Chapter 1 #2
Hoping Loran’s words from his dream were true, Emere gripped the bolt in his chest before he could think twice about it and pulled.
A chunk of his muscle ripped out along with the bolt’s tip, eliciting a savage scream of pain from his lips—and yet it could barely be heard above the chaos around the square.
His left arm suddenly refused to move and the bleeding was worse now.
He needed more bandages, but he couldn’t rip any more from his clothes with just one working hand.
This was not the first time he had been shot by a bolt. In his youthful days of traveling the world, he had suffered injuries as a matter of course. But back then, he had her.
A surgeon skilled in the Ebrian healing arts, Rakel had always been there to patch him up.
It had been ten years since he left her at Finvera Pass.
The rumor was that she had a surgery practice in the Capital somewhere, but Emere hadn’t dared to visit her.
What he wouldn’t give to have her—and her healing skills—here now.
Trying to dull the pain with a few deep breaths and the memory of Rakel, he vowed to see her again, if he could survive this.
Emere slowly got to his feet, formulating a plan. The buildings in this neighborhood were connected by bridges across the alleys, which he could use for his escape without being blocked by the crowds outside.
Entering through the broken door, he quickly found a staircase leading up and began the laborious climb, grabbing on to the banister with his good arm to help haul himself up.
While his other arm was less mobile than before, it at least felt much better compared to the agonizing pain that the bolt’s tip had been ripping through his body each time he moved.
The inside of the building smelled of cheap wine, ancient piss, and some kind of fishy broth. The buildings here were said to house a dozen families, each in only one or two rooms—a crowded and noisy kind of life, even for the city. From upstairs, a child shouted in a language he didn’t know.
It was a six-floor building, so the bridge was probably on the fourth or so. The assassin couldn’t have been shooting from this angle, but what if they were following his movements? They could be approaching from the other side of the bridge, waiting for him right around any corner.
A mop lay on the first landing. Emere stepped on the damp mophead and unscrewed the staff.
It was much shorter than the quarterstaffs and spears he was used to, but it would do as a weapon.
His injured chest was still aching, but the bleeding at least seemed to have slowed.
All sorts of conjectures as to why he’d been a target raced through his mind, but he tried to ignore these thoughts for now, instead concentrating on getting up the stairs.
On the third-floor landing, a child of about five years was playing on a wheeled wooden horse before he looked up in fright at the man in torn and bloody clothing.
He shouted something in an unknown language, then burst loudly into tears.
Emere, as he continued up the steps, heard a deep female voice from behind him.
“Who are you?”
She spoke Imperial in an unfamiliar accent.
Gildas had said there were immigrants from provinces other than Kamori in the neighborhood.
He turned and saw the woman standing in the corridor.
She had stepped out in a blotted leather apron, her hands tying up her curly hair.
One look at Emere’s state and she quickly came between him and the child.
“I am a member of the Commons Council. Forgive me for borrowing your mop.”
“A councillor who not only makes children cry but steals mops?” The woman pulled a fearsome cleaver from her apron pocket and held it up.
“You’re one of those provincial councillors, aren’t you?
You think you’re better than us? Do you think your fancy clothes and your Imperial manners will change your lowly blood to theirs? ”
The best thing would be to ignore her, but her words made him pause in midstep.
It wasn’t his choice to be in the Capital, nor were these cumbersome robes some attempt to flaunt his status.
Not to mention that he was about to be assassinated, despite his political insignificance, right on these dirty steps.
But he understood what he must look like to this woman.
He turned, brushing away his indignation, and continued up the stairs, the woman cursing at his back in the language of her people. Maybe if he hadn’t said he was a councillor, she would’ve cursed him in standard Imperial.
But the problem wasn’t the insults hurled at him by a stranger, it was the taunt of councillor ringing through these narrow halls.
If the assassin hadn’t known where he was a moment ago, they likely would know now.
He gave the mop handle a white-knuckled grip with his working right hand, and gritted his teeth as he carefully placed his left hand on it.
The pain would become manageable soon. He’d had worse in his youth.
He reached the fourth floor. There was a battered lattice door to the left, beyond which he could see the bridge, and beyond that, another door at the other end. No one lurked outside the first door, so he opened it and looked out onto the bridge.
The winds were strong, and there were no sides to the bridge—only holes where balustrades had once stood.
But there was enough room for two men to walk side by side, and the bridge could be crossed in under ten steps.
Emere took a deep breath and then took his first steps across.
It was slippery from the light rain that still fell.
The crowd surged below, still trying to exit the square. He hesitated. He hated heights.
That dream vision in the square. If Loran had been on the other side, he would’ve walked on a tightrope to get to her and fight by her side, much less this dangerous bridge.
Squinting, he put his right foot forward, imagining that Loran was by the door on the other side …
her leather clothes, her eyepatch, and Wurmath, the sword made from a dragon’s tooth.
Whether it was from the loss of blood or the height, a dizziness overcame him.
Using the mop handle as a crutch, he continued to limp across the bridge.
Something whipped through the air—a bolt flew right past his sleeve, but it made no impression on him.
His eyes were fixed on the door across the bridge.
Just as he had stretched his hand toward the star in the night sky in his dream vision, he reached toward the other side of the bridge.
Another bolt. This one thankfully missed as well, but he knew if one did hit, his body would fall into the crowd below from the impact. The thought troubled him, but he had to make it to the other side of the bridge.
Finally, he pushed the door and it opened without any resistance. Once through, instead of heading to the next door for the bridge on the other side of the building as he originally planned, he stumbled up the nearby stairs.
At the top, there was a trapdoor that opened onto the roof. He went through without hesitation. The wind had picked up even more, and the rain now came down stronger. And at the edge of the roof, looking down at the crowd below, was a tall woman.
Sensing his presence, she quickly turned to face him.
Her hair was long and tied in the back, and she wore a leather coat over simple, undyed clothing.
She had a hawk-like stare, as serious as an artist gazing at her painting.
She carried a long box and had a shortsword on her belt.
When her hand touched a lever attached to the box, he realized what the object was and leaped to the side.
A slew of bolts shot out of the box and clanged against the iron railing behind him, the sound ringing in the air. A Cassian repeating crossbow. He had only ever seen one on his travels, displayed like a priceless treasure in the home of an eastern prefect.
His injury and loss of blood slowed him down, and his only weapon was the mop handle in his hands.
The garments of a politician were not made for quick movement, and rainwater soaked heavily into the thick and luxurious cotton.
And this woman had all the hallmarks of a Cassian killing artist. He bit his lip and tightened his grip on the mop handle.
The woman pulled the lever again, and more bolts shot out.
One of the bolts sliced through his clothes, just missing his body.
Wrapping the wet fabric of his robe around his still-weak left hand, he couched his makeshift staff under his right armpit and charged at her, ready to be hit by another bolt.
Instead, the assassin lowered her crossbow and unsheathed the sword at her side—Emere noted it was a regulation sword of the Imperial legions.
His left hand protected by the wound-up fabric, Emere grabbed her blade.
The pain from the wound on the left side of his chest was close to making him faint, but he held on to his consciousness and the blade both, and swung his upper body around to strike his opponent’s wrist, disarming her of the shortsword.
She grunted, then hit his head with the crossbow that she held in her other hand, and everything went black as he fell.
He couldn’t have been out for longer than a fraction of a second—the assassin’s sword still lay on the roof where it was dropped. But it was no use. Despite the brevity of his dizziness, it was enough time for the assassin to aim her crossbow right in front of his eyes.
Emere winced. In this last moment before death, all he could think of was what Loran had meant in his dream vision.
You must become king. With the sound of the lever being pulled back, he said a final silent goodbye to Loran, apologizing for letting her down.
He regretted leaving poor Gildas to lie in the rain on the bloody platform.
It was raining when he had left Rakel. He was never going to see her again.
But instead of the whoosh of bolts, there was the sound of wound-up springs jamming.
He looked up and saw the alarm in the assassin’s face.
The intricate Cassian weapon must’ve broken when she had hit him on the head with it.
She leaped back and pulled the lever again, but the crossbow did not fire. All it did was creak, and creak again.
Emere scrambled to grab the sword lying nearby.
The assassin bit her lip before jumping onto the parapet at the edge of the roof, her calm and serious face now filled with rage.
As Emere rose up and approached with the sword, she jumped.
He ran to the parapet and looked over the edge, but there was only the slow-moving crowd below.
He collapsed on the rooftop, no longer able to fight through the pain, and sighed. Today wasn’t his day to die after all.