“The first rule of grappling is to never be the one on the bottom,” Joslyn’s voice whispered in her mind. “And if somehow you do find yourself on the bottom, then the second rule of grappling is to free your hips first.”
Improbably, the man on top of her smelled like fish, and his hair smelled of the sea. It seemed a strange thing to notice at a moment like this, but the observation did nothing to dull Tasia’s sharp new focus. In the next instant, she also observed that he had become distracted; he was no longer holding her mouth so tightly, and he put no effort into holding her down with his weight. What was he distracted with? Tasia felt his hips flex and wiggle above her; he reached down with the hand not on Tasia’s mouth towards his belt. At first she thought he was preparing to rape her, but his hand was reaching for something else.
A knife, she thought.
All of it — the smell of fish, the man’s distraction, Tasia’s realization that he was reaching for his knife — occurred in a fraction of a second, in the same amount of time it takes to draw a breath.
And one breath and one distraction was all Tasia needed.
She braced her bare heels in the dusty earth and thrust her hips up. It wouldn’t be enough to throw his weight off of her, but that wasn’t what she needed. She simply needed to make him more distracted than he already was — and to do it before he had a chance to pull the knife from its sheath.
By the time he grunted his surprise, Tasia had already lifted her dagger and plunged it into his side, driving it into the gap between his padded leather shirt and his belt. He screamed like an injured animal, loud and panicked and shocked. Tasia pulled the dagger from his side and bucked her hips again, and this time he rolled off her. She clamored to her feet, keeping the dagger in her hand the whole time.
“Joslyn!” she screamed into the night. “Captain Mannick! Imperial Guards! General Remington! Norix! Joslyn!”
A blood-slicked hand wrapped around her bare ankle and pulled, and Tasia tumbled to the ground. Something hard and pointy struck her in the back of the head, and the spinning world dissolved into the night.
23
Sounds:
The clang of metal on metal. The grunting of men. Shouts, screams, fire, footsteps.
Tasia woke to find herself lying on the ground, a dull throbbing emanating from the back of her skull. How long had she been unconscious? Long enough that the previously quiet camp was now engulfed in chaos. She reached towards the pain at the back of her head automatically, and her fingers encountered something warm and sticky — blood.
Something about the feeling of her own blood on her fingers roused her into full alertness, and her eyes flew open.
She screamed.
The man who had attacked her — Jack, the greasy-haired one who smelled of fish and seaweed — was an inch from her face.
Tasia scrambled to her feet, Joslyn’s dagger still firmly in her hand. She prepared to defend herself against Jack’s next attack, but he did not rise from the ground.
And when she saw that it was only Jack’s head lying on the ground, and that the rest of his body lay nearly a yard away, Tasia screamed a second time.
Joslyn. She needed to find Joslyn. Or one of the soldiers. Or… someone.
Tasia turned towards the main camp, away from the latrine ditch, and realized immediately she could not run in that direction. Two of the larger tents, including Norix’s, were ablaze. A dozen half-dressed soldiers, weapons in their hands, ran in a dozen different directions. Even as Tasia watched, an arrow struck one of them squarely in his bare back. For a moment, his arms opened wide, as if he was a bird about to take flight. Then the short sword dropped from his fingers and he fell face-first to the ground.
The enemies all looked like the beheaded Jack — mismatched armor with mismatched weapons, all of which looked like they had seen better days. But the problem was not their weapons; it was their number. There had to be at least sixty or seventy of them. Tasia’s own entourage included only fifty soldiers and assorted personnel. And from the looks of it, probably half of them were either dead or wounded.
The camp was minutes away from being completely overrun.
Clutching the dagger in front of her, Tasia crossed the latrine ditch once more and ran, angling for the shadows behind the nearest tent. The most she could hope for was to hide until the fighting was over, and hope that somehow, miraculously, the Imperial soldiers would re-organize and beat back the larger force. Perhaps discipline and training would make up for what they lacked in numbers.
Perhaps.
She reached the long black shadows cast by the tent, crouched beside the canvas wall, dagger still in front of her.
Nothing to do now but wait. Wait and pray.
Tasia’s mind spun with a hundred questions. Where had these men come from? What did they want? Were they just simple-minded bandits, lying in wait on this road for a quarry — any quarry — worth robbing? It seemed unlikely; Norix had chosen this route through the empty northern edge of Terinto specifically because it was generally free from trade traffic, which meant their journey would attract less attention.
Norix.
Tasia had never been overly fond of the palace’s head Wise Man, her father’s chief advisor and her tutor since childhood. The old man’s condescending attitude towards Tasia was something she’d always chafed beneath. But that didn’t mean she wanted anything bad to happen to him. His tent was a raging bonfire in the night; had he already been killed?
Mother Moon, Tasia mouthed silently, and any other gods who are listening: Spare Norix. Please. The irony of Tasia’s prayer was that Wise Men didn’t believe in the gods; that was what made them wise. The gods, they said, were naught but metaphors, and prayers and sacrifices and incense burned in their name were all just superstitious, ignorant drivel that belonged to the distant past.
Norix wouldn’t approve of her appeal to Mother Moon. Tasia kept praying anyway.
He’s just an old man. He doesn’t deserve a death like this. Not after so many years of serving the Empire faithfully. He —
But Tasia cut off her prayers when a voice rang out above the din of the fighting. She couldn’t quite make out the words, but it was commanding. And feminine.
It was as if Mother Moon herself had decided to answer.
“…to me!” said the voice, and Tasia knew she was hearing the conclusion of whatever the command had been.
It wasn’t a goddess. It was a guard.
“Joslyn,” the Princess whispered to herself, and the name itself was almost a continuation of her previous prayer. Either she was praying to the guard or for the guard. “Please remain unharmed. Please.”
The “to me” Tasia had heard was most likely directed at whatever Imperial soldiers were still alive. Joslyn was not one of the soldiers; technically she was no longer part of the Imperial Army. Nevertheless, the “to me” Tasia had heard meant the guard must be taking control of the soldiers. Joslyn had made herself the rallying point, was calling the survivors to circle around her.
Tasia was a survivor. She should rally to the guard, too.
“No,” she whispered into the shadows. She was the Princess of the Four Realms, the eldest child of the Emperor, the future Empress. She couldn’t endanger herself by running into a battle bare-footed in a sleeping gown, with only a dagger to defend herself.