The Juggernaut charged, arms as big as pillars raised above its head ready to squish the bug in front of it.
The dance is in you, his father had said.
When he had that dream, on board the ship carrying them to Kingshold, it had faded from his memory the next day. While developing the plan for how they were going to deal with this magical construct, he had reassured everyone he’d be able to keep it occupied, but he hadn’t known why he’d said it. Now, as the giant stone dwarf charged, he remembered the dream entirely.
He could dance.
It was faster than he had thought it would be, hands crashing down toward him before he was completely ready. He threw himself out of the way, landing on his side and knocking the wind from his lungs. He wasn’t going to have as many style points as his grandfather so far.
He scrambled to his feet as another hand came crashing down where he had just been. Instead of moving away from it, he closed inside and leaped, smashing his axes against the stone helm before darting away and behind. Now, the Bhiferg didn’t have arms longer than a poleaxe that could flatten him with a single blow, so that was a mark against Motega’s chances, but then again, his grandfather didn’t have the kind of help he did.
On the roof above the square was Neenahwi, arms outstretched, conducting unseen music. Her focus was unflinching, and Motega could see and sense her work. The light from the cavern ceiling dimmed. The humid underground air became dry and easier to breathe. And under the Juggernaut’s feet, the dirt began to turn to mud.
Motega ran headlong at the construct, dodging to the right, and then the left to avoid concussive blows, before peeling away and behind it. He noticed the stone dwarf’s head followed him as he moved.
The pilot must have to use those green stone eyes to see!
He circled the Juggernaut at speed. Its feet moved much slower in a circle than in a straight line, especially as the mud beneath its feet grew deeper. Motega switched direction, jumping over a leading arm that spun around, before leaping toward the Juggernaut, ax striking over his head to hit one of the stone eyes and causing it to crack.
The follow-through of his blow carried him into the Juggernaut, and he hit with a thud before bouncing down into the mud, his legs instantly sinking. The stone dwarf had to turn so its good eye could see Motega, and as soon as it saw him wallowing, a hand swatted down. Motega tried to throw himself clear, but his right boot was caught in the mud. The hand caught him a glancing blow, strong enough to send him flying across the square, leaving his boot behind.
His shoulder hurt like hell. It might have been dislocated, but the adrenaline was pumping. Around him, Florian was fighting regular-sized flesh and blood dwarves. Motega saw one go down from a blow with the flat of his blade, but he didn’t seem to be getting much help from the dwarven guard. Their hearts weren’t in it. They weren’t losing ground, but they weren’t pushing the attack either.
Motega couldn’t give it more than a moment’s consideration, though. The Juggernaut was trying to extricate itself from the mud, one foot on the solid ground as it attempted to lever itself out from what was now a thick quagmire. Motega ran forward, jumping up onto the stone knee and scrambling up to sit astride its shoulders. He rained blows on the stone helm of the Juggernaut, not sure if it caused any real distraction or damage other than the small shards of stone sent flying in the air, but it sure did make him feel better.
The arms of the Juggernaut couldn’t reach up and over its head, the carved armor and its intimidating vambraces restricting its movement. From his perch, he could see few of the rebels still standing. A few more crumpled bodies lay at Florian’s feet, but others had fallen, too. Had the guard finally decided to take the fight to them?
The construct lurched around, and Motega saw another rebel slump slowly to the floor, and then he realized his sister was taking care of what Florian couldn’t handle, putting them gently to sleep.
The pilot of the giant stone dwarf suddenly realized its comrades were falling, and it stopped trying to dislodge Motega. Once more, it began to lift itself from the mud pit, ignoring the pounding about its head until it had regained a solid footing. Then it backed up to the wall of a neighboring building, and Motega realized he was going to be caught like wheat at the mill, so he jumped off the Juggernaut’s back and rolled to his feet near Florian.
The Juggernaut took one step toward them, and another, but it didn’t charge.
It reached down and picked up one unconscious dwarf and draped it over a stone shoulder like a sash before picking up two more prone figures, one in each hand. Then it turned, and half ran, half lumbered back the way it came.
“It’s getting away,” exclaimed Motega. “Trypp needs more time!”
Motega dashed after it. Though it had a head start, it wasn’t moving at full speed in its encumbered state, so, slowly, Motega was able to close on it. His arms pumped as he ran, his shoulder burning like a hot poker driven into his armpit. Ahead of him he could see the long road ending at the entranceway to the tunnel.
There was a face-off, another dozen rebel dwarfs armed with crossbows staring down city guard, taking cover behind the defenses they’d built yesterday. Motega was within two horse lengths of the fleeing Juggernaut when he ran up a stepped wall onto the flat roof of a single-story building.
He knew that if the stone dwarf made it back to the entrance, then their plan was going to fail, and Trypp would be in grave danger. He jumped from one building to another, coming almost alongside the Juggernaut before he leaped off the roof and drove both feet into the back of the stone dwarf’s helmet. Once more, Motega bounced off what was effectively a walking wall, his legs jarring with the impact against the statue, and his teeth biting into his cheek with the impact as he hit the floor. But the Juggernaut was off balance, and it fell face first, sending the dwarves it carried skittering across the pavement.
The Juggernaut moved its arms underneath it and lifted its immense weight to a kneeling position. Its head turned, good eye looking at Motega less than an arm’s span away from it.
Motega’s head swam. There seemed to be two giant stone dwarfs. Both of them raised an arm as if to strike. The images coalesced into one, but it was too late as a clenched fist flew toward his face. Motega faced what was coming to him with open eyes, ready to see his father again, when the bright green light in the eyes of the Juggernaut flickered and went dead. The statue went immediately immobile, freezing in position, stone fist close enough to Motega for him to see the seams of the rock.
“Nice timing, Trypp,” he muttered, and then collapsed onto his back.
Chapter 31
Assassin In The Night
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.” Petra’s words were slow and drawn out. It was the middle of the night, and Mareth had been unable to sleep, even after their lovemaking. Petra was beginning to drift off though when he felt the need, the urgent, burning need to confide in her.
“And whatever I tell you, you won’t think less of me?” he asked.
This got her attention, and she lifted herself up onto her elbow and tried to shake the sleep out of her brain as she pulled the sheets up to her neck. “Of course, Mareth, what is it?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing. This whole election, I have no idea how to win or what to do. I’m just doing what I always do and using the charm to say what people want to hear.”
“That’s not true, darling,” she said. “You know life isn’t fair; you’ve seen that for a long time. And now you want to do something about it.”
“But what do I do about it? I have no idea how to run a country. What would it be like if I was lord protector?”
“Shush, it’s normal to be nervous about doing something new. Were you nervous the first time you performed? The first time you were in a battle?”
“I was shit scared each of those times!” said Mareth, throwing his hands up in the air.
She smiled. “But you were brave each time. Being
scared and brave is the best combination from what I’ve seen. I’ve seen people who don’t get scared, and they’re typically not too bright. Most of them are dead now, too, because they didn’t know better.”
“It’s probably not going to matter, anyway, because I’m not going to win.”
“Hah! Scared of winning, but you’d hate to lose?” she laughed. “Don’t count yourself out of it, Mareth. I’ve never seen anything like the rally yesterday—there were thousands of people calling your name—except on royal feast days, and normally it’s because there’s free ale. Those people were doing it because they’re starting to believe in what you represent. In all of us.”
Mareth sat with his back to the headboard, remembering how it had felt to see all of those people. By Arloth, he’d been scared. It was the kind of crowd he’d always dreamed of performing in front of, but these were a different kind of tale he was telling now. Petra took his silence as needing more encouragement.
“And the meetings went well with the guilds I saw today. They’re all very reasonable old men, you know,” she said.
“Maybe to you.”
“Yes, maybe to me,” she conceded, “but their grievances seem reasonable. They want to be heard, too. Though I might not understand all of the details.”
“And that’s it!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air again. “I can’t even keep these deals straight. If it weren’t for Alana, I wouldn’t know what was happening. Some of the deals just don’t even make sense. If I do win, then there will be some unhappy people who don’t get what they were expecting.” He shook his head. “You know Alana is a godsend. Like you. Why was I so lucky to have Alana and you sent to me?”
“Because you’re a good man, Mareth. Even if you’re less handsome now that the beard’s gone.” She dug her elbow into his ribs at the joke.
“Have you spoken to Alana recently?” asked Mareth. He knew he was also not sleeping well because he felt terrible for what had nearly happened with Lady Grey before the rally. What had he been thinking? Had he even been thinking? He’d been lost in his nerves and then… she was there. He hadn’t felt attracted to her before. Well, he might have in the past, but why would he now when he had Petra? Someone smart, beautiful and caring, and best of all, she pushed him. He hadn’t had anybody like that before.
At least Alana had been there to stop anything wrong from happening.
“We spoke today about the guilds, and also about Danley in Bottom Run,” she said. “We’ve heard he’s not well-trusted by many of the people down there. Not with their money, anyway. I think we’re going to need to find somebody else to cast a vote for that district. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said and quickly changed the subject. “Can you believe what we were doing? You know, all I wanted was to be famous for a so—”
The inn had been quiet, given the hour and Jules’s restrictions on the number of guests and customers. In fact, the common room wasn’t open to the public at all now, and only a handful of guests were staying overnight, all in the opposite wing of the inn. But from the corridor outside, Mareth could hear a commotion.
“I just want to get to my room!” slurred an unknown voice.
“It’s not here, sir. Must be on the other side. Turn around,” said one of Lady Grey’s guards stationed outside his room. Just one of the security enhancements that had been forced on him. More guards than just Dolph, and a bedchamber with bars on the windows. Not a lot of freedom for this songbird, but it would be over soon.
“Get out of my way! I’s down at the end of the corridor.” It seemed the guest must’ve had a glass or two too many.
“What’s going on out here?” Mareth heard Alana’s voice, the commotion waking her. She was still getting up at the crack of dawn to go to the palace and attend to the wizard. Her few hours of sleep were precious to her.
“I should go and see what’s happening; maybe I can help,” Mareth said to Petra.
“No. Stay here. They can handle it.”
“It’s fine. I want to help Alana.”
Mareth got out of bed and pulled on his trousers. Opening the door to the corridor, he saw one of the guards talking to a man, well-dressed though looking a little worse for wear. He was clean shaven and of medium height and build, and the wall seemed essential in keeping him vertical. The inebriated fellow struck a chord with Mareth. It all seemed quite familiar to him. Alana was standing outside her bedroom door dressed in a nightgown with hands on hips.
“Look here, sir,” said Mareth, “I’m sure there’s something we can do to help you. Let the man take you to your rooms.”
The drunk man turned to face him, and his eyes narrowed. Time seemed to slow as Mareth saw him stand up straight, no longer leaning on the wall for support, and his hands moved under his coat. There was a glint of steel from the reflected lamplight on two long wicked sharp knives suddenly held in the drunk’s hands.
The guard didn’t stand a chance, the drunk moved forward in a flash. Punching the guard in the face with the butt of one knife, and then ramming the point of the other up and under his ribs. Blood bubbled at the corners of the guard’s mouth, hands stopping as they sought his blade before he slumped to the floor between Mareth and the assassin.
Alana screamed.
The drunk moved his complete attention to Mareth, no sign of any inebriation in the way he acted or moved now. Mareth scrambled back into his room, his sword was still in the sheath, hanging on a chair in the corner of the room. Not old Betsy but the stupid rapier he was supposed to wear now. It struck him that he hadn’t exactly had the time to practice with it, and if he got through this, it would probably be a good idea to stop making excuses and get started.
Mareth managed to slam the door into the drunk’s face as he ducked back into the room, buying him the seconds to reach the blade. The drunk burst into the room, malice in his eyes as the rapier came free from the hilt with a hiss.
This was not like the stories though. The assassin wasn’t going to deliver a message about how Lord So-and-so wished he could see the look in Mareth’s eyes before dealing the deadly blow. No, the drunk was all business and no talking.
One, two, three steps, and the assassin closed the ground between them, right hand slashing high into Mareth’s face. He parried in time, but the left came toward his stomach, which he had to twist out of the way to avoid. The blows came right, left, right, right. Mareth hadn’t the chance to draw his parrying dagger, and so, only armed with the rapier, and in close quarters, Mareth was at a clear disadvantage. And that was before taking into account their comparative skill.
Mareth had always prided himself on being an adequate swordsman, at least with his old sword. The rapier was a different matter, though. All about sticking with the pointy tip. Not having the weight or being able to slash like he could with Betsy. But he just about held his own, parrying killing blows, but he took cuts to the face, to the forearms, another one to his leg, and all in less than a minute from when the drunk had first attacked. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep the defense up. The assassin was too good and would eventually get through.
So, Mareth tried to drive him back.
Attack with the pointy end. Give him something to think about. Pushing off his front foot, Mareth feinted toward the assassin’s gut, and then switched to thrust the rapier toward his eye. The assassin parried the attack easily, catching Mareth’s blade on the guard of one knife, and then trapping the rapier, sandwiching it with the other knife. The drunk twisted both blades at once, and the rapier was torn out of Mareth’s grasp. A kick to Mareth’s stomach doubled him over, and another to his face sent him sprawling to the floor.
He knew then, that was the end. Another minor obstacle eliminated. A footnote to history before the grand regime of Lord Protector Eden.
The formerly drunk assassin smiled as he raised the knife to strike, but then something or someone grabbed hold of his arm. The assassins other arm lashed out, knife still in hand, and
the distraction was disposed of.
Mareth saw him prepare to strike once more when a roar came from the doorway. A naked man, broadsword raised, charged into the bedroom.
The assassin turned, but too late as the sword swept through the air, slicing through the arm and into his neck, almost severing head from shoulders. Blood erupted around the room, covering Mareth in gore to add to what his wounds had bled out. It took a moment for Mareth to realize who had rescued him.
Dolph.
Petra was screaming at the top of her lungs. Mareth thought to try to reassure her he was fine, but he realized she wasn’t looking at him. She was standing on the bed and looking at a figure curled on the floor, blood pooling around them. Petra screamed.
He rushed over to the prone figure and saw it was Alana. At first, Mareth thought her throat had been cut, but he could see she was still breathing, though it was quite shallow. She, too, had saved his life.
“She’s alive,” Mareth shouted. “Quick, give me the bed sheets.” The wound was wicked looking, long and deep, but luckily it had cut across her collarbone and not her neck.
But she was still bleeding out. He pressed a ripped bed sheet to the wound to staunch the flow of blood while Petra cradled her sister’s head in her lap, tears streaked down her face, a low keen escaping as she rocked back and forth. All of a sudden, there were more guards around them, many voices, but none of them clear to him, the chaos leading to a cacophony he couldn’t understand. Then Jules was kneeling beside Petra and Mareth, concern etched on her face. He realized, at that moment, that he, too, was crying. He wouldn’t let this girl, who meant so much to Petra, and to him, die for saving him.
“Jules! We need a doctor fast. And a good one.”
Chapter 32
I Predict A Riot
The massive brass doors opened at a waved command of the old dwarf, and the bright sunlight of the morning began to shine into the faces of the assembled crowd. Neenahwi stood next to the forger—her brother and Florian a couple of steps behind.
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