She stood still and tall with Emery’s sword above her head, his blood on her dress, and the wind and rain lashing her face. She glared defiantly at the sheriff.
Thwack!
The sound of a crossbow.
Phhump!
A muffled impact.
Arista felt blood spray her face, but there was no pain. Sheriff Vigan fell sideways into the mud. Polish stood in front of the blacksmith’s shop, an empty crossbow in his hands.
Renkin Pool grabbed Arista by the shoulder and jerked her backward. Off balance, she fell. He stood over her, his shield raised. Another telltale thwack and Pool’s shield burst into splinters. The bolt continued into his chest. The explosion of blood and wood rained on her.
Another crossbow fired, this one handled by Adam. Trenchon screamed as the arrow passed through his thigh and continued into his horse, which collapsed, crushing Trenchon’s leg beneath it. Another bow fired, then another, and Arista could see that during the pause, the blonde woman had hauled crossbows out of the armory and passed them throughout the ranks.
The garrison captain assumed command of the Imperialists. He gave a shout and the remainder of their bowmen fired across the square. Men in the line fell.
“Fire!” Adam shouted, and rebel bows gave answer. A handful of imperial soldiers dropped in the mud.
“Tighten the line!” Adam shouted. “Fill in the gaps where people fall!”
They heard a shout from across the field, then a roar as the garrison drew their swords and rushed forward. Arista felt the vibration of charging men. They screamed like beasts, their faces wild. They struck the line in the center. There was no prepared weak point—Emery and Pool were dead, the tactic lost.
She heard cries, screams, the clanging of metal against metal, and the dull thumps of swords against wooden shields. Soldiers pushed forward and the line broke in two. Perin was supposed to lead the left flank in a folding maneuver. He lay in the mud, blood running down his face. His branch of the line disconnected from the rest and quickly routed. The main line also failed, disintegrated, and disappeared. Men fought in a swirling turmoil of swords, broken shields, blood, and body parts.
Arista remained where she had collapsed. She felt a tugging on her arm and looked up to see the blonde woman again. “Get up! You’ll be killed!” She had a hold on her wrist and dragged Arista to her feet. All around them men screamed, shouted, and grunted. Water splashed, mud flew, and blood sprayed. The hand squeezing her wrist hauled her backward. She thought of Emery lying in the mud and tried to pull away.
“No!” the blonde snapped, jerking her once more. “Are you crazy?” The woman dragged her to the armory entrance, but once she reached the door, Arista refused to go in any farther and remained at the opening, watching the battle.
The skill and experience of the garrison guards overwhelmed the citizens. They cut through the people of Ratibor and pushed them against the walls of the buildings. Every puddle was dark with blood, every shirt and face stained red. Mud and manure mixed and churned with severed limbs and blood. Everywhere she looked lay bodies. Dead men with open, lifeless eyes and those writhing in pain lay scattered across the square.
“We’re going to lose,” Arista said. “I did this.”
The candlemaker, a tall thin man with curly hair, dropped his weapons and tried to run. Arista watched as six inches of sword came out of his stomach. She did not even know his name. A young bricklayer called Walter had his head crushed. Another man she had not met lost his arm.
Arista still held Emery’s sword in one hand and clutched the doorframe with the other as the world spun around her. She felt sick and wanted to vomit. She could not move or turn away from the carnage. They would all die, and it was her fault. “I killed us all.”
“Maybe not.” The blonde caught Arista’s attention and pointed at the far end of the square. “Look there!”
Arista saw a rush of movement coming up King’s Street and heard the pounding of hooves. They came out of the haze of falling rain. Riding three and four abreast, horsemen charged into the square, shouting. One carried the pennant of the Nationalists, but the foremost brandished a huge sword, and she recognized him instantly.
Throwing up a spray of mud, Hadrian crossed the square. As he closed on the battle, he led the charge into the thickest of the soldiers. The garrison heard the cry and turned to see the band of horsemen rushing at them. Out front, Hadrian came at them like a demon, whirling his long blade, cleaving a swath through their ranks, cutting them down. The garrison broke and routed before the onslaught. When they found nowhere to retreat to, they threw down their weapons and pled for mercy.
Spotting Arista, Hadrian leapt to the ground and ran to her. Arista found it hard to breathe, and the last of her strength gave out. She fell to her knees, shaking. Hadrian reached down, surrounding her in his arms, and pulled her up.
“The city is yours, Your Highness,” he said.
She dropped Emery’s sword, threw her arms around his neck, and cried.
CHAPTER 17
DEGAN GAUNT
The rain stopped. The sun, so long delayed, returned full face to a bright blue sky. The day quickly grew hot as Hadrian made his way around the square through the many mud-covered bodies, searching for anyone who was still alive. Everywhere seemed to be the muffled wails and weeping of wives, mothers, fathers, and sons. Families pulled their loved ones from the bloody mire and carried them home to wash them for a proper burial. Hadrian stiffened when he spotted Dr. Gerand gently closing the lifeless eyes of Carat. Not far from him, Adam sat slumped against the armory. He looked as if he had merely walked over and sat down for a moment to rest.
“Over here!”
He spotted a woman with long blonde hair motioning to him. Hadrian quickly crossed to where she squatted over the body of an imperial soldier.
“He’s still alive,” she said. “Help me get him out of the mud. I can’t believe no one saw him.”
“Oh, I think they saw him,” Hadrian replied as he gripped the soldier under his back and knees and lifted him.
He carried the man to the silversmith’s porch and laid him down gently as the woman ran to the well for a bucket of clean water.
Hadrian shed his own bloodstained shirt. “Here,” he said, offering the linen to the woman.
“Thank you,” she replied. She took the shirt and began rinsing it in the bucket. “Are you certain you don’t mind me using this to help an imperial guard?”
“My father taught me that a man is only your enemy until he falls.”
She nodded. “Your father sounds like a wise man,” she said, and wrung the excess water from the shirt, then began to clean the soldier’s face and chest, looking for the wound.
“He was. My name is Hadrian, by the way.”
“Miranda,” she replied. “Pleased to meet you. Thank you for saving our lives. I assume the Nationalists defeated Lord Dermont?”
Hadrian nodded. “It wasn’t much of a battle. We caught them sleeping.”
Pulling up the soldier’s hauberk and tearing back his tunic, she wiped his skin and found a puncture streaming blood.
“I hope you aren’t terribly attached to this shirt,” she told Hadrian as she tore it in two. She used half as a pad, and the other half to tie it tight about the man’s waist. “Let’s hope that will stop the bleeding. A few stitches would help, but I doubt a needle could be spared for him right now.”
Hadrian looked the man over. “I think he’ll live, thanks to you.”
This brought a shallow smile to her lips. She dipped her blood-covered hands in the bucket and splashed water on her face. Looking out across the square, she muttered, “So many dead.”
Hadrian nodded.
Her eyes landed on Carat, a hand went to her mouth, and her eyes started to tear. “He was such a help to us,” she said. “Someone said he was a thief, but he proved himself a hero today. Who would have thought that thieves would stick out their necks? I saw their leader, Polish, shoo
t the sheriff.”
Hadrian smiled. “If you ask him, he’ll tell you you’re mistaken.”
“Thieves with hearts, who’d have thought?” she said.
“I’m not so sure I would go that far.”
“No? Then where are the vultures?”
Hadrian looked up at the sky, then, realizing his own stupidity, shook his head. “You mean the looters?” He looked around. “You’re right. I didn’t even notice until now.”
She nodded. Hadrian’s medallion reflected the sunlight, catching her eye. Miranda pointed. “That necklace, where did you get it?”
“My father.”
“Your father? Really? My older brother has one just like it.”
Hadrian’s heart raced. “Your brother has a necklace like this?”
She nodded.
Hadrian looked around the square, suddenly concerned. “Is he …”
She thought a moment. “I don’t think so,” she said. “At least, my heart tells me he’s still alive.”
Hadrian tried to control his racing thoughts. “How old is your brother?”
“I think he’d be about forty now, I guess.”
“You guess?”
She nodded. “We never celebrated his birthday, which was always kind of strange. You see, my mother adopted him. She was the midwife at his birth and …” She hesitated. “Things didn’t go well. Anyway, my mother kept an amulet just like yours and gave it to my brother as his inheritance the day he left home.”
“What do you mean things didn’t go well with the birth?” Hadrian asked.
“The mother died—that sort of thing happens, you know. Mothers die all the time in childbirth. It’s not at all uncommon. It just happens. We should probably look for other wounded—”
“You’re lying,” Hadrian shot back.
She started to stand but Hadrian grabbed her arm. “This is very important. I must know everything you can tell me about the night your brother was born.”
She hesitated but Hadrian held her tight.
“It wasn’t her fault. There was nothing she could do. They were all dead. She was just scared. Who wouldn’t be!”
“It’s okay. I’m not accusing your mother of anything. I just need to know what happened.” He held up his amulet. “This necklace belonged to my father. He was there that night.”
“Your father, but no one …” He saw realization in her eyes. “The swordsman covered in blood?”
“Yes.” Hadrian nodded. “Does your mother still live in the city? Can I speak to her?”
“My mother died several years ago.”
“Do you know what happened? I have to know. It’s very important.”
She looked around, and when she was sure no one could overhear, she said, “A priest came to my mother one night looking for a midwife and took her to a boardinghouse, where a woman was giving birth. While my mother worked to deliver the baby, a fight started on the street. My mother had just delivered the first child—”
“First child?”
Miranda nodded. “She could see another was on the way, but men in black broke into the room. My mother hid in a wardrobe. The husband fought, but they killed his wife, child, and another man who came to help. The father took off his necklace—like the one you wear—and put it around the neck of the dead baby. There was still fighting on the street out front and the husband ran out of the room.
“My mother was terrified. She said there was blood everywhere, and the poor woman and her baby … But she summoned the courage to slip out of the wardrobe. She remembered the second child and knew it would die if she didn’t do something. She picked up a knife and delivered it.
“From the window she saw the husband die, and the street was filled with a dozen bodies. A swordsman covered in blood was killing everyone. She didn’t know what was happening. She was terrified and certain he would kill her too. With the second child in her arms, she took the necklace from the dead baby and fled. She pretended the baby was hers and never told anyone what really happened until the night she died—when she told me.”
“Why did she take the necklace?”
“She said it was because the father meant it for his child.”
“But you don’t believe that?”
She shrugged. “Look at it.” She pointed at his amulet. “It’s made of silver. My mother was a very poor woman. But it’s not like she sold it. In the end, she did give it to him.”
“What’s your brother’s name?”
She looked puzzled. “I thought you knew. I mean, you were with the Nationalists, weren’t you?”
“How would being with—”
“My brother is the leader of the Nationalist army.”
“Oh.” Hadrian’s hopes sank. “Your brother is Commander Parker?”
“No, no, my name is Miranda Gaunt. My brother is Degan.”
She had not fought or taken blows, but Arista felt battered and beaten. She sat in what until that morning had been the viceroy’s office. A huge, gaudy chamber, it contained all that had survived the burning of the old royal palace. Night had fallen, heralding a close to the longest day she could recall. Memories of that morning were already distant, from another year, another life.
Outside, the flicker of bonfires bloomed in the square, where they had sentenced Emery to die. Die he did, but his dream survived, his promise fulfilled. She could hear the citizens of Ratibor singing and saw their shadows dance. They toasted Emery with mugs of beer and celebrated his victory with lambs on spits. A decidedly different gathering than the one the sheriff had planned.
Inside, Arista sat with a dozen men with concerned faces.
“We insist you take the crown of Rhenydd,” Dr. Gerand repeated, his voice carrying over the others.
“I agree,” Perin said. Since the battle, the big grocer, who had been designated to lead the failed left flank and was wounded in the fight, had become a figure of legend. He found himself thrust into the ad hoc city council, hastily composed of the city’s most revered surviving citizens.
Several other heads nodded. She did not know them but guessed they owned large farms or businesses—commoners all. None of the former nobility remained after the imperial takeover and all the Imperialists were either dead or imprisoned. Viceroy Androus, evicted from his office, was relocated to a prison cell along with the city guards who had surrendered. A handful of other city officials and Laven, the man who had argued with Emery in the Gnome, waited to stand trial for crimes against the citizenry.
After the battle had ended, Arista had helped organize the treatment of the wounded. People kept returning to her, asking what to do next. She directed them to bury the bodies of those without families outside the city. There was a brief ceremony presided over by Monsignor Bartholomew.
The wounded and dying overwhelmed the armory, and makeshift hospitals were created in the Dunlaps’ barn and rooms commandeered at the Gnome. People also volunteered their private homes, particularly those with beds recently made empty. With the work of cleaning up the dead and wounded under way, the question of what to do with the viceroy and the other imperial supporters arose, along with a dozen other inquiries. Arista suggested they form a council to decide what should be done. They did, and their first official act was to summon her to the viceroy’s old office.
The decision was unanimous. The council had voted to appoint Arista ruling queen of the kingdom of Rhenydd.
“There is no one else here of noble blood,” Perin said. He wore a bloodstained bandage around his head. “No one else who even knows how to govern.”
“But Emery envisioned a republic,” Arista told them. “A self-determining government, like they have in Delgos. This was his dream—the reason he fought, the reason he died.”
“But we don’t know how to do that,” Dr. Gerand said. “We need experience and you have it.”
“He’s right.” Perin spoke up again. “Perhaps in a few months we could hold elections, but Sir Breckton and his army are still on their way.
We need action. We need the kind of leadership that won us this city, or come tomorrow, we’ll lose it again.”
Arista sighed and looked over at Hadrian, who sat near the window. As commander of the Nationalist army, he had also received an invitation.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I’m no politician.”
“I’m not asking you to be. I just want to know what you think.”
“Royce once told me two people can argue over the same point and both can be right. I thought he was nutty, but I’m not so sure anymore, because I think you’re both right. The moment you become queen, you’ll destroy any chance of this becoming the kind of free republic Emery spoke of, but if someone doesn’t take charge—and fast—that hope will die anyway. And they’re right. If I were going to choose anyone to rule, it would be you. As an outsider, you have no bias, no chance of favoritism—you’ll be fair. And everyone already loves you.”
“They don’t love me. They don’t even know me.”
“They think they do, and they trust you. You can give directions and people will listen. And right now, that’s what is needed.”
“I can’t be queen. Emery wanted a republic, and a republic he will have. You can appoint me temporary mayor of Ratibor and steward of the kingdom. I’ll administer only until a proper government can be established, at which time I’ll resign and return to Melengar.” She nodded more to herself than to any of them. “Yes, that way I’ll be in a position to ensure it gets done.”
The men in the room muttered in agreement. After addressing a few of the more pressing matters, the council filed out of City Hall into the square, leaving Arista and Hadrian alone. Outside, the constant noise of the crowd grew quiet and then exploded with cheers.
“You’re very popular, Your Highness,” Hadrian told her.
“Too popular. They want to commission a statue of me.”
“I heard that. They want to put it in the West End Square, one of you holding up that sword.”
“It’s not over yet. Breckton is almost here, and we don’t even know if Royce got through. What if he never made it? What if he did and Alric doesn’t listen? He might not think it possible to take Ratibor, and refuse to put the kingdom at risk. We need to be certain.”
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