The Seven-Petaled Shield (16 page)

Zevaron rolled off the bed and scrambled to his feet. Around him, the room churned with movement. Men jumped up, pulled on boots, cursed, and shoved one another.

The man at the door shouted, “Hurry!”

“What’s going on?” Zevaron asked one of his companions from the night before.

One of the other men grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the door along with the others. They scrambled up the corridor and down the single broad step, spilling out onto the street. The man who had shouted them awake urged them on.

Outside, the moon had set, leaving the city in darkness. To the north, orange light painted the horizon. The harbor was burning.

Stumbling, Zevaron half fell against the nearest man, who shoved him upright. His ears rang with the mingled clash of swords, and the cries of men, many men. Half a block away, he and the others reached a stone building. A single door stood gaping, and two men in battle gear were handing out weapons: swords, spears, long knives, shields. If
they were arming the civilians, preparing for fighting in the streets, the situation must be desperate.

Mother!

Zevaron turned south, back toward the governor’s palace. In the crowd, he could not go more than a few steps. A burly man in a soldier’s tunic blocked his path, forcing him away.

“Let me go!” he cried. “I have to—”

But the soldier ignored him and dragged him along with the crowd.

The confusion let up at the entrance to the armory, where one of the soldiers shoved a battered, thick-bladed sword into his hands.

“You don’t understand—” Zevaron broke off, realizing that in his desperation, he had reverted to his own language.

“Foreigner, fight-you for Isarre,” the officer snarled, or so Zevaron understood his meaning. The second officer pointed him to a knot of similarly armed men. A couple were holding their swords, testing their heft and balance, as if they had training in their use.

“This way! For Gatacinne and the King!” The officer raised his own sword. The polished blade caught the light. “Gatacinne! Gatacinne!”

Zevaron hesitated, but only for a moment. He might be able to escape into the city, disappear in the confusion, and make his way back to the palace. And risk being cut down as a deserter or a traitor. The instant passed. His body moved as if it knew the way, racing up the street with the others, north toward the harbor.

I’ll come back as soon as I can. As soon as the city is safe.

The streets were narrower here but less congested, and they were able to cover ground rapidly. Zevaron heard fighting ahead, not as one overwhelming uproar but as scattered islands of sound. They headed for the nearest one.

They burst out into a little square around a fountain. In the day, it might have been lined with outdoor food stalls, and children might have played in the water. Now fire raged across the south edge, devouring the wooden structures.
The square itself churned with smoke and falling cinders. Fighters were silhouetted against the brightness. The Gelon were obvious by their helmets and armor.

The Isarran officer screamed out an order, and the improvised company surged forward. After a moment’s confusion, the two forces engaged and all semblance of order disappeared.

Zevaron leaped a fallen body—a woman’s, he thought—and charged the nearest Gelon. The soldier swerved, bringing up his shield. Zevaron’s sword, wielded with both hands, clanged against it. The impact jolted up his arms, for the man was larger, heavier, and much stronger. Then Zevaron veered out of the way of the countering blow. He couldn’t think, not in the saturated chaos of fighting and night and smoke, but his muscles remembered their training. The drillmaster’s orders sent him dancing beyond the reach of his opponent’s weapon, then back in, using his speed and coordination. He struck again. His sword slid around the rim of the shield, piercing thin leather and slicing into flesh. The battered blade caught and dragged, sluggish. For a panic-stricken moment, Zevaron yanked hard, struggling to free the sword.

“Yahhh!”

A cry sounded behind him. Instinctively, he twisted away. The blade came free. A second Gelon bore down on him, so close and fast that if Zevaron had not already been moving, he would have been struck. He felt the sudden, whipping air as the tip of the Gelon’s sword caught his tunic. The first soldier had recovered somewhat and lumbered toward him. Zevaron could not tell how badly injured the first Gelon was, only that he now faced two of them. He hurled himself toward the wounded one, bashing at the shield as he darted past. The wounded Gelon turned, a trace too slowly, and from the swirling firelit darkness, an Isarran in blood-streaked armor rammed a spear into his unguarded side.

The Gelon toppled, taking the spear with him. Before he hit the ground, the Isarran leaped forward and grabbed the
invader’s sword from his limp fingers. For a fleeting instant, the Isarran met Zevaron’s gaze, then the soldier nodded and drove on to the second Gelon.

Zevaron turned back toward the center of the fighting, wondering for an instant how they were going to get beyond the burning buildings. The wooden structures looked like skeletons of flame. Shadowed figures moved through the conflagration, men struggling to contain it. Beyond them, through the smoke and falling ash, Zevaron glimpsed walls of stone and mud-brick.

One of those who’d come with him, one of the red-haired boys, staggered under a Gelon’s assault, lost his footing, and went down with a shriek. Zevaron lunged toward him. Two Gelon came at him, blocking his path. They pressed him, putting their greater weight behind their shields. Twisting and parrying, he gave way. He could not stand before them.

Zevaron jumped over a fallen body—Gelon, yes—and for an instant, found a little clear space around him. On every side, however, Isarrans were falling back.

The next moment, he spied the Isarran officer who had led them. The man’s armor had been hacked half to pieces and his left arm, covered in blood, hung uselessly at his side. He lifted his sword. Zevaron could not hear his words above the din, but his meaning was clear.

Retreat! Save yourselves to fight another day!

Zevaron hesitated, gazing once again at the line of burning buildings. The heat rolled over him, stealing his breath. Gaps appeared in the flames and disappeared as quickly. If he could find a way through or around—could he circle back to the palace?

The next moment, a wall of Gelonian shields bore down on him. With each step, the soldiers shouted in unison, but the words were swallowed in the uproar of the flames. The Gelon had fought like this before the gates of Meklavar, a coordinated attack, each defending his comrade’s weaker side. The ragtag Isarran defenders gave way like paper.

Zevaron did his best to cover the retreating Isarrans. The unfamiliar sword felt leaden and awkward, his movements
slower with each blow. He had been wounded but felt it only distantly. He could not remember how it had happened. There was no pain. Not yet.

A Gelon surged in from the side, slashing hard. Zevaron jumped back and the tip of the Gelon’s blade missed his belly by a hair’s breadth.

There was no room to fight and no way to stand fast. More Gelon poured into the marketplace. They pushed through the last shreds of resistance, driving the Isarrans toward the burning buildings. To every side, Zevaron watched the defenders scatter and vanish in the darkened streets. Within moments, only a few remained.

The Isarran officer paused on the edge of the square, gesturing encouragement to the stragglers. Zevaron raced after them, dodging along the narrow, twisting streets. Once or twice, he came upon a knot of fighting, Isarran soldiers in retreat, or a corner where the Gelon were consolidating their position.

The fading glow from the fire gave Zevaron a reference point. They were heading toward the harbor. Each step took him further from the governor’s palace and his mother. It was not difficult to slip away in the confusion and head back the way they’d come.

For a short time, things seemed to be going well. Keeping to the smaller streets, Zevaron managed to stay out of sight as he worked his way south. He tried to skirt the worst of the chaos, for he could not afford to be caught up in armed confrontation or risk being delayed or possibly disabled.

It was too bad this beautiful city had been invaded by the Gelons, but it was not his battle. He had to find his mother and get her out before things got any worse. The battle adrenaline was fading, so that he was beginning to feel half a dozen wounds. The sword felt heavier with each step, but he could not stop now.

I swore to my brother that I would look after her. I never should have left her!

The side street he was following debouched onto a broader avenue, the center blocked by an overturned cart.
Wooden crates had crashed onto the paving stones, scattering their contents as well as straw packing. Fist-sized orange fruits rolled in every direction. Two men struggled with the draft animal, some kind of ox with hugely rounded, back-curved horns, while a handful of children snatched up the fallen fruit. Several Gelonian soldiers barked out orders that only seemed to increase the confusion.

Zevaron merged with the other passers-by, some jeering at the Gelon, others going about their business. Some carried bundles and hurried by as quickly as possible. A woman carrying a basketful of cloth, laundry most likely, was looking the other way when she bumped into Zevaron. The basket tumbled to the ground. As he bent to help her, she glanced at his bloody sword and soot-streaked clothing, smothered a cry, and scurried away, leaving him with a handful of dirty clothing. Quickly, he wrapped the clothes around the sword. It made a long, lumpy bundle, hardly a disguise against a watchful eye but better than nothing.

If his sense of direction held, the palace was off the plaza just beyond the overturned cart. A barricade might have been set up, but he couldn’t be sure. He must not risk being noticed. With an effort, he slowed his pace, clutching the wrapped sword against his body. He lowered his eyes and slouched as if he were an insignificant nobody.

“You there!” one of the Gelon called.

Zevaron kept going. He pretended he had not understood, that he was of such little importance no one could address such a remark to him. He took another shuffling step and then another.

Although his heart thudded in his chest so loudly that the soldiers must surely have heard the racket, no hand reached out to restrain him. No cold steel pressed against his flesh.

He reached the fallen cart. Now he was passing the Gelon themselves.

“No, not you!” the same voice went on, still in Gelone. “The other one. Get back to your homes, where it’s safe! Go on, all of you! Clear out!”

Zevaron hazarded a sidelong glance in the direction of the Gelon. One of them had sheathed his sword and was helping to right the cart, while the others stood guard and directed traffic as more onlookers gathered. A man in a ragged cloak drew back one arm and hurled a stone at the nearest Gelon. The stone hit the edge of the soldier’s breastplate with a clang. A rush, a gathering of anger, coalesced in the scattered crowd. Zevaron paused, thinking the stone-thrower had been a fool, and yet he understood what it was like to become caught up in the moment.

Faster than Zevaron would have believed possible, the Gelon reacted. He sprinted across the street. The people in front of him scrambled out of the way. The next instant, he had wrestled his assailant to the ground. Only then did he draw his sword, resting its tip against the throat of the hapless man.

Zevaron had seen the Gelon work together with their ruthless coordination, but he had not realized how deadly these men could be, fighting face to face.

If I am to free Meklavar, I must learn to fight even better.

Zevaron hurried away, using the cover of the scattering crowd. Trying to keep to the shadows, he reached the next intersection. The tower facing the governor’s palace rose ahead of him. Torches dotted the plaza and the flat, broad steps.

Zevaron froze, watching in dismay as a line of prisoners, men and women, their hands bound in front of them, was led down those steps. Gelonian soldiers stood guard, and an officer in a plumed helmet shouted out orders.

He had come too late.

Z
EVARON stared open-mouthed as the prisoners were led away. His breath racked his body in heaving gulps. All his efforts had been bent on reaching the governor’s palace and taking his mother to a place of safety. It had never occurred to him that the Gelon might already have captured the palace.

He did not recognize any of the prisoners, but the women among them seemed to be serving maids. Their hands were tied and joined by a long rope. He had no way of knowing if Tsorreh had already been taken away or, if so, where that might be.

What should he do? Follow? Find out where the captives were taken? How? Who would know?

He felt slow and stupid as he tried to decide. What if Tsorreh were not among them? What if she were still in the palace and while he was following the other captives, the Gelon took her in another direction? On the other hand, to stay and watch might lose him precious time.

If he found her, then what? The convoy of prisoners was guarded, although not as heavily as the palace itself. Could he race up, cut her bonds, and snatch her away?

Get himself killed,
more like.

“You there!” A Gelonian soldier called out and pointed in his direction. “Come here!”

Clutching the wrapped sword, Zevaron whirled and sprinted away. As he turned, fire shot up one thigh. He remembered taking a cut there earlier. For a terrifying instant, the leg threatened to give way beneath him. Limping, he headed for the darkest avenue of escape.

He turned a corner and plunged into shadow. Pursuit sounded behind him, the pounding of feet, the thump and clatter of shield and scabbard against stone walls. He had nowhere to hide, no familiar district in which to lose himself. But if he did not know his way around the city, he reasoned, neither did the Gelon. They would expect him to run in a straight line, so he turned here and then there, to make his path more difficult to follow.