistake though, my friends. We’ll either come in and out undetected or not at all.”
Dothea raised a hand.
“Unfortunately, trying to pick the lock is not an option either, as there are always five guards on either side of the door.”
Quietly, Dothea lowered her hand.
“The crate is in the basement. There are guards patrolling every floor, and there will be two more guarding the safe.”
“Safe?” Aric asked.
“Where the crate is being stored,” Darpallion replied. “A triple-locked, Samnivadi steel safe. The same used by the Imperial Treasury to store and transport the salaries of both Legionaries and Paladins in the field.”
“So…” Aric paused, scanning the model of the port. “We have no way to get to the customs building, no way to get inside the building, no way to get the safe out of the basement, and no way to get the crate out of the safe.”
“Correct,” Darpallion said. “And don’t forget we’ll still need to leave with our stolen goods.”
Aric exchanged a glance with his hunters. They all looked mystified. “So… what exactly is your plan?”
“Well, I never said it would be easy, did I?”
* * *
The cold iron of the shackles bit into Aric’s wrists. It didn’t bring him very good memories. There were some occasional dog barks coming from the city, but otherwise, the streets were as empty as they were silent. Eliran had a delicate hand on Aric’s arm, guiding him gently forward. Despite the lightness of her touch, he could feel a tingling sensation where her fingers pressed against his skin. Aric had to wonder if there was magic at work here. Or was it something else?
They came to a stop at a small guardhouse, the city walls rising behind it. There was little sign of movement up on the ramparts, with only a couple of lonely torches burning here and there. The guardhouse itself seemed similarly empty, judging from the lack of light coming from the two windows.
Eliran knocked three times on the door, quickly glancing over her shoulder as if afraid of what the sound might wake up in the city. Somewhere in the distance, some nocturnal bird cawed, but nothing else happened.
Three more knocks. This time, Eliran pounded the door as if to punch a hole through it.
“Alright, alright,” a faint voice called from inside. “I’m coming.”
The door creaked open, revealing a man in a black paladin cuirass. A flickering candle in his hand showed a poorly shaven face, hair in a mess, and one eye closed as if half of him was still asleep.
“I found him,” Eliran said, motioning towards Aric.
“What?” the paladin asked, halfway through a yawn.
“The one you’re looking for,” Eliran replied. “One of t
hem, I mean. I think it’s the leader.”
Finally managing to get both his eyes open, the paladin took a good look at what was in front of him. He straightened up immediately. “Is that…?”
“It is.” Eliran nodded. “So, let’s start talking about that reward.”
“Uh, yeah, of course, right,” the paladin mumbled. “Come in.” He opened the door wider, stepping aside and motioning them inside.
“Move!” Eliran pushed Aric and he stumbled into the guardhouse, blonde curls falling over his face as he did. Surprisingly, the place looked even smaller inside. As the paladin shut the door behind them, all three became sandwiched between a weapon’s rack and a tiny desk.
“Put him in there,” the paladin ordered, waving a hand towards a holding cell that occupied a third of the area. “I’ll take care of the paperwork.”
“No need,” Eliran told him. She placed a hand on the back of his head and the man crumbled to the floor with a loud thump. “No Syphon, good. Less blood this way. Now quick, move.”
Aric spread his arms and the unlocked shackles fell, clanking to the floor. He grabbed the paladin’s limp arms and pulled, dragging him along the floor and into the cell. At the same time, Eliran scrambled for the door, opened it, and whistled. A moment later, Dothea slipped inside like a shadow.
“Over there,” Eliran told her, pointing at a cabinet behind the desk.
With a nod, Dothea approached the cabinet and opened it, revealing a block of steel the size of a chest trunk, three locks along the seam of its lid. Dothea let out a long, impressed whistle.
“Is that it?” Eliran asked.
“Well, I’ve never been this close to one,” Dothea replied. “But it certainly looks the part.”
“What about you?” Eliran asked Aric. “Ready?”
Aric finished unfastening the paladin’s cuirass and pulled it over his head. “I don’t think I could ever be ready for this.”
The Shadow Of Fallen Gods Page 20