In Her Shadow(30)

The street narrowed as it descended towards the docks below, forcing the soldiers to crowd in around Britta. It was hard to see over or around them, and the clanks of their boots and armor made it difficult to think straight. She wished Dux Lucius were in the cohort with her, but he marched at the head. Britta knew why. These soldiers, disciplined as they were, were walking into danger, and Lucius was a leader of men. He could have deferred this job to another, but he didn't. Not Dux Lucius. He wouldn't ask his men to do anything he wouldn't, that much was obvious. He was a good man making the best of a bad situation.

Britta's heart fluttered at the thought. If she weren't being carried along by the cohort's march, she would stopped to contemplate the feeling. Pride. She was proud of him. Proud of her future husband. He'd probably find that pride presumptuous, the great cold fish. And, maybe it was. But there it was. What would he think if he turned around at that moment and saw the smirk inching across her face? Doubly presumptuous.

The cohort jostled to a halt. The soldiers were so close to her, their armor scrapped her flesh. Their musk filled her nose. And yet, as they stood rigid around her, she heard a great cacophony. As Britta got her bearings, she realized they had arrived at the docks, and the sound was the sound of the gathered mob. Was Dux Lucius talking to them? Trying to negotiate? Was there anyone to negotiate with? Britta couldn't tell from within her soldier-shell. What was happening? She thought she heard shouting. Britta stretched on her tiptoes to see over the soldiers but it was useless. She was ready to muscle her way to the front when the cohort split open, exposing her to the world.

Dux Lucius stretched a hand towards her, a broad smile on his face. Not a smile of happiness, but reassurance. Who was he trying to reassure? The crowd that faced him or her? He said something but Britta couldn't hear over the din. She stepped forward. The wind blew, flaring and rippling her cloak behind her. The crowd, at least the crowd in the immediate vicinity, grew silent.

"Dux Lucius," she said. She curtsied.

"See," he said turning back to the crowd. "The Abbess of Night is with us. She's sent her New Moon to assist in the search for the missing–"

"Traitor!" someone in the crowd shouted. Britta's eyes flashed towards the voice, only to catch a rock hurtling towards her face. There was no time to react, not even reflexively. It struck her in the side of the head. Her entire world exploded into the night sky. Then, the Goddess hid her in Her shadow.

***

"Close ranks!" Dux Lucius shouted. "Close ranks! Close ranks!" Was there time to get among the soldiers before the crowd descended on them? Already they surged forward, egged on by the shouts of traitor. Britta lay on her side, blood pooling around her head, matting her hair. Was she dead? Pure logic told him if she wasn't, she was severely injured. The cold hard facts of battle demanded he leave her bleeding out onto the stone and rescue his own men. But he couldn't.

Not her.

Not the woman who'd saved his daughter.

As the crowd screamed for his head, Lucius lunged after her, scooping her in his arms in one smooth motion as he rushed towards the cohort. Shields up and clubs ready, they parted just enough to let him and Britta slip through their wall. The soldiers around Lucius grunted, shuffled and jostled. Above and around them, the citizens of Ankshara swarmed, beating against the soldiers' shields with whatever device lay at hand.

He should be at the forefront, looking through chinks in the wall to see what was going on. But he couldn't, not until he was sure Britta was okay. Her blood still pumped, at least, clotting around where the rock had hit her. He tore a bit of cloth from his undershirt and pressed it to the wound. She lived, but for how long? Even if she survived the blow, she wouldn't survive this riot.

Someone shouted to him. It was hard to think with the racket, impossible to hear, but he knew what the soldier wanted: orders. They had to escape, retreat somehow, somewhere. He lifted Britta into his arms. She was so light, so brittle, like a sack of sticks. He leaned over the shoulder of one of his men and peeked through the chinks in the shield wall. Was there any way out?

"Behinds us!" he shouted, though he doubted anyone could hear him. It was their only escape. The docks were too packed. Forward was impossible, but if they could back up to where the street narrowed, the cohort could form a defensive line. He nudged one of the soldiers and pointed in the direction he wanted them to go with his nose. As a cohesive unit, they made their way up the street, clubbing the crowd as they went. When they made it to the narrowest point, Dux Lucius shouted the command and the cohort unfurled into a u-shape that pressed the crowd back, until the u was a line and the crowd assaulting them was downwind.

"Can we hold?" he shouted to one of the men on the line.

As if in response, the crowd surged, pressed against the shield wall; it didn't buckle. There was his answer: yes, but not forever. There was no putting it off anymore, no way to diffuse the situation; it had already exploded. He had two choices now, retreat to the garrison until the angry crowd burned itself out, or resist and put the revolt down with violence. Neither option was acceptable, and either way a lot of people would die. If he were to err, he'd do it on the side of action, not hiding away like a coward. After all, if he could stop it – even through violence – that was his duty, and his duty came first.

He carried Britta to a house just behind his line and kicked the door open. In the darkened corner, a family huddled, terrified of the world falling apart outside. The father held his hands up, pleading for the life of his family.