Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

Winter, looking at the gate, was inclined to agree. A narrow approach against prepared positions, with no way to outflank the defenders. An attacking force might lose ten for one and consider itself lucky.

“The captain has asked me to speak to you to attempt to avoid this bloodshed. He recognizes that we are all, after all, Vordanai, and he is no more eager to begin the killing than you are.” Giforte looked around. “In particular, he asked me to speak to the leader named Mad Jane. Is she here?”

“I don’t see why-” Peddoc began, but Jane cut him off, emerging from the crowd of girls with Abby behind her.

“I’m Jane,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “And Abby tells me I can trust you.”

There was an odd note of humor in Giforte’s voice when he replied, “I’m glad she thinks so.”

“So what terms does your captain propose?”

A hush fell across the courtyard, as everyone strained to hear what Giforte would say. In that instant, another voice floated down from afar, so distant as to be barely a murmur.

“. . Jane. . up here!. .”

Giforte started to speak, but Winter was no longer listening. She couldn’t tell if anyone else had heard the distant warning, but all eyes but hers were on Jane and Giforte. Winter looked up, to the parapets of the Vendre tower, where-

“Jane!” Winter screamed, loud and shrill. Heads snapped around.

The crack of the shot was like a distant handclap in a crowded theater, almost inaudible. But Winter’s whole being was tensed and waiting for the sound, and in her mind it was as loud as a cannon. Someone had fallen in the center of the crowd. Winter could no longer see Abby or Jane as the Leatherback girls closed in around them while the rest of the crowd opened outward like a blossoming flower. The courtyard began to fill with shouts and screams.

“There! Fire!”

Walnut’s enormous voice cut through the babble. The Leatherbacks had brought a few muskets and carbines, and a few more had fallen into their hands when they took the courtyard. Jane had stationed men who had some experience with the weapons on the outer wall, to watch both the approach to the fortress prison and the towers. Now they fired a ragged volley, aimed at the parapet of the tower. It was too long a shot for a musket, nearly a hundred yards in the gathering darkness, but the roar and muzzle flashes were obvious to whoever was up there. Dark figures scurried for cover.

Winter jumped from her perch, twisting at the last minute to avoid colliding with a student scurrying for cover, and landed badly. One ankle gave way, and pain shot up her leg, but she forced herself back to her feet and sprinted as best she could to the center of the yard. Behind her, the musketeers kept up an enthusiastic but erratic fire, drowning out the screams. Ahead, the Leatherbacks had formed a tight, huddled mass, interposing their bodies between their leader and the shooter on the parapet.

That has to be eighty yards, Winter told herself. No chance. Not in the dark. Even with a good rifle, that’s too long a shot-Jane was moving-she can’t-

She came to the edge of the group and started prying surprised young women aside. Her voice of command would have been instantly recognizable to any soldier of the Seventh Company.

“Get out of the fucking way! Now! ”

A path cleared. Someone was down, two people, and Winter’s heart lurched at the sight of blood. It was everywhere, in dark spray patterns and a great pool soaking into the dirt.

Jane lay on her stomach, atop another girl. Her face was dark and slick with blood.

“Jane!” Winter fell to her knees and grabbed Jane’s shoulder, pulling her up, dreading and praying all at once. Please, please, please, God, not now, not-

“Help her.” Jane’s voice sounded distant and tinny through the blood thumping in Winter’s ears.

“Are you all right?” Winter rolled her over, roughly. There was blood everywhere, but she couldn’t see an actual injury. “Jane! Can you hear me?”

“Fine.” Jane spit a spray of blood. “I’m fine, damn it. Help her .”

Winter looked at the other girl for the first time. It was Min, lying on her back with one arm over her stomach and the other flung wide. The shot had gone through her neck, tearing a huge chunk of it clean away. She was still breathing, fast and shallow, but each gasp only bubbled blood in her ruined throat. Her eyes were very wide.

That there was nothing to be done was obvious, even to Winter. She turned back to Jane, who was trying to sit up.

“Help her,” Jane said. “She’s bleeding. Winter-”

“Lie still for a minute.” Winter pressed Jane’s shoulders to the ground.

“She pushed me away,” Jane said. “When she heard you shouting.”

Min made a gurgling sound, one hand clutching convulsively at the dirt. Finally, mercifully, she was silent.

“She. .” Jane couldn’t see Min, but her eyes were locked on Winter’s.

“She’s gone,” Winter said. “We have to get you out of here. They might try again.”

“Abby,” Jane said. “Where’s Abby?”

“I’m here.” Abby knelt down beside them, grabbing Jane’s hand. Winter took her other arm, and together they got her on her feet. The rest of the Leatherbacks closed in again, a shield of flesh and bone. Winter glanced up at the parapet. Walnut’s men were still firing, but there were no figures visible.

Jane was looking down at Min’s corpse. Her hand, sticky with blood, closed tight on Winter’s arm.

“Get the ram,” she said, very quietly.

“If we go in there,” Winter said, low and fast, “more people are going to die. A lot more. We might be able to-”

Jane raised her voice to a shout that echoed across the square. “Get the goddamned ram!”

A thousand pairs of eyes took in her bloodstained features, and a roar rose as one from a thousand throats. The mob surged onward.

MARCUS

The house burned from the outside in, flame leaping across from the old, dry wood of the stable and around the front door, crawling along the walls and up onto the roof. Inside, the soft carpet in the front hall ignited with a whoomph , and the layers of gauzy window hangings Marcus’ mother had loved floated up as they burned, like spiderwebs.

He knew it was a dream, but it didn’t help. Marcus walked through the gap where the front door had been and down the hall. Fire raced along the old wallpaper, so he was moving down a corridor of flames.

People were running, shouting. Servants in livery or bedclothes rushed back and forth, trying to push through to the exit and falling back, defeated by the flames. Something near the back of the house collapsed with a rumble, and he heard screams.

All the faces were in shadow. Marcus hardly remembered them. He passed through the crowd like a ghost.

Another scream, from upstairs. This one was high-pitched and shrill, a little girl’s wail of fear.

Ellie. Marcus started to run, in the strange, floating way of dreams, legs working but only making slow progress. He made it to the main staircase in time to see his little sister, dressed in a white nightshift, standing on the landing and staring wide-eyed at the spreading fire. The air was getting thick with smoke.

“Ellie!” The roar of the fire drowned Marcus’ voice in his own ears. If Ellie heard, she gave no sign. She turned away from him and ran, back up the stairs.

He went after her, feet skidding on the landing, one hand grabbing the ball-shaped finial for balance as he had done a thousand times. When he reached the upstairs hall, he could just see her darting into her bedroom, white-blond hair flying out from under her cap. He went after her, passing his own room, the door still scarred around the baseboard where he always kicked it closed with his boots.