by Ron Miller
“What are those?” she asks, pointing to one of the crates.
“Rockets, your Highness.”
“Rockets? You mean like fireworks?”
“Something like that, but vastly improved, as I hope you’ll soon see. You may have noticed the the elimination of heavy guide sticks.” She hadn’t, but when she looks she does see that the rockets lack both the conical cap and long wooden stick she would have normally expected. To her eyes, they look like nothing more than cast-iron pipes.
“Is everything ready?” the professor asks one of the soldiers, who has approached, saluting.
“Yes, sir. Ready for your order, sir.”
“Very good. Stand by. Well,” he says to the princess, “we’ll have to see if our good duke and his men are prepared. If so, then I see no reason why the attack cannot begin at once.”
“How are the rockets going to help? A distraction?”
“I certainly hope so!” chuckles the professor, with a knowingness that aggravates the princess.
The duke, they discover, is ready, game, if a little dubious The professor reaches into an inside pocket of his long coat and removes a miniature rocket, one that resembles more the fireworks with which the princess is familiar than it does the blunt cylinders still half-buried in their cushioning excelsior. Propping its stick against a brick, Wittenoom strikes a match and touches the flame to the rocket’s fuse. It sputters for a second, then vanishes with a hiss. Bronwyn follows its sparkling trail, which ends with a little flash and a pop. That’s it? she wonders. Almost immediately Bronwyn sees flares of light from the scores of tripods that are arrayed ahead of the massed army. Simultaneously from each there is a loud rushing, hissing sound, much like that of the little rocket, but greatly magnified, like a locomotive letting off steam.
Enormous plumes of sparks shoot into the sky, one from each of the iron tubes, at the aft end of which are brilliant orange jets of flame. These rise into the air at a prodigious speed, arcing high over the ramparts of the barricade. At the apex of their flight each rocket explodes with a sharp bang, releasing an intensely bright flare. Bronwyn can see that these are suspended in the air beneath little umbrellas.
These dazzlingly white lights illuminate the area below as though it were day. The princess can clearly see figures atop the barricade looking into the sky, shading their eyes against the sudden, unexpected glare.
As quickly as the first salvo of rockets has been launched, there follows another, then another. Simultaneously, there is a brassy blare from a trumpet; a complicated series of notes that Bronwyn does not recognize but rightly assumes is the signal to charge. There is a roaring shout from the army behind ber.
Meanwhile, the rockets not only keep up the illuminating flares but the professor now alternates them with other, seemingly more powerful missiles that fly in flatter trajectories; they shoot over the towers and fall onto the palace itself where they explode with startling violence, mixing smoky red billows with the actinic glare from overhead. The rocketeers lower their launching tubes a few inches and fire another salvo; this time the trails of sparkling fire trace almost flat lines, shooting nearly parallel with the ground at a speed that amaze the princess, until, the flaming lines converging, they hit the face of the barricade. The explosions occur almost simultaneously, blending into a single, prolonged roar. A sheet of orange and yellow flame erupts, among which Bronwyn can see massive chunks of rubble, sandbags, lumber and bodies, the latter spinning like little black cartwheels.
The rocket batteries repeat this performance once more before the charging soldiers reach the wall. Another half-dozen aerial flares reveal an enormous, ragged gap in the barricade, through which pour the duke’s men, like a flood from a breached dam. Now the princess can hear the rapid, staccato popping of guns.
The princess is absolutely dumbfounded.
The duke reins his horse in beside her.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“Ready?”
“This is your war, remember. If you’re planning to join it, come on.”
The duke’s last words are almost lost to her as he spurs his horse and it leaps away; Bronwyn is right behind him before she even fully realizes what she is doing.
As though in a dream or nightmare, she sees the flaming rocket batteries rush past her, their operator’s faces as lurid as demons. Columns of men whip by, their flame-lit faces combined by her speed, blurred into long, pallid banners. Billows of acrid smoke sting her eyes and throat, the long pennants of flames as though she were in the midst of a hail of comets. High-pitched buzzes zip past, and her clothing is snatched and plucked at . . . bullets, a disinterested part of her brain calmly notes.
Her horse makes two breathtaking bounds, as though inspired by the rockets that still arch overhead, and then she is through the wreckage of the barricade. The sound of her horse’s hooves immediately change from the muffled thundering of the hard-packed earth outside to the metallic clatter of the plaza’s cobblestones. For a moment she allows her mount to circle as she lets her bearings catch up. She is barely aware of the milling throng around her, silhouetted like shadow puppets against the orange curtains of flame.
The noise is tremendous, a palpable, physical presence that has neither source nor direction; shouts, screams, the shrieks of wounded and dying horses, the banging of pistols and rifles, the whistling, whining and buzzing of bullets as they zing past her or ricochet from the cobblestoned plaza, the thundering explosions of the rockets, all stirred into a single overwhelming, consuming sound. There is nothing around her that looks familiar, either; all is flashing shadows, bursts of light and flame, confusion and movement.
A hand clutches at her boot and she kicks it away. She unconsciously pulls her saber from its left-hand saddle-mounted scabbard, and the next time a hand clutches at her she swings on it with the devastating blade.
As her horse pirouettes she catches sight of the central hall of the palace and digs her spurs into the animal’s flanks. The stairs and door are separated from the plaza by a tall iron fence and ornamental gate, which is closed. No one else has gotten further beyond the barricade, or this close to the palace, as Wittenoom’s rockets are falling everywhere like meteors. They explode with deafening bangs, showering her with sparks and débris. Pieces of iron and shattered cobbles sting her legs and face. Her bucking horse rolls its eyes with panic and it is as much as she can do to keep as in the saddle. She feels a sudden sharp sting on her cheek and nose, and when she touches her face her glove comes away bloody.
The gate is closed but, as has been mentioned and as the princess well knows, the fence is mostly ornamental,. Following it away from the battle, and, fortunately, beyond most of the falling rockets, she turns a corner at the end of the long building. She enters a kind of short, broad passage between the main palace and the Privy Council annex to her left. Ahead she can see the black rim that marks the edge of the island-bridge. Beyond is the dark skyline of the city. As she rounds the corner the sounds of the battle become muffled, echoing hollowly between the walls. At the end of the passage is a low parapet that overlooks the Slideen, invisible in the darkness and looking like a bottomless black gulf. To her right is a stone wall that connects the rear wall of the palace with the parapet. The wall is scarcely five feet high. Beyond, she knows, is a formal garden, built upon a semicircular projection of the island. Backing her horse to the far side of the alleyway, she spurs the beast and holds on for all that she is worth (which she of course knows is quite a lot). The brave animal, to the princess’ great relief, sails over the wall like a kite, landing in a colorful shower of dismembered flowers. Ahead, and about midway along the rear of the palace, is a raised patio and beyond that are tall glass doors. Her horse clambers up the broad steps to the patio, then bursts through the doors with one blow of its powerful hooves . . . reminding Bronwyn of a similarly dramatic entrance she had once made. Disappointingly, there is no one to witness the reprise.
She finds herself now in one of
the vast ballrooms, dark and made even gloomier by the faint light that comes from the open doors opposite her.
She dismounts, her feet crunching on the broken glass that carpets the glossy parquet floors. She takes her saber and, from a holster mounted on her saddle, a fifty-caliber Minch-Moappa, her weapon of choice, or at least of habit.
She waits for a moment, but there is no response to her entrance, which must have been heard, she thinks, from one end of the palace to the other. Cautiously, she moves toward the lighted doorway. Beyond is an arcaded hall, glimmering like a petrified forest in the firefly candlelight. That same part of her brain that has been acting as a disinterested observer takes a moment to notice that the once-glamorous palace now looks tawdry and threadbare, plain and colorless. Can it have changed so much in just two years?
Her heart pounds like a triphammer, and trying to calm it makes her gasp for breath. Still, there has been no one at all. She makes for the broad staircase that curves up from one end of the hall. It leads to the apartments on the second floor; she takes the steps carefully and deliberately. The stairs deposit her on a mezzanine from which corridors extend to the left and right. She chooses the left one at random. She can hear the sounds of the fighting outside because she is closer to the front of the building now, or perhaps because the fighting is growing closer, or both. She does notice that the rocket bombardment has ceased and only the sporadic pop pop pop of gunfire and the clatter of swords remain.
She is halfway down the corridor, trying to decide which door she should hazard opening, when the decision is more or less made for her. A figure suddenly emerges from a room whose escaping light momentarily dazzles the princess. She flings her foream in front of her eyes at the same time hearing a tinny voice cry “Bronwyn!”
Lowering her arm, she sees General Praxx standing in the swath of yellow light that pours through the doorway. He had been carrying an armful of rolled papers and in his surprise still clutches them to his chest.
“Praxx!” the princess replies and, with an almost automatic movement, raises her pistol toward his face.
Just as automatically, the general throws the papers at her. She ducks; her pistol goes off, sending its projectile wildly off target to disembowel a cherub high in the plaster wall. She hears the clatter of Praxx’s retreating boot heels. She sets off in hot pursuit.She can hear Praxx descending the big staircase. She hits its brink without thinking of slowing down and her leather-soled boots shoot from under her. She tumbles painfully down the first five or six steps, terrified that she might fall all the way to the bottom. Her lanky, flailing body is no more built for rolling than a starfish’s, fortunately, and she catches herself before breaking either back or neck. Scrambling to her feet, she continues on down the steps with frustrating caution, railing at the distance that the general must be gaining.
At the bottom of the stairs she pauses for a moment, trying to catch her breath long enough to be able to hear Praxx. Elbows, hips and the back of her head are starting to hurt from where they had banged the marble steps. She will be an enormous bruise by noon, she is sure. The palace is unnaturally quiet. Can he have escaped so quickly? She carefully, and as silently as she can, continues on into the colonnaded hall. She grasps her saber tightly and only then notices that while she had miraculously maintained a grip on the sword, she had lost her pistol on the stairs.
She is convinced that the general has not gone any further than the great hall. She feels like some hunter prowling among the glossy cylindrical boles of the marble columns, looking for a dangerous and intelligent prey, one that perhaps is now hunting her.
She doesn’t have more than a second to feel justified at her premonition when Praxx suddenly appears from behind one of the columns, sword in hand, already making a swing for her neck. She flinches away, parrying clumsily, a spray of sparks from the colliding weapons not an inch from her face. She feels a sting as the sharp tip glances from her cheekbone. Again the general attacks her and again she parries the blow, this time less clumsily, returning his blow with a thrust. The little man dances back, deflecting her with surprising grace.
She presses her attack and, more by accident than intent, scratches his grey cheek with the tip of her blade. It makes a sound like a nail on slate. A drop of dark blood oozes from the wound; it looks like oil. Praxx seems amazed and confused by the fierceness of the princess’ attack. And probably not a little by the apparition that is now revealed in the supernatural, guttering light of the stray candles: the Princess Bronwyn, for Musrum’s sake, whom he had last seen and remembered as a gangling, spoiled girl of seventeen or so, now far taller than he, her hair streaming as wildly as the blood that flows from her face, splattering against the torn cream-colored uniform. As she swings her saber from side to side, as sinuously as a cobra, the glint of light from its tip like the lidless glitter of a reptile, the general notices that a luminous breast is nearly revealed. Why doesn’t she cover herself decently? He had never suspected her of being such a hussy and is surprised and disturbed that it bothers him. And why, for Musrum’s sake, would such a thing interest him now, of all times? It never had before. Her luciferase eyes flash luminously, like a cat’s, as she passes from illumination to shadow, from shade to light, and there is a hungry-looking snarl curling her upper lip, exposing one sharp white canine.
Praxx feints, but the princess refuses to respond. He again attacks and there is a brief flurry of sharp silver sparks before the two retreats, the echoes still clamoring unmusically.
Praxx is breathing irregularly and there are odd and uncomfortable pains in the vicinity of his chest and ribs. His vision has a supernal clarity, as though he were watching the action from a point a few feet above his own left shoulder, as through the wrong end of a low-power telescope. He knows for a certainty, at that moment, that the princess is not going to let him escape with his life. How she has changed!
“It’s a great surprise to see you again,” he says, the first words be has spoken since their duel began.
“I can well imagine. Where’s Payne and my brother?”
“If you can believe me, they’re well on their way from the city.”
“I believe you. I know how far your loyalty goes and how far their cowardice. How long have they been gone?”
“Since the first report of your crossing the river. They must be halfway to Strabane by now.”
“Strabane? Why there?”
“Who knows? They’re both mad.”
“Drop your sword, Praxx, and give yourself up for arrest.”
He looks at the feral princess and knows that she will give him this chance only once, yet something of Payne’s perverseness must have infected him; perhaps he trusts her no more than he trusts anyone else, which is of course not at all, or he perhaps has some idea that if he gets her angry enough she will grow reckless. Whatever his reasons might be, Bronwyn is horrified to hear him say:
“What’ve you seen of your brave Baron Milnikov?”
“What?” she cries, her face as unnaturally ashen as the general’s is naturally.
“How did he look the last time you saw him? Hale and hearty?”
“Damn you, Praxx!”
His leer is infuriating her; the point of her saber describes eccentric circles as her hand shakes and wavers. Her vision blurs as unbidden tears well in them. “Tell me what happened to him! Who did it?”
“He lost his head, your Highness. People get into trouble when they lose their heads.”
“Who did it?”
Praxx looks with satisfaction at the tears that drool down ber face, streaking the blood that covers one cheek, diluting it, causing it to splash in pink rosettes onto her blouse, spattering the pale curve of her right breast. He looks with pleasure upon the wavering tip of her blade.
“Is it possible that Payne is right?”
“What are you talking about?”
“That the baron was your lover, I think he might have been correct!”
“You filthy little w
orm! You dirty . . . “
“Don’t start repeating yourself. You sound like the baron when be died. He denied the very same thing with his last breath.”
“Who killed him, Praxx? Answer me now or I swear I’ll cut you in half where you stand!”
“Why, it is my pleasure, entirely,” he replies, coolly, and raises his sword in anticipation.
With an inarticulate howl, Bronwyn throws herself at him, flailing her weapon mindlessly. The general had hoped for this and easily dodges the wildly, thoughtlessly thrashing blade and brings his up against it. The blow, so close to the hilt, stings her hand and for a moment she is stunned. Praxx draws his sword back and in doing so cuts her across the ribs. The edge slices through the fabric as though it were a cobweb; the princess feels only a sharp sting. Yet when she glances down, there is already a flood of crimson pouring down her hip and thigh. Praxx swings for another blow, but Bronwyn parries it at the last moment, deflecting the general’s blade so that instead the flat of it catches her across the temple. Dazed, she staggers back a pace or two.
Praxx is uncertain what to do then. Should he press his attack and attempt to kill the princess, or should he take advantage of having stunned her and make an escape? He chooses the latter.
Dashing past her into the ballroom, he is surprised and delighted to see that the princess’ horse has been waiting placidly, grateful for the few minutes of peace and quiet. He leaps upon its back.
Bronwyn, meanwhile, shakes her head and, glancing down, discovers, to her infinite surprise, her revolver lying at her feet. She glances up and sees that the staircase curves to a point almost overhead: when she dropped the gun at the top step it had fallen directly to the floor below.
She hears her horse nicker, knows immediately what Praxx is doing, snatches up the gun and runs into the ballroom, just in time to see the general and the horse exit through the shattered doors. She runs the width of the room, suddenly conscious of an intense, aching pain in her side, and through the broad opening. Praxx is most of the way across the garden, the horse at almost full gallop, heading diagonally toward the parapet that overlooks the river. The general is evidently no horseman, but it is unlikely that he needs to be. Given its head, all he needs to do is hang onto the animal.