Chapter Nineteen. Gin
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GIN
As we run through the maze of tents, dashing among the waving cloth doorways left open when the people fled, all I can think about is how strong Eban is, and how brave, how he threw himself upon that Blackcoat to save me without a moment of hesitation.
I’m alive because of him. He’s saved my life twice now.
Echoes of commotion float toward us from the edge of the docks, but in the heart of the city, it’s eerily silent and desolate.
At a corner, I stop abruptly. Eban nearly runs into me. “Did you hear that?” I whisper.
Eban shakes his head.
Hear what? a little voice responds from my pocket.
I shush her.
Eban shrugs and shakes his head again.
I point to the left. Then it happens again, much louder: a muffled cry.
Without another thought, I take off running at the sound. Eban follows closely behind. The noise gets louder. A deep grunt, followed by a thud, and another terrified, but muted, yell.
It’s to the right. I turn another corner and find the source of the alarming noises.
Perlah, Darius’s second-in-command, is on the ground, with a piece of fabric shoved in her mouth. A Blackcoat stands over her, back turned to us, his fist raised above her face, poised to land another blow. She spots us coming and tries to yell.
As the Blackcoat turns to look, we pull out our blades. Rage fills my entire body as I leap at him and slash across his throat. At the same moment, Eban barrels into him, driving his knife into the man’s torso.
The Blackcoat lets out one last hideous grunt and crumples into a pool of his own blood.
I yank the gag from Perlah’s mouth and untie her hands while Eban ensures the Blackcoat is dead.
That’s when I notice there are at least half a dozen others scattered around, all lying dead. They wear the same armor Perlah and I are wearing.
“You all right?”
“They’ll take me dead before I serve them,” she spits.
Perlah glares at me with tired, dark-ringed eyes, but her voice is strong and angry.
“There was no warning. They must have traveled under sail, carried silently by the wind. They avoided the dock and our lookouts. It wasn’t hard.
They chose the new moon for their strike.
The sky is black like their boats and their armor.
We didn’t have a chance. They took out all my strongest fighters in one blow.
We’re defenseless. They found the Lashing just in time to celebrate the high holidays. ”
Lacon celebrates the fall of Ophir every year on “Liberation Day.” During the festivities the Sleeve shuts down; all us Ophir stay indoors, to mourn the fall of our kingdom, but also because Laconians have a habit of coming to the poor side of town to harass us and destroy what little we have.
They claim these sweeps are necessary to preserve order and safety during their celebrations.
Somehow that translates to throwing rocks through windows, smashing merchant carts, and snatching women and children off the street and forcing them into estate servitude.
At the height of the season, House Eternal hosts a massive party, bigger than all the parties the rest of the year combined.
I wasn’t there for it, but I’d witnessed some of the early planning.
Every year Lady Ariadne opens all four ballrooms at once, which requires multiple bands of musicians, a veritable army of servants pulled from the Sleeve, and months of around-the-clock dressmakers to create her many costumes.
In the palaces of Lacon, these Liberation Day parties go on for weeks, as each house throws its own ball, always attempting to outdo the previous one.
The memory makes me ashamed of the time I spent in the palace, built over the bones of my ancestors.
With horror I recall that during the holidays, Laconian lords like Rollo roam the abandoned streets, faces hideous with glee as they set fire to and destroy Ophir shanties, and throw food that could feed countless hungry children but splatters on our doors and windows instead.
“Their Liberation Day raids extend all the way here?” I ask Perlah.
She shakes her head. “Not always, we’re pretty good at making ourselves invisible.”
“But there’s enough Ophir in the Sleeve—what do they want with people from the Lashing?”
Perlah snarls. “Don’t you know? They say the servants from the Sleeve are useless, too weak and starved to have much value. They want free Ophir—we’re stronger, healthier. We make better servants. Why else?”
She shakes her head again and points toward the horizon. To my horror there are more boats approaching from afar. Their masts stand defiantly against the placid sky, threatening in their sheer size, the way they tower over the Lashing. An impending storm.
“Darius isn’t here,” Perlah says. She tries to stand, but can’t. “Kidol, Shayan, and Mateo were killed in their tents.”
With Darius away, his top commanders slaughtered, and Perlah injured, there’s no one to lead them.
The Ophir warriors barely managed to fend off the first wave of invaders and many are dead or hurt now, and more boats are coming.
“We’re not much help, but we’ll do what we can,” I say, nodding to Eban, who agrees.
“Move the injured into tents and gather the remaining warriors; the only way to win is to force the Laconian ships to dock in the center and attack them from both sides,” Perlah orders.
“Get them close, that’s the only way we can win, as we can’t beat their cannons.
Use the towers and the tents to hide yourselves. ”
“I’ll take the east end,” Eban says. “Gin, you lead the west.”
We head back to the dock and separate to our corners. I drag a bench from a nearby tent and stand on it so I’m visible to all. It wobbles underfoot. “Perlah says to bring the injured away from the docks and into a temporary infirmary at the south end!” But no one stirs. I try again, louder.
A man with one eye patched hears me this time.
He spreads the word to those out of range.
“Gather the injured and bring them south!” The message is repeated over and over until everyone hears.
Quickly, they begin to mobilize, carrying those who can’t walk to the south end of the colony and out of harm’s way.
They look up at me, waiting, so I continue: “If you have a weapon, arm yourself. And if you are able, if you have an extra blade, or bow, arm someone who does not.” Heads nod.
Some hold up their arrows. A couple hand an extra blade to another.
Word spreads through the crowd; a few run to tell those who aren’t nearby.
The ships are getting close. Their Laconian flags flap in the wind.
Perlah’s voice echoes in my mind. Don’t you know? They say the servants from the Sleeve are useless, too weak and starved to be much use. They want free Ophir—we’re stronger, healthier. We make better servants. Why else?
“Ready yourselves!” I shout. Across the way, I can hear Eban’s voice on the other side of the dock, though I can’t quite make out his words. A cheer erupts.
And then, on all sides of the Lashing, there is silence. No one speaks, or even dares to move. The ships keep coming, their silhouettes growing ever larger, more imposing, until eventually their cannons and the soldiers manning them become visible.
The air on the dock is thick with anticipation and contained fury. Whatever happens, the people of the Lashing aren’t going down without taking as many Blackcoats out as possible.
A huge blast erupts from one of the ships and breaks the tense silence. A thick cloud of smoke. The cannon is out of range; it’s intended to be a warning. A show of force. I smile to myself. They’ll get no such warning in return. Let them keep coming. “Come on,” I whisper to myself.
Another blast. A cannonball hits the water, causing a huge splash. Waves ripple from the impact. People begin to shift around, nervous. “Hold steady,” I call out.
Rafts full of Blackcoats descend from the larger ships. They row toward the island ahead of the rest of the ship. Another cannon goes off. Arrows fly from the rafts, but none reach the city. They slice through the water and disappear. More impotent displays of power.
“Hold!” I yell. I hear Eban call out the same from afar. Everyone crouches, weapons raised, bows taut. Get them close, that’s the only way we can win, Perlah said.
The first of the Laconian rafts reach the end of the Lashing’s docks, the outpost where we arrived not long before. Blackcoats jump from their rafts, reach the outpost docks, and run deeper into the city.
“Hold!” I order. Not yet.
They’re nearly in range. Their swords are held aloft over their heads as they charge.
I have to marvel at their foolishness—are they unaware of what awaits them, believing the city has already been destabilized by the first round of soldiers?
Or do they have such a low opinion of the Ophir that they think they can best an entire city with only a few men?
Either way, the confidence in their superiority is remarkable, and shortsighted. And fully to our advantage.
“Now!” I scream.
Arrows fly. One hits a Blackcoat immediately, knocking him from the dock into the sea.
The others keep running with their swords.
More climb from rafts onto the dock. Some carry bows, which they shoot back at the Lashing.
But they’re too far away, and at a disadvantage.
They’re out in the open, while the Ophir are shielded by the tent city.
I crouch and wait as arrows fly all around me. I don’t flinch, feeling calm in the midst of it, assured, and focused intently on the ships.