by Matt Gilbert
Brutus was unimpressed. “Do you think I am an idiot? Now you will offer us mercy in exchange for cooperation, eh?” He spat through the bars at Aiul’s feet. “Fool. We will die screaming before we serve you and your bitch queen. We are here to destroy your evil, not aid it!”
Aiul struggled against the urge to scream at the man, knowing he could not lose control, or he would lose everything. Trembling with suppressed rage, he spoke as carefully as he could. “I have just as much to fear from her. I come not to offer you mercy. I come to offer you the chance to go free, or at least die in battle, if you will join me to slay her!”
Brutus blinked in shock at this, and stood in silence for several moments, gauging the sincerity of Aiul’s offer. The rest of the prisoners, most of whom had only been half listening, were suddenly quite interested. They looked back and forth at one another, raising eyebrows and returning subtle nods, but Brutus remained inscrutable.
“Well, damn you, would you fight with me or not?” Aiul asked at last.
“You seem very bold for a doctor and historian,” Brutus said. His features were still impassive, but his voice had an edge of accusation.
“I have little choice but to be bold,” Aiul answered. “She tried to murder my wife and my unborn child this very morning. That motivates a man. Worse, she’s had the entire contingent of guards who met you killed.”
Brutus’s face grew taut as he grasped the implications of the news. “So, we have become a state secret, eh? Does Caelwen live? Did he betray us?”
“He lives. For now.”
“But not for long, if I understand your meaning.”
“He doesn’t think so, no. He called himself a loose end. And he did not betray you. As far as I know, he is incapable of such a thing. I suspect that's half the reason the Empress had his men killed.”
The prisoners’ eyes were wide with shock and loathing, and their curses and threats to Kariana echoed from the walls. At their outburst, Aiul felt, for all his anger, a rush of gratitude and a sense of hope that he had not expected. He was, by any reasonable definition, their enemy, and yet they felt for him, clamored to strike at Kariana as allies.
Aiul felt his cheeks burning with shame at the thought that he had come here to manipulate them, only to discover that simply asking for their help would have been more than enough. They were far better men than he could ever hope to be. Was it any wonder that they were so strong, when they had such conviction and integrity to stand upon? He blinked back tears, and cleared his throat while he waited for Brutus to answer.
“Why should we trust you?” Brutus asked once the shouting had passed.
“You shouldn’t,” Aiul answered in a husky voice. He removed the key from his robe and stepped toward the cell door. “So I will trust you.”
His hands trembled as he fumbled to place the key into the lock, visions of all the ways things might go wrong rushing through his mind. He imagined Brutus lashing out and spinning him around, smashing his head against the bars. He could almost feel the heat of the Southlander’s powerful arms clamped around his throat like a python, crushing the life from him.
The door swung open, and Aiul stiffened, awaiting a charge, but none came. The Southlanders nodded approval, but made no move toward him.
Aiul pulled back his robe and revealed the mace. “I have only this. I have no doubt that it will serve better in your hands than in mine.”
Brutus lifted the mace from Aiul’s belt and hefted it, testing its weight and balance, then nodded and took it as his own.
Aiul continued, “There are six guards at the post, and a small armory. If we can take them, we’ll have all the weapons we need. If not….”
With his free hand, Brutus clapped Aiul on the back hard enough to stagger him, a grim smile flickering across his lips. “This will be enough.”
The guards at the outpost looked up as Aiul opened the door, then turned back to their card game. Moments later, one gasped in surprise as the Southlanders burst into the room and rushed toward the table. Brutus crashed the mace into the head of the nearest guard. Another Southlander flipped the table over onto the two men on the opposite side, while still more grappled the remaining three and relieved them of their weapons. Steel flashed and bit into flesh. Blood and screams filled the air.
Aiul marveled at their efficiency and teamwork. In less than ten seconds, the Southlanders had secured the area without losing even a single drop of their own blood. Standing amongst them, the carnage all around, Aiul suddenly felt very small. He was, to be sure, three inches taller than most of them, but they were thick men, he realized, dense of bone and muscle. Beside them, he felt like a fragile skeleton covered in pale skin, a shade in loose clothing, desperately trying to give the impression of substance.
The Southlanders lost no time plundering the small armory, and shouts of delight rang out amongst them as they discovered their own weapons stored here. Most seemed to prefer a stout shield and as heavy a blade as they could swing with one hand, though the odd few had pole arms or crossbows.
Brutus retrieved his own weapon, a heavy, curved blade engraved with strange symbols, and returned Aiul’s mace. “You’re certain there is no one above?” Brutus asked.
“Not unless someone has come since I passed. It’s a skeleton crew at night.”
Brutus nodded and pulled a Nihlosian chain shirt over his head experimentally. There was clearly no accommodation between his own barrel chest and the shirt that was intended for a more lithe figure. “I think this will not work,” he said with a sigh. The others, having no more success, nodded agreement. “We will need wear our own armor or none at all, and in either case we will have to cover ourselves if we are to travel in the city. We do not look like your people.”
Aiul pointed at a coat rack. “Will their cloaks do?”
Brutus took one of the several cloaks hanging on the rack and tried it on. Closed and with the hood pulled, it covered everything but his hands. “Aye, as long as we’re not observed too closely. We’ll keep our hands in our pockets as much as we can, and we’ll be fine. Now, have you a plan for how we reach this mad empress of yours, or do we just charge in?”
Aiul laughed nervously. “I have a desperate plan. I don’t really expect us to survive. Does that qualify?”
One of the Southlanders laughed out loud. “A foolproof plan would be too easy!” he said with a grin. “We are escapees! We should have a desperate plan!” More laughter rippled through the group, and Brutus, smiling, nodded for Aiul to continue.
Aiul cleared his throat, feeling awkward and self-conscious to dictate strategy to them. “She’s a libertine, and she spends much of her free time in debauchery.”
“What sort of debauchery?” Brutus asked.
“She is fond of orgies, wild affairs with drugs and drink,” Aiul told him. “They are regular things with her. One is on this very moment.”
Brutus nodded, a grim smile on his face. “Drunk and naked.” The rest of the Southlanders nodded to each other in approval.
“Yes,” Aiul said, less nervous, now, to see that they approved of his assessment. “But there is still the matter of the guards to contend with, and they will be neither drunk nor naked. We need a distraction, something to draw their attention, thin their numbers somehow. If we release the prisoners here, it would cause enough chaos that they would have to send some of the palace guards to assist.”
Brutus and his men shouted roars of approval and pounded their fists against their chests in applause. “Aye, this is an evil place!” Brutus said. “It would be unseemly to take our own freedom and leave these poor wretches here to suffer! If it helps our cause, so much the better.”
He turned to one of his men, the joker, and said, “Sandilianus, find us lots to cast or draw.”
“Everyone?” the man asked.
“Aye, except for this one,” he said, indicating Aiul. “One of us must return to Xanthia and bring what knowledge we have to the Prince.”
Fear struck A
iul like cold water at this. “You must make certain he understands that we are not all evil, that we are oppressed! We do not need to be destroyed, we need to be liberated!”
“That is just what we will tell him,” Brutus promised, laying a hand on Aiul’s shoulder to steady him. “That is why one of us must escape. Otherwise, he will know only that we died here, and draw conclusions that may be bad for your people.”
Sandilianus was moving amongst the men now, his hand full of straws. He approached Brutus and waited as the Tribune made his choice, then continued on. Brutus opened his hand and looked at the straw, cursing under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” Aiul told him. “But there is honor in dying fighting, isn’t there?”
Brutus gave him an annoyed look and revealed his choice to Aiul, a very short straw. “I thought you understood our ways, doctor. Is it not enough that I must flee my enemy? Will you rub my face in it, too?”
“I’m sorry,” Aiul said, staring at the ground. “I didn’t understand.”
“I know,” Brutus said. With resignation, he held up the straw and called out, “No point going further. Sandilianus, this is the lot, yes?”
“Aye, sir. You are the one.”
Brutus slammed his fist into the stone wall and winced at the pain, trying to master himself. “I know I said I would walk with you into the pit and cut off the balls of Talifa, but Ilaweh has chosen otherwise. Sandilianus, you are in command now, and I must be gone. There is no time to waste.”
Sandilianus stepped forward and grasped Brutus’s forearm. “Ilaweh be with you.”
Brutus returned the gesture. “Die well, brother.” Without another word, he turned and sprinted up the stairs. The rest of the Southlanders watched him go in silent, pained sympathy.
Sandilianus looked about a moment, waiting, then shouted, “Why do you delay, fools? Release the prisoners! We are to war!”
The Southlanders shouted, “To war!”, and rushed into the cell block. Their battle cries and laughter were channeled and echoed back, in much the same way the screams might be on some other day.
Aiul nodded in satisfaction that he had once again managed to turn the enemy’s weapons against them. By the time it was done, they would have an army of willing accomplices.
Perhaps there is a chance of success after all.
Aiul worried, as he and the Southlanders made their way up the stairs within the prison, that they might encounter guards, and indeed they came upon many, but none had the time or inclination to spare a second glance at Aiul and his band of cloaked commandos. The guards were disorganized, often alone, occasionally in small groups, and running, rather than marching, shouting alarms. Most were only half equipped, some still struggling into their mail shirts or adjusting sword belts as they rushed toward the prison. One unfortunate lost his footing on the stairs and tumbled head over heels to the ground level.
The new leader of the Southlanders, Sandilianus, grunted at this, a smile softening his sharp features for a moment. He looks so different from that Brutus fellow, yet so different from us, too. “He will be glad he had his helmet on, I think,” the Southlander said with a shake of his head, and Aiul chuckled in agreement.
They exited the prison at the first level of Nihlos above the ground. There were guards here, but they were as distracted as the rest they had met on the stair, and no one challenged Aiul or his company.
Looking at the ground level from above, it was not hard to see why. The escaped prisoners, as Aiul had expected, had thrown the entire city into turmoil. The commoners had taken the opportunity to riot, and the guards were engaged in a running battle with them. The streets below were dotted with fires, and smoke filled the air. Commoners were running back and forth throwing rocks as guards marched forward with shields and truncheons, cracking heads.
Soon, the palace gates loomed before them, closed now that night had fallen. Demonic faces leered from the empty battlements, gargoyles that for some reason Aiul had never noticed in the light of day. Five guards, bleary eyed and surly, cast glares at them as they approached, clearly unenthused with their duties. Aiul could barely contain his elation. There should have been at least twenty men here!
One of the guards leaned over the ornate railing of the bridge to peer at the streets below. “I hate being stuck up here.”
The sergeant in charge called out to them, “The palace is closed. Come again on the morrow.”
Aiul raised a hand and waved. “You mistake, me, sir. I am Aiul of House Amrath. I have been invited.”
The sergeant nodded, then cast a wary eye toward the hooded Southlanders. “And these?”
Aiul rolled his eyes and shrugged. “You know her tastes. Best not to ask. She wants them to remain hooded and cloaked until they arrive for her pleasure.” He gave a slight shudder. “I do not think they are clothed underneath.”
The guard looking over the rail dropped a coin over the edge. “Mei! Missed him!”
“Watch your language,” ordered the sergeant, punctuating the remark with a cuff to the offender’s head. He gestured toward Aiul. “They’ll chop your head off, you say that around the wrong people.”
“It’s fine, really. I’m often guilty of the same sin,” Aiul told him. Open the damned gate, fool, before this comes apart!
The sergeant shrugged. “Let them in.”
Aiul felt relief wash over him like a warm shower. We made it.
“Hey!” another of the guards called out, as Aiul and the Southlanders approached. “Have you guys been down in the fires?”
The sergeant raised an eyebrow and held up a hand to halt them. “Just a moment, sir.” Aiul felt his stomach sink as he saw one of the Southlanders quickly pocket a dark hand.
They stopped as asked, and the sergeant looked them over more carefully. Mei, he senses something. By this time, the rest of the guards had grown interested as well, and were pushing forward to have a look. “Lower your hoods,” the sergeant ordered, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Aiul waved a hand imperiously. “The empress commanded these men remain hooded. If she hears of you countermanding her order--!”
The sergeant was having none of it. He stepped forward and reached for Sandilianus’s hood.
“Sword! Sword!!” one of the guards shouted, but he was far too late to warn anyone. Sandilianus’s blade cleaved through the sergeant’s neck, sending the man’s head to the ground. It bounced, then rolled off the side and into the chaos below as the sergeant’s body collapsed. Mei, what must the fellow it landed on think?
Again, it was almost too quick for Aiul to follow. The Southlanders moved with the speed and surety of lions striking at deer, and with similar results.
Aiul stared at the dead men on the ground before him, knowing that he should feel some pity for them, some remorse at having a hand in their deaths, but he could find not a drop of it in his soul. They stood between him and Kariana. He was glad that they were dead.
“Follow me,” he told the Southlanders. “She is within.”
They paused briefly outside the ballroom’s massive doors. The music and laughter from within were loud, even with the doors closed, a point in their favor, but against the guardsmen who had stood the watch. Their corpses lay in heaps to the either side of the doors, limbs splayed at odd angles, in pools of rapidly cooling blood.
Aiul looked up and up to the top of the doors, noting how they curved inward as they rose toward the dark ceiling some twenty feet above. They were almost pointed at the very top. Little things seem so much more important when you suspect you’re about to die. Or when you don’t want to look at what you’ve done. “This is it,” he said softly.
Sandilianus gave him a curt nod, then spoke to his men. “Once we enter, we bar the door against reinforcements. Kill no one who does not offer battle, but those that do, finish quickly.” He turned to Aiul. “At your signal.”
Aiul waved an arm at the door. “Now seems as good a time as any.”
The doors burst open on a scen
e of pure debauchery. The throne room had once been considerably more austere, and host to many regal parties, but it, like everything in Nihlos, had devolved over time. Kariana had modified it to her own tastes. The smoky, patterned marble was original but the lush carpets and throw pillows were new, most occupied by one or more intoxicated, naked bodies. The walls were decked with rich tapestries made by the finest artisans, depicting scenes much like the one they decorated. Alongside the racy images hung her favorite toys, many and varied whips, cuffs, and razors. About the room, candelabras cast warm, flickering light and released pleasing scents to fill air already thick with sighs of pleasure. Bars, for serving various intoxicants, circled the centerpiece of the room, a great, heated bath that currently held at least a dozen revelers. Mirrors lined the ceiling above a likewise enormous bed. It that stood on a dais where a throne might, had she been a more mundane ruler. Kariana, herself, lay on the great bed, naked, cooing and smiling at several well built, equally naked suitors who teased and tempted her.
Southlanders rushed into the room, shattering the bliss and reverie of the occupants like a brickbat hurled through a stained glass window. Screams and curses vied for supremacy with confused mumbling, as naked, drugged revelers struggled to disentangle themselves and rally against the threat.
Kariana’s eyes bulged in shock as she sighted Aiul amongst the Southlanders. “Aiul! What are you doing?” she shrieked.
“What I must, Kariana!”
One of her several partners grabbed her and hurled her over the side of the bed, shouting, “Assassins!” From across the room, Aiul saw hands grab a pull cord and begin jerking it in desperation, setting an alarm bell ringing.