Michael Flynn: In the Lion’s Mouth

“Taiji,” her Number One said, “the flock is down fifty percent. Perhaps we should disengage.”

“I have never departed a kill space in defeat.”

“No, ma’am. But no one leaves here unharmed. Pendragon is slain and most of the chrysanthemums. Domino Tight is slain along with the lyre. The black horses were mauled. Big Jacques is badly wounded and the tridents as battered as we. You are badly wounded. And … Others were wounded. Perhaps that is sufficient for the day.”

Ekadrina’s left eye had spotted motion through her fiber periscope. She logged the coordinates into a smart gun and launched a pinwheel bomb. The explosion came as a flat slapping sound but the truck barrier kept the blast from reaching her.

If she withdrew now, the one sure winner would be Oschous who, so far as she knew had sat untouched in the warehouse directing the battle like a spider in the center of her web—and Padaborn, whose unexpected entry into the battle space would be seen by all as the tipping point.

No, she must first harm Padaborn. Only then could she withdraw with face.

She paused a moment to curse Epri and what he had brought into the fight. The ruddy man had to have been the Woqfun Bo, a man who should have been supreme on any field, but who had by his use of shoulder-launched missiles introduced a further escalation in the Shadow War, but who, far worse, had shown himself fallible.

“Are these the men that we protect?” she asked, half-aloud.

She heard the distinctive crinkle of crispies stepped upon, grinned and rolled to her knees, and aimed …

And there was no one there.

A lesser Shadow might have paused and gaped; but Ekadrina Sèanmazy had not reached seniority through being lesser in any respect. The only reason for making a sound in front of her was to approach behind her. She whirled.

And there was Padaborn only two strides away, already raising a pellet gun for a fatal armor-piercing shot.

Ekadrina, who had already chambered her gun to fire on the crispies, fired on this new threat.

The bullet caught Padaborn on the chest and the transferred momentum knocked him backward, even as the recoil pushed Ekadrina back.

Oh, fortunate recoil! A flying star scissored through the space her body had occupied, and Ekadrina executed a dancing pirouette and laid down fire toward the location where no one stood. The shot caught something, however, for the air rippled and brightred blood seemed to blossom unsupported. Then that something leapt away, higher and faster than a man might leap.

A clever play, whatever it had been. Epri had possessed such a Cloak, but it was apparent now that Others had been equally generous with the opposing side. She did not like the implications of that, but filed it for later consideration. Now was not the time for introspection.

She walked over to where Padaborn lay on his back, spread-eagled to the sky, and stared into the face.

The black face of a Groomsbritch, and a woman’s face at that. She smiled up at Ekadrina. “This hurts moore than I thoot it wood.”

“You are not Padaborn!” Ekadrina said. An accusation, an outrage, an affront.

“No,” said a new voice. “I am.”

And there at the gaping entry to the burning building stood the hook-chinned old man she remembered, wearing the green-and-blue shenmat and a belt of weapons and bandoliers.

“So,” says Graceful Bintsaif, “he joined them at the last.”

Méarana explores the battle with dancing fingers. Her harp howls and twangs with sudden-plucked strings; she runs a nail down their lengths to evoke the whine of energy weapons. Domino Tight leaps about in octaves; Names appear in discords. “Or perhaps,” she says over the chaotic jangle of the music, “it was they who finally joined him.”

“Fash! What nonsense,” her mother says. “It was not that he joined, but why he joined.”

Ravn Olafsdottr smiles at her. “You think?”

Bridget ban smiles too, but it is a smile that few have rejoiced to see. “I think you are more clever than you let on.”

“Ne’er mind yer chawin’,” says Méarana, stilling her chords. Then, to Olafsdottr: “How did Fa—How did the Fudir fare against Ekadrina?” She thinks that if she does not call him “father” his loss will not hurt as badly.

The Shadow shrugs. “Understand. I was unconscious, and when I awoke they were gone, all of them, and the wind blew leaves and papers across an empty lot. What I learned, I learned later, from my suit’s recorders after I awoke—and that only what passed before their sensors.”

“I am surprised you awoke at all,” Graceful Bintsaif interjects from her corner behind the Shadow.

The Ravn turns to her and smiles. “Noo lace than I,” she adds. “Boot the surprise is always pleasant.”

Méarana strikes an imperious chord. “But ye can tell us how the struggle ended, however supine ye might hae been during the fighting of it!”

“I think,” the Shadow tells her with a nod to Bridget ban, “that your mother suspects.”

“You’ve come here on a fool’s errand,” the Hound responds cryptically. “Tell me, for I am passing curious, why you donned the garb of Geshler Padaborn and pretended to be himself.”

A shrug. “Someone had to do it.”

But Méarana judges the indifference feigned. “To rally the rebels.”

Ravn leans forward, arms on her knees. “They needed a Padaborn; I gave them one.”

“You gave them a false one.”

The Shadow flashes her teeth, leans back on the sofa, and spreads her arms along the backrest. “Did I?”

“No,” says Bridget ban. “She gave them the true quill. He was impervious to every persuasion but the last. Revenge, glory, or the liberation of Terra—these three things could not sway him. But that you had been felled acting in his place brought him forth at last.”

Ravn dipps her head. “Such was the plan.”

“Your plan!” says Graceful Bintsaif. “You might have been killed. Had Donovan held back, you would have been.”

Teeth flash. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Tell me, Ravn…” Bridget ban straightens, “who gave you the scars? Ekadrina? Did she vanquish the old man as she vanquished you; then hold you afterward for kaowèn? Or did Oschous lash you, for losing him the Padaborn card in his play for power?”

“No one gave me the scars, Red Hound. I earned them. They are most seemly wounds, and well acquired beside; for principle might merit lash, and wear such welts with pride.”