DAYS HAVE passed. Whispers from the Undercity bubble to the surface and are snatched up by the wind, kicked about by hooves and feet. There is a march, they say. Something is rising. Someone is rising. At first this hero has no name. Like all heroes, this one is only an idea, a faceless notion in the back of the head or an ear tickle. It is Hope.
“I hear ol’ Usker Lance is coming up from the fires below to seek his revenge for the death of Colm Archer.”
“No. ’Tis Archer himself. He’s risen from the dead, he has, to reclaim his balls and brings with him a demon horde.”
“It’s the Passions,” some dare to whisper. “The Passions have woken the gods and goddesses. Abrythnia and Brochnol lead the way.”
“It is but the plague, coming up in the form of Death herself to eat us all!”
“Gods be with us!”
“Passions guard us!”
“Revolution!”
And yet the hero at last is getting an identity. The House of Kerr is an important family even if they have been shunned, and servants talk. If an important person goes missing from any such family, well, there must be an important reason for it.
Senator General Hegart has come before GOD in the Tower to discuss the matter of the rebel sinners. He believes this uprising, like all the others, shall be easily put down. But the Senator General thinks it is best to discuss such things anyway. After all, the very Revolution that put GOD on His high chair was once met with shrugs and eye rolls by those in power.
Hegart is standing before GOD. He holds his handkerchief to his face, not only to catch his drool, but to stifle the stench that permeates the room. The air is a moist, heavy soup that smells of rot and decay. The two halves of the half-eaten corpse of the ferryman Finn lay like offerings at the foot of the high chair, where the Children in Red squat and hold each other, pale and nauseated.
Only two of the council are still left alive. The third, who sits next to the empty chair of Bana Kerr, is slumped over, his arm stretched out like a thin, transparent stalk and a blue tongue bloating from his mouth. The Senator General is tasting vomit in his saliva. He cannot spit it out fast enough. He speaks quickly, trying to breathe in as little air as possible.
“This march,” the Senator General says, “it is being aided, it seems, by various heathens and hidden sinners. I have some of my best ferrymen looking into it. They see people setting food and drink out in strange places, at the old temples of the Passions and cathedrals of the gods.” He pauses to smother himself with the handkerchief before he continues. “They do this in places that, quite frankly, we have forgotten even existed. Places that have not been accessorized with your Power so that you may keep an eye on them. They have that over on us, at least.”
GOD is angry. “GOD must be all, see all, know all!” he hisses down the pipe.
The Children are nervous. One of them vomits.
“Yes, my lord. I do apologize. But we are taking names, and soon we’ll do a roundup and a mass execution of those that help this march—with your permission, of course—like they have never seen.”
Hegart would have salivated excessively at this thought, but all he tastes is bile.
“Word is, the Great Sinner himself, Usker Lance, is on the march with the group. If he means to exact revenge, he doesn’t know what he’s in for. I’ll skewer the dick lover and put his balls on display in my collection. But it is this new hero the people speak of that has me—”
He doubles over, vomiting up his morning meal. GOD waits, breathing heavily down the pipe.
“The march, it is being said, will emerge soon somewhere in the third ring. We haven’t learned exactly where. The Undercity has all but been forgotten. The maps are in the archives, but the archives have been categorized so that only my brother Tully can find them.”
“No matter,” GOD says, His wrath subsiding. “We will easily squash this group of marching fools. Get your brother to find me those maps anyway.”
The Senator General swallows. He grimaces as the acid and bile burns down his throat. “But my lord, my brother is with the march.”
The Children in Red hold their breaths. The council begins to moan.
“And one other thing, my lord, you may find distressing, but the name of the new hero is Gemma Kerr.”
GOD takes in a lungful. “Well, now,” He finally says. “That is something I did not expect. Yes. That is something else altogether.”
THIS AREA of the Immortal City, the ferryman notes, has been abandoned for some time. Far from the Holy Road and the gate, it sees only the occasional orphan or feral cat. The most excitement the ferryman has seen is the wind sweeping up dead leaves or a tattered cloth. The structures sag and collapse in depressed surrender. It is a district of light grays and browns, the colors having nearly given up their hold and interest. After the plague, this place has been left to de-exist.
And yet…
Cayden Lothair watches for sinners from a broken window inside what was once a small pub. The bar still stands, though the glass of the liquor cabinets is shattered and the shelves empty. These are the places he prefers of late. Near humanity, but not of it.
Their drop-off point, he has discerned, is in an alley just diagonal to the pub. He has seen four citizens cautiously step into that alley carrying bowls and water jugs. They are not cautious enough. They seek to feed the Great Sinner and the new hero. Cayden notes their stupid bravery. He cannot help but admire these soulkeepers.
Cayden does not believe this is where the march will emerge. It does not look an ancient enough space to hide an entrance to the forgotten Undercity. But he has gotten word from Senator General Hegart himself that he is to find where the sinner’s march in and keep track of them. Mirror their route above ground. He has been given six Kingdom Guards. They are to follow his orders. He can tell by their expressions they resent this command, and so has set them to watching various other sections of the district to free him of their indignant faces.
Follow the marchers. Just watch. Do nothing. Something about this new hero, the girl, had the Senator General a little nervous. Nervous. Cayden wants to laugh, but he does not know how.
Even in his dreams, Cayden is watching the girl. She has been given a name now, but how did he know her face before? And it is a pretty face. In his dreams, her eyes rise to meet his like the moon climbs the night. She sees him even as he hides in the shadows of a willow tree. She walks through the Garden of the Passions with the god of anger, Thunkill. Thunkill’s ugliness only accentuating the girl’s beauty. Shrouded in the skins of his enemies, he drags his great bloody scythe behind him, but does not harm her. A third visitor comes in the Garden now. He is familiar to the ferryman. He is the young man Cayden had arrested with the sickly old woman. He greets Gemma and Thunkill and they walk together. They wait for him, but he stays in the shadows.
A young woman is taking what looks to be a bundle of bread or a cake into the alleyway across from the pub. She looks kind. Kindness will get her killed. But not today and not by him. Cayden plays the shadow monster, and he will keep to his shade.
LAWL FINDS cooking for Esther Kerr to be the easiest job he has ever had. The woman does not eat. Not really. She will have a nibble of bread or fruit every so often, but she seems quite content with a bottle of wine for every meal. In that respect, Lawl has done very well. He has her glass filled before she sits at the large, lonely table, and she never has to ask for a top-up.
His days are tedious. They are filled with thinking of Duncan and Gran, watching Key play his drum in the courtyard behind the manse, and wandering the halls of the House of Kerr. Sometimes Key will join him on his investigations. On those occasions, they look at each other, smile, and shake their heads at the extravagances of the manse. Today, however, Lawl decides to leave the kitchen and wander through the halls alone. Now that he is in the first ring, there must be answers somewhere.
Esther is nowhere to be seen, so Lawl climbs the great spilling tongue of the main stairs and tours the second floor where the family’s bedrooms are located. As with the rest of the manse, the halls are so large they feel mocking and derisive. How, Lawl wonders, can there be so much house in this house? Even the furniture, as stacked and crowded as it is, feels like filth and lint lost in corners.
He tries a few doors on the east wing. They are not locked. Most open easily. These are private rooms and guest quarters. They are florid and lovely, with large beds and sofas, but they have not been used in some time. They all smell of stale air except one, in which Lawl finds a hint of perfume in the air. Lawl stands at the door and looks at the bed and the furniture, all of it quite ordinary. Much nicer than anything he has owned, but ordinary. This is the hero’s bedchamber?
He laughs to himself. “And how exactly is she a hero, this rich girl? What has she done that makes her so?”
He closes the door and walks away.
To the west of the stairs, he comes upon Bana Kerr’s chamber almost immediately. One does not need a sense of sight to notice the man is ill. The room has a smell, an odor that spurns. Rot. Waste. Vomit. Lawl sees the machinery, the pumps and tanks keeping the man alive. This is the Power of GOD. If he had these for poor Gran, she could live another few years. But there is nothing for it. She has likely already died.
This man is far worse off than Gran. His eyes are open, watching Lawl as he nears the bed and slowly walks around it. He seems to beg for some kind of mercy. Or is that fear? Lawl is uncertain. He has never been the cause of much fear. His mumbling elicits just the opposite from people. The man is so wired into the machines, and his skin has such a nightmarish transparent quality, that it is hard to separate man from bed. Indeed, he resembles a hideous mutation or disastrous experiment. He is tied to the bed by the very thing that keeps him alive, completely immobile.
“Explain to me what you are doing in my husband’s chamber.” Esther’s voice cuts through the sour air of the room. She stands in the doorway as demanding as a Kingdom Guard. “You are supposed to be in the kitchen. You are the cook. Did you come to see if my husband would like something different? As you can see, he is quite the picky eater. Only the best strained gruel for him.”
Lawl bows his head. “I’m sorry, m’lady.”
“I don’t need an apology,” she says, stepping into the chamber, her black gown soaking up the light. “But I would like an explanation before you get the lash.”
He looks her in the eyes. “I was curious, m’lady.”
“Speak up! No mumbling.”
“I says, I was curious. He is sick. Sicker than I ever saw anyone. Sicker than anyone alive has a right to be.”
“Yes. You are right about that.” Her stare leaves Lawl’s face and focuses on Bana. “He has absolutely no right to be alive. It’s the plague that did it, you see. But we are the House of Kerr, and that name offers us special attention. We have options the likes of you do not.”
“Ah, clearly, m’lady. You are soaking in options.”
Her eyes are back on his.
“But, m’lady,” he says, “what ails him is not only the plague. I know what the plague looks like. I’ve lived among the poor victims of the plague for many years. No plague can make a man’s skin fade away so. He is a chained ghost. There be somethin’ else at work here, aye.”
Her gaze remains fixed on his. She is trying to unlock doors. “Observant. Or just courageous and stupid to speak the truth. All I will say is that my dear husband Bana has made some terrible mistakes in his life.”
“He seems to be paying for them.”
“Not in full. Not yet. He hasn’t been moved from this room, from that bed, in years.”
“Sounds like a prison.”
“For us both.”
“And now you wish to punish me as well? For my curiosity?”
Lawl matches her stare.
“Why are you not afraid? I promise, it will hurt. The lash has thorns and a biting temper.”
“I’m certain. But once a soul has lost everything they love, what is there to fear from a strap of leather? Besides, I have access to somethin’ you might be interested in, m’lady.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What could you have that would possibly interest me?”
“I talk to the other servants from the other houses, you see? We talk about many things, but these days one topic is on everyone’s lips: the sinner’s march and the new hero. Your daughter Gemma.”
He hears Esther’s breath catch, though her face is not less severe.
“Some of these servants, they know things. They have friends on the inside. Friends who are rebels. Revolutionaries. Sinners. I can tell you what I know of her progress, where she’s been. I can tell you things you can never find out yourself.”
“Why would you offer to do this for me?”
He shrugs and looks at Bana Kerr. “Because I have lost someone, too. Because searching seems to be my new hobby. Because… well, why not?”
“Do you know where she’s at now? Where is she going?”
“No one knows where the march is at, specifically. That would dangerous. But she is said to be moving with Usker Lance to the third ring.”
“The Great Sinner?” She seems appalled.
“Aye, m’lady. So he’s called, though I’ve never had the pleasure of his sinful company.”
Esther looks as if she wants to chastise him, but she refrains. “Very well,” she says. “You do this for me, you keep me informed on the whereabouts of my daughter, and I shall spare you the lash.”
“And Key as well?”
“And the child.”
“Most kind, m’lady.”
“Nothing of the sort.”
USKER LANCE and a silent group of sixty are marching with Gemma Kerr through the haunted streets of the Undercity. Half faces, shadows, and ghosts are in the windows, and behind every pillar, a phantasm. They have been marching for days. They are silent and in the dark, fearing echoes might give their whereabouts away. Sometimes, this uncanny silence threatens to drive Gemma mad. Other times, it is welcome for contemplation.
Usker leads the march. He wears a different kilt now, long, black and red. The material is thick, with a slit up the front giving his muscular legs some air. Gemma walks at her own pace with Tully and Madden always nearby. The children of the Undercity hated seeing the massive hound leave them, but Tully promised they would be back one day. It was the first lie he had ever told, and he felt terrible for it.
Scouts keep watch on things up above. They report often on the latest rumors or tall tales being told by those in the Immortal City about the march. As they are watched, so are they watching.
“The Kingdom Guards, O massive asswipes of GOD, have been given a promotion,” Usker explained to Gemma after the most recent scout’s visit, “from giant twits to giant twats. Give a man enough praise, and he’s your whore for life, eh?”
“Did the scout say anything else?” she asked, hoping for news of her mother.
“Only the newest imagining of who ye really are.” He grinned, his worn face suddenly seeming new.
“And who is that?”
“Why, you’re the goddess Abrythnia herself. Didn’t ye know?”
They walk now in an ancient boneyard. The torches give the giant statuary permission to make faces at the marchers. The silence here especially is unsettling. The silent screams of the dead are more frightening than those of the living. Though they wish to pass through as quickly as possible, their fears cause most to walk more slowly. Magnificent stone sculptures of fire dogs and horned demons line the causeway, some standing fifty feet tall with fangs set to tear a man apart. Others are faceless beings in capes, but no less disturbing or ominous.
Gemma looks back at Tully. His hand is buried in Madden’s fur, and his eyes are wide and glowing as he looks around.
Usker has come back to walk with Gemma. He glances at poor Tully as well. “He looks bloody terrified,” says the Great Sinner.
“It’s a terrifying place,” Gemma responds quietly. Her whisper echoes. “I don’t like it here at all. I wish us away from this boneyard. There is no good here.”
“Aye,” says Usker. “This was most likely a boneyard for murderers and rapists. These demons and snovelfarks be here to keep the damned souls in line, no doubt. But have faith, my love, they can’t harm the likes of us.” Usker spots a nude statue of a vampire demon and walks up to it. He looks to Gemma with a smirk and nonchalantly slaps the stone phallus to the ground, where it shatters. “Yet we can harm them. Did you see what I just did, miss? I slapped this old basterd’s wanker right off. Did you see me? Did ya?”
Gemma stifles her laughter. She looks again at Tully, and he is now grinning like a child. He saw it.
“Naw, miss,” says Usker, coming back to her side, “those statues are not the ones ye need be fearin’. There are other beings made of flesh and bone who are far more cunnin’ than stone and just as cold. Now, listen at me well, Miss Gemma. There are those who will pretend to be your friend on this journey, but they’ll sell ye to the Guardian before you’ve had time to blink.”
Gemma has grown introspective as they continue walking. “I am no judge of character. How will I know who to trust?”
“You’ll have me to help ye out, ye will. Others as well. But I’m the best now that my Colm is gone.” He smiles again. “There be many who would do ye ill, be it for madness or glory, but there are also some who will want to join this march. Some of them good basterds and basterdesses will. You’ll see. Ye won’t be alone.”
“But why will they follow me? I am no leader. I am no hero. I have lived a privileged life, and until recently I haven’t even thought of sinners and how they have been wronged. Why would anyone follow me?”
“To many of these folk, ye be true hope. The first spot of it in some time. They dream of ye, and those who don’t dream of ye want to. Ye be Abrythnia, whether ye want to be or no.”
She looks at his proud chin, his regal warrior’s countenance. He wears every struggle and defeat, every scar and pain, like badge of honor. This man should be the hero of the people, not her.
“Besides,” he adds, “marchin’ is good for a body. It keeps a man in shape and keeps a mind from foolishly thinkin’ it be satisfied with the awful world. Marchin’ is so much better than standin’ still, don’t ye think?”
“I KNOW you are not ill,” Deirdre Maire says to Duncan as she leads him down the long hall to what she has told him are his new quarters. Even silence has an echo here. “Though, for the time being, you will remain on the hospital grounds.”
Her voice is flat. Duncan does not pick up a hint of emotion, either irritation or disgust. Her heels are clacking away on the cold floor.
“Soon, I don’t know when,” she continues, “but soon you will be given lodging out there with the other workers. Now, and until I decide otherwise, you are needed here, however.”
Needed?
They pass the long narrow windows that look out on the balcony. The windows are closed due to the change in weather, but all we can see is brown mud, a dying orchard, guards, and the future.
The doctress opens a door at the end of the wing and stands to the side so Duncan might pass. He sees two beds and a large window. Little else. “It’s a private room,” Duncan says.
“You will be in this room with Gran until she dies.” Her hands are at her sides. She exudes no warmth.
“With Gran?” Duncan’s heart races, and his stomach churns.
“Yes. She will be brought in shortly. I have also found you a job at the Factory. It is hard work, but it will keep you away from the Kingdom Guards. They tend to be bullies, though I’m sure you already know this. A word of warning about the Factory,” she says. “You will see things that will disturb you. You might, in fact, go completely insane. In which case, you will be right at home here.”
“Why are you doing this for me?” He studies her good eye.
“I’m not. Not for you, anyway.” She turns to leave. “You start at the Factory tomorrow,” she says as she walks away. “Prepare yourself.”
Gran. He will see Gran again and have the chance keep the promise he made to Lawl. He will be able to… to…
He retches on the floor. His guilt is acidic.
He remembers the night well. It is sculpted into his past like a frieze. Perhaps it was selfish, but he only wanted to make things easier for Lawl. Easier for them both. Once Gran was being taken care of by qualified individuals like doctors and nurses, he and Lawl could have their perfect life together. One day he was certain they would even have that place in the first ring he always wanted. Duncan was a hard worker, and Lawl was a smart man. Together they would be unstoppable.
How silly that all seems now. As if true mobility existed.
Duncan got to the specified location early that evening, a small café two districts from where he lived. The place was dim, but not unsavory. The food smelled eatable, which is always a good sign. He waited, tapping his fingernails on the wood table when he was through eating. He had many moments of doubt. He had even attempted to leave once, but the thought of him and Lawl living happily in the first ring made him sit back down.
When the woman arrived, Duncan imagined the place had gotten the tiniest bit chilly. Mags Hensil was not dressed as a Sister of GOD, but as a simple woman in gray garb. She still retained the air, though. She cast shadows where none were needed. She wore no makeup, and she seemed all the more frightening for it.
“Will she be treated well?” Duncan had asked. “She’ll be looked after, right?”
“Of course, of course,” said Mags with a smile that seemed to creep up from the bottom of her face. “I am a Sister of GOD. I can promise you, she will be seen to.”
Looking back, Duncan cannot believe he fell for her line. He is angry at himself for not listening to his inner voice telling him to run. He cannot believe how foolish he has been all his life. How trusting. And it was right before him. The whole grand lie was right there the whole time.
To hold Lawl just once more, that would be all he would ask before he dies.
He falls to the floor and retches again. When he looks up, a nurse—the woman who used to be Orna the flesh-peddler—is looking at him, face drawn and emotionless, arms limp at her side. She is there to clean up the vomit.
ESTHER IS finding Lawl’s presence most distracting. She has followed him like a shadow ever since he told her he could offer news concerning the whereabouts of Gemma. She has tried to go about her daily routine, but that is near impossible. She would even go as far as to lower herself and take dinner with him if he might recall even the tiniest fragment that someone has passed along about her daughter. All that keeps her nerves from straying too near the edge is the glass of bitter wine she constantly carries with her, a liquid comfort.
Lawl approaches her as she watches him from the kitchen door and tells her he has an idea to make Bana more mobile. She is not overly enthusiastic.
“Why would he need to be mobile?” she says with her arms crossed and the wineglass close to her lips. “Where does he need to go?”
And yet it would be much easier for her to watch the new cook if he was in the same space as her husband. She would be able to keep an eye on them both more easily.
“All right,” she says before Lawl can turn around and head back to the unlit stove, over which he has strewn strange sketches and blue prints. “Yes. Let’s do make my husband more… mobile, as you say. One never knows when that mobility may come in handy.”
So, Esther watches from Bana’s chamber doorway as Lawl and the child measure things: the bed, the sheets, Bana. She hears words like “retractable” and “wheels” and “wrench,” but they mean nothing to her. The two are working most diligently, though. She sips from her wine and slowly nears the work. Lawl takes quick glances her way with his brooding eyes, but seems unperturbed for the most part. Bana watches her, too. She can feel his faded eyes and their ice-cold stare without even looking at him. Yet she is only truly concerned with Lawl.
The child with the drum ever strapped around his torso is a quick worker. He listens well to Lawl’s instructions. He is a pretty child. Some gypsy woman was lucky to have had him. Or not. The lower classes do not appreciate beauty the way those in the first ring do. Gypsy art is far from the perfect straight-lined form and balance of first-ring artists like Degat or O’Noyle. Gypsy art is wild and untamed.
Lawl has caught her watching the boy. “Got some news for ya,” he says, as he sketches some measurements down on a pad.
Esther nearly chokes on her wine. “Yes?”
“The Kingdom Guards killed outside the archives the other night, word is Gemma had some doin’ in that.”
“Ridiculous,” she spits. “Those guards were torn apart. My daughter is not a fire dog or a wolf demon.”
“I don’t know the hows and whyfors, missus. That’s just what I hear. Gemma had somethin’ to do with the archive murders.”
“Who is telling you these horrendous lies? They must stop at once.”
He stops writing and looks up at her. “I’ve upset ya. I’m sorry, miss. Would ya like for me to stop? To not report to ya what I hear?”
“No!” She speaks too quickly. Now the two of them know who has the upper hand. “No. I want to know even the lies. Tell me every tall tale you hear, Mr. Lawl. Every one.”
“Aye, missus.”
Esther gently shakes her wineglass. “Boy,” she says to Key. “My cup is empty. Go get me some more wine, pretty little boy.”
Key looks to Lawl, who nods. Quicker than Esther can notice, the boy takes her glass and runs from the room. She finds his speed mildly disconcerting.
“That child runs faster than light. He’s been taught well.”
“Not by me,” Lawl says in a mumble. He realizes his mistake at once and looks up from his sketching.
“You are not the boy’s father.”
“In all honesty, I never claimed to be, missus.”
“True. But all the same,” she says, as Key comes racing back into the room with the wineglass, “he is an orphan. We both know how GOD feels about orphans.”
Key draws close to Lawl, looking up at Esther in fear.
“Yes, well,” Lawl says, “GOD is a little too nosey for my liking. If you’re going to report him, you’ll have to report me, and then where will ya get information on your sweet Gemma?”
“I have no intention of reporting you, Mr. Lawl.” She takes a sip of the new wine. “I just needed you to understand how easy it is for me to know things. I am certain I could effortlessly find someone else who would know the whereabouts of my girl. Don’t you forget that.”
“With all due respect, missus, you couldn’t. Your reputation among the servants, aye, even among those uppity-ups of your own class is dire. I’ve seen the dust on the crystal. Nobody’s been to a dinner party here in years. And the servants you haven’t already cast out don’t want to be let go for havin’ met secretly with you on the whereabouts of your daughter, the hero. No, missus. I’m all ya got.”
She wants to lash out, to scream, but he is right. No one likes the House of Kerr. She is wildly unpopular. She turns around slowly and walks from the room. She will go to her own chamber now, where she can rage into the mirror.
NIGHT IS falling on the Immortal City. Most living things search for shelter. The farther one travels from the first ring, the more one has to fear. Ferrymen and Kingdom Guards are not all that prowl the night, especially in the abandoned districts of the city. Before the Dark Angels of GOD came up with their soul-sucking contraption, both seen and unseen creatures provided the same service, only with sharper teeth.
Rossa has settled for the night with Claire not far from the third-ring wall. It rises in the distance like a shadow wave creeping ever closer. It is distinguishable from the night sky only because the darkness it collects is of a deeper shade. Rossa has shielded herself well in an old stable, half of which has caved in. She keeps watch from the drooping stable door. A small campfire glows behind her.
This is an old district, abandoned long before the Revolution or any of the plagues. This place existed and thrived when each district had a name, long forgotten now, like a village within the larger collective of the city. Much like the rural districts—a flashing memory of the gardener gives her a chill—they seem more content places. Or would have been once. Places filled with laughter and children and the smells of good food. But so much has happened since these streets last saw any joy. There have been rumors of snovelfarks and fire dogs and crawlers. There have been famines and wars and plagues and hate piled upon hate. Every god, every new faith, every bully regime, takes a bite out of the soul of these places.
GOD is the mightiest bully of them all. Of course, Rossa barely remembers any other before Him. She was a girl when the Revolution took place. But in the history books, if some daring fool still writes them, Rossa is certain this regime is by far the most devastating. And the laws and rules and those who make them are ridiculous and monstrous. There are no better angels here. Only less dangerous devils.
She discovered from an orphan she has befriended that GOD has decreed all horses now belong to Him. She laughed when she heard this. She is certain she is the cause. Mags Hensil wants some revenge for Claire’s nostril full of snot in her face.
“Let her try to take ya from me,” Rossa said to Claire, her face against the equine’s brow. “I be a lunatic murderess now. Don’t she know that?”
From her stance at the stable door, Rossa notices movement on the far end of the ancient street. She steps forward cautiously to take a closer look, holding to the collars of her long coat. Her hair is now pulled back in a long braid. She has given the hat up, traded it with an orphan for a bowl of soup. She has the coin from the gardener’s purse, of course, but the orphan girl wanted that hat so bad and would only take it if traded fair.
Shadows are rising from below the street. Many of them. They are hushed and without torches, but Rossa sees they are no ordinary citizens. She crouches behind a broken statue. Soon the street is filled with people. She cannot yet see their faces, but their secretive actions tell her they are no friends of GOD. And if that be true, they are indeed friends of hers. There seem to be around sixty in all.
She decides to rise and meet them, but is distracted. Suddenly, from all sides comes the sound of a charging army. The Kingdom Guard and ferrymen descend on the group, cutting off their retreat from whence they came. The people do not surrender, however. These are fighters. They do not care that the guards are on horseback and have mighty weapons. They begin hacking and sawing their way through the assault. Their battle cries mute the commands of the guards. Some in the shadow group are easily taken. The death wagons appear as if by magic, and the rebels are thrown into them.
Yet this is not as easy a fight as the guards most likely wish it to be. A great white hound is silently tearing through the guards like they are rag dolls, and a young man rides on its back. They are trying to protect someone. In fact, the entire group, or what is left of it, is guarding one individual. Rossa strains to see past the fighting and flailing. She struggles to adapt her eyes to the darkness. And then she sees. The girl’s face gives Rossa a start. Recognition shoots through her like an electric current. She runs to Claire in the old stable, mounts her quickly, and rides into the fight.
ALL IS caterwaul and confusion. Gemma is overwhelmed by it. She has never seen such a frenzy of panic. The attack seems to have caught even Usker Lance by surprise. The night is so dark and the sound of attack so all-encompassing, it is hard for any of them to get their bearings.
Gemma is being pushed back behind rows of sinners.
“Stay there!” Usker yells at her as he stands with his long sword, preparing to strike down ferrymen and Kingdom Guard alike.
Gemma cannot see much of the action. She hears men on horseback charging them, probably Kingdom Guards. She hears the agitated hooves and screams of the horses, but it’s the cries of those in the march that disturb her most. She is dizzied by the fighting going on around her. The sinners are armed with ancient swords, spikes, and scythes. They use them wildly. But their opponents are better versed in fighting. Gemma sees some of her marchers fall. Another is caught by a ferryman’s hook, which tears his jaw clear away. And still another has her throat ripped out as she prepares to run. Those who fall and yet live are quickly arrested by the ferrymen and dragged screaming to waiting death wagons.
Usker Lance is the loudest and most furious of the sinners, shouting with rage and ecstasy at every swing of his blade. He uses his broadsword to slice the leg from a guard on a horse. When the rider falls from his mount, Usker finishes the job with a swift decapitation.
“Get her out of here!” he looks back and cries to his fellow sinners.
Royce and Sary Cledes grab Gemma and pull her away from the madness. “Tully!” she screams. “Where’s Mr. Tully?”
She sees him still on the back of Madden. “Go!” Tully screams to her. “Get outta here!”
Madden has a screaming guard in his mouth. His powerful jaws clamp and crunch amidst an explosion of blood. Tully is blinded by some droplets and falls from Madden. The ferrymen drag him away, his eyes large orbs of terror as they fade into the dark. Gemma screams. Madden is too busy chewing on another guard to notice.
Gemma is being pushed on by the sinners, though she keeps a horrified watch to her aft. As she turns about, a Kingdom Guard bears down on the three of them. She is frozen to the spot. Her fear has turned her to ice. The sinners pull at her, screaming that she must move, but she cannot. The hooves are drawing closer. She falls to her knees. What was she thinking? She is no hero.
Yet as the guard is upon her, a blade slices through him, sending his head tumbling to her feet. His body slumps forward, and the horse runs past. Gemma looks up and sees the woman Rossa healed of her bruises and on a horse.
“Get her out of here now, ye basterds!” yells Usker as he hacks at a ferryman.
“Come with me!” Rossa says.
Madden races to Gemma. She grabs his fur and hoists herself onto his woolly back. Other sinners run with them. Some capture the horses of the dead guards and ride with Rossa and Gemma. Many, though, stay behind and fight the guards and the ferrymen.
Gemma looks back at the battle, at Usker Lance now fighting three ferrymen at once. “He must run!” she says, tears stinging her eyes. “Why don’t they run?”
Rossa is racing beside her. “Every cause has its sacrifices.”
But Usker and Tully… Gemma is not certain she can live with those sacrifices.