It may be heroic to want to take all the risks yourself and keep everyone else safe, but you can carry this too far. Sometimes teamwork may be a better option.
Steve Chapman is a learning science professional who writes genre fiction in his somewhat elusive spare time. He lives with his wife, daughter, and sailboat at the New Jersey shore. This is his eighth appearance in Sword and Sorceress.
Shada was late.
The sun had set, dropping the corridor into twilight. She jogged around a corner and found Dockerty and the court kids sprawled in the shadows, surrounded by specters of sharp/sweet Vaska smoke, the cigarette passed between them.
“I heard they don’t just kill you,” a boy said. “They turn you into one of them.”
They were talking about the wight attacks; it was all anyone in St. Navarre was talking about.
“That’s absurd.” The girl sounded unsure.
“Annabeth saw Duke Avagne, two nights after he disappeared, at her carriage window.” The boy became heated. “He was dead. And he was trying to kill her.”
Because the walking corpses attacked at night, Dockerty and crew were stuck inside the Citadel after dark; they’d taken to its disused passages to plot their mischief. The offspring of powerful nobles, they’d been Shada’s classmates and tormentors in childhood, but post-puberty their playful sadism had been augmented by serious fighting chops.
Shada hugged the wall. Maybe she could pass unnoticed.
“A wight killed Avagne. Then Avagne killed Annabeth’s driver.” The boy glared at Dockerty. “Sooner or later, they’re gonna get us all.”
The undead were attacking nobles; the court kids were as frightened as everyone else. The Citadel, home to St. Navarre’s King, Shada’s father, and his court, was the only refuge after sundown.
“Annabeth got away,” the girl said.
Dockerty blew a smoke ring. “The Ghost rescued her.”
“The Ghost’s a fairytale,” the boy hissed.
“Yet Annabeth lives.”
Shada took another step.
“Spying, Shada?” Dockerty asked. Claude and Aaron, his bruisers, were on their feet. “Going to tell on us?”
“That you’re smoking your brain into kibble? Everyone already knows.”
Claude grinned. Aaron blocked her path.
“If I don’t get where I’m going, people will die.” It was the truth, but Shada felt silly saying it.
The girl laughed. Dockerty asked, “Why?”
Shada couldn’t explain. They wouldn’t believe.
Claude and Aaron flanked her. They were big boys and knew their stuff. She should retreat; she didn’t have time to mess around. But she’d been working on a perfect takedown for this tight hall. She had to try it.
She darted at Claude, pivoted and leapt up the wall beside him, then pushed off back in the direction she’d come. As he turned, her foot swung behind his knee, his calf taking her weight. He fell as she leapt up to face Aaron.
“Shada!” Petra Ruthven’s voice cut like a blade. Perfectly dressed, brilliantly coiffed, she froze Aaron with a raised eyebrow then turned on Shada. “You were due at the steward’s ages ago. I foresee a flogging.”
Petra grabbed Shada’s wrist. “Unless you’ve any objection,” she dared Dockerty.
He blew smoke. “Flog away.”
~o0o~
“Why are you picking fights with Dock?” Petra hurried Shada along. “You need to get out there.”
Shada’s body wanted to kick and punch. Petra was pushing her luck. But then they reached Shada’s chambers. Moonlight fell through arched windows. Beyond lay the rooftops of St. Navarre, draped in snow. Shada wanted to be out there.
“Your gear’s prepped.”
As usual with Petra, this was understatement. Shada threw off her street clothes and slipped on the white leotard and tights.
“Baroness Deronda keeps a lover in the Coin Quarter,” Petra read from her notes. “She sees him Tuesday nights, won’t be kept away.”
“Never pictured Deronda as a romantic.” Shada clipped the Dolu sticks to her belt, loaded the matches, and then the sling. The small sack slipped over her shoulder.
“People can surprise you.” Petra placed six glass spheres inside the sack.
Petra had. Her father had been the richest man in St. Navarre. As a kid she’d run with Dockerty. Shada had assumed teenage Petra to be mean and shallow, yet when tragedy struck she’d proven ingenious and resourceful.
Shada faced her. “Thanks for the rescue.”
Kindness made Petra uncomfortable. Shada wasn’t sure if this was the result of her father’s murder, just a month ago. They’d only been friends for that month, and still pretended to loathe each other in public—it made their private activities easier.
“Deronda’s the biggest target breaking curfew,” Petra said. “The Consul will know.”
The Consul, once the King’s right hand, was now his greatest enemy. He had sworn to take the crown and was making a good show of it.
Shada stepped out on the balcony. St. Navarre didn’t look like a city on the brink of civil war, but it was.
“She’ll be on foot. Can’t take the carriage to a secret liaison.” Petra frowned at a map of St. Navarre’s labyrinthine street grid. “The aqueduct’s perfect for an ambush.”
Shada eyed the aqueduct, a half-mile of sloping roofs distant. Her ability to cross the city by rooftop had improved drastically in recent weeks; nothing like practice.
She slipped the white domino over her eyes. “Wish me luck.”
~o0o~
Shada had her audience with Sir Gregory at nine the next morning, so made sure to mistakenly arrive at eight-thirty. Gregory always met with Shada’s sister Sienna in the slot before hers. Shada’s chats were given to threats, scolding, and threats of scolding to come. Sienna’s were vastly more interesting.
The twin girls, now seventeen, shared green eyes and a dusky coloring, but Shada’s hair was a golden blond, Sienna’s dark copper.
“Perhaps you could find something outside to pummel, until I’m ready for you?” Gregory’s suggestion carried an air of futility.
Shada slouched on an uncomfortable chair as if she wasn’t remotely interested in the matters of state he was about to share with her sister. “I’m good.”
Sienna rolled her eyes.
“Another attack last night,” Gregory said.
Sienna barely changed expression, but her anxiety was clear. “Who? Are they…?”
“Nara Deronda is shaken but unharmed.”
“Is she mad, going out after curfew?” Sienna asked.
“Merely stupid.” Gregory skimmed the document. “Her bodyguard stabbed the creature, to no effect. It then killed him. Deronda survived thanks to ‘a masked man dressed in white who dropped from the sky.’”
Shada’s turn to roll her eyes; she’d simply leapt from the nearest roof. Everyone assuming the Ghost was a man obscured her identity but was annoying in all other ways.
“The Ghost’s saved twelve of our people,” Sienna said. “Yet we know nothing about him.”
“Deronda reports he carried no blade.”
Shada had used her Dolu sticks to shatter its elbows, kicks to break its knees. A walking corpse can’t be killed, only immobilized. She’d argued endlessly for the Scarlet Guard to stop using swords. No one listened.
Except Petra—and so the Ghost was born.
“The wight had difficulty seeing the Ghost,” Gregory read. “He dodged most of its attacks.”
Shada had learned—painfully—that wights could see in darkness. But they struggled with light colors. Petra had deployed Shada’s recent masque costume accordingly.
“The wight stabbed the Ghost with its talons, yet he seemed unaffected...”
Shada touched the painful bruise on her ribcage. Petra had woven iron twine throughout the costume; wight teeth and nails couldn’t penetrate it.
“He then beat the creature to the ground and burned it.”
From the roof Shada had used her sling to tag the creature with an oil-filled glass sphere. Once she had the wight down—unable to attempt a flaming bear hug (that had been exciting, her second night)—she dropped a match into its oil-soaked hair. The body was already dead; in moments it was ashes.
“This helps us, right?” Shada asked.
Gregory and Sienna glared as if she were a newly discovered fungus.
“A week ago our allies were signaling they’d switch sides if the Consul spared them,” Gregory said. “That’s stopped.”
Shada thrilled to hear it. She’d felt helpless, then furious, as the Consul murdered her people.
“The Consul’s off balance,” Sienna mused. “An assassin—”
“We don’t want to stumble into an overreaction.”
“He’s killing us with walking corpses,” Shada said. “Is it possible to overreact to that?”
Gregory’s fungal glare returned. “We must learn the Ghost’s identity and the magic he uses.”
That would be the magic of not stabbing dead men with swords, of adapting one’s tactics to the enemy at hand. Shada bit her tongue. If it was discovered that the magical Ghost was merely Shada using common sense, her father’s allies would flee.
A Guardsman entered. “The Consul’s arrived.”
Shada felt nauseous. Gregory must be considering suing for peace. He followed the Guardsman out.
“Did you agree to this?” Shada asked Sienna.
“Gregory doesn’t listen to me.” She hurried off.
Shada wandered into the Great Hall. The Ghost was too little, too late. She was tired and bruised. Going out every night could kill her. But if she stayed in and someone died, could she live with that? She needed to show St. Navarre that the silver-tongued Consul was a ruthless killer using unspeakable weapons to gain power. If she spared a wight, it might return to the place it had been released…
“Rough night?” Dockerty examined her through his spectacles.
Did he suspect she was the Ghost? Shada felt a stab of panic. “What do you want?”
“My inheritance and the love of a good woman, but I’ll settle for not getting disemboweled by a wight.”
“Everything’s a joke to you.” She hated his jokes. Dockerty was intelligent, but he used his intelligence to rip everything down.
“It’s gotten less funny.” His voice dropped. “Claude’s back on his feet, Shada. He’s gonna kick your scrumptious ass so hard.”
Her first impulse was to punch. She held back. Dockerty was baiting her; why? “Trying to get hit? Or have you actually learned to defend yourself?”
“I don’t need to hit if I have bigger people who’ll do it for me.” Dockerty adjusted his glasses. “But you’re always a team of one. It makes you vulnerable.”
“I could send you straight to the Healer’s.”
Dockerty blinked. Whatever he was looking for, he’d found. “But you haven’t.”
Beyond him a tall, blond swordsman lingered in the Hall: Ansel Arabount. Shada hadn’t seen him in weeks.
Ansel looked haggard; still the handsome youth whose cruelty and kindness had appalled and intrigued her, but hollowed out. They’d been casual enemies their whole lives but had fought together when the wights first attacked. The bond between them had been real, Shada was sure of it. Ansel had been bitten. He’d asked her to kill him before he turned. She’d refused, hoping to save him. Instead the Consul had.
She approached him. “Ansel?”
The wide smile didn’t touch his eyes.
Shada felt a tingle of danger. Ansel wore the Consul’s silver. He was here as his bodyguard.
“Princess.” His bow mocked her.
“You’re working for the Consul?” She couldn’t believe it. “He nearly turned you into a wight.”
“He saved me from undeath.” Ansel brought her hand to his lips; an absurd formality. “He’s trying to save your life, right now.”
“We’ll never surrender to a man who wields grave magic against his own people.” She tried to pull back but he held her tight.
“A shame.” Having demonstrated his strength Ansel released her. “I won’t enjoy breaking you, Shada.”
Ansel wasn’t stupid. The Consul’s grave magic had nearly killed him. So what was he doing?
“What’s he holding over you?” Shada asked. “I can help.”
The laugh sounded nothing like him. “You really can’t.”
~o0o~
“You wouldn’t have believed him,” Shada said to Petra.
The girls sat in her chambers. Bright winter sunshine cut the cold of the air.
“We were engaged for a year.” Petra wove iron thread through fingerless white gloves. “I knew who I was marrying. Ansel’s not a good guy, but I can’t believe he would hurt you.”
“He can try.” Shada stripped off her tunic and removed the bandage on her ribs. The skin beneath was purple.
Petra’s eyes widened. “Have you cracked a rib?”
“I’m fine.” Shada spread salve, needles of pain resulting.
“You’ve been out eight nights straight. You need to rest.”
“You’re right.” It had taken Shada years to understand that verbal ju-jitsu could be as valuable as the real thing. “I can’t go out every night, saving one person at a time. I have to find the source of the wights.”
“Then get help,” Petra said. “The Scarlet Guard —”
“Stab wights and die and turn into more wights. Not helpful.” Shada got excited. “If the Consul had enough wights, he’d kill us all at once. He’s raising them somewhere, every night. If I find out where and prove he’s doing it, his popular support will collapse.”
“You can’t do that alone.”
“Volunteers aren’t beating down my door,” Shada fumed. “What did you learn about Gregory’s meeting with the Consul?”
Petra had family contacts throughout the Citadel. Shada might be the King’s daughter, but she couldn’t touch Petra’s knowledge of his Court.
“It went well; Gregory’s meeting with the Consul’s key supporters tonight.”
Shada felt like she’d been hit. “After sundown? How stupid is he?”
Petra looked confused.
“The Consul’s going to kill him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“When I was a kid, the Consul was around more than my parents. He basically raised me. I know how he thinks. He speaks gentle reason, but chooses the most extreme solution to any problem.” Shada sighed. “I’ll have to protect Gregory.”
“Gregory’s summit is at ten. You have the Kasabian reception at eight.”
Shada had forgotten the reception. She was to host. Failure to show would mean a diplomatic incident. Her ribs ached. She rubbed her eyes. She felt so tired.
“Shada!” Sienna’s voice.
The girls exchanged panicked glances. Sienna finding Petra here would ruin their pretense of public hostility and prompt questions that could lead to the Ghost. Petra grabbed the gloves and darted into the closet. Shada shoved the spheres under the bed.
Sienna marched in. “You have a problem.”
“Another one?” Shada felt like she needed a week of sleep.
“The Consul’s going to kill Gregory tonight and you have the Kasabian reception.” Sienna looked around. “Where’s Petra?”
Shada had a terrible, sinking feeling.
“Where’s your gear?” Sienna got in her face. “What’s your plan?”
“What are you talking about?”
Sienna’s sigh was pure sibling pain. “Yes, I know you’re the Ghost. Can we just get on with it?”
“I’m, uh, not?”
“There’s someone else kickboxing wights in your masque costume? Please.”
Shada couldn’t breathe. “Who have you told?
“No one.” Sienna just looked annoyed. “Those idiots would shut you down.”
“You’re not here to shut me down?”
“I’m here to help you save Gregory’s life, if you’ll stop being a moron.” Sienna peered out the window. “Is Petra dangling off the balcony or something?”
“In the closet.”
“Just fetch her.”
They sat at the foyer table, the equipment between them. Petra took obvious pride in showing Sienna her work.
“I figured you for the brains of the operation.” Sienna examined a sphere, dark liquid within the Petra-blown glass. “You two were fighting too much and chemistry is not Shada’s forte.”
Even when Sienna was being helpful, Shada longed to punch her. “You can get me out of the reception?”
“Of course not. If you cancel the Kasabians will have our envoy eaten or disemboweled or something. You’re going to have to charm the Ambassador and save Gregory at the same time.”
Sienna’s riddles drove Shada crazy. “How will I do that?”
Petra’s gaze shifted from Shada to Sienna.
Shada fumed. “What?”
“It could work,” Petra said.
~o0o~
The ballroom glowed with candlelight as Ambassador Arwais, a bearded bear of a man, was presented to the Princess Shada. He crossed himself three times, which was the custom of his people. She presented him with a gift on behalf of St. Navarre, which was the custom of hers.
The Princess’ unruly blonde hair was tied back in a semi-successful ponytail draped over a bare shoulder. Her gown—midnight black drizzled in emeralds—was stunning, but odd creases diminished its effect. As Shada and Arwais took to the dance floor she tripped twice on glittering heels.
The real Shada, hooded in a gallery overlooking the ballroom, seethed. “This is a disaster. She’s playing a parody of me.”
Petra seemed unconcerned.
“Nobody’s going to buy it.”
But everyone seemed to, particularly Arwais, who laughed as the faux Shada stumbled over his feet and whispered witticisms in his pierced ear.
“What’s she chatting about?” Shada would have to die heroically tonight; she’d never be able to show her face inside the Citadel again.
“Arwais is a warrior. I think she’s discussing ambush tactics.”
“Sienna doesn’t know anything about ambush tactics.”
“I assume that’s why she studied them while I worked on her wig.” Petra said. “Think of her performance as constructive criticism.”
Shada could find nothing constructive. “She’s laughing at me.”
“You don’t get on; I understand. But Sienna wants to help. We need her.”
They did, now. Shada couldn’t wait until they didn’t.
Petra eyed the rising moon. “I’ll prep your equipment.”
“I’ll be up in a moment.” Shada couldn’t look away from her ongoing humiliation.
Sienna was an accomplished dancer. She’d no raw ability but practiced endlessly until the steps came; she considered it part of her job. Yet she purposefully stumbled around Arwais in their clumsy waltz.
“Princess Shada can take down two Scarlet Guards without a weapon.” Dockerty’s voice, behind her. “Yet can’t be bothered to learn a couple of dance steps.”
Shada froze, trapped between embarrassment and fear of revealing herself.
“She plays at being the troublemaker,” Dockerty warmed up, “But never challenges her father.”
Shada needed to go, but if Dockerty was here Claude and Aaron might be, too.
“She’s such the rebel, right? But does she speak up for the people killed in the King’s wars? Nope; it’s ‘look, I didn’t brush my hair!’ Just another lazy royal narcissist. Can’t even be bothered to show up for her own reception.”
Dockerty knew they were watching Sienna.
Shada turned on him. “Out of my way.”
“Your righteousness has always grated, Shada.” He didn’t move. “You refuse to do what you’re told, but you never do anything interesting.”
“Because I didn’t join your little band of rebels?” Shada shook with anger.
“That was years ago. I’ve grown up—a bit—since.” Dockerty glanced at the reception. “I adore Sienna’s version of you: comedy gold. But you don’t. Why the deception? Tell me and I’ll tell you something you don’t know.”
Dockerty was too smart not to fit the pieces together. When he did he’d expose the Ghost. His sister Amie had been among the first she’d rescued, yet all he could do was throw obstacles at her.
If this was the Ghost’s last night, Shada had to make it count.
She shouldered past him.
~o0o~
Gregory’s carriage was made of steel, a massive shield on wheels. By the time Shada had suited up his procession, six armored horsemen surrounding the metal coach, had a head start. But as it neared its destination she’d nearly caught up.
She’d crossed St. Navarre via rooftop, jogging across snow-covered inclines. The modest Coin Quarter businesses were packed close, making for easy jumps across tight alleys. Atop the snow-draped city, Shada felt better. Gregory was protected. Perhaps the Ghost wouldn’t be needed.
Then stallions reared. Bodyguards lost control of their mounts. Three galloped off. One collapsed, pinning its rider. Horses had been a mistake. Supernatural manifestations spooked them and the Consul had many at his fingertips.
The horses drawing the carriage accelerated around a corner. The coach tipped over and hit cobblestone, momentum carrying it another shrieking twenty yards.
Shada sprinted forward, heart pounding. The Consul knew of Gregory’s protections and had planned accordingly.
A massive wight stalked the overturned coach. The corpses Shada had fought before had been murdered soldiers, bigger than her but not so much bigger. It literally pulled the coach apart. Bolts bent; metal shrieked.
Shada dropped an oil sphere into her sling.
The wight scooped out bodyguards as the sphere splashed his shoulder. Shada leapt from the roof, her double kick slamming the monster in the back. It felt like kicking a wall. She barely kept her feet as she landed. The wight, seven feet tall, turned. Bodyguards lay dead at its feet, their skulls crushed.
She gripped her Dolu sticks in trembling hands.
Fighting animated corpses was terrifying. They smelled like death, fought with supernatural strength, and one bite could kill you. This wight was worse; facial tattoos marked it as a pit fighter. It wouldn’t attack with claws; it would use brute force to batter and crush. The body held a hint of color. It had been killed recently, making it resistant to fire.
This wight had been specifically selected to kill her.
A huge hand clamped her arm and flung her into a wall. Her bruised ribs took the impact. Spikes of pain assaulted her lungs. She dropped a stick into the snow.
The wight loomed over Gregory. Shada blinked away rainbows. She loaded the sling, fired; loaded again.
The wight turned. Shada dropped a lit match down its oil-soaked tunic. She dragged Gregory away as the wight burst into flame.
Gregory stared. Her domino was in place but he registered her ponytail, her leotard.
The wight grabbed fistfuls of snow to douse the flames. It came bounding after them.
Shada’s ribs ached with every step. Gregory stumbled. The alley shook with the wight’s footfalls. Burns covered its face, but it didn’t mind; it was dead.
Shada turned a corner, shoved Gregory into a snow drift then burrowed in beside him. Wights struggled to see white; the monster might pass them by.
“What—”
Shada put a finger to his lips. Recognition flared in his gaze.
The pounding stopped. The wight was either confused or about to crush them. For an endless moment, Shada wanted to scream.
It moved off. She counted twenty then helped Gregory up.
“This ends now, Shada.”
She’d expected thanks. That had been stupid. “The Consul will never make peace.”
“Nonsense.” He blinked. “The right proposal, he’ll bite.”
Could Gregory be this blind? Men who’d died for his stupidity littered the street.
Shada eyed the wight’s tracks in the snow. This was her opportunity. “I have to follow it.”
“You’re the King’s daughter,” Gregory said. “Accompany me or I’ll place you under house arrest.”
Despite her many disobediences, Shada had never disagreed with Gregory to his face. He was the voice of the Crown; it was unthinkable.
She was shaken and exhausted. If her rib hadn’t been cracked before, it was now. But worse, she understood that Gregory and her father had no idea what they were doing.
She left him sputtering in the alley.
~o0o~
The tracks led into the avenues of the Empty Quarter.
The Quarter held remnants of the ancient city that had fallen into ruin before the arrival of Shada’s people. Most of it had been built over decades before. Not the Empty Quarter; people stayed away. It was a Quarter of criminals, ghosts, and whispers.
The tracks ended at the entrance to a crumbling arena. The interior was dark, high walls blocking the moonlight. The wight could be anywhere inside.
Shada slipped along its circumference. A third of the way around she found a series of openings blocked by iron gates. She’d heard stories about old gladiatorial complexes and the tunnels beneath them, for moving fighters in and bodies out. The Consul repurposing one to raise his wights made sense.
The gates were secured inside the walls; the construction was new.
A clang of metal rang out. A larger gate slid across the entrance she’d come through. Shada ran back; the bars were iron, thick and solid.
She was trapped.
The ground shook. Shada turned as a hammer of a fist drove her hard against the gate. The back of her head hit iron; her vision blurred.
The huge wight grabbed her around the waist and lifted, pinning her against its chest.
She flailed in panic. The scent of decay filled her nose and mouth. The wight’s massive arms shoved inside her own and squeezed, forcing the air from her lungs.
She battered its burnt skull with her remaining stick. In response it crushed her tighter; ribs cracked. Its mouth opened wide, revealing filed fangs.
Shada shoved the dolu stick halfway down its throat. The wight choked. Its grip weakened. She smashed a sphere against the stick handle protruding from its mouth. Oil poured along the wooden shaft, down its throat. She struck a match and touched it to the oil.
She felt the heat in the wight’s chest as she tore free, as it was immolated from the inside out. She fell to her knees, dry-heaving on the ground. Breathing was ungodly painful. Her every muscle ached.
Applause rang out. Shada blinked through double-vision. Torches ignited on a riser. Two men flanked a third.
“I had a wager with my fellows,” the Consul said. “They felt you hadn’t a chance, but I said, ‘It will take more than one large wight to end Shada.’”
The Consul was here. Shada had found what she’d come looking for, but it didn’t look like she’d survive her discovery.
“You’ve taken a beating,” the Consul said. “This may put you at some disadvantage in round two.”
An interior gate opened to reveal a tall man in dark armor, his face obscured by a black domino. He held a long staff.
Shada was in no condition to fight; just breathing was torture. She supposed that was the point.
“So kill me,” she said. “Gregory escaped. You’ve failed.”
“On the contrary; I require Gregory to keep your father from ever doing anything unexpected or interesting. I don’t want to kill Gregory, Shada. I want to kill you.”
She understood; the Consul had known she was the Ghost, just as Sienna had. His bogus diplomacy hadn’t laid an ambush for Gregory, but for her.
“The Ghost has proven a royal pain in my backside, but her death simplifies my endgame. The hopes of your allies have been raised high. When they find your broken body tomorrow morning, they’ll flee to me. Your father will fall.”
Black Domino approached.
Shada staggered to her feet and tried to summon some bravado. “Your monster wight couldn’t kill me.”
“Your opponent has been studying the Ghost. The wight was his final lesson.” The Consul addressed Black Domino. “Hang whatever’s left of her outside the Citadel, so all can see the Ghost is dead.”
The Consul withdrew. Black Domino circled Shada, spinning his staff.
She drew a painful breath. Her sticks and spheres were gone. If he had any skill he could beat her to death without letting her close enough to land a blow.
Ignoring the grinding pain in her flank, Shada darted inside the staff’s reach, chopping at his throat. She accepted the painful block and turned into a sidekick, her heel smashing his knee. But instead of the familiar give of snapping bones, a shock of pain rippled up her leg.
The staff slammed her hip then caught her below the ribs. Her body screamed in pain. She fell to her knees.
The staff dropped on her shoulder, forcing her down. Of course his knees were armored. He’d studied her tricks. She spat blood and awaited the killing blow.
He hesitated.
Perhaps she was to be tortured to death. She’d upset the Consul’s plans; he would find it necessary that she suffer. Her fear was manageable. She was expendable. It was her mission that mattered.
But she was the target.
She reached for the sling, nearly useless without ammunition…
She wrapped it around the staff and rolled, using her weight as a lever, prying the weapon from his hands. She leapt up, kicking.
He was too fast. Her foot just raked his face. He hit her hard—three times—in the ribs. Pain enveloped her. Her vision darkened.
Shada lay in cold dirt, blood leaking her nose and mouth. She looked up. Her kick had dislodged the mask.
Ansel Arabount, nose bloodied, glared down.
A hundred questions presented themselves; she set them aside and focused on practicalities. Ansel was as good a fighter as she, but bigger and stronger. Injured and unarmed she was no match. But she knew him.
“The mask made you look hot.” She gave him a bloody smile. “Older, more confident—”
“Think this is funny?” He spun the staff.
“I thought I was fighting a sadistic killer, not poor little rich boy. It’s a little funny.”
“I could kill you in a heartbeat.”
“But you haven’t.” Shada drew shallow breaths. The pain was bad, but if she could keep him talking she could get back on her feet. “You don’t believe the Consul’s lies, Ansel. Why fight for him?”
“You really don’t know?” He was furious. “You did this to me.”
That was sincere. What had she done? “I saved your life.”
“I’d have died clean if you’d had the guts to kill me.” His voice dropped. “But you left me to him. The Consul stopped me becoming a wight but he can reverse it. Anytime. Snap of his fingers: I’ll become one of those things.”
This was why Ansel served the Consul. The Consul had twisted him in knots with the threat of undeath. Ansel had a conscience; he meant well, more or less. But now he was terrified, all the time.
Shada understood that he cared for her and that he would kill her, because he was scared.
“The Consul says kill you. If I can’t,” Ansel snapped his fingers, “I turn into a wight and then I kill you.”
Shada rose to one knee. “I’m aces at wrecking wights.”
He rattled the staff across the gates. A flurry of activity erupted behind them. “Nine wights, teased with your blood. If I wimp out they get released.”
She felt sick; the Consul had eliminated any possibility of escape.
“I’m trying to make this easier,” Ansel said.
He was. The Consul knew she could handle physical pain. To truly hurt her he’d turned her friend into the tormented instrument of her destruction. Fury dulled her many aches.
“The Consul’s thought of everything.” Shada eased into a crouch, ready to move. “Except what happens if I just kick your whiny ass into next week.”
“I’m giving you a clean death.” Ansel swung at her head.
Shada slipped below the staff. The blow was fast but not that fast. As she’d hoped, his heart wasn’t in it.
Ansel brought the weapon around, using his body’s momentum. This was the killshot.
He leaned toward the wall. Shada saw opportunity. She ran at the staff, vaulted it, and bounded off the wall.
Her foot swept behind his knee. Ansel’s unprotected calf took her weight. He fell hard. Shada locked her arms under his and locked her legs around his armored thigh, squeezing and stretching.
Ansel punched her ribs, elbowed her in the face.
She arched her back, forcing all the pressure on to his hip. The joint gave, the ball of his leg coming loose of its socket.
Ansel screamed.
“Really not that bothered about how dirty my death is.” Shada released him. “You’ll make a useless wight now. The Consul hates waste. He’ll find another use for you.”
“You’re still dead,” Ansel sobbed.
The gates rose, wights battering against the bars to get at her.
Shada could barely stand. She was finished. But the Consul might spare him. She hoped she’d made the best of a bad draw.
Wights slipped under the gates.
Fluid splashed a wight’s face; a flaming arrow took it in the eye. Then its head exploded into flame.
The wights ran into a torrent of oil spheres and flaming arrows.
Claude and Aaron charged past her, wielding clubs. They didn’t know what they were doing—they swung for heads rather than legs—but they were strong and the wights were mostly on fire.
It was over in minutes. Shada couldn’t fathom her rescue, half-suspected she was hallucinating.
“Where are you hurt?” Claude asked.
Everywhere, but she touched her ribs.
He punched her. She fell, bracing for kicks to follow. But he offered a hand up. “Even?”
She took it.
The arena was full of court kids armed with bows and slings.
“You really messed up Ansel Asshat.” Dockerty examined him. “Can I kick his teeth in?”
“Please don’t.” Shada limped over. “What are you doing?”
“Saving your butt.” He adjusted his glasses. “Told you I had info. One of my sources heard the Gregory meet was a lure to kill the Ghost. You were too pea-brained to listen, so I went to the other you.”
Shada could barely keep her balance. “But you can’t stand me.”
“I can’t.” Dockerty steadied her. “But the Ghost saved Annabeth’s life. And Aaron’s uncle. My sister. Whatever I think of you, we need the Ghost.”
~o0o~
Nights later, Shada sat at her window, stars shining above snow-covered roofs. She’d broken three ribs and was benched for a fortnight. Her house arrest had been blocked by Sienna. Gregory was furious, but Shada remained free.
While nothing at the arena tied the Consul to the wights, he’d lost a lot of them. Shada hoped for a few nights of peace but was taking no chances.
“Claude’s heading out.” Petra had equipped the court kids. Any wight appearing would face a burlier, club-wielding Ghost.
Shada worried that it was one thing to arrow wights from a distance, another to face a walking corpse alone. But they wanted it.
“Ansel’s alive.” Petra said.
“The Consul hasn’t snapped his fingers.” Shada felt a stab of shame for crippling him. “It was the only way.”
Petra snorted. “You saved his life when he was trying to kill you. You can’t feel bad about that.”
But she did. Ansel couldn’t protect himself from the Consul’s machinations. She would have to.
“You can’t save everyone.” Petra saw through her. “Not by yourself. You can’t just be a hero—”
Shada reddened. “I’m no hero.”
“You’ve saved a dozen lives. But if the Consul takes the crown…”
Shada understood. “I was stupid. Sienna and Dockerty wanted to help. We needed them. But I couldn’t get past the past.”
“Gregory, your father; they can’t stop the Consul. Maybe you can. But not alone. You have to lead us.”
That thought was more terrifying than a dozen wights. Shada rested her head on Petra’s shoulder. St. Navarre glittered under starlight.
The task seemed impossible. But she had always proven best at the things that frightened her most.