by Lana Nielsen
He struck her a second time, his hand slightly cupped. Her bum stung.
She tried to get up, but he took her by shoulders and pressed her against the barrel again.
“Fallon,” she hissed. “This is ridiculous. I’m not a child, not your wife, not your servant, not anyone whom you’d have the right…”
“You are my subject, a woman of Darothmere,” he cut her off. “As a lord, I have the right to discipline defiant subjects.”
He spanked her three more times, in quick succession.
“We’re in public...” she murmured, her skin hot, her thoughts becoming foggy. She tried to move her hands over her bottom but he laughed and painfully wrenched them aside.
She huffed, and he swatted her again. He seemed to be putting all his power into each strike—she was sure she’d be sore, perhaps even bruised.
Arithel felt warm and woozy. Though she hated to admit it, she was starting to enjoy the sensation. She liked the slapping sound of his hand against her flesh. She liked the sharp, fleeting pain. As he continued, she noticed his hands often lingering on her thighs and arse between blows. She was a little glad to have provoked him to the point of lashing out.
Fallon stopped abruptly. He was breathing heavily and backed away from her.
She scrambled to her feet, no worse for wear.
Fallon fumbled for his pipe. He looked as if he wished to be left alone.
“I’m sorry if you feel I disrespected you,” she said softly.
“Don’t be,” he muttered. “You’re just used to browbeating everyone. You simply need to understand that things are different now. It’s a different world, and I intend to take more than just my birthright from it.” Fallon shrunk away from her further.
“I’m glad to be with you,” she managed. “I lied in the tavern. There is nowhere I’d rather be than here on the road. You’re giving me this chance to be part of something—history, perhaps. “
“I knew we were alike.” Fallon smiled a little. “I’m proud of you.”
She folded her arms and looked down. The truth, as always, was deeper than she could possibly express.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Arithel and Fallon trudged towards the gate, scaling a shoulder-high fence to get out of the cesspits. Soon the scuffle was within sight; it was a riot outside the gate to the middle quarter. The gate was shut and bolstered. The crowd bayed to get through.
Though there had not been any cannon fire in a while, the chaos showed no signs of abating. A handful of Nureenian guards on horseback desperately attempted to control a swarm of three or four hundred Elinmoorians. Four cannons atop the battlements were aimed at the crowd. Nureenian soldiers standing on the wall readied their crossbows.
Arithel was surprised the Nureenians had yet to send for more reinforcements.
“We’re not going to be able to get out of the slums anytime soon,” she observed.
She and Fallon walked to the other side of the main road, weaving through mobs of curious bystanders. A disturbance formed in the middle of the crowd and even the spectators rushed in to see what was going on. Arithel and Fallon were swept into the movement, pushed forward by a sea of elbows and knees and shoulders. It was odd—the Nureenians had not moved from their posts. What was causing the Elinmoorians to go into a frenzy?
Soon she saw a fight. Of course. She was afraid of getting trampled; she slipped through the crowd, moving from one sliver of open space to the next. Fallon followed her. In mere moments, they were near the front of the mob.
“If we must wait, this is a good spot to do so,” Fallon said.
Arithel was not so sure. They were in clear sight of the Nureenians. She still had not told Fallon how they had followed her the night she met the Northmen. Chances were she was nobody to the Nureenians and they had merely been suspicious of her strange appearance. Still—better to be safe than sorry.
Arithel led Fallon to a better spot, against the wall of a butchery. It was a bit tighter, but at least they had a wall to lean against, and they were not right below the gate and cannons.
Two mounted Nureenians galloped past, the tails of their horses flicking so close to Arithel that a couple strands of hair flew in her face.
More horses arrived. Their hoofbeats clattered rhythmically; the Nureenians made a perimeter around the crowd. Shouting above the clamor of the mob, they warned the Elinmoorians to stand back and move away from the gate. Arithel shuffled a few feet to the left, her back against the wall.
“Looks like our rioters are more of a threat to each other than the Nureenians,” Fallon said.
It was true. Many folk in the center of the crowd were beating each other with crude clubs and tools. Some were throwing things—shovels, brooms, even forks and knives. Perhaps this was why the cannons had not sounded in so long; the Elinmoorians were taking out their frustration on each other instead of the outnumbered Nureenians.
“Shit!” Arithel breathed, and pointed out two men lying motionless on the ground. Blood seeped out from beneath their blackened, bloated faces. Their limbs were mangled like those of broken dolls.
“Trampled, no doubt,” remarked Fallon.
She spotted more fallen men. A few still moaned. The rioters stepped all over them as they fought, as if bodies were no more an impediment than stray pebbles or twigs. She could see the faces of the Nureenian sentinels in the forest again—their dark eyes, fixed upwards at the boughs of the trees. Had those men, in their moment of death, thought her just as fearsome and uncivilized as the slum dwellers here? Had they learned to expect such things in their northern and eastern colonies? Arithel imagined what the Southrons of the world said about Northerners—it was surely worse than what the Neldorins and Elinmoorians said about each other.
As one rioter clobbered another with a hammer, a girl from the crowd shrieked and ran in circles. She pushed her way to the gate, where she directed her fit at the guards, hysterically throwing clods of dirt at the wall.
One of the horsemen thundered towards her, his spear extended. He barked for her to get back, placing himself between her and the gate.
“He’s my brother!” she wailed through teary eyes. Her kerchief slipped off her head, and she bent down to pick it up.
“Stay back!” the horseman said, his voice echoing through the mouthpiece of his helmet. It was not the pointed metal cap the Nureenians usually wore, with its only embellishments leather flaps covering the ears. It had a shield-like metal mask attached.
The girl tried to push past him. He shouted another warning. In her apparent madness, she pounded her fists into the flanks of his horse. She screamed at the Nureenian. She was incoherent, but the gist of it was that he was in her way and she needed a doctor.
The Nureenian gutted her with his spear. She screeched a bit but quickly fell. She curled into a fetal position as she bled out on the street. The Nureenian cantered away and returned to his position as if killing a young girl was just an ordinary part of keeping order.
Initially, the crowd was silent. A few murmurs and gasps rose.
There were clear shouts of “murderer!”
A group of three men pulled the girl’s body out of the way. The man who had been bashed in the head with a hammer stumbled about, moaning, “What have they done to Rosalind?”
The crowd grew more volatile and aimed their fury at the Nureenians. A chant began, wavering at first but soon loud and steady. “No more rations! Give us bread! End the rations! Or we’ll take your heads!”
They pumped their fists in unison with their cries. Arithel simply watched, mesmerized by the scene.
Despite the Nureenians’ frantic calls for order, the crowd swelled and pressed forward. Arithel and Fallon were pulled back in. Even people in their houses joined the commotion, opening their shutters and encouraging the rioters.
Someone pitched lit torches at the gate. They fell short, landing amidst the crowd. Disorder turned into blind rage.
“Hold onto my arm. We can’t lose each
other!” Arithel told Fallon as the people around her pushed closer. The air was hot and thick. The smell of body odor and alcohol assailed her no matter where she turned.
The crowd swelled yet again. Everyone fell onto the person in front of them. There was no space; the rioters were completely pressed against each other. Their chanting became louder, so loud Arithel could hear nothing else. Several more people were knocked down. Their screams were quickly drowned out as they succumbed to stomping feet.
“This is no good!” Fallon yelled. “The Nureenians will fire the cannons again at this rate!”
She grabbed his hand and squeezed tightly. She pulled him to the right, elbowing her way through the crowd. Several people stepped on her feet and many cursed and threatened her as she rushed past them.
As she moved towards the edge of the crowd, the throngs of people became nearly impenetrable. She couldn’t get any air; waves of nausea hit her.
Progress was slow. Each time they pushed past a row of people, more bodies rushed in to fill the void and they were seemingly right back where they started. She jumped above the din to better assess the situation and glimpsed a group of Elinmoorians savaging a Nureenian soldier. They stabbed and slashed at his horse and reached out from every direction to tear at his limbs and clothes. They stripped him within a minute.
Unsurprisingly, one of the cannons sounded, its ball immediately smashing into the heads and shoulders of several rioters. The cannon ball continued to careen through the crowd. A cloud of smoke fanned through the air.
The cannons energized the masses.
“Things have gotten ugly,” Arithel remarked.
“Of course,” Fallon answered. “When rabble gather, they have as much sense as beasts. This sort of thing was always my father’s worst fear. If Tiresias embraced the Ankarian crown instead of calling himself the ‘People’s General,’ he wouldn’t have these sorts of problems. The conquered do not respect their conquerors without an iron fist. That is why Tiresias will fall quickly once we bring Darren into the picture. His assets, his lands are more responsibilities than true possessions.”
Arithel was amused by his response. By all accounts, the Nureenians were thorough colonizers. They lived in the best quarters of their conquered cities, built massive plantations, and levied taxes at every opportunity. They seized the grain and wealth of their subjects and were even now setting rations. And Fallon… he thought their issue was that they weren’t harsh enough?
The folk standing nearby scowled at him, no doubt having overheard him. Arithel suspected they might have beaten him then and there, had they not been more interested in assaulting Nureenians and howling for bread. Many of the protest chants had devolved into scattered whoops: “Bread!” “Murderer!” “Maggots!” or “Southron Snakes!”
The Nureenian guards fired their crossbows. The bolts felled maybe a dozen people, but once again the show of force only succeeded in further inciting the crowd. Slumdwellers pulled another Nureenian from his horse and beat him senseless with tin plates. Some of the rioters, seemingly possessed by some supernatural fury and strength, bit him, shredding arm muscles and tendons from the bone.
Arithel and Fallon got boxed into an even tighter spot and were barely able to move. Some woman obliviously pumping her fist whacked him in the head. Arithel glanced around, desperately searching for some escape. Many of the rioters were headed her way; the bolts were sparse where she was. She sensed there would be a mass trampling soon.
“We need to get to that building,” she said to Fallon, nodding towards the nearest house. She had no idea if it was locked or whether the inhabitants would be hostile. “Hell, any building!”
The crowd surged as another cannon went off. The ball struck the ground close to where she stood, smoldering and hissing. Two men fell between Arithel and Fallon, breaking their grasp on one another. He was quickly swept away.
Arithel jumped up many times, frantically trying to find him. Her efforts were futile. There was smoke everywhere and there were just too many heads to reckon with.
She swore relentlessly and shoved some of the folk around her in anger. Few noticed. They collectively ducked as another cannon sounded. The gunsmoke was thicker and gave her a coughing fit. The ball landed just rows behind her. She heard a shriek followed by wailing. Arithel didn’t look back to see what happened; she focused on survival. Fallon was on his own. He could handle himself. She had to find shelter, out of the crowd. She would break shutters or windows if she had to.
“Goddamnit!” she yelled, mired in place. She soon saw why; a line of young men carried great wooden beams, forcing themselves through the crowd and towards the gate. They sang a war ballad, as if they were knights instead of angry street-urchins. She ran beside them, but in the other direction, taking advantage of the temporary space. She made it about twenty feet, but no further. Once the men were gone the bodies rushed back in and she could not break free.
“The slums are going to burst,” she said. More Nureenians appeared atop the wall, firing bolts twice a minute. She kept her arms above her head and in front of her face. She couldn’t even see the bolts through the haze. Only screams and grunts gave her some indication of where they landed.
More cannons were fired. Arithel gritted her teeth and crouched behind some tall men, praying that chance would be on her side. It was. But the sense of claustrophobia did not improve. The idiotic crowd still bounded with energy. They didn’t realize they were fish in a barrel for the Nureenians.
This is only the beginning of the bloodshed, she figured.
Desperate, she decided to take matters into her own hands. If she could influence the people near her, get them to settle some, perhaps she could escape.
“Stop, all of you! Stop this nonsense! You’re only going to get yourselves killed. The whole city will get smaller rations because of this! This will not change the Nureenian mind!”
A red-faced man told her to shut her trap. Arithel warned them again how foolish their plight was and that they’d only be alive at the end of the day if they went home.
The lad punched her in the face.
The blow sent Arithel spinning. She briefly blacked out. As she staggered about, trying to keep her balance, she mumbled, “fuck, fuck, fuck….”
Perhaps out of shock for how hard she had been hit, the crowd parted just enough to allow her through. She groggily stumbled for the nearest alley, head pounding as blood dripped from her nose. Her vision seemed to vibrate every couple of seconds, in tandem with her heartbeat. Arithel had never been hit so hard in her life. It was even worse than when the raider had kicked her into the river. She feebly wiped the blood from her face.
She stopped to breathe, coughing and dizzy. To her relief, the crowd was thinning, though they were still boisterous. She looked up and saw women and boys hanging out of windows, firing slingshots and throwing spoons, knives, ladles—anything they could get their hands on. It was utter, complete mayhem. There were calls to “burn the city!” ringing out from every direction. Arithel could not think of a worse course of action. Was there a worse place to be during a fire?
She crawled through the shattered window of a ransacked brewery. Nobody was inside save a pitiful mutt growling under a damaged table. She sat in a corner, attempting to escape the noise, which only made her headache worse.
Volleys of cannons went off: four, five, six, seven. If that would not quell this havoc, what could? She heard another booming sound, though not as loud as the cannon. This was more of a popping noise; there were about nine or ten rounds of it. She wondered if these were the muskets Frey had spoken of, if the Nureenians had employed their new technology for something as mundane as a slum riot.
She worried about Fallon. Had the cannons or arrows claimed him? Surely not. With his many gifts and cleverness, he must have devised some sort of escape.
Of course, that was wishful thinking. Deep down, she knew that Fallon was not at all prepared for these sorts of circumstances. He was a lordling and
had a hard time dealing with things that didn’t go according to plan. She envisioned his broken body, trampled under the feet of hundreds of slum-dwellers. The whims of the crowd must have been terrifying for him.
She noticed smoke spreading down the alley, towards the shop. She squinted, wondering how it was possible. With great horror, she realized a large section of the crowd was tearing her way. Were the rioters giving up, fleeing?
Arithel figured they’d rush the exposed, open brewery. She had to leave. Without a second thought, she drew her sword and barged through the door of the nearest intact house. A teenage girl tried to push her out, but Arithel simply pointed her sword at the girl’s chest. The girl let her pass, and Arithel locked the door herself.
“It’ll be all right. I’m only hiding,” she explained.
The girl nodded.
“Put that bench in front of the door, underneath the knob,” Arithel ordered. The girl complied. Arithel put her sword back in its sheath and sat on an empty crate beside the shuttered window. Through a narrow gap in the blinds, she watched the crowd rush past, several Nureenians on horseback trailing behind them, bloodied spears held aloft.
The Nureenians obviously had plenty of reinforcements.
The girl stared at Arithel with curiosity, her eyes lingering on her cloak pin, earrings, and belt. She smiled a little. Arithel smiled back, and reassured her: “We’ll be safe. They’ll all be gone in a few minutes.”
The girl nodded; her eyes still wide. “You’re from the inner gate,” she muttered, and looked down at her feet.
“No,” replied Arithel. “I’m from another country.”
The girl asked no further questions.
Arithel noticed something funny outside. Zander, the giant Northman and thrall to the bastard prince, was walking past the house. Unlike the rest of the rioters, he ambled along at a leisurely pace, seemingly oblivious to the commotion around him. There was no mistaking him—he stood heads above anyone else.