Michael Sullivan - Nyphron rising

"Can we get back to the plan?" Doctor Gerand asked.

Before leaving, Hadrian outlined the details for a strategy to take the city. Emery's idea was a good one, but an idea simply was not the same as a battle plan and they were all thankful for Hadrian's advice. He had explained that surprise was their greatest tool and catching the armory unaware was their best tactic. After that, things would be more difficult. Their greatest adversary would be time. It was essential they secure the armory quickly in order to prepare for the attack by the garrison.

"I will lead the men into the armory," Emery declared. "If I survive, I will take my place in the square with the men at the weak point of the line."

Everyone nodded grimly.

Hadrian's plan further called for the forming of two straight lines-one before the other-outside the armory and to purposely leave a gap as a weak point. Professional soldiers would look for this kind of vulnerability so the rebels could predetermine where the attack would fall the hardest. He warned that the men stationed there would have the most casualties, but it would also allow them to fold the line and generate a devastating envelopment maneuver, which would take advantage of their superior numbers.

"I will lead the left flank," Arista said, and everyone looked at her, stunned.

"My lady," Emery began, "you understand I hold you in the highest esteem, but a battle is no place for a woman and I would be sorely grieved should your life come into peril."

"My life will be in peril no matter where I am, so I may as well be of some use. Besides, this is all my idea. I can't stand by while all of you risk your own lives."

"You need fear no shame," Doctor Gerand told her. "You have already done more than we can hope to repay you for."

"Nevertheless," she said resolutely, "I will stand with the line."

"Can you wield a sword, too?" Perin the Grocer asked. His tone was not mocking or sarcastic, but one of expectant amazement, as if he anticipated she would reply that she was a master swordfighter of some renown.

The miraculous survival of Emery was only one of the rallying points of the rebellion. Arista had overlooked the power of her own name. Emery pointed out that she and her brother were heroes to those wishing to fight the Empire. Their victory over Percy Braga, immortalized in the traveling theater play, had inspired many all across Apeladorn. All the recruiters had to do was whisper that Arista Essendon had come to Ratibor and that she stole Emery from the clutches of the Empire, and most people simply assumed victory was assured.

"Well," she said, "I certainly have just as much experience as most of the merchants, farmers, and tradesmen that will be fighting alongside me."

No one said anything for a long while, and then Emery stood up.

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but I cannot allow you to do this."

Arista gave him a harsh, challenging stare and Emery's face cringed, exposing that a mere unpleasant glance from her was enough to hurt him.

"And how do you plan to stop me?" she snapped, recalling all the times her father or brother, or even Count Pickering, shooed her out of the council hall insisting she would spend her time more productively with a needle in her hand.

"If you insist on fighting, I will not," he said simply.

Doctor Gerand stood up. "Neither will I."

"Nor I," Perin said, also rising.

Arista scowled at Emery. Again her glare appeared to hurt the man, but he remained resolute. "Alright. Sit down. You win."

"Thank you, my lady," Emery said.

"Then I will lead the left flank, I suppose," Perin volunteered. He was one of the larger men at the table, stocky and strong.

"I will take the right flank," Doctor Gerand said.

"That is very brave of you, sir," Emery told him, "But I will ask Adam the Wheeler to take that responsibility. He has fighting experience."

"And he's not an old man," the doctor said bitterly.

Arista knew the helplessness that he was feeling. "Doctor, your services will be required to tend to the injured. Once the armory is taken, you and I will do what we can for those that are wounded."

They went over the plan once more from beginning to end. Arista and Polish came up with several potential problems: What if too few people came? What if they could not secure the armory? What if the garrison did not attack? They discussed and made contingency plans until they were certain everything was accounted for.

As they concluded, Doctor Gerand drew forth a bottle of rum and called for glasses from Mrs. Dunlap. "Tomorrow morning we go into battle," he said. "Some of us at this table will not survive to see the sunset again." He lifted his glass. "To those who will fall and to our victory."

"And to the good lady who made it possible," Emery added, and they all raised their glasses to her and drank.

Arista drank with the rest, but found the liquor to have a bitter taste.

The princess lay awake in the tiny room across the hall from Mrs. Dunlap's bedroom. It was smaller than her maid's quarters in Medford, with only a small window and a tiny shelf to hold a candle. There was so little room between the walls and the bed that she was forced to crawl over the mattress to enter. She could not sleep. The battle to take the city would start in just a few hours and she was consumed by nervous energy. Her mind raced through precautions, running a checklist over and over again.

Have I done all I can to prepare?

Everything was about to change. For good or ill.

Will Alric forgive me if I die? She gave a bitter laugh. Will he forgive me if I live?

She stared at the ceiling, wondering if there was a spell to help her sleep.

Magic.

She considered using it in the coming battle. She toyed with the idea while tapping her feet together, anxiously listening to the rain patter the roof.

If I can make it rain what else can I do? Could I conjure a phantom army? Rain fire? Open the earth to swallow the garrison?

She was certain of only one thing-she could boil blood. The thought sobered her.

What if I lose control? What if I boiled the blood of our men…or Emery?

When she boiled the water in Sheridan, the nearby clothing had sizzled and hissed. Magic was not so easy. Perhaps with time she could master it, but already she sensed her limitations. It was clear now why Esrahaddon had given her the task of making it rain. Previously she thought it an absurd challenge to attempt such an immense feat. Now she realized that making it rain was easy. The target was broad as the sky and the action was natural-the equivalent of asking a marksman to throw a rock and try and hit the ground. The process would be the same, she guessed, for any spell, the drawing of power, the focus, and the execution through synchronized movement and sound, but the idea of pin-pointing such unruly force to a specific target was daunting. She realized with a shudder that if Royce and Hadrian had been on the hill that night, they too would have died along with the seret. There was no doubt she could defeat the garrison, but she might kill everyone in Ratibor in the process. It could be possible to use the Art to draw down lightning or summon fire to consume the soldiers, but it would be like asking a first-year music student to compose and orchestrate a full symphony.

No, I can't take that risk.

She turned her mind to more practical issues. Did they have enough bandages prepared? She had to remember to get a fire going to have hot coals for sealing wounds. Was there anything else she could do?

She heard a soft rapping and pulled the covers up, as she wore only a thin nightgown borrowed from Mrs. Dunlap. "Yes?"

"It's me," Emery said. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"Come in, please," she told him.