Chapter 40
Carver
Carver dodged the blade that swung at him.
Rhone darted to the left, a calculated move that split the attacking rebels between them.
They each had two to take down.
The rebels struck with furious abandon, but none were particularly skilled. It was almost too easy for Carver to deliver the first killing blow. His blade sliced into the first attacker’s gut. The man cried out, doubling over.
The second rebel lunged at him. Carver spun to avoid the flashing blade, then dove under the man’s guard. The rebel’s eyes flew wide, his terror palpable, as Carver’s knife sank into his heart.
As he collapsed, Carver twisted, his eyes darting to Rhone.
The knight had already felled his first attacker. The second was shoved against the alley wall, Rhone’s blade buried between his ribs.
The quiet lethality of Rhone’s skills made Carver’s blood chill.
Rhone jerked his blade free, and the groaning man slumped to the alley floor. Rhone took a step back, but kept his eyes trained on the man as he drew his last breath.
Movement in Carver’s periphery made him tense. He twisted, just in time to see a fifth rebel come around the corner, a loaded crossbow leveled at Rhone.
“Duck!” Carver shouted as he charged the rebel.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Rhone fall to his knees and roll.
The violent snap of the fired crossbow rang sharply in the alley, the bolt shooting through the air. It struck the stone wall, chipping the surface before the bolt clattered uselessly against the cobblestones.
Carver slammed into the shooter, tackling him to the ground.
The crossbow flew from the man’s hands. He grunted as his head thudded against the hard street. His eyes rolled back in his head, his body going limp.
Carver’s breaths sounded harsh in his ears, his hands clenched in the man’s tunic as he straddled him. It took a moment for the haze of the fight to dim enough that he could make out the subtle rise and fall of the man’s chest. The rebel was alive, just unconscious.
“Thank you.”
Pulse still racing, Carver looked up at Rhone. The knight towered over him, offering Carver a hand.
The bone ring was all he could see. Blazing Saints, he’d just saved Rhone’s life. It had been pure instinct. An unconscious decision in the heat of battle.
He prayed he wouldn’t come to regret it.
Rhone’s hand remained open, waiting. Slowly, Carver took it, allowing the older man to help him to his feet.
Three dead bodies littered the alley, along with one unconscious rebel and another who was in the process of dying—loudly.
The first rebel to attack Carver writhed on the ground as he clutched his blood-soaked abdomen.
He sucked jagged breaths in, and tormented whines escaped with every exhale.
Perspiration slicked his bloodless face as he watched Carver and Rhone approach, terror and dread nearly drowning out the agony in his eyes.
“Where is Tam Ja’Kell?” Rhone demanded, his voice hard and uncompromising. “Where is she going?”
The fight hadn’t lasted long, but it was long enough; especially if Tam had realized she was being followed, and she’d sent these men to give her more time to escape. They’d lost her. The thought made Carver’s fists clench.
Pain seized the rebel, making his entire body tense. There was a cloudiness in his eyes that made Carver doubt he’d even heard Rhone’s words. Especially when he rasped, “You may have stopped us, but you haven’t stopped the attack.”
Carver froze. “What attack?”
The man blinked, shock momentarily slackening his face. And then a horrific smile curled his lips, now slicked with blood. The macabre sight transformed the suffering in his eyes into a fanatic’s violent sheen of victory. “You don’t even know.”
Rhone knelt beside the man, his dagger raised in silent threat. “What attack?”
The rebel wheezed out a laugh, though he instantly groaned, still holding his ruined stomach. “We will rise,” he chanted through his teeth with an almost reverent fervor. “We will rise.”
Rhone’s knife flashed.
The man howled in pain.
Carver ground his teeth. Forced his eyes to stay open. Forced the past to remain buried.
“What attack?” Rhone repeated coolly.
Desperation thinned the rebel’s weakening voice as he said, “A massacre. The emperor can’t ignore us . . . anymore.”
A chill slid down Carver’s spine.
Rhone’s gaze hardened. “Where?”
The rebel wheezed pitifully, death beginning to draw a shroud over his eyes. “Can’t stop it,” he whispered. “Too late . . .”
“Where?” Rhone’s harsh question was punctuated by another slice of his knife, followed immediately by another scream.
“Market Square,” the rebel gasped.
Carver’s blood turned to ice. Market Square. The place they’d just left behind. The square where his wife, his sister, and his best friend currently were.
“What sort of attack?” Rhone asked, his voice cutting through Carver’s sudden panic. “How will it happen? How many of you are there?”
The rebel coughed, his eyes squeezing shut. “Too late,” he breathed. “You’re too late.”
Rhone raised his knife again, but it was no use. The rebel’s hands slipped off his sliced gut as his strength drained out of him, his body slumping in death.
Rhone shoved to his feet, blood-streaked dagger clutched in his hand. He met Carver’s stare, the same silent questions flashing in his eyes. All thoughts of Tam were gone.
A massacre.
Market Square was close and the attack was imminent. But they had no idea how the attack would be executed, or how many rebels were involved.
Carver spun on his heel, eyes slicing over the dead bodies around him. He needed a clue. Anything. Then he realized he was staring right at it. The crossbow.
Rhone followed his gaze. Cursed as he reached the same conclusion. “They’re going to fire into the crowd.” Shock and horror colored his voice, and it was perfectly matched to what Carver felt.
“The rooftops,” he said. “They’ll go to the high ground.”
They would be far above the crowd, which would make the rebels difficult to stop.
Carver didn’t know why the other dead rebels didn’t have crossbows.
Maybe they had another mission, or they were supposed to protect the shooter.
But Carver and Rhone couldn’t stop this attack on their own.
They needed reinforcements. Immediately.
But the nearest city guard station was streets away. And Amryn was in danger now.
“You’re too late.”
No. Carver refused to be too late.
He grabbed the crossbow and found a small satchel filled with spare bolts. He was better with a sword, but he’d trained with a crossbow. He could take out some of the shooters, at least.
Without a word, he and Rhone fell into step as they ran down the alleyway, weaving their way back toward the square.
Carver’s heart pounded, tension coiling every muscle in his body. The growing sound of laughter, of music, of life, was in harsh juxtaposition to the threat hanging over the square.
They reached the mouth of the alley and Rhone swore.
Carver followed the knight’s gaze and easily spotted the man on the red-tiled rooftop high above them, creeping toward the edge, a crossbow balanced in his hands. The crowded square was oblivious. No one was looking up.
Rhone cursed again. “They’re on every rooftop.”
Carver’s eyes darted across the roofs lining the square, his pulse skipping as he caught sight of dozens of men.
Some already had loaded crossbows in hand and were in position to fire.
The square was completely surrounded. Everyone in the milling crowd was at risk—and they had no idea.
The music played on. Sellers hawked their wares.
Laughing conversations rolled through the air.
People ate and drank, oblivious to the danger they were in.
“We need to evacuate as many people as possible,” Rhone said, his voice tight.
And yet, they couldn’t shout an alarm—that would only cause panic, making the evacuation harder. And if the shooters spied a commotion, they might start firing sooner. Saints only knew what signal they were waiting for.
Carver grit his teeth. “We need the city guard—”
Rhone moved without warning, snatching hold of a boy passing by them. He nearly jerked the lad—who couldn’t be more than twelve—off his feet. “Look at my uniform,” Rhone commanded, his voice low and fierce.
The boy did as ordered, his eyes flying wide with fear and alarm.
That was all the recognition Rhone waited for. “Find a member of the city guard. Inform them a threat is imminent in Market Square. Rebel shooters are on the roofs.”
Blood drained from the boy’s face. His eyes darted to the rooftops and he sucked in a breath. “I—”
Rhone’s grip clenched harder as he dragged the child closer, until their faces were mere inches apart. “If you run to save your own life, the Divinities will curse you. And I will find you and kill you.” He flashed his teeth in a silent snarl. “The Butcher will help me.”
The boy’s frame shook, his fear-flooded eyes darting to Carver. His flinch was immediate. “Yes,” he rasped. “I’ll do it.”
Rhone shoved the boy away, his expression hard as he watched the child scurry off.
Carver’s gut tightened. Even if the boy ran to the nearest guard station, reinforcements would come too late.
It was possible there were guards in the crowded square, but they wouldn’t be enough.
And if the rebels were smart, the uniformed men would be their first targets. Then they’d start killing everyone.
The need to tear through the crowd until he found Amryn nearly undid him, but it wasn’t the practical choice. Ford was with her, and so was Ivan. They’d protect her and Elowen.
Carver needed to mitigate the threat to them.
He reached in the satchel for a crossbow bolt, his words clipped as he said, “I’ll target the shooters. You start clearing the square as best you can.”
“No.”
Carver’s head jerked up.
Rhone’s expression was inflexible as he took the crossbow. “I’ll get the shooters. You clear the square.”
Carver frowned. They both had training, but he was the general. It was his responsibility to engage the enemy. His risk to take. “Rhone—”
“Your attention will be divided,” the knight said. Surprisingly, his expression softened. “Search for your wife and your sister as you handle the evacuation.”
Carver’s debate was brief. They didn’t have time for this. And Rhone was right—he would be distracted.
He handed over the satchel and Rhone slung it over his shoulder before withdrawing a bolt. His motions were sure and steady as he loaded the crossbow, his hands strong as he drew back the taut string and nocked the bolt in place.
“I’ll keep an eye out for any patrolling guards,” Carver said. It was the only backup he could offer the knight.
Rhone gave him a nod. “May the Divinities light your way.” With those final words, Rhone headed for the nearest occupied rooftop while Carver entered the square, issuing low, harsh orders for people to leave the square immediately, by order of the emperor.
The men and women were startled by his command, but even though he wasn’t in uniform, his order was imposing enough that no one argued.
As he moved, his eyes roved the crowd, searching desperately for a flash of crimson hair.