NOVEL NEXT Chapter 28 - Bloodshed
in bunker rank with screams and fear
Lady Life grinned Leclère's leer
she took her brothers one by one
they conjured those who tried to run
- "Burden of Life," Verse 2
The servant's corridor is stark and utilitarian, lacking opulence we'd probably find in the main hallways. Dust gathers in corners, and the occasional torch illuminates bare stone walls and the occasional cobweb. Jebah gestures for us to stop several times—we listen to the overhead thud of running footsteps from a hallway above us. We don't encounter a patrol until we turn right and enter the main complex of the building—there, Jebah peers around the corner and holds up two fingers. He points to Ladislas, gestures at me to stay put. They draw knives.
I press myself against the wall, close my eyes, and count to ten. My heart is still hammering in my chest from the earlier battle, and my hands are shaking—bloodstained. I peer down at them, attempt to wipe the blood onto my pants. It's dried and crusted. Some of it flakes off—some of it doesn't. A few seconds later Jebah appears in front of me and angles his head toward the conjoined hall.
Two guards lie in front of a magnificent set of double doors, throats slashed. They stare up at us with open, accusatory eyes—another wave of bile hits the back of my throat, but again I push it down. I lean down to brush my fingers over their eyelids, closing the gaping stares. Jebah's lips curl as he watches me, but he doesn't comment.
"There are probably more guards beyond the door," he says instead. "If it were me, I'd have at least fourteen men in there with the justices—two for every prisoner. This'll be a tough fight, and if we fuck up, the justices die and the precedent court falls. So…don't fuck up."
"What's our play?" Ladislas asks.
In answer, Jebah snaps twice.
Brid Naya'il doesn't appear, but he tilts his head to the side as if he's listening to someone. "I was wrong—there're only twelve," he says after a moment. "Two on these doors, two on the back ones, the rest with the prisoners."
"We could do a blitz," Ladislas says.
"The second we go in there, they're going to kill the prisoners."
"You don't know that."
"Frankly, I'm astonished they're still breathing," Jebah says. "There's an interrogation going on—their knowledge of Valenès is the only thing keeping them alive at this point. Estienne, Gaspard, Brice, Arsene, Lucrese, and Adolphe are all bound, surrounded by seven guards. The eighth has Abélia in a chair—she's being tortured."
"I still think we should blitz," Ladislas says.
"I have a better idea." Jebah looks down at the corpses, expression thoughtful, then turns to me. "Strip."
"Excuse me?"
"Well, this armor isn't going to fit Laddi. He's built like a horse. You and I are going to have to do it. I don't suppose you speak Xobratic?"
I stare at Jebah for a full ten seconds before I realize what he's asking me to do—he wants me to undress a dead guy and put on his armor. No. Nuh uh. Not doing that. I fold my arms over my chest and give Jebah my best you've got to be shitting me look. He doesn't notice—he's already tugging the helm and chest plate off one of the Xobs, wiping a smear of blood off the top rung with the cuff of his sleeve.
"Get moving, L-DAW boy," Ladislas tells me.
"Do you or don't you speak Xobratic?" Jebah asks again as he tugs off a boot.
"No," I say. "And I'm not taking clothes off a corpse."
"You most certainly are," he says. "That's an order—move. Thankfully I do—speak Xobratic, I mean—quite fluently, if I do say so myself. Took an undercover assignment in Vallatoria with Staffmaster Brayden, may he rest in peace—we were there for about six months. It's been a few years, but I expect I can still pass. Don't say anything, and I'll try to divert as many as I can to the diversion out front."
"What are you waiting for?" Ladislas demands, nudging my calf with his socked toe. "Do it."
I wrestle with myself for a few seconds—only a few. Technically as a staffmaster, I'm supposed to be the commanding officer en-scene—but reminding Jebah of that fact would undoubtably piss him off. Deeply uncomfortable, I kneel next to the second dead man.
Sorry about this, I think.
Spine up, comes Yosif's voice in my mind. Jebah's right. This is your way in.
This coming from a man who killed his own son—I'm now tied to a titan who clearly isn't overly concerned with morality. Gritting my teeth, I tug off the helm. It would protect the head if the wearer fell off a horse, but it doesn't guard the face—I wonder if Jebah has a plan for if the other guards know these men and don't recognize our faces. The chest plate is made of hardened steel, covering the torso from neck to waist—I unbuckle the leather straps and tug it over his head, taking care to avoid the red line across his neck. I remove the bracers, the greaves, the gauntlets, the shoulder pads, the cuisses. At long last I get to the belt, which I unclasp with a rising feeling of dread.
"Underthings, too." Jebah's already started to strip—he tosses his undershirt and jacket over his scythe. "We'll leave our scythes and clothes in the servant's hall with the corpses, hope they don't take that route. You can't wear black leathers under your chain-link."
I doff my leathers and remove the Xob's gambeson—a tunic made of quilted wool—and pull it on. His linen pants are harder to remove, slicked to his body with sweat, and I'm shaking a little—somehow I manage to get them off. I feel a stab of pity as I stare down at the corpse, violated and almost naked, clad only in shorts—but he's with his God, and all this is to avoid meeting mine. I pull the linens on gingerly, and Jebah rolls his eyes.
"I forget how insecure teenagers are." He sighs dramatically. "Oh, to be 15 again—not really. It sucked."
"I liked being 15," Ladislas says. "Got all the bitches back then. Single and free—those were the days."
"Brother, you have a daughter." Jebah pulls the chest plate over his gambeson and secures it with straps. "You talk like a common lancer. It's indecent."
"Like you've never taken a bitch."
"I'm as virginal as Vestal Snow." Jebah's voice drips with sarcasm. "Can't you tell by the rosy glow of my cheeks? Hand me that greave, then make yourself useful—use those great big muscles of yours to take our friends back to the passage."
Ladislas heaves my guy over his shoulder and stumbles down the hallway. Jebah and I finish putting on the chain-link—it's heavier than leathers, and it's hard to stand up straight. We grab the other man—I get his ankles, Jebah grabs beneath his armpits—and together we carry him down the hall. "We should really do something about this blood," Jebah says when we return to our spot in front of the doors, nudging the stain with the toe of the Xobrite's boot. "Laddi—smear some on your neck and lie down."
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"You're fucking with me," Ladislas says, disgusted.
"Well, there was clearly a fight. We need to make this convincing."
"What if they see me breathing?"
"Don't breathe," Jebah suggests. "Hold it."
"Different problem." I raise a single finger. "What if they see our faces and know we're not the guards stationed outside?"
"I'll tell them these guards deployed to the front entrance," Jebah says like I'm stupid. "Which they should be doing too. We'll watch the prisoners—won't we, Colonel Abraham?"
"Who?"
"Xob name. Call me Jude."
I stare at him. "The Xobrite who tortured me in the mountains called himself Jude."
"Well, isn't that a happy coincidence?" Jebah puts his hands on his hips and gives me another one of those radiant, beaming smiles. It takes a good ten years off his face—he can be so damn approachable when he wants to be. "I knew three Judes in Vallatoria, each one more insufferable than the last. Actually, you shouldn't call me anything—don't speak. We can pretend you're mute."
"A mute Colonel?"
"Do you even know what a Colonel is?"
"…No."
"What are they teaching at L-DAW these days? Laddi, you have your orders—why aren't you painting your neck?"
"I have an open cut there!" He gestures at a small indentation that's barely a scratch. "What if I get effueic?"
"It's blood, not semen."
"All due respect, sir, you can get effueic from any fluid."
"I'm almost certain that's not true."
"No, he's right," I say. "That's why you should never use someone else's needles. We learned that in school when I was seven. Great curriculum on L-Street. Taught us all the basics."
"Aren't you the same kid who thought secularism was sexually transmitted?" Jebah asks. "Killi told the Septemvirate about that at your desertion hearing—I think he was trying to show off how dewy you are. Gave us all a good laugh." He turns to Ladislas. "You want me to paint your neck for you? I'll avoid your ouchie."
Ladislas makes a face and dips his fingers in the blood. Carefully, slowly, he spreads the blood across his neck and then lies in it, face down but blade within reach. Jebah and I step over him.
"You ready, kid?" he asks.
"As ready as I'll ever be." Xob armor has side sheathes, and I sling the fallen fighter's sword into the brace on my hip. It's not as heavy as my scythe—if it comes down to a fight I should be okay, provided we aren't too outnumbered. Jebah does the same with his own blade. "Don't suppose I have time to get a drink of water?"
Jebah gives me an amused smile. He pushes open the doors, and together we enter the courtroom.
###
The courtroom has a high, vaulted ceiling, giving it a sense of grandeur and authority. Intricate carvings and moldings adorn the walls and ceiling, depicting scenes of justice, law, and history. Lady Fate and Lady Love are prominent figures, and they appear in most of the carvings—holding scales, weaving, standing in front of doors. Elegant chandeliers hang from the ceiling, fitted with candles. Judging by the gleam, they're made of crystal. Tall, arched windows with stained glass panels allow natural light to filter in, casting colorful patterns on the marble floors. The windows depict allegorical scenes all seeming to relate to virtue—vestals, mostly, clad in finishing school garb and holding books.
At the front of the room is an elevated bench where the justices must sit when court is in session. It's made of polished wood with high-backed chairs behind it. Two large tables with chairs are on either side of the aisle—they must be where the legal teams reside. Rows of wooden benches for spectators are separated from the main courtroom by a low wooden barrier. On these pews, beneath a decorative banner that depicts Lady Fate and Lady Love weaving on either side of a two-way loom, seven men and women are bound with coarse ropes at their hands and feet, hunched over. Xobs circle them, the chain-link of their armor reflecting light from the stained glass. They look up as we enter, and one moves forward—behind him I see a woman tied to a chair, blood dripping from her nose onto her robe. Her hair hangs around her face in a lank curtain, and she stares at Jebah and me with blank, unseeing eyes.
Jebah says something in Xobratic. The words are unfamiliar to my ears—harsh, elongated, nondescript.
One of the guards responds, no more than a dozen words.
Jebah says something else.
They exchange glances.
The guards by the back door, behind the justices' bench, move forward. They exit the room in the same way we came from, stepping over Ladislas's body without giving it a second glance. The rest of the Xobs stay put though, all eight of them—they've moved forward and are examining us curiously. One of the justices—a woman tall enough to tower above the men, even seated—seems to be subtly trying to undo her ropes. Their attention is on us; they don't notice.
One of the guards seems to ask me a question—he's looking at me as he says it. I put a dumb smile on my face and nod. Jebah elbows me hard and responds in Xobratic—he seems to be calm, but I notice raised flesh on his arm, goosebumps. After what seems like forever, two additional guards follow the others out the front door. Six remain.
Six to two—three if Ladislas gets his ass off the floor and joins us before we're slashed to pieces.
Not great odds, but I've faced worse. Jebah's good with a sword. So am I. I look at him, waiting for the signal, but he doesn't give it—instead he chatters away in Xobratic, polite but unsmiling. They respond—a few of them do, anyway—and he really does seem fluent. One of them has his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, but the others don't look suspicious. A woman near the front is examining me with an expression of intrigue, her eyes raking down my ill-fitting armor, lingering on my hips. I didn't know the Xobs had female soldiers—up until this point, I thought I'd only encountered men. I wrack my brain, trying to remember the Battle of Crête Déchiquetée, but it's like there's a blank half hour where the fight once was. I remember falling off my horse, the resounding snap of my arm. I remember clawing my way out from under Killer's corpse. I remember the boy putting his head on my lap after the battle was over. I don't remember any female fighters.
It's uncommon—very uncommon. Yosif's voice in my mind. Not unheard of. Focus on what they're saying—I can't concentrate if you're having a mental piss.
You can understand them? I think.
Of course.
What are they saying?
There's a pause, then—They don't recognize you. Jebah's bullshitting it. Get ready for a fight.
Yosif's warning comes at exactly the right time—two of the Xobs draw their swords, charge, and the rest flank in. Jebah is two steps ahead of me, and he takes the brunt of it, twirling under one sword and driving the hilt of his blade into the metal cup over the frontrunner's loins. I draw my sword, distantly hearing the smack of bare feet on marble as Ladislas runs toward us, drive my blade into chain-link. It's not a lucky blow—I missed the weak link under the fighter's chest—and the blade bounces off with a shriek. My arm goes numb from the elbow down, tingling.
The man who seems to be their leader sidesteps Jebah and engages me. I deflect a series of swift strikes aimed at my torso, head hammering. Carefully, I withdraw and circle him, taking care to put myself between the Xobs and the justices—Jebah and Ladislas seem to be doing the same. Jebah tackles one of the heavy infantry, switches his sword to his right hand, and drives his left fist into the chain-link over the guard's ribs. Ladislas disarms one of the guards with a strike to the wrist, sending his sword clattering to the floor. The leader counters my next attack with practiced ease, but I stay out of reach of any fatal strikes. I get in close, flick his blade away with my own, and drive my knuckles into his jaw. It sends him reeling, and I press the advantage—I disarm him with a flick of the wrist, force him to the ground, drive the tip of my sword into his neck. I turn back to my comrades, trying to decide which of them needs more help.
Jebah's neutralized the man Ladislas disarmed and is currently going toe-to-toe with a fighter swinging a massive mace in wide arcs. Jebah ducks and rolls to avoid the heavy blows, then counters with a low sweep that takes the man—no, the woman, I realize—off her feet. Ladislas is taking on two fighters at once—I run toward one of them, drive my sword into the unprotected back of his calf. Damn, damn, damn I miss my scythe—would've been such an easy move to decapitate him from behind, but oh well, he goes down. I slash my blade along the front of his throat, feel the spray of blood that hits me in the face like falling rain. Ladislas finishes the other guy with a brutal strike to the head, and he stays down.
There's nothing to say. Fight like the Devil, I think to myself.
We're surrounded by bodies. Someone else's blood is in my mouth. Nausea hits me, and I lean over and empty the contents of my stomach onto the marble floor. Jebah throws a disgusted look over his shoulder as he goes to untie the justices.
"No time for formalities, Your Honors," he says. "We need to move."
Somewhere nearby, a war siren is blaring.
Our hour is up.