The Way of the Shield

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Clear a path!” he called out, and miraculously, they listened. He kicked his horse into action, and the people got out of his way, giving him an open route to Talon Circle.

  He drove forward, through a haze of smoke into madness, the nauseating odor of sewage hitting him in waves. Fires burned, blocking the other roads approaching the circle. This road was blocked by a cart turned sideways. Throughout the Circle a handful of armed, jeering men ran wild. Patriots by the look of them.

  One such man stood on top of the blockading cart, an imposing figure of strength and power. Just seeing the man in shadow, silhouetted by the flames across the way, Dayne knew this was the same man from the museum this morning, the one who struck down Jerinne.

  Tharek.

  With another kick to the horse’s flanks, Dayne charged at him. Tharek dropped down into his cart and came up with a crossbow.

  The horse barely made three paces before it dropped out from under Dayne. Dayne rolled out of the way as the collapsing horse hit the street—crossbow quarrel between its eyes. The other horse panicked and kicked as it was dragged down by their shared yoke, but Dayne couldn’t give it much thought. Another crossbow shot bounced off his shield.

  “Tarian!” Tharek shouted with an almost manic glee. “I had no idea I would be blessed with your presence.”

  Dayne drew his sword and dove in at Tharek, who dropped his crossbow and pulled up two more from the cart. Both shots fired, dead true at Dayne. Dayne let one hit his shield while twisting his body enough for the second to miss him. He allowed himself the barest glance back to make sure there were no innocents behind him who could be hurt by the stray shot. Most of the people were fleeing away from Talon Circle, where sewage creeped and bubbled through the street.

  Not losing any stride in the dodge or the glance, Dayne leaped up onto the cart with the intent of ramming Tharek with his shield.

  He made contact, but instead of knocking the man down, Tharek grabbed hold of the edges of the shield and twisted as he dropped backward. Dayne’s momentum hurled him, and he was in the air, sailing past the cart, the shield wrenched off his arm as he flew.

  Surprised, Dayne rolled with the throw and sprang back up to his feet, bringing up his sword in a defensive pose.

  Tharek drew his own, a great steel beast of a blade. “Let’s give these folks a worthy show, hmm, Tarian?”

  Chapter 13

  THE STENCH OF SEWAGE and fear thickened, as the various Parliamentarians clawed their way to the stairs.

  “There’s no way out down there,” Jerinne said, pressing her face to the window. “They’ve barricaded every door.”

  “They’ll tear each other apart before too long,” Madam Tyrell said. “Blazes. We need another option.” She glanced at the ceiling. “With me, Fendall.”

  Jerinne stayed at her side as she forced her way to the stewards by the service doors. She glanced back at the dining room. Most of the Parliamentarians were losing all vestiges of control. Two of the ladies were curled up on the floor under the table, grabbing each other in a manic embrace of tears. Only two were calm: Seabrook and Barton. They both stayed in their chairs, Seabrook still enjoying his cheese and wine as if nothing was happening. Barton was only waiting, palms together in a repose of utter patience.

  “Can we get to the roof?” Madam Tyrell asked the steward.

  “There’s no way down from the roof,” the steward said. “It won’t help you.”

  “But can we get up there from here?” Madam Tyrell asked.

  The two stewards looked at each other. “The dumbwaiter?” one offered.

  “It doesn’t go any higher.”

  “But the shaft does.”

  “Good enough,” Madam Tyrell said. “Jerinne!”

  She was running, Jerinne at her heels down the hallway, the stewards taking the lead. “Over here!” one of them said, opening up the panel to reveal the dumbwaiter.

  Madam Tyrell shoved the box frame down, revealing the bare shaft leading upward into darkness. It was very narrow—possibly too narrow for either of them to fit in.

  “Leave the shields,” she said, dropping hers. She shoved her head in, then came back up. “You’ll have to go first, Jerinne.”

  “Why?” Jerinne bit her tongue as soon as she said it. Madam Tyrell gave an order, she should just follow it.

  “That pulley system is housed in some sort of wooden vestibule, up on the roof it looks like. You’re going to have to smash you’re way out.”

  “Me?” Her feet still weren’t moving forward. Why was she talking instead of doing?

  “You’re skinnier,” she said. “You’ll have more space and leverage to knock your way out of that.”

  “Of course,” Jerinne made herself say. Grabbing hold of the edges of the portal, she pulled herself in head first.

  Dark. Musty. Her shoulders were pressed against the shaft walls. Barely any room to move.

  “Can you climb?”

  “I think so,” Jerinne lied. She had no idea. She stretched up her arm, scraping it against the wheel track, grabbing hold of the pulley rope. Getting a strong grip, she pulled herself up.

  All that did was pull the box frame back up, jamming it into her knees.

  “Saints and blazes!” she shouted.

  “Use both ropes, Initiate.”

  Jerinne cursed some more under her breath as she grabbed both ropes and yanked again. This time she pulled herself instead of the frame, squeezing up through the shaft. A cloud of dust and cobwebs hit her in the face, giving her a coughing fit.

  “You all right?”

  “Fine,” Jerinne said. She was not going to tell Madam Tyrell about the thing crawling on her face. She prayed to every saint that, whatever it was, it would not bite her.

  She kept climbing, inches at a time. She couldn’t see a blasted thing, and she hoped each time she moved her hands that they wouldn’t touch something horrible.

  There were probably bats living in this thing.

  “Initiate?” Madam Tyrell called. “You there?”

  “Almost, I think.” In fact, she had gotten her hands on the pulley work of the dumbwaiter. Bracing herself with her legs, she tapped at the walls around her. It sounded like open air, a simple wooden housing, hopefully on the roof. She knocked harder, and then formed a fist and struck at the wooden slats.

  All it did was hurt her hand.

  “Can you get out that way?”

  “One . . . moment . . .” Jerinne answered as she grabbed hold of the pulley work and pulled in her legs tight. She slammed both feet against the wall with everything she had. It creaked, but didn’t budge.

  “Jerinne?”

  She kicked again. Dust showered her and dropped down the shaft. The wood gave a little.

  “I think I have it.” Another kick, and her foot went through the wood with a satisfying crack.

  “I’m coming,” Madam Tyrell said.

  Jerinne kicked away the slat, and then the next. She pushed her feet out the hole, blindly searching for some sort of landing. Her toes brushed something solid as she scraped her body through the hole. Part of her coat caught on the loose wood, which she realized just as she let her weight drop down. The sound of fabric tearing made Jerinne wince.

  Vien was going to kill her.

  Fires were now burning in the street, blocking access to the circle on two sides. People were clearly trapped in the circle, huddling in the various store fronts, while other men—Patriots, obviously—ran around with truncheons, shouting and laughing.

  Two men were fighting full out with swords at another roadway. They were only shadowy figures in the firelight, but even from the rooftop, it was quite clear to Jerinne that one of them was the same man who had pummeled her this morning. The man called Tharek.

  And given the size and skill of the man holding him off, there was on
ly one person Jerinne thought it could be.

  “Dayne,” came the whispered voice of Madam Tyrell at her ear. “What the blazes is he up to?”

  Jerinne’s attention turned to the plinth, where Lannic was in the middle of a frothing rant, despite the fact that there was little chance anyone could hear him. But he held a knife in his hand, and he looked like he would use it on the man kneeling at his feet at any moment.

  Madam Tyrell’s eyes were on the ground below them. “We need to get those doors free. Let’s get down to the street, and clear those goons out, hear?”

  “I hear,” Jerinne said. Thoughts on how to get to the street flew through her brain. There was the rope attached to Lannic, which was latched to the harpoon contraption stuck in the side of the building.

  Jerinne grinned. This couldn’t have been better. She jumped off the roof and grabbed the rope, swinging it down with her weight.

  Lannic came flying off the plinth.

  Dangling halfway off the building, Jerinne quickly climbed down the rope to the ground, while Lannic lay in the fountain, moaning.

  There wasn’t any chance to enjoy it, though. As soon as Jerinne touched ground, several men with truncheons set upon her.

  * * *

  Tharek’s attacks were relentless and fiendish. Dayne’s skills in defending himself were furiously put to the test, especially since he didn’t have his shield. Every parry was a hair away from missing. Every step back was met with Tharek’s advance.

  It would almost have been fun, except there was plenty of other trouble all around the Circle. The rest of the Patriots—not the craftsmen with a weapon that Tharek was—were running about in pure chaos, wielding their truncheons with zealous glee on nearly everyone. The people trapped in Talon Circle were trying to get inside, get away. The Patriots enjoyed terrorizing them.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dayne saw something fall, and heard a sudden cry, and then a splash. Someone fell into the fountain. He didn’t dare glance away, but whatever happened gave Tharek pause, just enough to give Dayne the advantage. He parried the blade and stepped in close, grabbing Tharek’s wrist. A simple twist would relieve the man of his weapon.

  Twisting his wrist did not prove simple. Tharek managed to turn Dayne’s disarming maneuver against him, spinning his arm in a way so that Dayne found himself diving headfirst into the ground.

  Dayne rolled, using the momentum to get away from Tharek. If he could get to his shield, get some distance, he could rethink his strategy.

  Tharek didn’t press his advantage, dashing back to the cart. Dayne went for his shield. As he scooped it up, screams drew his attention to a woman taking shelter under the canvas awning of a dress shop. Two of the truncheoners were on her, ready to pummel her senseless. Or worse.

  Dayne charged in, shield raised, and crashed into the two Patriots. One of them was floored, the other merely knocked back. He raised his truncheon to strike at Dayne’s head—despite it being out of his reach—but Dayne grabbed his arm mid-swing. With one swift motion, Dayne twisted his arm around and pinned it to the ground.

  “Help! Help! Sweet saints, please!”

  Dayne looked up, pinning the Patriot to the ground with his knee. On the plinth there was the one man—blindfolded and on his knees with his hands tied behind his back—screaming. Dayne prayed he wouldn’t try to move. He’d easily plummet to his death.

  “Please!”

  Dayne realized it was Good Mister Parlin of the Parliament up there.

  He leaped up from the ruffian on the ground and ran toward the fountain, but he only got two steps before he heard the familiar twang of crossbow shots. Two bolts suddenly struck true in Parlin’s chest. He dropped off the plinth with a dull splash into the fountain, and ribbons of blood flowed out into the water.

  Dayne saw Tharek, standing on top of his cart, still pointing his crossbow up at the plinth. Tharek looked to Dayne, making sure that they saw each other.

  “The fate of all who betray Druthal!” Tharek shouted directly to Dayne.

  Tharek ran toward the fountain—toward Lannic, who Dayne now saw was floundering in the water, mere feet from Parlin’s body. Dayne moved to put himself in between the two of them. If he read the situation right, their goal was accomplished: fear, chaos, and assassination. There was nothing more to do but escape. Dayne would be damned if he let Tharek get to his associate.

  Braced and ready, shield on his arm, there was nothing Tharek could throw at him that had a chance of passing through his defenses.

  “Dayne!” the desperate cry came from his right. He permitted himself a glance, still not letting Tharek gain an inch of ground. Jerinne was there, in dress uniform, trying to hold off at least five men with truncheons, using only her sword and her wits.

  “Girl won’t last much longer,” Tharek taunted, now doing little more than feinting with his sword. He wasn’t pressing at all anymore.

  But he was right. Jerinne was lucky to have held them off as well as she had.

  Dayne wouldn’t give Tharek the satisfaction.

  “She’s a Tarian,” Dayne snarled back, shoving Tharek with his shield. “She will hold.”

  Something caught Tharek’s eye, and the taunting glee on his face washed away. “We’ll dance again, Tarian.” He stepped back and pulled out a small dagger, which he threw at Jerinne.

  Dayne dove out, putting his shield between the blade and the Initiate. In another moment he was in the thick of Jerinne’s fight, barreling down on the truncheon-bearing Patriots. Jerinne’s spirit was clearly renewed by him entering the fray—it only took a few moments to rout them. Some ran off, the others collapsed in the road.

  Dayne looked back to Lannic, and saw the very thing that must have sparked Tharek’s retreat: the raven-haired beauty in Tarian uniform, dragging the sputtering form of Lannic out of the fountain. Amaya held him in a headlock, and though he tried to claw at her arm, nothing he did had any chance of breaking her grip. Tharek was in there, but Amaya had her sword ready. She fended off his attacks fearlessly without yielding her hold on Lannic.

  “Dayne!” Jerinne shouted. While Dayne stared in a daze at Amaya’s glorious technique, Jerinne had run over to the cart that was blocking the entrance to the Talon Club. Her best efforts weren’t moving it an inch. Dayne rushed over to help shove it out of the way.

  Even with the two of them pushing, it was hard going. The Patriots had gummed the wheels somehow, and their combined strength could only force it to roll the barest amount.

  “Never mind pushing,” Dayne said, grabbing the handles of the cart.

  With every ounce he had left, he flipped the cart over on its side.

  As soon as it was clear, the door of the Talon burst open, and a frenzied crowd came pouring out. Dayne was knocked off balance, losing any clear sense of what was happening as well-born and high-class people forced their way out into the street. A hand grabbed hold of his, giving him anchor enough to pull himself out of the stream of bodies to the side of the door.

  Jerinne, still grasping Dayne’s hand, gave him an incredulous smile. “How the blazes did you even get here?”

  “I ran,” Dayne said, even though he knew it was a ridiculous answer. He looked back over to the fountain, eager to help Amaya before Tharek got the best of her.

  Tharek wasn’t to be seen anywhere.

  Only Amaya, standing victoriously on the edge of the fountain above the sea of refugees from the Talon. Her quarry still struggled pointlessly in the crook of her elbow.

  She was glorious.

  At that moment, there was no doubt in Dayne’s mind that she was a true Adept of the Tarian Order.

  The next moment, three King’s Marshals were on top of him, shouting that he was under arrest.

  Chapter 14

  JERINNE WAS SHOCKED AT what she was seeing. King’s Marshals were trying to clap Dayne in irons, even thoug
h he had just nearly saved everyone in the Talon singlehandedly.

  “You’ve got it all wrong!” Jerinne shouted, grabbing one of the marshals by the arm. “He wasn’t one of them!”

  “Don’t tell us our job, girl,” the marshal said, smacking her hand away. “Go back to playing with the rest of them.”

  “Oy!” came a shout from Madam Tyrell, who held Lannic in a rather satisfying headlock. “Why don’t you arrest the proper man here?”

  The lead marshal signaled to the others to push Dayne down to the curb. “We’ve got plenty to take in tonight, ma’am. Plenty of mess to clean up here.”

  “I’m sure,” Jerinne said.

  “You want irons too?” the marshal asked. Constabulary, Fire Brigade, and Yellowshields were all arriving in the Circle. The marshal pointed his men around the place. “Start clapping everyone who seems appropriate. We’ll get things sorted, take statements, and then haul off whoever needs it.” He gave a stern finger to Dayne, as if that was authority enough to keep the man in place, and then went to organize the rest of the emergency personnel.

  Dayne stayed seated on the curb in front of the Talon. Jerinne sat down next to him. “So who were you assigned to?”

  “No one,” Dayne said. “I just—I had a feeling trouble was going to start at the Talon. And I was right.”

  That seemed strange to Jerinne, but she let it go. “Thank the saints you did. It could have gone much worse.”

  “A member of Parliament has been murdered, Jerinne.” Dayne’s tone was full of resigned finality.

  “And many more are safe,” Jerinne said. Many still filed out of the Talon, most looking little more than rattled. “It could have gone much, much worse.”

  “Heldrin.” Price and Aldric strode over, their uniforms stained and stinking of sewage, but otherwise unhurt. “What the blazes are you doing in irons?”

  “A misunderstanding,” Jerinne offered before Dayne could speak. “The marshals are still trying to sort things out here.”

  “That’s rot,” Aldric said. “Heard what happened. We’d be stuck in that mess if not for him.”