Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

She sounded uncertain, and Winter didn’t blame her. She doubted Molly and Becks put together outweighed one of the guards. Some of Jane’s Leatherbacks were fighters, but those were mostly older girls, and these two were not among them.

Winter shook her head. “Stay here. If it goes wrong, run for it.”

“But-” Molly began. Becks grabbed her arm and she fell silent.

“I’ll take the one on the left,” Winter said to Cyte. “You’ve got to keep the other one busy until I can get ahold of a sword.”

“Okay.” Cyte ran her fingers through her hair and blew out a long breath. “Let’s go.”

Winter drew back the hammer on her pistol, reflexively checked the powder in the pan, and stepped around the corner. The two Concordat guards took a moment to register her presence, absorbed in what was happening in the next room, and in the time this provided her Winter took a long step forward and shot the one on the left.

At least, she pointed the pistol in his direction and pulled the trigger. The powder in the pan flashed, but instead of a bang and a gout of smoke, the barrel emitted a noise more like phut and coughed a thin trickle of blue-gray vapor. Too late, Winter recalled the old pistoleer’s maxim: The more critical the shot, the more likely it was to misfire.

Cyte was already coming around the corner, running at the man on the right. He started to shout something as she cannoned into him, wrapping her arms around him to trap his hands at his sides. Her momentum slammed him back against the wall with an oof , knocking the breath out of him.

Winter’s own target clawed for his sword. She reversed the pistol and held it by the barrel like a club, hoping to get a blow in before he was ready, but he managed to get his blade out and drove her backward with a horizontal slash. She circled left, grabbed one of the wooden chairs, and sent it tumbling toward him, but he kicked it out of the way and pressed forward, forcing her to backpedal until she felt the wall against her shoulder blades. She tried for his head with the pistol, but he caught her wrist with his off hand, pinning her in place for a thrust.

Behind him, she could see Cyte’s victim trying to break free, trapped arms straining. He lurched forward and managed to get his knee up into her stomach. She doubled over, and he slipped one hand free of her grip and tangled it in her black hair. Cyte screamed.

Molly’s charge hit Winter’s opponent in the small of the back, pushing his thrust wide to strike sparks off the stone wall to Winter’s left. He let go of Winter and whirled around, sword humming dangerously through the air. Molly dropped flat, whimpering. Becks, coming up behind her, made a grab for the soldier’s sword arm and missed, and his backhand cut opened a long gash on her arm and flicked a spray of blood onto the wall.

The two girls had distracted him long enough, though. Winter gripped the pistol in both hands and brought the iron-heeled butt down on his head as hard as she could. Something crunched , and he dropped bonelessly, sword slipping out of his grip to clatter on the floor. Winter scrambled to scoop it up, nearly cutting herself in the process, and came up just in time to see Cyte’s opponent shake her off and send her crashing into a table. He turned round, saw Winter, and reached for his sword, but her lunge caught him in the stomach and he folded up with a groan.

“Saints and fucking martyrs,” someone said, from the doorway. Winter spun to see two more Concordat soldiers. Behind them was a solid-looking door that they had apparently been trying to break down. Both went for their swords. Winter caught the one in the lead with a low cut as his blade came out of its scabbard, opening a bloody gash on his leg and sending him stumbling to the floor. The other one got his weapon out but backed away cautiously, toward the door he’d been pounding on. His fallen comrade had dropped his blade to clutch the wound on his leg, and Winter edged past him, coming almost into range of the fourth man. They stood, sword tip to sword tip, for a long moment.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man snarled.

Winter thought about trying to explain but didn’t see much point. She shrugged. The man was getting ready to say something else when the door behind him opened, quietly, and someone hit him over the head with a chair. That sent him sprawling forward, off balance, and Winter spitted him simply by remaining still with her weapon raised. He made a bubbling noise and slid off the blade to lie still on the floor.

Left eye to eye with Winter, holding the remains of the chair in her hand, was a girl about Molly’s age, with blond hair and heavy freckles. She was breathing hard. Winter nodded to her, cautiously, and backpedaled into the outer room.

“Molly? Becks?” she said.

“I’m okay,” Becks said, through clenched teeth. She sat on the floor, her wounded arm held out straight, while Molly busied herself tearing strips from a soldier’s shirt to make a bandage. “It’s. . uh . . not deep.”

“Cyte?”

Cyte waved from the wreckage of the table and started pulling herself to her feet. A bruise was blooming on her cheek, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. “Sorry. He got away from me.”

Winter nodded at them, a small knot in her chest untying itself. She turned back to the inner room, where the girl had emerged to kick the dropped weapons well out of range of the wounded soldier, who wisely remained curled in a silent ball on the floor. In the doorway behind her, Winter saw Danton, staring at the bloodied men with slack-jawed disinterest.

“Who are you?” the girl said. She was trying to keep her tone calm, but her breathing was fast and she seemed close to panic. Winter, realizing she still held a bloody sword, set it down for the moment and tried to sound reassuring.

“I’m Winter,” she said. “I’m with Mad Jane. Are you one of Danton’s people?”

“Something like that,” the girl said. “My name is Cora. I came up here. . when. .”

Her eyes fell on the dead man, watching in horrified fascination as a pool of blood spread from where he lay facedown, and she trailed off.

“Cora,” Winter said. The girl’s head jerked up, her eyes full of tears. Winter held out her hand, and Cora took it tentatively. Winter drew her carefully past the bodies and into the outer room.

“Thank you.” Cora knuckled her eyes. “I was watching from the gallery when the Concordat came in. I ran back up here to see if I could get Danton to move, but the black-coats blocked us in.”

“We were on the Widow’s Gallery. Special Branch men are all over the place.” Winter glanced back down the corridor, to make sure the rest of the girls were still keeping an eye out. “We were hoping we could get out through the back.”

Cora shook her head. “I poked my head down the stairs that way. They’ve got it blocked. But we don’t need to get Danton out. We need to get him down to the floor.”

“What? Why?”

“He has to speak,” Cora said.

Cyte, on her feet now, came over. “What makes you think they’ll let him?”

“I don’t think they’ll have a choice,” Cora said. “He can be very persuasive.”

Winter shook her head. “This is ridiculous. Orlanko has to have a hundred armed men out there. Danton wants to make a speech to them?”

“Have you seen him speak?” Cora said.

Winter paused. She had, back at the Vendre, and it was undeniable that the effect on his listeners had been nothing short of sensational. The mob of prisoners had taken the Concordat troops apart. But we took them from behind, by surprise. Even if he got a similar response out of the deputies, the Special Branch thugs were ready and waiting. The crowd might overwhelm them, but it would be a bloodbath.