Torn between the indignity of lying at the base of the stairs and a clear desire not to do anything I said, Bradomir’s moustache worked for a moment before he stood, wincing, and pulled off his helmet. He smoothed his hair and raised a shaking finger to point at me.
“You—” he began.
“You ordered the attack,” I said. It wasn’t a question, and he knew it; he regarded me with narrow eyes and a curl of the lip, but said nothing. “Against the Chancellor’s direct instructions.”
“Now is the time to strike,” Bradomir said. “Tain is a green boy, swayed by emotion.”
“That’s your Chancellor you’re speaking about,” I reminded him, anger making me shake. “And he’s trying to stop a bloodbath of our own people!”
“Rebels who killed his uncle and destroyed half our city,” Bradomir countered with a sneer. “And you’d have them just walk away from here? But then you, Credo, you’re swayed by something much baser, aren’t you? You’ve forsaken your honor for some pathetic Darfri slut.”
If he thought to wound me with a mention of Hadrea, it couldn’t have been less successful. Instead, I thought of how much better, how much fairer and purer her concept of honor was than ours. I laughed and stepped down so we were nose-to-nose. I could smell the perfumed oil he’d still found time to wear. “I’m not sure you really understand what that word means. Anyway, you’re about to get the chance to show just how honorable you are.” I glanced back at the Order Guard, who stood, shifting between his feet, just behind me. “Help Credo Bradomir along. He’s coming over the bridge to help us get our people back.”
“Don’t you lay one finger on me!” Bradomir spat at the Guard. “I am a Councilor and head of one of the most respected Families in this country. If you dare touch me…”
The Order Guard hesitated, then looked at me. Compared to Bradomir in his untouched armor, I must have looked a pathetic sight indeed; practically a boy next to the older Credo, filthy, sweating, holding a sword I barely knew how to use. The guard looked between us, then, with a grin and a sly salute, he raised his sword and poked Bradomir in the chest with it. “You heard the Credo,” he said. “Get a march on.”
Dignity forgotten, Bradomir fought and yelled as we dragged him into the tower. We went through the smashed gate, past my new gatekeeper, and ran out onto the bridge. Rebel catapult fire had damaged the stone in multiple places, and wide cracks and ragged holes zigzagged under our feet as we ran. Though I’d passed over Trickster’s Bridge thousands of times, now its height above the water seemed precarious, and I found myself staring at the misty depths below.
“Down, Credo!” the guard yelled suddenly. He yanked me hard and I stumbled to my knees behind him as he knelt, propping up his shield. I pulled Bradomir down with me, and only a breath later, the shield shook as something pounded into it from the other side. To my right, another arrow hurtled into the ground and stuck in the crack between the stones. Heart pounding, I ran faster across the length, Bradomir forgetting to struggle or threaten me as he cowered behind his own small shield. I felt naked without any kind of shield or armor, running in a kind of partial crouch, ever aware that the arrow fire could take us down at any time.
We made it off the bridge and into the thick of it, and with shaking hands I raised the horn and blew the retreat signal as we joined the fighting.
The horn sounded pitiful in the roar of the battle on this side. I could barely differentiate between city people and the rebel force in the sweaty crush. I blew again. This time I saw some response; nearby Silastians looked over their shoulders at the bridge.
Slowly, the signal registered. More and more people backed away or even ran back toward the bridge. I felt a kernel of hope; maybe we could turn this around.
“We need to get back!” the Order Guard yelled in my ear. I looked back over toward the bridge, and the hope disappeared into a burst of fear.
The rebels had closed in behind us, cutting us off from the bridge.
Bradomir saw it, too; he stopped trying to lunge away and instead pressed back with the two of us, forming a tight little triangle. “What have you done?” he yelled, eyes wild. I’d never seen him without the veneer of calm, and it made him seem older.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. What had I done? I supposed I’d just consigned the remaining parts of our force to slaughter—I might have stopped the rebels being penned in but I’d done that exact thing to our own. At least I could see no Darfri Speakers among the force before us; it seemed less frightening, somehow, to be killed by natural rather than supernatural means.
As our scattered forces came together to form a rough circle, I blocked a spear strike, barely, and found myself thinking of Hadrea. I grabbed the end of the spear within my reach and yanked, and the man wielding it stumbled forward, losing his weapon. I kneed him between the legs, and tried to remember what I’d last said to her. Stay safe? Be safe? Stay at the hospital? Nothing profound to remember me by. I had barely any supplies left, but I sprayed some stingbark powder into the man’s face and whirled around to face the next one. I knew what I should have said to Hadrea, and now I’d never get to say it at all.
The next strike was too fast, and though my hasty block deflected the sword, it cut into my other arm, a hammer of fiery pain in my forearm. My muscles already protested the action. All those soft years, and here I was expecting my body to put up with repeated fights on top of inadequate food, injuries, and general exhaustion. It wouldn’t last much longer. I wouldn’t last much longer.
Then a gong rang out, and another, and the rebels closing in around us began looking over their shoulders. The ferocity dropped out of their attack. It took some time before we realized what was happening; by then, the crowd had thickened and the surrounding rebels had ceased their fevered targeting of our group and were focused instead on the flood of people from the streets, retreating to the docks and riverbank to form one consolidated force.
Aven’s army had broken through into the lower city. This was now a full battle, not a siege.
“Get to our army!” Bradomir cried. “We’ll be saved!”
Off the docks and up into the buildings, we saw the first of them arrive, their uniforms and armor bright and matching, rendering the rest of us a childish mob. Relief and dismay warred within me. We might well be saved, but the rebels would be finished. This was not how it was supposed to go.
Then another sound penetrated the cries and clashes of weaponry.
A ghostly sound, but loud, so loud, and building with every moment; it reminded me of the longhorn at the Chancellor’s funeral, but higher and colder. It rattled my ears, filling the air around us. Beneath our feet, the very ground seemed to shake. Men and women paused in their fighting, craning about. Fear and uncertainty bled through the rage. The sound was like a physical thing, seizing us all. Weapons ceased clashing and slowly the sound swallowed all others.
It came from the water.
Battle forgotten, everyone around me—rebels and Silastians alike—pushed and crowded to see the lake. The surface rippled, bubbled, like converging currents. Trickster’s Bridge itself shook visibly, the stone groaning. People crowded tight on the docks, the sound binding us together. Though part of me knew what was happening, that rational portion of my brain was buried beneath the instinctive emotional response. And I gasped out loud with everyone else when something emerged from the eerie mist above the water.