In Her Shadow (9 page)

Dux Lucius's men waited at the gate. They fell in behind him as he started for the docks. Only one stayed behind to guard the abbey. Not a show of force, Britta thought; a light touch – so he would appear to have done his job without having gone overboard. The problem was, what if the crowds at the docks came inland and decided to rescue their beloved Abbess? There was no way one soldier could hold them off. But that's where she came in, Britta supposed, as she and the cohort made their way down the street towards the harbor.

People in windows above tossed rotten fruit down on the soldiers, but stopped when they saw Britta and her cloak traveling in the soldiers' midst. The soldiers, at Lucius's command, did nothing to retaliate. They didn't even lift their shields to defend themselves. One poor young man got a stinking chamberpot thrown on him, and except for a wince, showed no anger for it. Their discipline was amazing. She'd never seen the garrison's soldiers working together like this. Dux Lucius hadn't been here long enough to train them, so they must have learned this before. This level of discipline explained why Regnal legionaries were the most feared soldiers in the known world. What would happen if the abbey ever attempted open defiance?

It didn't matter. She was here to show solidarity with these men, conquerors though they were, not for her sake, or Dux Lucius's, or her abbey's, but for the crowd itself. She'd heard Regnal soldiers were trained to use their shields to form a wall like a tortoise shell. The soldiers would be perfectly safe from the crowd, but if the crowd threw itself at the wall, they'd be hacked to pieces at the soldiers' leisure. Perhaps not "hacked." Lucius insisted the soldiers carry clubs to beat back the crowd, but they still carried swords on their hips just in case. Beating or hacking, Britta couldn't let it happen to her people. So when the cohort passed under windows where angry women leaned, rotten tomatoes cocked to toss, Britta stood tall and locked eyes with each and every one, shaming them with her gaze to back down. Such was the power of a cloaked sister in Ankshara.

The street narrowed as it descended towards the docks below, forcing the soldiers to crowd in around Britta. It was hard to see over or around them, and the clanks of their boots and armor made it difficult to think straight. She wished Dux Lucius were in the cohort with her, but he marched at the head. Britta knew why. These soldiers, disciplined as they were, were walking into danger, and Lucius was a leader of men. He could have deferred this job to another, but he didn't. Not Dux Lucius. He wouldn't ask his men to do anything he wouldn't, that much was obvious. He was a good man making the best of a bad situation.

Britta's heart fluttered at the thought. If she weren't being carried along by the cohort's march, she would stopped to contemplate the feeling. Pride. She was proud of him. Proud of her future husband. He'd probably find that pride presumptuous, the great cold fish. And, maybe it was. But there it was. What would he think if he turned around at that moment and saw the smirk inching across her face? Doubly presumptuous.

The cohort jostled to a halt. The soldiers were so close to her, their armor scrapped her flesh. Their musk filled her nose. And yet, as they stood rigid around her, she heard a great cacophony. As Britta got her bearings, she realized they had arrived at the docks, and the sound was the sound of the gathered mob. Was Dux Lucius talking to them? Trying to negotiate? Was there anyone to negotiate with? Britta couldn't tell from within her soldier-shell. What was happening? She thought she heard shouting. Britta stretched on her tiptoes to see over the soldiers but it was useless. She was ready to muscle her way to the front when the cohort split open, exposing her to the world.

Dux Lucius stretched a hand towards her, a broad smile on his face. Not a smile of happiness, but reassurance. Who was he trying to reassure? The crowd that faced him or her? He said something but Britta couldn't hear over the din. She stepped forward. The wind blew, flaring and rippling her cloak behind her. The crowd, at least the crowd in the immediate vicinity, grew silent.

"Dux Lucius," she said. She curtsied.

"See," he said turning back to the crowd. "The Abbess of Night is with us. She's sent her New Moon to assist in the search for the missing–"

"Traitor!" someone in the crowd shouted. Britta's eyes flashed towards the voice, only to catch a rock hurtling towards her face. There was no time to react, not even reflexively. It struck her in the side of the head. Her entire world exploded into the night sky. Then, the Goddess hid her in Her shadow.

***

"Close ranks!" Dux Lucius shouted. "Close ranks! Close ranks!" Was there time to get among the soldiers before the crowd descended on them? Already they surged forward, egged on by the shouts of traitor. Britta lay on her side, blood pooling around her head, matting her hair. Was she dead? Pure logic told him if she wasn't, she was severely injured. The cold hard facts of battle demanded he leave her bleeding out onto the stone and rescue his own men. But he couldn't.

Not her.

Not the woman who'd saved his daughter.

As the crowd screamed for his head, Lucius lunged after her, scooping her in his arms in one smooth motion as he rushed towards the cohort. Shields up and clubs ready, they parted just enough to let him and Britta slip through their wall. The soldiers around Lucius grunted, shuffled and jostled. Above and around them, the citizens of Ankshara swarmed, beating against the soldiers' shields with whatever device lay at hand.

He should be at the forefront, looking through chinks in the wall to see what was going on. But he couldn't, not until he was sure Britta was okay. Her blood still pumped, at least, clotting around where the rock had hit her. He tore a bit of cloth from his undershirt and pressed it to the wound. She lived, but for how long? Even if she survived the blow, she wouldn't survive this riot.

Someone shouted to him. It was hard to think with the racket, impossible to hear, but he knew what the soldier wanted: orders. They had to escape, retreat somehow, somewhere. He lifted Britta into his arms. She was so light, so brittle, like a sack of sticks. He leaned over the shoulder of one of his men and peeked through the chinks in the shield wall. Was there any way out?

"Behinds us!" he shouted, though he doubted anyone could hear him. It was their only escape. The docks were too packed. Forward was impossible, but if they could back up to where the street narrowed, the cohort could form a defensive line. He nudged one of the soldiers and pointed in the direction he wanted them to go with his nose. As a cohesive unit, they made their way up the street, clubbing the crowd as they went. When they made it to the narrowest point, Dux Lucius shouted the command and the cohort unfurled into a u-shape that pressed the crowd back, until the u was a line and the crowd assaulting them was downwind.

"Can we hold?" he shouted to one of the men on the line.

As if in response, the crowd surged, pressed against the shield wall; it didn't buckle. There was his answer: yes, but not forever. There was no putting it off anymore, no way to diffuse the situation; it had already exploded. He had two choices now, retreat to the garrison until the angry crowd burned itself out, or resist and put the revolt down with violence. Neither option was acceptable, and either way a lot of people would die. If he were to err, he'd do it on the side of action, not hiding away like a coward. After all, if he could stop it – even through violence – that was his duty, and his duty came first.

He carried Britta to a house just behind his line and kicked the door open. In the darkened corner, a family huddled, terrified of the world falling apart outside. The father held his hands up, pleading for the life of his family.

The man's mouth stopped working when he realized what – who – Lucius carried in his arms. The man stood, slowly, using the table beside him to balance. The children and mother cried after him, begging him not to go to Lucius, but the man ignored them. Lucius passed Britta's broken body to the man who took her with ease. He glanced down at her head then back to Lucius.

How could Lucius convince the man he hadn't been the one to inflict the injury? "May She hide you in Her shadow," he said.

The man smiled, weary but understanding. "Go," he said.

It tore Lucius's heart away to leave Britta with strangers as a war raged outside, but he had no choice. It would be worse if they stayed together. If his cohorts could hold the line until reinforcements arrived, she would be safe inside this home, but if the cohort were forced to retreat, he'd be abandoning her to fate.

"May She hide you in Her shadow," he said again, and slipped out into the chaos.

Where was that sound coming from? A long, loud banging that ricocheted from inside her head as much as outside it. Was someone drumming? Shouting?

Britta groaned as she reached for her head. Someone grabbed her wrist. "Don't touch it," said a friendly, feminine voice.

"Uh?" Britta squint her eyes, trying to get them to focus. The world seemed fuzzy, unreal, made worse by the throbbing.

"You took a nasty – Well, I'm not sure what exactly. Blow to the head."

"Rock," Britta said. "It was a rock. Why is it so dark? Where am I?"

"In my home. Mariza, my name, priestess. It's a blessing to have you."

"How did I get here?"

"A Regnal soldier. He kicked in our door. I thought he was going to kill us, but instead he left you in our care."

"He left me? He just left me?"

"Don't you know what's going on out there?"

Mariza took Britta's hand and guided her to the window. Britta parted the window and looked out to the street below. Everything outside was a blur.

"See?" said the woman.

"No. Mariza, I can't see anything."

"What?"

Britta shook her head. "I mean, I can see some. It's not all darkness but. . ." She trailed off. She felt as if she should cry, or be upset or something, but nothing stirred inside her. Numbness. Why had he left her?

"A blow to the head can do bad things to a person's mind. The damage isn't always permanent, though. Maybe you'll see again soon."

"Yes," Britta said turning to the voice. "Maybe." But that's not how she felt. Mariza hadn't bothered to explain what she'd wanted Britta to see, but from the sounds of clashing below, she had a good guess. Was that why Lucius left her with these people? He'd said he was a man of duty, and she knew it to be true. He wouldn't abandon his men. Instead, he'd abandoned her.

Britta shook her head to tell herself no, but also hoping it might loosen the ache from her injury a little. The pain clouded her judgment, made it hard to think straight. It wasn't fair of her to think of Lucius had abandoned her. He'd probably put his career on the line just getting her somewhere safe before rushing back into danger. He wasn't a coward. Dux Lucius didn't run away. He was down there, fighting.

And here she was, standing by a window she couldn't see out of nursing a lump on the side of her head. He hadn't abandoned her, but if she didn't act, she would be abandoning him. Dux Lucius was brave, yes, but this wasn't his city. It was hers. And it was hers to win back before the whole thing crumbled. But how? The people had rejected her once already. Was the black cloak that had once protected her and her sisters now dangerous?

Her knees wobbled as a wave of nausea overcame her. Britta swooned, leaning against the wall next to the window.

"Ma'am?" Mariza asked.

"I – I have to go."

"No! You can't! You're hurt."

Britta tried to muster up a smile but the pain made her wince. "I'll be okay."

"It's not safe. Anyway, you just told me you can't see. How do you expect to make it there safely?"

"I don't know," Britta said, her voice low, defeated. "I don't know, but I have to. Before. . ."

"Before what?"

"Before Ankshara burns to the ground."

"I'll send my daughter with you," said Mariza.

"No, don't."

"I will. She'll guide you to the abbey."

"You don't have to."

"I do. It's my city too. I'd go myself but she's faster. If there's trouble, she can run away."

"Please, don't risk your child."

A cool hand touched the side of Britta's face. "You're getting a fever. The wound might be infected."

"Your daughter–"

"Might die anyway, if nobody acts," the woman said, a tinge of anger boiling beneath the surface of her words. "Do you understand?"

Britta's mouth bobbed. No citizen had dared talk to her like that before. Of course, none had thrown a rock at her head either.

"I'm sorry," Mariza said. "It's just–"

"No," said Britta. "I understand. Get her."

***

There were too many rioters, too many clubs, too many knives. Too many bottles arched over the cohort's shields and smashed into too many faces. Dux Lucius needed reinforcements, but there were no more. The men holding the line were disciplined, but the human body could only handle so much. At some point, the line would buckle under the great mass of people pressed against it. Even rotating the men off the line wasn't enough. He simply lacked the numbers to push back. His last option was a fighting retreat, setting up lines behind him and falling behind them, staggering his defense backwards to the garrison. But then – then he would have to abandon his position; leave Britta alone to face thugs already proven willing to attack her. What was his other option, though? Let his men die in her stead? And even then, the looters would swarm through the city and Britta would be in just as much danger.

A bottle hit one of the shields in front of him. It burst into a hundred jagged pieces. A bit of it caught his lip, slicing it open. Dux Lucius wiped away blood. The wound stung, as did his muscles, and his throat from shouting orders. In an act a filial impiety – unthinkable mere days ago – Lucius cursed his father's name. The damn fool wasn't just sneaky, he hadn't even thought to make sure Lucius's troops were up to the task of holding the city. That's assuming the Governor was guilty. Part of Lucius didn't want to believe it, but another part of him knew it to be true. The only way to settle is was to find Weboshi. And if she were anywhere, it was on the other side of this crowd, stowed away on some boat anchored in the harbor.

"The other detachment," he said.

"What, sir?" screamed one of the soldiers.

"Captain Marcus's men! The men I sent to inspect the ships! The ones we were coming to check on!"

The soldier shook his head, not understanding. It didn't matter. The soldier didn't need to, but Valex did. He wasn't back yet, sent with a letter encouraging his father to release some of his household guard to assist in the fighting. Where was he? Dux Lucius glanced over his shoulder to see if the boy was coming down the street. What he saw was Britta, draped in her cloak, holding a teen girl's hand. They didn't even look at him as they went up the street, away from him. Was the girl leading Britta? What was happening? There was no time to ponder it. All that mattered was holding the line a little longer.

"May She hide you in Her shadow," he said, and turned his attention back to the fight.

***

Was her sweat from exertion, fever, or nerves? With the heavy cloak entombing her in the muggy air, it was hard to say. A little of each. But she couldn't get rid of it, no matter how much it weighed her down. It might be their ticket to safety should they run into trouble. So far, however, she and the girl hadn't encountered any. In fact, the rest of the city was quiet and still.

"Ma'am," said the girl, and tugged at her hand.

"I need to rest." But she knew better. She couldn't. So she pushed forward despite what her body demanded. Maybe too hard. After all, what was she going to do once she made it to the abbey? What could her and her sisters do to end this? Talk the crowd down?

The world swirled around her. She stumbled to her knees. The palms of her hands bloodied and knees scrapped, she wasn't sure whether to lie down and die or get up and keep moving.

"Please," said the girl. Was she underwater? Were they sinking? "You must get up! Please, you can't give up!"

"I'm so tired, momma."

"I know," said the girl. "We're almost there."

Britta forced down the pain. Forced down the dizziness. Quelled the urge to die inside her, and shoved herself to her feet. She didn't know what she was going to do, didn't know how she was going to help save the city, but she wasn't going to give up – not with her future husband down there risking his life.

"Help hold me up," she said. "Quickly, quickly girl."