Marcus had done the best he could with them, but he was well aware it wouldn’t be enough when the fighting got serious. About half of them had firearms, a mix of old muskets and pistols dug out of attics and basements and some hunting and fowling pieces. The rest carried clubs, knives, and spears, with the occasional sword liberated from some old soldier’s box of memorabilia. Twenty of the volunteers, those who’d proven to have the best arms in trials in the alleys behind the church, also carried burlap sacks over their shoulders. Each bag held three tin balls, each of which was stuffed with a measure of the flash powder they’d liberated from the Patriot Guard convoys.
Hand grenades, Marcus had learned at the War College, had gone out of military fashion about a hundred years ago. The theory sounded good, but in practice they’d proven to be more of a danger to their wielders than the enemy. Fuses were unreliable at the best of times, and under battlefield conditions the bombs often failed to go off at all or, more problematically, detonated too soon. In addition, when the grenadiers came under fire, the odds of some poor bastard getting shot after lighting his grenade but before throwing it were fairly high, and the consequential chain reaction could be catastrophic. After decades of experimentation, the Royal Army had followed the example of most other militaries and converted its grenadiers—who had always been required to be taller and stronger than the average soldier—into elite shock troops rather than bomb-throwers.
These hand grenades were crude things indeed, but they had the advantage that they had no fuses or other mechanisms. Viera had assured Marcus that they would explode of their own accord if they were tossed into a fire, and that was all he expected of them. They weren’t intended for use against the Patriot Guard, but were very particular weapons for facing a very particular foe.
It had been impossible to keep the fact of Raesinia’s capture from the Leatherbacks and refugees, but her absence hadn’t produced the blow to morale Marcus might have expected. The men and women who’d chosen to fight were still determined to do so, and they talked in low voices among themselves as he passed through them. Some of the younger boys and girls were boasting a bit, displays of bravado that were painfully familiar to Marcus from every unit of soldiers he’d ever accompanied to its first battle. Many of the older people had seen war, or at least fighting, before, and they were mostly quiet.
He found Andy with her handpicked team, all young, strong men and women. Several of the Borelgai refugees were among them, women who hadn’t been prepared to pick up arms but had been determined to do something. They’d tied their long skirts up above their knees to make running easier, exposing fish-belly-pale legs. Andy herself wore her Vordanai uniform, though she’d lent her musket to one of the other fighters.
“You’ve got the signal down?” Marcus said.
She nodded. “I’ve got it.”
“Stay back until you’re sure you heard it.” He looked over her team, who had recognized him and assembled behind their leader in something approximating ranks. “You’ll be awfully vulnerable out there.”
“We’ll be careful.” Andy’s eyes went to the balcony. “Did you talk to Sothe?”
“I think I got through to her,” Marcus said. “She’ll help.”
“That’s something.” Andy blew out a long breath. “I’m all for rescuing Raesinia as soon as possible, but if she’s alive, then a few hours probably aren’t going to make any difference. And if—”
“She’s alive,” Marcus said. “And we’ll get her.”
Andy nodded, though she still seemed skeptical. Marcus hadn’t had time to explain the truth to her, but she seemed willing to act on faith for the moment. The same went for her part in the plan, and for that matter everyone else’s; no one but Marcus and Sothe knew what they were really up against. Marcus had tried to warn them, without coming out and saying the opposition was demonic. I doubt that would help morale. Or that they would take me seriously.
Hopefully, none of it would be necessary. Sothe came down the staircase, long rifle slung across her back, and gave Marcus a wave. He took a deep breath and summoned his parade-ground voice.
“All right!” he said, the acoustics of the church bouncing his words off the walls. “Let’s go put out a fire.”
Sothe’s information indicated that the Patriot Guard were assembling at the foot of the Grand Span, in the crossroads where the Green Road met the River Road. Buildings lined the north side of the road, their fronts to the street and their backs to the edge of the river, whose bank was steep and rocky. They were mostly two- or three-story structures, upscale shops and cafés—by Docks’ standards—where the best of the Southsiders could mingle with Islanders who wanted to do a bit of slumming or search for bargains.
South of the River Road, the Docks proper began, shipping company offices and vast warehouses for every kind of good. The streets were reasonably regular, unlike the confused warrens of Oldtown, but they jinked and twisted to make their way between the uneven buildings. Marcus’ small group had used this to good advantage, staying well clear of the fighting at the south end of Newtown and approaching the crossroads from the southeast, under cover of a four-story brick building that bore the sign of the Silver Eagle Import/Export Company.
The Silver Eagle building was not one of those the Patriot Guard had mined, and the Leatherbacks had found it abandoned. Walnut forced the back door open with casual ease, and they padded cautiously through ranks of scriveners’ desks that showed signs of being abandoned in haste. Paper was everywhere, toppled piles scattering and shifting underfoot. Marcus left Walnut in command at ground level and followed Sothe up the back stairs, where a trapdoor let them onto a narrow walk overlooking the shingled roof.
From there, they had a good view. To the south, Marcus could see smoke rising. The Patriot Guard had constructed small barricades at regular intervals, but judging by the volume of musketry he could hear in the distance they weren’t making a strong effort to defend them. It’s all part of the trap. They were falling back slowly, luring Janus and his commanders into pushing into the bomb-lined street. If we can’t stop the Penitent, she’ll burn them all to ashes.
Just ahead, in the crossroads, a small squad of Patriot Guards was gathered around a bonfire of stacked logs. It was just starting to catch, fire licking up from the straw beneath it, a column of white smoke rising into the sky to match the pink-gray powder smoke at the other end of the Green Road. Marcus counted twenty guards—not a strong force, considering the importance of the operation. Unless Sothe has her information wrong.
As though reading his thoughts, Sothe said, “I think Maurisk is keeping the involvement of the Penitent Damned as quiet as he can. He won’t want more eyes here than he needs.”
“So where is she?” Marcus said.
“Coming.”
“You’re sure?”
Sothe’s lip quirked, but without humor. “People don’t lie to me. At least not for very long.”
She unslung the rifle from her back and started loading it, working hard with the ramrod to jam the tight-fitting ball down the barrel. Once it was prepared to her satisfaction, she propped it on the thin railing that protected the roof walk, sighting on the crossroads and the bonfire.
If she’s wrong, we’re all in deep shit. It was a lot of trust to place in a self-admitted ex-Concordat agent. But Raesinia’s faith in Sothe was implicit. And we don’t have a lot of other choices.
“I’ll head down, then. In case you miss.”
“I won’t miss,” Sothe said, not looking up. “But be ready in case one shot isn’t enough. I’ll join you when I can.”
When Marcus returned to ground level, the Leatherbacks were ready. The Silver Eagle building had one large double door and several smaller entrances, and teams were stationed next to each, prepared to rush the crossroads. Those who had muskets waited beside the old-fashioned leaded glass windows. Marcus doubted any of them would qualif
y as a marksman, so it didn’t matter much that the range was long enough that accurate shooting was going to be difficult.
Walnut, who seemed to have assumed the position of second in command, met Marcus at the stairwell. Marcus found himself half expecting a salute.
“We’re ready,” the big man said. “The grenade team is by the doors.”
“Make sure the musketeers know that they should only fire one volley,” Marcus said. “Otherwise they’ll be as dangerous to us as the Patriots.”
Walnut nodded and moved off, whispering a few words to the men and women crouched by the windows. Marcus took a position by a glass pane less distorted than most, offering a reasonably clear view of the crossroads. Beside him, a plump older woman he wouldn’t have been surprised to find selling him flour and vegetables clutched a musket in sweaty hands.
Outside, a carriage pulled up beside the bonfire, driven by another sash-wearing Patriot Guard. The door opened, and there she was—an old woman, cloaked against the autumn chill, walking with the aid of a cane. She descended one step at a time, carefully, but none of the soldiers offered to help her. The Patriot Guards obviously knew something about who she was, in fact, because they began to drift discreetly away, keeping as much distance between themselves and the sorceress as duty would allow.
Marcus found himself holding his breath. One shot. One good shot and this is over. The old woman reached the ground and walked, slowly, toward the growing bonfire. What is she waiting for? Sothe—
Fire leapt upward with a roar, streaming off the bonfire and swirling around the old woman like a glowing ribbon. An instant after, Marcus heard the crack of a rifle, and saw something hit the burning, twisting flames with a shower of sparks. The old woman didn’t even flinch, merely raised one hand, and bolts of fire slashed upward at the roof of the Silver Eagle.
“Oh, fuck,” someone said.
“Saints and martyrs.”
“It’s a demon. A demon!”
Several of the Leatherbacks were frantically making the sign of the double circle. Give them any longer, and they’ll run for it. He couldn’t blame them—fighting Patriots was one thing, and demons were quite another. We can’t give them time to think.
“Go!” he roared. “Now! Grenadiers, hit that woman with everything you have!”
Walnut, musket looking toylike in his enormous hands, swung the butt of the weapon into the glass of a window. It shattered, and he aimed through the gap and pulled the trigger, smoke boiling out of the lock and around the other Leatherbacks. To Marcus’ surprise, one of the Patriot Guards toppled.
That was enough to get the rest of them moving. A man old enough to be Marcus’ father pushed the double doors open and charged with a yell, waving a sword that looked older than he was. A girl younger than Andy followed, a butcher knife in each hand. More glass shattered, and an irregular volley of musketry veiled the face of the Silver Eagle building in smoke. Balls found a few more of the startled Patriots, while sparks flew from the whirling fire defending the Penitent Damned woman.
Walnut tossed his musket aside and hefted a long iron-banded staff, following the main group out through the double doors. Marcus, falling in beside him, drew his sword and added his voice to the others. It was pointless to try and exercise command of a crowd like this once battle had been joined—they would fight, or they would run, and there was very little he could do in either event. Besides, what orders are left to give?
The Patriot Guards took a moment to recover from their surprise, and another few moments to shoulder their muskets, in which time the attackers had covered much of the distance. When they fired, they were at close range, though still evidently rattled. Leatherbacks in the front line pitched over or crashed to the ground as though they’d tripped, moaning or screaming or lying still and silent. Marcus saw the rest were moving too quickly to falter, though, and clearly the Patriots agreed. As one man, they turned to run, but only those farthest from the Silver Eagle building got the chance. Leatherbacks and Dockwomen swarmed over the rest, clubbing and stabbing.
The old woman, whose attention had been focused on the roof, lowered her gaze to deal with the more immediate threat. She spread her fingers, and tendrils of flame licked out like whips, igniting anyone they touched as though the attackers had been doused in lamp oil. The woman who’d been standing beside Marcus screamed as she went up like a torch, dancing like a mad, blazing marionette until she collapsed, still burning. Farther forward, one of the grenadiers was hit, and her satchel exploded with a thunderous roar, spraying blood and bits of flesh in all directions.
That seemed to give the old woman pause, and the fire curled about her like a snake wrapping her in burning coils. One of the grenadiers, a gawky blond boy, dug one of the makeshift bombs out of his satchel and threw it. The fiery snake snapped out, intercepting the projectile in midair, and the powder burst blasted the snake’s head into a thousand gobbets of flame that sprayed in every direction.
The woman took a step back as Walnut and one of Jane’s girls skidded to a halt and hurled their own grenades, her fire again flicking out to catch the bombs. It caught one, but the blast scattered it badly enough that the second grenade reached the ropes of flame coiled around the Penitent Damned, detonating mere feet from her. Fire sprayed like liquid, raining down across the crossroads in a shower of white-hot droplets, and Marcus’ view of the old woman was obscured by the cloud of powder smoke.
It won’t finish her, he thought. Raesinia had nearly hit her with a powder barrel, back in the warehouse, and that hadn’t been enough. Someone has to go over and drive a knife in her heart, just to be sure.
“Marcus!” a girl’s voice shouted. “The seedies are coming!”
Marcus spun. Coming up the street from the south was a mob of militia, a hundred or more, some of them already grimed with powder smoke. They must have been in the fighting already. Marcus’ Leatherbacks, staggered by the Penitent Damned’s supernatural assault, hesitated in the face of this new threat, and Marcus could feel them teetering on the brink of flight. Damn.
There was exactly one option open to him to prevent this from becoming a massacre. He gestured desperately with his sword at the cloud of smoke.
“Walnut, make sure she’s down.” Marcus wasn’t certain the big man heard him over the shouts of the charging militia, but there was no more time. He raised his own voice to a hoarse roar. “Everyone else, follow me!”
He slashed his sword down and started to run, straight at the oncoming mass of seedies. It was, he thought, a throwback to an earlier era, when the primary role of a commander was to be the man who literally led the way. He wanted to look over his shoulder, to make sure they were actually following, but that would make his doubt visible. In any event, it was too late. If they’re not following, this is going to be a really short charge . . .
Pistol shots sounded from behind him, and seedies in the front rank went down. Marcus gritted his teeth and focused on the man directly in front of him, a thin, wiry type with a scraggly beard. He carried a cudgel, which he waved over his head in an impressive but impractical fashion.
Marcus timed his move carefully, slowing his headlong run and pulling up short before he collided with the thin man. The seedie hadn’t been expecting that, and his club was already coming down in an arc that took it over Marcus’ head. Marcus let the man’s wrist bounce off his shoulder and thrust, the seedie’s momentum doing most of the work of driving him onto the blade. The man just behind him, a larger fellow in a long flapping coat, stumbled to an awkward halt and tried to bring his spear to bear; Marcus jabbed with his off hand, breaking the seedie’s nose with a crunch and buying him enough time to let the dying man slide off his blade. The spearman, one hand clutching at his face, thrust vaguely in Marcus’ direction, and Marcus sidestepped and lopped off his hand at the wrist.
He left the crippled seedie to scream and tried to look around. The Leatherba
cks had followed, enough of them at least, and the two groups had collided in a general melee that bore little resemblance to any kind of organized military action. Small groups fought back to back for a few moments before the press tore them apart, the battle dissolving into a confusion of individual duels. Marcus watched a teenage girl fire a pistol full in the face of a huge, bearded man, then charge another seedie with a butcher knife, ramming it past his frantic parries to open a huge gash in his thigh. She spun, triumphant, only to find a spearman thrusting his weapon into her ribs. When she opened her mouth to scream, only bubbling blood emerged.
A housewife still in her apron kicked a seedie’s feet from under him and put a dagger in his eye, as neatly as if she were dispatching a chicken for the pot. An older man, screaming the battle cry of some defunct regiment, charged with ancient sword in hand, but tripped over the prone body of a seedie and went sprawling. Two other seedies immediately set about him with clubs, blood flying. A scared-looking boy crawled through the fighting, leaving a trail of blood from one leg, but when a seedie bent to finish him off, his victim surged back to his feet and buried a knife in the attacker’s throat.
Marcus, with his sword and his uniform, was evidently not a tempting target. The seedies gave ground rather than face him, and he cut down two men from behind when companions who’d been watching their backs fled. Another man came at him with a spear, which Marcus barely dodged, slamming the hilt of his sword down on the seedie’s hand as it went past. The man dropped his weapon and stumbled back, cursing.
Something dropped from the second story of the Silver Eagle building, a lithe black shape that landed in a crouch behind the mass of seedies. Two men nearby turned and raised their weapons, and steel flashed yellow-gold in the light of the bonfire. They both spun away, spraying blood into the dirt, and Sothe got to her feet with a long knife in each hand.
The Price of Valor Page 57