Rise Of Empire (45 page)

Amilia moved to the empress’s side, took her hand, and escorted her back to her quarters. “You’ll be the death of me yet,” she told her.

H
adrian sat in the rain. Heavy chains shackled his ankles and wrists to a large metal stake driven into the ground. All day, and throughout the night, he waited in the mud, watching the lazy movements of the Nationalist army. They were just as slow to decide his fate as they were to attack. Horses walked past, meals were called, and men grumbled about the rain and the mud. The gray light faded into night and regret consumed him.

He should have escaped, even if it had meant shedding blood. He might have been able to save Arista’s life. He could have warned her that the Nationalists would not cooperate and would have her call off the attack. Now even if she succeeded, the victory would be short-lived and she would face the gallows or a beheading.

“Gill!” he shouted as he saw the sentry walking by in his soaked cloak.

“Ah yes!” Gill laughed, coming closer with a grin. “If it isn’t the
grand marshal.
Not so grand now, are you?”

“Gill, you have to help me,” he shouted over the roar of the rain. “I need you to get a message to—”

Gill bent down. “Now why would I help the likes of you? You made a fool out of me. Sergeant Milford weren’t too
pleased neither. He has me running an all-night shift to show his displeasure.”

“I have money,” Hadrian told him eagerly. “I could pay you.”

“Really? And where is this money, in some chest buried on some distant mountain, or merely in another pair of pants?”

“Right here in the purse on my belt. I have at least ten gold tenents. You can have it all if you just promise me to take a message to Ratibor.”

Gill looked at Hadrian’s belt curiously. “Sure,” he said. Reaching down, he untied the purse. He weighed it in his hands. The bouncing produced a jingle. He pulled open the mouth and poured out a handful of coins. “Whoa! Look at that. You weren’t joshing. There’s really gold in here. One, two, three … damn! Well, thank you, Marshal.” He made a mock salute. “This will definitely take the sting out of having to stand two watches.” He started to walk away.

“Wait!” Hadrian told him. “You need to hear the message.”

Gill kept walking.

“You need to tell Arista not to attack,” he shouted desperately, but Gill continued on his way, swinging the purse, until his figure was obscured by the rain.

Hadrian cursed and kicked the stake hard. He collapsed on his side, lost in frustration. He remembered the look on Arista’s face, how hopeful she had been. It had never crossed her mind that he could fail. When he had first met the princess, he had thought she was arrogant and egotistical, like all nobles—grown-up brats, greedy and self-centered.

When did that change?

Images flooded back to him. He remembered her hanging out her wet undergarments at Sheridan. How stubbornly she had slept under the horse blanket that first night outside, crying herself to sleep. He and Royce had both been certain
she would cancel the mission the next day. He saw her sleeping in the skiff that morning when they had drifted down the Bernum, and remembered how she had practically announced her identity to everyone when drunk in Dunstan’s home. She had always been their patron and their princess, but somewhere along the way she had become more than that.

As he sat there, pelted with rain and helpless in the mud, he was tormented with visions of her death. He saw her lying facedown in the filthy street, her dress torn, her pale skin stained red with blood. The Imperialists would likely hoist her body above Central Square or perhaps drag it behind a horse to Aquesta. Maybe they would cut her head off and send it to Alric as a warning.

In a flash of anger and desperation, he began digging in the mud, trying to dislodge the stake. He dug furiously, pulled hard, then dug again—wrenching the stake back and forth. A guard spotted him and used a second stake on the chains connected to his wrists to stretch him out flat.

“Still trying to get away and cause mischief, are ya?” the guard said. “Well, that ain’t gonna happen. You killed Gaunt. You’ll die for that, but until then, you’ll stay put.” The guard spat in his face, but the effect was hardly what he sought, as the rain rinsed it away. It crushed Hadrian to know that it was Arista’s rain washing him clean. Lying there, he saw the first sign of dawn lightening the morning sky and his heart sank further.

Emery could see the horizon as the faint light of dawn separated sky from building and tree. Rain still fell and the sound of crickets was replaced by early-morning stirrings. Merchants appeared on the street far earlier than usual, pushing carts and rolling wagons toward the West End Square. They
neglectfully left them blocking the entrances from King’s Street and Legends Avenue.

Other men came out of their homes and shops. Emery watched them appear out of the gray morning rain, coming one and two at a time, then gathering into larger groups as they wandered aimlessly around the square, drifting slowly, almost hesitantly, toward the armory. They wore heavy clothes and carried hoes, pitchforks, shovels, and axes. Most had knives tucked into their belts.

A pair of city guards working the end of the night shift—dressed only in light summer uniforms—had just finished their last patrol circuit. They stopped and looked around at the growing crowd with curious expressions. “Say there, what’s going on here?”

“I dunno,” a man said, and then moved away.

“Listen, what are you all doing here?” the other guard asked, but no one answered.

Barefoot and dressed in a white oversized shirt and a pair of britches that left his shins bare, Emery strode forward, feeling the clap of the sword at his side. “We’re here to avenge the murder of our lord and sovereign, King Urith of Rhenydd!”

“It’s him. It’s Emery Dorn,” the guard shouted. “Grab the bastard!”

The guards rushed forward, but they were too late to realize their peril as the groups closed around them, sweeping together like a flock of birds.

The soldiers hastily drew their swords and swung them. “Back! Get back! All of you! Back or we’ll have the lot of you arrested!”

Hatred filled the faces of the crowd and excitement crept into their eyes. They jabbed at the soldiers with pitchforks and hoes. The guards knocked them away with swords.

For several minutes the crowd taunted with feints and
threats, and then Emery drew his blade. Mrs. Dunlap had found the sword for him. It had once belonged to her husband. In all his years of service, Paul Dunlap, carriage driver for King Urith, had never had occasion to draw it. The steel scraped as Emery pulled the blade from the metal sheath. With a grim expression and a set jaw, he pushed his way through the circle and faced the guards.

They were sweating. He could see the wetness on the upper lip of the closest man. The guard lunged, thrusting. Emery stepped to the side and hit the soldier’s blade with his own, hearing the solid
clank
and feeling the impact in his hand. He took a step forward and swung. It felt good. It felt perfect, just the right move. The tip of his sword hit something soft and Emery watched as he sliced the man, cutting him across the chest. The soldier screamed, dropping his sword. He fell to his knees, his eyes wide in shock, clutching himself as blood soaked his clothes. The other guard tried to run, but the crowd held him back. Emery pushed past the wounded man and, with one quick thrust, stabbed the remaining guard through the kidney. Several cheered and began beating the wounded men, hacking them with axes and shovels.

“Enough,” Emery shouted. “Follow me!”

The guards’ weapons were taken and the crowd chased Emery to the flagstone building with the iron gate. By the time they arrived, Carat was already picking the lock. They killed those on duty only to discover most of the rest were still in their beds. A few had gotten to their feet before the mob arrived. They stabbed the first confused man through the ribs with a pitchfork, which he took with him when he fell. Emery stabbed another and an axe took a third’s shoulder partway off, lodging there so that the owner had to kick his victim to pull the axe free. Swords and shields lined the walls and lay in pine boxes. Steel helms and chain hauberks sat on shelves.

The mob grabbed these as they passed, discarding their
tools of trade for tools of war. Only ten men guarded the armory and all died quickly, most beaten to death in their beds. The men cheered when they realized they had taken the armory without a single loss of life from their side. They laughed, howled, and jumped on tables, breaking plates and cups and whatever else they could find as they gleefully tested out their new weapons.

All around him, Emery could see the wild looks in the eyes of the men and realized he must wear a similar expression. His heart was pounding, his lungs pumping air. He felt no pain at all from his back now. He felt powerful, elated, and a little nauseous all at the same time.

“Emery! Emery!” He turned to see Arista pushing through the men. “You’re too slow,” she screamed at him. “The garrison is coming. Get them armed and formed up in the square.”

As if pulled from a dream, Emery realized his folly. “Everyone out!” he shouted. “Everyone out—now! Form up on the square!”

Arista had already begun organizing those men who remained outside into two lines with their backs to the armory and their faces to the square.

“We need to get weapons!” Perin shouted at the princess.

“Stay in line!” she barked. “We’ll have them brought out. You have to maintain the lines to stop the garrison from charging.”

The men who stood in line holding only farm tools looked at her, terrified, as across the square, the first of the soldiers struggled to push away the wagons and carts that had been rutted in the mud. Before long, the men Emery had shooed out began taking their place in front of the line.

“Form up!” Emery shouted. “Two straight lines.”

Arista ran back into the armory and began grabbing
swords and dragging them out. She spotted Carat stealing coins from a dead man’s purse and shoved him against a wall. “Help me carry swords and shields out!”

“But I’m not allowed to,” he said.

“You’re not allowed to fight, but you can carry some swords, damn it. Just like you unlocked the door. Now do it!”