by Morgan Rice
“Everything is exactly as it should be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Ceres felt more like a commander defending a fort than a combatlord in the middle of the Stade right then. The battle seemed to flow in concentric rings around her, and as she cut and thrust, spun and jumped, Ceres felt as though she was the bull’s-eye of some giant archer’s roundel.
There was the ring of combatlords around her, each fighting with strength of a dozen normal warriors. There was the ring of petrified soldiers, looking like some ancient circle of standing stones, forcing the Empire’s soldiers to get through one at a time, pushing and shoving as they worked their way closer to the real fight. Beyond them, there was the wider ring of the crowd, throwing whatever they could find, grabbing weapons from guards and bringing them down with their bare hands where they needed to.
Ceres had no time to observe it, though; she was too busy fighting, rushing from the side of one combatlord to another, cutting and stabbing with both of her blades. She thrust past the guard of one opponent, ducked back behind one of the stone figures as another slashed at her, and cut again.
A crossbow bolt bounced from one of the stone figures there, but no others followed. There were obviously too many soldiers surrounding them to risk firing into the melee. Anyone doing so stood more chance of killing their own men than hitting one of the combatlords.
Even so, Ceres didn’t dare pull back into open space. Instead, with the speed and strength her blood gave her, Ceres danced from opponent to opponent, sliding past defenses, avoiding attacks and cutting her attackers down. She threw one back with the full force of the energy that lay within her, slamming him back onto the blades of his fellows, then sliced the head from a spear with crossed blades.
More spears came in between the gaps in their stone ring of protection, searching for flesh like creepers topped by razor sharp leaves. She saw the combatlord with the axe stabbed through the shoulder, bellowing as he wrenched it out and swinging his axe in return.
Ceres wrenched one from the hands of an attacker, passing it to a combatlord to use. The big man thrust with it in one hand, wielding a curved sword with the other to fend off the responses.
There was none of the elegance of the Stade about the fighting. There were simply too many opponents for that. The Stade was a place where the spectacle normally bloomed out of two evenly matched opponents pushing one another to their limits. Here, every opponent who tried to force his way into the stone circle was easy to cut down, but there was always another.
And another after that.
It became a question of fighting as cleanly and efficiently as possible. Even with all the strength her powers gave her, Ceres could feel her arms growing tired with the mechanical repetition of slicing through flesh and knocking away enemies. One of her swords snapped on a shield and Ceres had to drop to one knee to avoid the sword that followed. She stabbed upwards, caught the dying soldier’s sword as he released it, then spun to strike a second soldier with both blades.
There was another ring forming around the stone one now, composed of the bodies of the dead, piling one on top of another as more and more soldiers clambered over their fallen comrades to try to break through and be the ones to finally kill Ceres.
Ceres couldn’t believe that they just kept coming. Surely there had to come a point where they realized that they weren’t going to prevail, and that continuing to charge the ring of stone figures was suicide. Even while they continued to do it, they were being harried by the crowd, but if the soldiers ever turned their full attention to the people there, they would slaughter them. They were simply too well armed.
The only hope was to keep going, but there was no hope in that, because no matter how many they killed, there always seemed to be more. Ceres could see the pressure building now, as exhaustion set in among the combatlords. One parried a thrust too late, and grunted as a blade sliced along his arm. Another fell, a spear driving deep into his chest.
Ceres saw the danger at once, rushing to fill the gap. She turned a soldier to stone as he tried to push into the circle, then hacked at the arm of a second who tried to reach through the gap.
Silence fell, no new attackers came, and for a moment, Ceres thought that maybe it was done. She dared to look out through the stones. What she saw there made her duck back hurriedly. Crossbowmen and archers stood at the front of a ring of soldiers, weapons raised.
“Everyone take cover!” Ceres yelled, pressing into the protection of one of the stones.
Arrows and bolts darkened the sky, hanging for a moment before they fell. When they fell, they took their toll. Ceres winced as she saw combatlords falling, peppered with shafts. Most of the arrows missed or struck the stones, but with so many in the air, some had to strike home.
The worst part was that there was nothing she could do to stop it. Ceres had created the shelter that kept some of them safe, but eventually, the rain of arrows would kill them all. They could charge out into the space beyond, but that would just make them better targets. They couldn’t even help the people in the stands, who were still fighting bravely, but who were slowly being pushed back by the guards. Ceres saw one cutting down a woman who had brought children with her, shoving her back into the crush.
Ceres braced herself. There came a point where she had to act even though it was suicidal. Where the only thing to do was to throw herself forward and hope. She took a breath, putting her hands on the nearest stones to pull herself through.
She only stopped when she heard the sound of horns, and saw the iron gates that led to the Stade’s floor start to open.
“More soldiers?” she said to herself.
There were more soldiers, but not the ones she expected. Armored men charged into the Stade on horseback, with spears set for the impact of their assault. More followed, firing short bows as they rode, picking off archers on the other side and then whirling around as they drew their swords.
Ceres watched the remnants of Lord West’s men slam into the Empire’s soldiers and now her charge didn’t seem so doomed after all.
“Up!” Ceres yelled to the combatlords. “There, we have to help them!”
Despite their wounds, despite their obvious exhaustion, the combatlords followed her, and Ceres felt a surge of pride in them for that. Without so much as a question, they moved in behind her, charging in a wedge of steel and muscle and violence.
While Lord West’s contingent struck the Empire’s soldiers from one side, Ceres and her combatlords hit them from the other. In the instant before they crashed into the imperial ranks, she had a moment to see the soldiers there torn with fear, unsure which opponent to face. Ceres even felt a moment of pity for them, there at the behest of an evil ruler without any kindness.
Then they crashed into them and there was no time to think about anything except the next blow, the next parry, the next flash of energy flickering out from her. In those first moments, it almost felt to Ceres as though she was clambering over a line of soldiers, running up a shield, then pushing off it to leap over the first rank of her enemies.
She landed in clear space, with imperial uniforms all around her. Ceres lashed out with both blades, keeping moving, not daring to stop. In that moment, she couldn’t see her own side; it was as though she was lost in a forest, and every tree around her was a thing of sharp edges and evil intent.
Well, if she were in a forest, Ceres would just have to hack her way through.
She did, lashing out left and right, looking for any sign of her combatlords. She saw them, a trio of soldiers converging on one wielding a trident. Ceres stabbed one from behind, let the next step past her for the combatlord to cut down, then slammed into the third.
She saw the horsemen ahead and pointed to them. “Join up with Lord West’s men!”
She wasn’t sure if her words carried over the sounds of steel or the screams of the dying, but the men with her seemed to understand what she wanted. They cut their way through the men ahead of them, plungin
g on towards the mounted figures fighting beyond them.
They closed in toward each other, and somewhere in the middle, the Empire’s soldiers broke. Some turned and ran, more threw themselves desperately at their new assailants. Neither worked. Ceres saw fleeing soldiers being dragged down by the crowd, their weapons quickly finding homes in new hands. She buried her own swords in the sand, willing to let others do this part.
In a matter of minutes, their last, desperate stand gave way to an arena where the only faces Ceres could see were friendly ones. The crowd were standing there, hefting their stolen prizes and cheering their success. Lord West’s former men were circling, mopping up enemies, looking for any who might be waiting for them. Mostly, they rode with their pennants flying, looking every inch the glorious, victorious warriors they were.
Each group celebrated in their own ways. The combatlords roared and punched the air, saluting the crowd the way they might have after a particularly vicious Killing. The rebels there hugged one another, while the crowd shouted its approval.
“Ceres, Ceres, Ceres!”
Ceres stood there, taking it in, looking around at all of it.
She could feel the energy of the fight ebbing now. Probably soon, she would need to rest, to let her powers grow again. For now, it was over and—
Suddenly, a new legion of Empire soldiers marched into the Stade—more than had been there before. Ceres watched in dismay. They marched in step, utterly fresh—while Ceres and her forces were almost spent. Even the mounted soldiers of Lord West’s forces looked exhausted.
They couldn’t fight again.
And yet they would have to.
With the grim slowness of exhaustion, Ceres drew her blades up from the sand and prepared herself for the next confrontation.
One which, she knew, may very well be her last.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Akila stood at the prow of his ship, watching with a growing sense of the rightness of it all as the city grew larger. Behind him sailed more ships, in the colors of imperial galleys.
“Be ready,” he called back to his men. “They will have men on the docks, even if they believe we are their own, returned victorious from Haylon.” He laughed. “Well, that part’s true, at least.”
He couldn’t keep his sense of humor for long. This would be grim work. How many of his men would die here on this far shore? How much destruction would they cause in the name of freedom?
He found himself thinking back to the moments that had brought him there; that had convinced him to do this thing. When Thanos had come to them on Haylon, Akila had turned him away. He’d thought that the prince had merely wanted to use them to gain a kingdom.
I should have known better, Akila thought. Thanos has more honor than that.
If he’d realized it at the time, perhaps he would have sailed back with him. As it was, he’d driven Thanos away, and only realized the wrongness of what he was doing later, when he hadn’t been able to sleep for thoughts of what he’d rejected.
The ships were getting closer now, pulling inside the limits of the harbor to clarion calls and the waving of flags. Akila watched tensely, waiting for the last of his ships to clear the line of the chains protecting the harbor.
They were almost at the dock now, and Akila raised his hand. Be ready.
The truly shaming thing had been the woman Thanos had brought with him to Haylon. She had been a prisoner, a self-confessed thief and worse, yet given the choice between following Thanos and forging a new life on Haylon, she had gone with the prince without even having to think about it. Honor had mattered more to her.
As it should have to me, Akila thought, in the instant before he let his hand fall.
“NOW!”
His men hauled on ropes, the colors on the mast changing, going from the red of the Empire to the blue of Haylon. Around him, he saw his other ships revealing their true purpose even as he felt the galley bump against the docks.
Ahead, he saw the city spread out before him. Smoke rising over the bulk of the Stade told him that they might have arrived just in time.
Akila drew his sword.
“Onward! To glory! To freedom!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ceres fought as though sleepwalking, her arm rising and falling almost mechanically. There were so many soldiers, and already, she could see those on her side falling.
She watched as one of Lord West’s men was dragged from his horse, and the plunging blades brought back uncomfortable memories of all that had happened when they had assaulted the city.
Ceres shook her head, parried a blade, and struck back with enough force to behead an opponent.
I cannot let this happen again, Ceres told herself. Not again.
Images of Garrant’s death came to her. Ceres pushed them aside and kept fighting, swinging her blades and keeping moving, even if she barely had the strength to do it. She wasn’t going to stop. She wasn’t going to let them die.
Except they were dying. Everywhere Ceres looked, people were dying. The spectators were dying in the stands. Lord West’s men were dying on the sand. Even some of the combatlords were dying, brought down one by one by exhaustion and by weight of numbers despite their skills.
Ceres couldn’t let it happen, whatever it took.
She reached into herself for the last of the strength that lay there. She drew it up, and then dragged more out of herself, despite the harm it would probably do to her. She didn’t care if it killed her, so long as it helped to save some of those with her this time. She balled it up within her, ready to release it all in one last burst of force.
Only the sound of more horns stopped her.
Men ran into the Stade, and from the first, Ceres could see that they weren’t more soldiers. They loped where the Empire’s soldiers would have marched, running together while wearing colors Ceres vaguely recognized as those of Haylon.
They came, and kept coming, in numbers that seemed like enough to swamp the whole city. Ceres pushed the power back down inside her as they crashed into the Empire’s soldiers, because she didn’t need it now. This wasn’t the time for sacrifice, but for action.
“One last push!” she yelled to her forces, making herself renew her assault on the soldiers in front of her.
She cut down one, then dove in front of another to block the strike he aimed at a combatlord. The heavily muscled fighter cut down the soldier with a blow from a short, stabbing spear.
“We need to fight together!” Ceres called out. Alone, they would be cut down. Together, they might just survive this.
She gathered the combatlords around her once more, preparing to continue the fight.
There was no need. The newcomers cut through the Empire’s forces while barely slowing, their numbers and their ferocity adding neatly to that of those already there. Ceres saw the Empire’s men stall in their attack, then turn and run, trying to find a way out of the Stade.
Those who could, ran. Those who couldn’t, threw down their weapons.
Soon, all was still, as an eerie lull fell over the Stade.
Ceres watched as a wiry, commanding-looking man stepped out from the mass of the newcomers.
“I am Akila,” he said. “Who commands here?”
Ceres managed to step up close to him, stumbling only slightly. “I’m Ceres.”
She saw Akila looking her up and down. “You’re Ceres? Thanos told me you were dead.”
“Thanos?” Ceres repeated. “You’ve spoken to Thanos?”
“Not recently,” Akila replied. “I’ll tell you all of it soon. I guess we both have a lot to talk about. For now, though, the important part is that the battle here is over.”
Ceres nodded, surveying the damage.
“It is.”
It wasn’t over, though, was it? There was still so much to do. There would be more soldiers in the rest of the city, and the castle would be hard to take.
She looked around the Stade, seeing the bodies there, the aftermath of the violence. S
he saw the fighters doubled over in exhaustion or pain, the ones who might never rise from where they lay.
They’d won, and it was exhilarating.
And yet, at the same time, the people were still not free. Their battle was just beginning.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Lucious strode at the head of his mercenaries and thugs, royal guards following in their wake. He felt powerful, unbeatable. Invincible.
He felt free.
He should have killed his father years ago. All that time he’d been held back, reined in and controlled. He’d had to put up with lectures and commands, attempts to turn him into some storybook idea of a prince, and foolish ideas about honor that had nothing to do with reality.
Now, he didn’t have to restrain himself. Now, he had soldiers at his back and the beginnings of an uprising to put down. He would slaughter his way through the peasants at the Stade, making a show out of them that people would remember for generations.
Perhaps he would have a statue made to commemorate it. Something that would make the pitiful busts in his father’s chambers pale into insignificance. An image of himself bestriding a horde of slain rebels, perhaps, with adoring women looking up at him, grateful for the power of his rule. Perhaps he’d make Stephania pose for it. That would be amusing.
First, though, there was the matter of the Stade, although Lucious doubted that there would be that much to do when it came to the real fighting anymore. With all the soldiers he’d had sent to the Stade, even Ceres and her combatlords couldn’t have survived.
No, if Lucious judged this right, he would arrive just in time to claim the glory and have his fun, without any real threat to himself. He would take what he wanted, the same way that he’d taken the Empire. He would show his fa—he would show the people of the Empire what a real king looked like, and they would bow down, or be made to.
“Looks like trouble up ahead,” one of his men said.