“By the time I got there,” Woodro told his crowd of onlookers, “I was sweating. The boat was absolutely sweltering!”
Renado rolled his eyes and leaned back against the bar. Tass stood on the other side, helping herself to an afternoon drink, while Woodro entertained a group of barmaids and drunks with stories of his heroics. Ren supposed that it shouldn’t bother him. Woodro was the hero of that story, riding a flaming galley into a harbor of enemy soldiers and living to tell the tale.
Tass tapped a tall white drinking corn down on the varnished countertop. Her first ale for the day. They’d spent the last few days living here, in the Rogue River. Looking down on the cliffs of Sheld had grown steadily easier as the ash and airborne debris settled. The meals were filling and the drinks delicious, but everyone felt it. This was not life.
“Can you believe him?” Tassina asked.
Ren shook his head. “You shouldn’t be drinking, and you know it.”
“It’s a weak ale. There’s less alcohol in this than in the stew,” she said, defensively. “I’ve had only two ales in the last five days, so lay off.”
“Gods,” Ren said, and breathed through his teeth. He tried listening to Woodro’s story again but he’d heard it a hundred times and, in absence of a conversation, he groaned.
A man named Igo had been tasked with guarding the deck out front. Only loyalists were allowed in the Royal Rogue now, to ensure the safety of the wanted descendants of the Family of Gharo. Or Lerran, though Ren had never known it by that moniker. Igo came marching in, with a bearded man in tail. “This is Tobban,” the bouncer said. “He was a guard before. He’s a friend.”
“Tobban,” Ren said, with a nod.
The decommissioned guard wore a plaid wool tunic and was only armed with a plain short-sword. He offered his hand to Ren, and Ren took it, before Tobban joined them at the bar. “I’ve news for you,” he said. “A troop of Grey Brethren men are on the street, heading for the East Gate.”
“The land road?” Ren said. “Because their boats are burned?”
“My guess,” Igo said.
“Gods.” Ren sat up. The Grey Brethren were routed. He mulled over the thought and looked back at Tobban. Did he trust the man? It was a gamble either way. “How many men?”
“About twenty-five, I reckon,” Tobban said. “And they’ve got prisoners with them. In a cage on wheels and whatnot.”
“Prisoners?” Tass asked. Ren stood up and strode toward Woodro’s crowd. He gave his friend a wave, then turned back to the bar. It was the gamble then. The real gamble. Could they do it? Pacing back to them, he looked at Tobban. “How many other guards do you know?”
“For this? Three or four, I suppose. That won’t make much a difference, would it?” he asked.
Ren didn’t bother answering that. “And weapons? Bows?”
Tobban shrugged. “I can get my hands on enough. But how? There’s twenty-five!”
Woodro and Bran flanked Ren, to hear the conversation. Tobban’s group would double Ren’s party. But that wasn’t enough. “Igo,” Ren said. “We need more. If we can pick of twenty-five of them at once, it’ll send a message. This is the first fight we can win since I’ve been back in Sheld.”
Igo pursed his lips. “A few, I reckon. Give me a few,” he said. He nodded earnestly and marched into the staff room behind the bar.
“Tobban,” Ren said. “Get your friends, and whatever weapons you can carry up here with some semblance of stealth.” Ren was surprised to see Tobban salute him, as the retired guard marched forth from the Rogue River tavern.
When the group finally rallied properly, they united on the front deck. Tobban held true to his word, providing enough blades and bows for everyone—his friends and he had collected many of them from the ruins of Worker’s Rise. The Royal Rogue proved to be as loyal as they had claimed to be, more than doubling the party’s numbers. Including Ren, there were fourteen men and three women preparing themselves for the foray. They’d gathered quickly, but according to Tobban, the prison escort had left the harbour already.
Ren made Tass stay behind, of course, and then led the troop to the East Gate. It was a sunny day, and Ren was sweating by the time that he looked up at the gate. Behind the city wall loomed the wrinkled crags of Tieko’s Ridge. An old, unmarked road followed the creased foothills through the heavy forests to the edge of Tieko’s Deep.
“Ten of you against the wall there,” Ren instructed. He gestured toward another angle. “A few in that street opening. More in that one.”
“What about you?” Woodro asked.
“I’ll secure the prisoners, if it all goes according to plan,” Ren said. He planted one foot on the bottom curve of a bow, and expertly slid the string over the top bend.
Ren paced anxiously in front of a clothier shop while he waited. The group of men against the outer city wall were the least incognito, but they would also be the last to become visible as the Grey Brethren ascended the stairs along this street. A passing labourer with a cloth satchel over his shoulder gave Ren a cautious stare as he walked past the alley. Ren ignored him and played with the fletching of an arrow in the quiver at his waist.
Several minutes passed, as drips of sweat leaked down Ren’s neck and were absorbed by the linen collar of his leather cuirass. At last he spotted the Grey Brethren moving up the stairs and ducked deeper into the shadows to avoid being spotted. The prison wagon was full of grimy men in tattered rags, being hauled up the ramp portion of the street by two horses and a handful of the soldiers. Ren watched the troop walking past, and counted as they past. There were more than twenty-five, but not many more.
Two of the prisoners were standing, leaning against the bars, while the rest were scattered around the base of the metal prison cell. Ren couldn’t determine who any of them were. Once the soldiers were past, Ren stepped into the street and lined up an arrow with one of the prison guards. “Fire!” he bellowed. His arrows joined seventeen others and lodged into one of the many soldiers as screeches of pain and surprise echoed off the buildings.
Blood dripped to the street as several of the enemies fell. Thrown spears retaliated and two of Igo’s comrades were lodged into the wooden structures without a chance to cry out. “Charge!” roared one of the Brethren commanders, as Woodro’s lot readied another volley.
Sweat dripped into Ren’s eye as he stepped into the street. First, the diversion. The three guards that had been left in front of the prison wagon spotted him in the sunshine right away. But so did a prisoner. “Ren!” cried a big man, reaching through the bars. It was Omma, behind all the dirt and bruises of captivity.
One of the guards noticed the connection and held out his hands. “Guard your flanks, lads. He knows one of our guests.”
Ren ran around anyways, and came out of a much different alley a few minutes later, in pursuit of his second arrow. The shaft lodged in one of the guard’s necks and the poor man fell screaming and clutching for his red life, leaking all over the rocky ground.
“Guard the flank,” hissed the first man, while his one remaining comrade shifted angles to guard against Ren’s approach. The rest of the force was engaged in a full skirmish with all of Ren’s supporters, smashing in the front of the clothier’s shop and flooding the cobblestones with red.
Ren scoffed at the two guards he faced and their reluctance to charge him and notched another arrow. This one drifted two far to the left, and finally the man giving the orders barked, “Get him!”
Ren closed the distance faster than them, with his bow discarded and his sword ripped free of its leather binding. He sidestepped the first thrust of a spear and put the second guard between him and the first, still crossing toward the prison wagon. His first two slashes were blocked by the shaft of the man’s spear, but Ren’s off hand punch knocked the second man rolling toward the wagon and the guard who’d been giving all the orders jabbed forward with a long sword. He blocked Ren’s first slash with the sword held in front of him, and the second with the sword arcing over his back. Ren back-stepped out of the way of the soldier’s wide slash. With readying poses, they faced each other once more.
One of the prisoners had got hold of the guard who had sprawled in that direction. It was Vanci, pressed up against the bars with his thumbs driving into the guard’s eyes. A raising screech from the victim drew the attention of Ren’s opponent just for a second and Ren dashed forward, sliding across the sandy cobblestones with a grazing thrust to the man’s hip. The guard used his hilt to shove Ren’s further off course, but Ren used the momentum to slam his elbow with extra force into the soldier’s armoured chest. His left arm went numb from the impact, but the guard sprawled closer to the horses.
Vanci finished off his victim and left the man’s body slumping to the ground with bloody tears running down his cheeks. His nephew stepped over the dead soldier’s crumpled legs and stood over their dazed enemy. The winded guard Ren had elbowed raised his sword to defend from a downward hack. The force of Ren’s slash knocked the man’s own sword into his unprotected arm, but he yanked it free amidst splattering blood to prepare for Ren’s second hack. This time, Ren snapped the man’s sword blade with the force of his blow, and his sword point found a mark under the man’s ear. Blood spurted forth and the man lost grip of his sword to claw for life. His twitching could not save him.
Ren panted for breath and wiped his forehead with his shirt cuff as he looked away from the prison wagon. A few of the soldiers had broken off from the skirmish after Vanci’s kill had screamed for their attention. The battle was an even one, and as many of Ren’s side rested on the warm ground as the Grey Brethren.
The son of Sheld walked into the fray to make a stand for his family.
Only five of the seventeen freedom fighters survived that day. Amidst all the slaughtered men and women, Woodro, Bran, and Ren nursed their wounds. Igo had survived, though a nasty gash on his shaved scalp had hidden his ear from sight. Tobban lay amidst the dead, but one of his ex-City Watch men remained standing.
The prison wagon was soon confronted by the survivors. There were, by most accounts, at least a hundred more of the Atmos Septi soldiers in Sheld, and Ren needed to get his friends back to safety soon. He smashed the locked with the hilt of his sword, exhausted.
“You did good work, Ren,” Vanci mumbled, as he let others leave the wagon ahead of him. Omma climbed out, and Karsef. It took Ren a moment to recognize Asar as the third, the agile swordsman who’d served with them on the Dispatch. Blood matted Asar’s hair and ash had seared his nose to the cartilage.
Vanci grimaced. “Be gentle,” he murmured, but it took Ren a moment to realize he wasn’t speaking about himself, but about another of the prisoners, laying against his knees. The man had dried blood all down his side and caked amidst the mud and sweat all over his cheek. His beard was full of mucky dirt and slop from whatever stew they’d been fed. Ren didn’t recognize him until Vanci helped him sit up. It was Ren’s brother, battered and only half-conscious. Vanci and Ren moved him out of the prison wagon gently, but Lerran couldn’t stand. They sat him down against one of the wide wagon wheels. Vanci spoke in hushed tones, “They didn’t treat him, not even once. The wretches. His side is infected from a spear wound and his head isn’t any better. And he can’t move his legs at all. They hit him pretty hard in the head when the estate refused to stand down.”
“Gods,” Ren said. “Will he recover?”
Vanci shrugged. “Your as likely to answer that right as I am. We need a healer, now.”
Ren dropped to his knees at Lerran’s side. The denounced Prince of Sheld peered through all the grime and tried to smile. One corner of his mouth quirked up, and that was all. Ren whispered, “We’ll get you cleaned up, brother. Just hang on.” Lerran bowed his head in acknowledgement or in unconsciousness.
When Tass saw him, she kissed him regardless.