Other men came out of their homes and shops. Emery watched them appear out of the gray morning rain, coming one and two at a time, then gathering into larger groups as they wandered aimlessly around the square, drifting slowly, almost hesitantly, toward the armory. They wore heavy clothes and carried hoes, pitchforks, shovels, and axes. Most had knives tucked into their belts.
A pair of city guards working the end of the night shift—dressed only in light summer uniforms—had just finished their last patrol circuit. They stopped and looked around at the growing crowd with curious expressions. “Say there, what’s going on here?”
“I dunno,” a man said, and then moved away.
“Listen, what are you all doing here?” the other guard asked, but no one answered.
Barefoot and dressed in a white oversized shirt and a pair of britches that left his shins bare, Emery strode forward, feeling the clap of the sword at his side. “We’re here to avenge the murder of our lord and sovereign, King Urith of Rhenydd!”
“It’s him. It’s Emery Dorn,” the guard shouted. “Grab the bastard!”
The guards rushed forward, but they were too late to realize their peril as the groups closed around them, sweeping together like a flock of birds.
The soldiers hastily drew their swords and swung them. “Back! Get back! All of you! Back or we’ll have the lot of you arrested!”
Hatred filled the faces of the crowd and excitement crept into their eyes. They jabbed at the soldiers with pitchforks and hoes. The guards knocked them away with swords.
For several minutes the crowd taunted with feints and threats, and then Emery drew his blade. Mrs. Dunlap had found the sword for him. It had once belonged to her husband. In all his years of service, Paul Dunlap, carriage driver for King Urith, had never had occasion to draw it. The steel scraped as Emery pulled the blade from the metal sheath. With a grim expression and a set jaw, he pushed his way through the circle and faced the guards.
They were sweating. He could see the wetness on the upper lip of the closest man. The guard lunged, thrusting. Emery stepped to the side and hit the soldier’s blade with his own, hearing the solid clank and feeling the impact in his hand. He took a step forward and swung. It felt good. It felt perfect, just the right move. The tip of his sword hit something soft and Emery watched as he sliced the man, cutting him across the chest. The soldier screamed, dropping his sword. He fell to his knees, his eyes wide in shock, clutching himself as blood soaked his clothes. The other guard tried to run, but the crowd held him back. Emery pushed past the wounded man and, with one quick thrust, stabbed the remaining guard through the kidney. Several cheered and began beating the wounded men, hacking them with axes and shovels.
“Enough,” Emery shouted. “Follow me!”
The guards’ weapons were taken and the crowd chased Emery to the flagstone building with the iron gate. By the time they arrived, Carat was already picking the lock. They killed those on duty only to discover most of the rest were still in their beds. A few had gotten to their feet before the mob arrived. They stabbed the first confused man through the ribs with a pitchfork, which he took with him when he fell. Emery stabbed another and an axe took a third’s shoulder partway off, lodging there so that the owner had to kick his victim to pull the axe free. Swords and shields lined the walls and lay in pine boxes. Steel helms and chain hauberks sat on shelves.
The mob grabbed these as they passed, discarding their tools of trade for tools of war. Only ten men guarded the armory and all died quickly, most beaten to death in their beds. The men cheered when they realized they had taken the armory without a single loss of life from their side. They laughed, howled, and jumped on tables, breaking plates and cups and whatever else they could find as they gleefully tested out their new weapons.
All around him, Emery could see the wild looks in the eyes of the men and realized he must wear a similar expression. His heart was pounding, his lungs pumping air. He felt no pain at all from his back now. He felt powerful, elated, and a little nauseous all at the same time.
“Emery! Emery!” He turned to see Arista pushing through the men. “You’re too slow,” she screamed at him. “The garrison is coming. Get them armed and formed up in the square.”
As if pulled from a dream, Emery realized his folly. “Everyone out!” he shouted. “Everyone out—now! Form up on the square!”
Arista had already begun organizing those men who remained outside into two lines with their backs to the armory and their faces to the square.
“We need to get weapons!” Perin shouted at the princess.
“Stay in line!” she barked. “We’ll have them brought out. You have to maintain the lines to stop the garrison from charging.”
The men who stood in line holding only farm tools looked at her, terrified, as across the square, the first of the soldiers struggled to push away the wagons and carts that had been rutted in the mud. Before long, the men Emery had shooed out began taking their place in front of the line.
“Form up!” Emery shouted. “Two straight lines.”
Arista ran back into the armory and began grabbing swords and dragging them out. She spotted Carat stealing coins from a dead man’s purse and shoved him against a wall. “Help me carry swords and shields out!”
“But I’m not allowed to,” he said.
“You’re not allowed to fight, but you can carry some swords, damn it. Just like you unlocked the door. Now do it!”
Carat seemed like he would say something and then gave in. He started pulling shields down from the walls. Dr. Gerand entered carrying bandages but discarded them quickly to help deliver weapons. On her way out, Arista saw a woman running in, her dress soaked from the rain, her long blonde hair pasted to her face so that she could barely see. The blonde stopped abruptly at Arista’s approach.
“Let me help,” she said to Arista. “You get more while I pass these out.”
Arista nodded and handed over the weapons, then ran back inside.
Carat handed her the stack of shields he was carrying and she ran them down to the young woman, who in turn took them to the waiting line. When Arista came out again, she found that a line of older men and some women had formed up, and they were passing the weapons like a bucket brigade, with the young blonde adding more people to the line.
“More swords!” Arista shouted. “Helms and mail last.”
Carat assembled weapons into manageable piles for the others to grab.
“No more swords!” The call soon came. “Send shields!”
The bell in Central Square began to ring, its tone sounding different that morning than on any other, perhaps due to the heavy rain or the pounding of blood in Arista’s ears. Most men on the line held only a sword. Arista could see fear in every face.
She could hear Emery’s voice drifting above the rain with each delivery. “Steady! Dress those lines. Tighten that formation.” He barked the orders like a veteran commander. “No more than a fist’s distance between your shoulders. Those with spears or pikes to the rear line. Those with shields to the front. Wait! Halt!” he shouted. “Forget that. Back in line. Just pass the spears back and hand the shields forward.”
With the next delivery of weapons, Arista paused at the armory doorway and looked out across the square. The garrison had cleared the wagons from King’s Street and a few soldiers entered. They looked briefly at the lines of townsfolk, then went to work to clear the other carts.
Emery stood in front of the troops. Everyone had a sword or a spear but most did not know how to wield them properly. Nearly every man in the front row had a wooden shield, but most simply held them in their hands. At least one man had his shield upside down.
“Adam the wheeler, front and center!” Emery shouted, and the middle-aged wheelwright stepped forward. “Take the left side and see that the men know how to wear their shields and hold their swords.” Emery likewise called Renkin Pool and Forrest into action and set them to dressing the line.
“Keep your s
hield high,” Adam was shouting. “Don’t swing your sword—thrust it instead. That way you can maintain closer formations. Keep the line tight. The man next to you is a better shield than that flimsy bit of wood in your hands! Stay shoulder to shoulder!”
“Don’t let them turn the flank!” Renkin was shouting on the other side of the line. “Those on the ends, turn and hold your shields to defend from a side assault. Everyone must move and work together!”
Helms and hauberks were coming out now and there were a few in the front row hastily pulling chain mail netting over their heads.
A surprising number of imperial soldiers had already formed themselves into rows on the far side of the square. Each one was impeccably dressed in hauberk, helm, sword, and shield. They stood still, straight, and confident. Looking at Emery’s men, Arista saw nervous movements and fear-filled eyes.
Four knights rode into the square. Two bore the imperial pennant at the ends of tall lances. On the foremost horse rode Sheriff Vigan. Beside him came Trenchon, the city’s bailiff, splashing through the puddles. Hooked to Vigan’s belt, in addition to his sword, was the whip. Vigan’s face was stern and unimpressed by the hastily assembled, slightly skewed lines of peasants. He rode up and down, trotting menacingly, his mount throwing up clods of mud into the air.
“I know why you’re here,” Vigan shouted at them. “You’re here because of one man.” He pointed at Emery. “He has incited you to perform criminal acts. Normally, I would have each one of you executed for treason, but I can see it’s the traitor Emery Dorn, and not you, who has caused this. You are victims of his poison, so I’ll be lenient. Put down those stolen weapons, return to your homes, and I’ll only hang the leaders that led you astray. Continue this and you’ll be slaughtered to the last man.”
“Steady, men,” Emery shouted. “He’s just trying to frighten you. He’s offering you a deal because he’s scared—scared of us because we stand before him, united and strong. He’s scared because we do not cower before his threats. He’s scared because, for the first time, he does not see sheep, he does not see slaves, he does not see victims to beat, but men. Men! Tall and proud. Men who are still loyal to their king!”
Vigan raised his hand briefly, then lowered it. There was a harsh crack followed immediately by a muffled thwack! Emery staggered backward. Blood sprayed those near him. A crossbow bolt was lodged in his chest. An instant later, the fiery red-haired boy fell into the mud.
The line wavered at the sight.
“No!” Arista screamed, and shoved through the men and collapsed in the mud beside Emery. Frantically she struggled to turn him over, to pull his face out of the muck. She wiped the mud away while blood vomited from his mouth. His eyes rolled wildly. He wheezed in short, halting gasps.
Everyone was silent. The whole world stopped.
Arista held Emery in her arms. She could see a pleading in his eyes as they found hers. She could feel his breath shortening with each wretched gasp. With each jerk of his body, she felt her heart breaking.
This can’t be happening!
She looked into his eyes. She wanted to say something—to give him a part of her to take with him—but all she could do was hold on. As she squeezed him tightly, he stopped struggling. He stopped moving. He stopped breathing.
Arista cried aloud, certain her body would break.
Above her the sheriff’s horse snorted and stomped. Behind her the men of the rebellion wavered. She heard them dropping weapons, discarding shields.
Arista took in a shuddering breath of her own and turned her face toward the sky. She raised one leg, then the other, pushing herself—willing herself—to her feet. As her shaking body rose from the mud, she drew Emery’s sword in a tight fist, lifted the blade above her head, and glared at the sheriff.
She cried in a loud voice, “Don’t—you—dare—break! Hold the line!”
As Hadrian lay on his back, chained and stretched out in the mud, a shadow fell across his face and the rain stopped hitting him. He opened his eyes and, squinting, saw a man outlined in the morning light.
“What in Maribor’s name are you doing here?”
The voice was familiar and Hadrian struggled to see the face lost in the folds of a hooded robe. All around him, rain continued to pour, splashing the mud puddles and grass, forcing him to blink.
The figure standing over him shouted, “Sergeant! Explain what goes on here. Why is this man chained?”
Hadrian could hear boots slogging through the mud. “It’s Commander Parker’s orders, sir.” There was nervousness in his voice.
“I see. Tell me, Sergeant, do you enjoy being human?”
“What’s that, sir?”
“I asked if you liked the human form. For example, do you find it useful to have two hands and two legs?”
“I, ah—well, I don’t think I quite understand your meaning.”
“No, you don’t, but you will if this man isn’t freed immediately.”
“But, Lord Esrahaddon, I can’t. Commander Parker—”
“Leave Parker to me. Get those chains off him, get him out of that mud, and escort him to the house immediately, or I swear you’ll be walking on all fours within the hour, and for the rest of your life.”
“Wizards!” the sergeant grumbled after Esrahaddon had left him. He pulled a key from his belt and struggled to open the mud-caked locks. “Get up,” he ordered.
The sergeant led Hadrian back to the house. The chains were gone but his wrists were still bound by two iron manacles. Hadrian was cold and hungry and felt nearly drowned, but only one thought filled his mind as he watched the sun rising in the east.
Is there still time?
“And what about the wagons on the South Road?” Esrahaddon growled as Hadrian entered. The wizard stood in his familiar robe, which was, at that moment, gray and perfectly dry despite the heavy rain. Esrahaddon looked the same as he had in Dahlgren except for the length of his beard, which now reached to his chest, giving him a more wizardly appearance.
Parker was seated behind his table, a napkin tucked into his collar, another plate of ham and eggs before him.
Does he have the same meal brought to him each morning?
“It’s the mud. They can’t be moved, and I don’t appreciate—” He paused when he spotted Hadrian. “What’s going on? I ordered this man staked. Why are you bringing him here?”
“I ordered it,” Esrahaddon told him. “Sergeant, remove those restraints and fetch his weapons.”
“You?” Parker replied, stunned. “You are here only as an advisor. You forget I’m in command.”
“Of what?” the wizard asked. “A thousand lazy vagabonds? This was an army when I left. I come back and it’s a rabble.”
“It’s the rain. It doesn’t stop.”
“It’s not supposed to stop,” Hadrian burst out in frustration. “I tried to tell you. We need to attack Dermont now. Arista is launching a rebellion this morning in Ratibor. She’ll seal the city so he can’t retreat. We have to engage and defeat Dermont before he’s reinforced by Sir Breckton and the Northern Imperial Army. They will be here any day now. If we don’t attack, Dermont will enter the city and crush the rebellion.”
“What nonsense.” Parker pointed an accusing finger. “This man entered the camp claiming to be a marshal-at-arms who was taking command of my troops.”
“He is, and he will,” the wizard told him.
“He will not! He and the Princess of Melengar are both responsible for the treachery that probably cost Degan his life. And we have had no news of any Northern—”
“Degan is alive, you idiot. Neither Hadrian nor Arista had anything to do with his abduction. Do as this man instructs or everyone will likely be dead or captured by the imperium in two days. You, of course”—the wizard glared at Parker—“will die much sooner.”
Parker’s eyes widened.
“I don’t even know who he is!” Parker exclaimed. “I can’t turn over command to a stranger I know nothing about. How
do I know he’s capable? What are his qualifications?”
“Hadrian knows more about combat than any living man.”
“And am I to take your word? The word of a—a—sorcerer?”
“It was on my word that this army was formed—my direction that produced its victories.”
“But you’ve been gone. Things have changed. Degan left me in charge and I don’t think I can—”
Esrahaddon stepped toward the commander. As he did, his robe began to glow. A bloodred radiance filled the interior of the house, making Parker’s face look like a plump beet.
“All right! All right!” Parker shouted abruptly to the sergeant, “Do as he says. What do I care!”
The sergeant unlocked Hadrian’s hands, then exited.
“Now, Parker, make yourself useful for once,” Esrahaddon said. “Go round up the regiment captains. Tell them that they will now be taking their orders from Marshal Blackwater, and have them gather here as soon as possible.”
“Marshal Lord Blackwater,” Hadrian said with a smile.
Esrahaddon rolled his eyes. “Do it now.”
“But—”
“Go!”
Parker grabbed up his cloak and his sword and pulled his boots from under the table. He retreated out the door still holding them.
“Is he going to be a problem?” Hadrian asked, watching the ex-commander hop into the rain, grumbling.
“Parker? No. I just needed to remind him that he’s terrified of me.” Esrahaddon looked at Hadrian. “Marshal Lord Black-water?”
“Lord Esrahaddon?” he replied, rubbing feeling back into his wrists.
The wizard smiled and nodded. “You still haven’t said what you’re doing here.”
“A job—for Arista Essendon. She hired us to help her contact the Nationalists.”
Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations Page 31