Koertig marched down the wide stairway to Lowtown, mirror-like armor over his chest and head. A spiked silver pauldron girded his injured shoulder. He carried a spear that felt weightless. He slammed the butt of the spike into the boardwalk and halted. He was pain free and strong with a fury burning in his soul. Koertig was ready for war.
Soldiers raced past him, his soldiers. A command he had thought he had lost. Koertig had lost nothing. His men carried bright torches along with tall spears and long swords as they spilled into Lowtown and down to the Barrens. Koertig had sat alone in his room for a week, waiting, festering. He had anticipated Philippa’s certain return, even playing out her groveling words. By his fourth night alone, anticipation had turned to outrage. By the seventh night, he had roused his army.
“Surround the building!” he called out, following his men to the Barrens. The shadowed moon was in crescent on this clear night, but the stars were bright and plentiful. “Cover the windows! I want them all accounted for!”
For those seven nights he had heard again every conversation he and Philippa had shared. At first she had bowed to him, calling him sir, begging to tend to his every need. She had worshipped him, and like any devout, she had let her god command her. But it had all been a lie, an act to get him to lower his guard. He had let her become familiar to him, a comforting presence even. And only then, when he was least defended, did she attempt to control him.
In the Barrens, Martz relayed Koertig’s orders and waved at his men to take up positions around the Ward. Small shaded heads peeked out of the windows, while taller shadows ran behind them slamming panes and dropping curtains.
This too was an act of control, her fleeing his room, her still refusing to come. It was a standoff, an act to see who would break first. Unfortunately for Philippa it was a game with only one possible outcome. As he had gone over their many conversations, he remembered one in particular. Early on she had revealed that her own Mistress had known of the magical child living inside the Ward and had done nothing. Well, he thought, once Haggart the traitor is evicted and the Ward closed, Philippa will have no choice but to return and tend to him once again and—
And there she was, the unmistakable frame of his shameless nurse, the soul-stealing moll, peering out of second story glass. She pulled the curtain and moved aside. Last chance, he thought to her, don’t make me do this.
Martz set his men in groups of three around the windows and doors of the old run-down dispensary. The soldiers dropped their torches and lit small bonfires, a crude lighted pathway leading away from the Barrens and back to the Square. Muffled voices of frightened girls slipped through the warped wood siding, questions and hushes from the young and old. Wine-wasted locals ambled out of the Eagle and Trout, speculating drunkenly on the ruckus. Filth before him, filth behind, Koertig shuddered at this filthy burg.
He marched up the fiery dirt path to the Ward as the front door pulled open. Mistress Haggart took a cautious step outside, searching the faces of the soldiers. She squinted in the bright firelight and pulled the door shut behind her. Koertig heard one of the wards slide the lock into place. A metal bolt will not stop me, Philippa.
Mistress Haggart stepped into the circle of firelight, her hands up defensively.
“What is this, Terrel?” she asked the younger Martz, but he deferred to his leader.
Koertig spiked his spear deep into the soil and marched forward through the ranks. He approached the old woman whose home had been the shame of Millthrace since before he arrived. He stood before the mother of rats and spoke.
“The child, Olen Marine,” he said. “How did she come to you?”
“How do any of the girls come to me? Adulterous men who tend not their seed,” she said and was met with the back of his hand. She fell to the ground and grabbed her cheek. Gasps came from behind the walls of the Ward. She climbed to her feet, still rubbing her face. Every blow she took was one less for Philippa, if she was wise, he thought.
All of the patrons and much of the staff now stood outside the Eagle and Trout. Others from Lowtown had slouched out of their hovels and stood gathered along the steps at the Lowtown square.
“The girl?” Koertig asked calmly.
“It was an errand woman,” she answered, a red gash had opened on her cheek. “A migrant on duty from Kessel. The child’s parents had been killed, and she was tasked with finding the girl a home.”
“And when did you know she was not of this world?” he asked.
“She is as real as you or I,” she said defiantly, and again was met with his hand. Her head snapped to the side, but she did not fall. Murmurs rumbled through the onlookers.
“When did you know you were harboring a Demi-Aurling?” he demanded.
“This is not about Olen Marine,” she spat out. “I know what you did to Philippa. Is that what the great Koertig asks of his nurse, to bed him while he heals? We offer a caretaker, but you expect a concubine. When the beast took your arm,” she pointed below his waist, “he should have snapped that off too!”
Koertig grabbed her by the throat and pressed his fingers deep into her fleshly neck. Her windpipe closed and thick veins popped out along her collar. Her eyes bulged, and her mouth fell open searching for air.
“Leona Haggart,” he snarled. “For knowingly harboring a Demi-Aurling, you are expelled from the great city of Millthrace, never to return. Your wardens will each be examined and removed also, but should any show Aurling traits, they will be delivered directly to the Nerikan mines.”
Through pursed lips and fading consciousness, Mistress Haggart forced out a final challenge, “Greet them at the gates of Hell, you one-armed deviant.” Then she scooped her hand under her apron, pulled out a small bent dagger, and thrust it at his throat.
Had he another arm, he would have knocked the tool away. Had he a sword, he would have sliced off her hand. Had he been more cautious, he would have expected anything. But he had not, so the shiny bent knife came at his gullet. Pain and glorious death, perhaps, but no. A hollow metal-on-metal thump pecked against his chest as Martz’s spear ran straight through the old woman and etched a small wound in Koertig’s armor. Haggart looked down at the wet iron wedge jutting out of her chest, and fell forward, scraping the spearhead down the front of Koertig’s silver chestplate. She collapsed to the ground, red ribbons of life flowing out of her chest, feeding the barren soil. The tiny dagger rolled out of her hands. She stared widely ahead as if focusing on some distant object.
“I always knew she was special,” she whispered to no one, as life escaped her. “From the first night she stayed with me…she slept,” Leona Haggart smiled as her final breath exhaled, “She slept in golden robes…” Then Haggart spoke no more.
Koertig tested her with a soft toe, but she was gone. His army stared at him, uncertainty on their faces. They were good soldiers, the city’s best, but under Koertig they had seen very little combat.
“A blanket,” he asked quietly, and one of his men edged through the gawking crowd and into a nearby building. Koertig waited quietly in the watchful starlight until his man returned and covered the body. Sounds of shuffling feet came from inside the Ward.
“Men of the Millthrace guard,” he said somberly to the troops. “This is not the way we had planned it, but rarely is there an encounter without the unexpected. Had she not attacked, she would still be alive.” He moved past the troops and paused near Terrel Martz. Koertig touched his shoulder and gave a thanking nod. “We were to shut down the Ward and evict the wretches and waifs. This incident makes it all the more important. What we know: These people have sheltered at least one Demi, possibly more, and they are willing to kill to protect them.”
A guardsman asked if they should raid the Ward.
“No, I will not risk my men to their treachery,” he said, approaching the building. He jabbed his spear through a window, shattering the ancient glass. He placed his back against the wall and called through the jagged pane. He ordered them to exit the Ward, but in return heard only the hushed whimpers of children and soothing murmurs from an older girl. “Exit this building immediately!” he ordered, but the girls stayed inside.
Already frustrated, he pushed away from the building and strode over to the fire, stepping over Haggart’s covered body. He pulled out a torch and handed it to the guard. “Burn it. That will make the rats flee,” he said. “And let something better rise up where vermin once crawled.”
The guard hesitated. Koertig pushed him from behind. The soldier took the flame and ran at the Ward. He tossed a high arcing lob. The torch cartwheeled and smashed through an upper window.
“Burn it all!” Koertig cried out, and his men launched their torches at the building.
The dry wood would not resist the flames. It was as if the old timber had held fire inside itself all these years and was finally letting it burst free. Long boards cracked and popped. Wooden shrapnel flew over the retreating soldiers. Roof beams creaked and bowed in the erupting hellfire that boiled the air. Within moments the entire building was an inferno as black smoke rose high above Millthrace, blotting out the moon and inking the stars that watched.
“Watch the doors!” Koertig called out to his men, trampling the grounds as he shouted. “Watch the windows! Catch them as they flee! Gather them all in front!” Especially one, he thought. Especially one!
But none of the children escaped the flames as the Ward fueled its own destruction.
Townspeople moved nervously, not sure what to do. Two men rounded the Eagle and Trout carrying large wooden buckets. They saw Koertig’s army and the madly pacing Lieutenant Colonel, and they knew this was not a fire to be doused. They set the buckets down beside the Well.
“Flee you rats!” Koertig cried out, stamping the Barrens, mad with rage, watching the doors for Philippa. “Come to me!”
The upper floor buckled, like a great horse falling to a knee. Iron crashed as beds fell through. The old patched roof failed next and fell in upon itself, pulling in the south wall with its collapse. The townspeople were silent as they watched the blaze. Koertig stormed about yelling at the flames.
“Why don’t they run?” he screamed manically, but none dared answer him.
The walls fell in, the roof collapsed, and the Ward and everything within it burned to ashes. And as the flames of Lowtown raged, a desperate Koertig fell to his knees and cried out, “Why doesn’t she flee?”