Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“About half are here watching the cells, along with two or three black-coats. The others are up at the barricade. Ross wanted to pull everyone off, but we had orders from the captain himself to guard the prisoners.”

“What about the prison levels above us?”

“Empty up to the ground floor. Ross has got everyone waiting for the big break-in. I think he still has men on Danton up in the tower, though.”

“Right.” Giforte glanced over his shoulder. “It sounds like you should have a clear path until you get to the tower.”

“I can handle a few guards,” Rose said. “Raes, stay a half turn behind me. Let’s go.”

“The problem here is going to be breaking the news to the rest of the Armsmen without anyone raising the alarm,” Giforte said.

“Uh. . I don’t mean to interfere, sir,” said the sergeant, “but I don’t think Ross will surrender on your say-so. And he’s got a lot more men than we do.”

“One thing at a time.” Giforte looked at Winter. “Any ideas?”

“What’s the layout of this level?” Winter said.

“There’s a sort of anteroom through here,” the sergeant said, indicating the door. “After that passages run in either direction. One way is where we’ve got all the women and kids. The other is the men.”

“How many people in the anteroom?”

“None, now,” the Armsman said. “We were using it as a break room, but Ross called everyone up.”

“Perfect. Vice Captain, you wait in there. Sergeant, you go down to the cells and ask one of your friends to step out for a moment. Say that Ross is asking for reports on the prisoners, or something like that. Once they get the picture, send them back and get another one.”

“What about the Concordat people?” Giforte said.

“I don’t think it’ll be hard to convince our fellows to hold a gun on them,” the sergeant said. “Hell, I’ve been itching to do it myself.”

“Cyte and I will watch the stairs,” Winter said. “I want every one of those guards to see nothing but green uniforms.”

Giforte nodded decisively. “Come on, Sergeant. Let’s spread the news.”

“We can keep a better watch about a half turn up,” Cyte said. “That way we can keep an eye on the next landing.”

Winter nodded agreement, and they started up the steps as the three Armsmen disappeared into the dungeon. Oil lamps flickered in wall brackets, casting uneven shadows. After the door below closed, a deep silence returned, broken now and then by muffled muttering.

“What if something goes wrong?” Cyte said, quietly.

“Then we’ll hear the screams,” Winter said. “Or the gunshots.”

They settled down to wait. Winter knew from experience that time stretched like taffy in situations like this one, turning minutes into endless hours. She wished she had a pocket watch so she would know when to really start worrying. Although, in the end, what good does worrying do?

There was a sound from above, faint at first but getting louder. Footsteps on the stairs, and the sound of voices raised in conversation.

“They’re coming down,” Cyte said. Her voice was tight.

“They may not come down this far. Maybe they’re checking the cell blocks.”

“What if they do?”

Winter let out a long breath. “Then we take them. As quietly as we can.”

“Take them.” Cyte put her hand on the hilt of her rapier, testing the grip. “Right.”

Turn around, Winter willed the footsteps. Go back upstairs. You’ll live longer, and so will I.

Two pairs of black boots became visible around the curve of the stairs, followed by the flapping tails of two black leather coats. Winter drew her saber and waited another heartbeat, then rushed them.

Two Concordat soldiers, both with shouldered muskets, came into view. Running up the steps robbed Winter of most of her speed, and the soldier on the right had a split second to react. He brought his musket up crosswise, ready to parry a cut at his chest or hit her with the butt. Winter, breathing hard, caught him off balance by stopping several steps short and whipping the heavy blade around in a low cut that caught him on the inside of the knee. The joint practically exploded, the soldier’s leg bending stomach-twistingly sideways, and he toppled past Winter and started rolling downward.

She barely had time to sidestep the injured man before the other one came at her with a bellow, musket raised in both hands over his head like a club. Winter blocked the swing and nearly lost her weapon and her footing from the force of the blow. Before he could take advantage and shove her down the steps, Cyte came into view, rapier extending in an awkward fencer’s lunge on the uneven footing. The thin blade went into the man’s armpit, found a gap between his ribs, and sank smoothly nearly to the hilt. He fell backward with a gurgle, dropping his musket, and the hilt of the rapier was jerked out of Cyte’s hands.

Winter looked over her shoulder to see what had become of her own victim, but her head snapped back around when Cyte shouted her name.

“Winter! Up there!”

Looking up, Winter got a glimpse of a third man, a quarter turn behind the other two and already taking to his heels. She swore and vaulted the corpse of Cyte’s victim, clawing for the pistol at her belt. There was no time to check the pan again. Just a moment to level and fire- and even if I hit him, they’ll hear the shot-

She pulled the trigger. The weapon went off with an earsplitting bang , and she saw the man’s coat flutter, as though a passerby had given it a tug. But the ball missed his body, cracking wildly off the stone wall beyond, and before Winter could reach for her other pistol he was up the stairs and out of sight.

“Balls of the Beast,” Winter said. She turned back to Cyte. “There’s going to be more of them in a minute. Come on, back to the landing.”

“I. .” Cyte gestured weakly at her sword, which was still embedded in the Concordat soldier. His hands scrabbled wildly at the air, and blood bubbled in his mouth.

Winter grabbed the hilt, planted her foot on the man’s side, and yanked the weapon free as he shuddered and died. She handed the thin blade back to Cyte, still slick and red, and pulled another pistol and a pouch of ammunition from the body. Then she grabbed the girl’s free hand and pulled her down the steps to the landing, where there would at least be flat ground to fight on.

Her own victim was there, head cracked and leaking blood from his tumble down the unyielding stone stairs. She pushed him aside and turned to Cyte.

“Are you all right?” Winter said.

“Fine.” Cyte was staring at the sword in her hand as though she didn’t know how it had gotten there. “I’m fine. I just. .”

“I know,” Winter said. “But you have to focus.”

Winter hated having to act so hard . It made her feel like Davis, someone who could cut men down and laugh about it later in his cups. But there’s no time. The man she’d shot at would make it back up to the others on the ground floor, and surely they’d send a larger force-

“Cyte. Cytomandiclea.” The sound of her assumed name seemed to bring the girl back to herself a little. “Do you know how to load a pistol?”

“N. . not really. I’ve never. .”

“Shit.” Winter went to the door and hammered on it. “Giforte? Are you in there? They’re on their way down!”

There was no response. Winter cocked an ear at the steps and fancied she could hear the pounding of many feet. She grabbed Cyte and pulled her up against the inner wall of the spiral.

“Stay here until they get close,” Winter said. “You don’t want to give them a target if they decide to shoot at us. And stay on the landing, away from the stairs. It’s no good giving them high ground to fight from.”