They came from across the canals throughout the city. They came in droves, carrying clubs, carrying legs of the few tables or chairs they owned. Some carried the swords and spears they had taken from the Baron’s Men they had beaten or killed. Some wore their rimmed iron helmets which, if the sun weren’t fallen beyond the distant western horizon, still had splatters of the blood from their prior owners.

  There were women among them, carrying broom handles with the hairs shaved off. There were children with thick rocks. Torches were held over their heads, scattered amongst them to light their ways as the droves briskly collided together in the square to form one great, furious mob facing the Palais.

  The bells of the Palais Rohan rang. The Baron’s Men outside the walls sprinted with their shields and spears. Archers rushed across the tops of the walls with arrows clustered in one hand and long bows or crossbows in the other. More men-at-arms rushed—with their halberds or swords ready—from within the courtyard of the Palais to form behind the open gate, some with shields but most without.

  The Clerics led their Monastic Knights around the back of the mob and hurriedly filed in between the people. They were crouched down low enough that most of the people in the mob didn’t pay them any mind. They were no higher than a young child brushing their hips. The ones who noticed were hushed with a finger to lips by a passing knight. Thankfully, either they knew or listened or the roar of the mob at the Baron’s men, at the lit windows of the Palais Rohan, was too loud and the knights made their lines unnoticed. They took knees and waited.

  The mob stopped halfway across the square from the Palais, several paces from the Baron’s men who had formed a line of tall tower shields with spears and halberds. Some only had swords. The roar of the crowd was deafening. The archers were in position. The gate portcullis was being prepared to drop.

  Draka had followed just behind one of the Clerics within the center line. He could see through the many legs and shadows of the people crowded around them, see the torchlight reflecting off the armor of the Cleric in front of him. He looked back at the Monastic Knight behind him. The knight nodded, gripping his spear so that it was angled low and his own tower shield rested on its side on the ground beside him, strapped to his arm. Draka’s own spear had been left in the Cathedral. Instead, he had his sword at his side, still sheathed. His horn was his weapon.

  He looked back to the Baron’s men through the spaces between shifting legs and fluttering long skirts. Over their heads, he saw the Baron himself riding up to the gate.

  Draka narrowed his eyes, his hand sliding to the horn. He felt the groove of the claw marks through his chest plate and winced. He should have had his armor repaired by now, but it was far too late. If nothing else, when he stands before Christophe, the sight of scorched claw marks and the holes through his plates from their talons should strike fear into the man. He watched Christophe stop his horse before crossing the threshold of where the portcullis would drop.

  “Disperse!” Christophe called, moving his horse to pace back and forth in the sight of the gate. “I know you’re hungry. We’re hungry! We gave you all the food we have! Go to the Prince and see where his food comes from! I’ll go with you! He has food! His priests have food! We starve while he dines! I heard him say let them eat cake myself! Those were his words, not mine! Not the Baroness’s!”

  The mob roared. The shouts were incoherent, muffled among the cries. Rocks were thrown. Most only struck the ground between them and the shielded soldiers in front of the gate. A few sharpened handles were thrown like spears to bounce harmlessly on the stones of the square long before they would have reached the lines.

  “Liar!” Draka could decipher. “Murderer!” Was another. He wondered if Christophe could hear it.

  He didn’t recognize the boy who ran out from among the mob. The boy was small, lanky and clumsy, but mostly because he was carrying a bottle in one hand by its spout, while fire raged from a cloth that was stuffed in it.

  The boy stopped after a few steps and shouted, “I want my brother back!” With a wide overhead throw, he launched the bottle with its flames arching through the night sky, tumbling toward the soldiers.

  The boy ran back into the roaring mob. He stopped in front of one of the crouched Clerics, frozen with wide eyes as the bottle fell harmlessly to the ground behind him, splashing flames long before it would have hit the soldiers.

  “Loose!” Someone called from the Palais walls. The archers let their arrows fly. If it hadn’t been night, the mob would have looked up and seen the arrows coming down on them like rain. A storm that was raining death down on them from bowstrings far from their own reach.

  Draka blew the horn.

  The mob cowered from what they couldn’t see but knew was raining down on them. The Clerics and Monastic Knights sprang straight, shields raised. Over their heads, over the people who had fallen to their knees, who threw themselves to cover their family members or friends, shielding them with their own bodies, was a roof of shields held by pillars of steel and gold crosses. The arrows struck the shields in a symphony of thunks.

  Draka was already blowing the signal for them to form the shield wall. In practiced synchronicity, the front of their lines, unimpeded by the mob, brought their shields down in front of them. The knights behind them brought theirs down to fill the gaps between.

  “This is our fight now! Go, get to safety! Let us fight for you!” One of the Knights shouted.

  The people heard. They began grabbing each other, scattering from between the lines, keeping below the roof of shields as those pillars of steel began moving forward to form the new line that was spreading across the square.

  The instant the mob crouched, it was like flooding waters receding from rails of shields. Christophe's heart prodded in earnest. He didn’t have to watch to know that the arrows were rendered harmless. He didn’t have to look back to know they were forming a shield wall that was near impenetrable in comparison to the one his own men were capable of. He didn’t have to look back to know that he had very little time.

  He rode to Captain Felix, who was standing like an idiot at the steps up the wall, “Close the gate and hold them here at all costs! And find the Prince and kill him!”

  “My lord? Our men are out there!”

  “Do it!” The Baron’s horse was doing circles, just as frightened as he was. “And bring the Prince down! I want his head before the night is through! He's in the first wave. Look for a seven-pointed star.” And he spurred the horse to the front doors of the Palais. He had no time to delay.

  Draka drew his sword, letting his shield fall to the ground so he could fight and command. He blew the horn, this time a hard blow followed by a whirly one: the order to advance. All across the formed shield wall, roofed by shields held by the second line of knights, spears held by the third, Clerics called out, “SHOCK!”

  Without their shield wall breaking, without the shields moving more than a centimeter from their positions when they were standing still, they all charged forward. Behind the shield wall of the Baron’s men, the iron portcullis dropped, followed by another behind it. Some within the formation turned their rimmed iron helms to look. The rest braced by pressing their shoulders into their shields and angling their spears or halberds against the charge, knowing they were now trapped. Arrows flew, only to stick in or bounce from the steel shields that seemed to protect every sliver of the Paladinate army.

  The charge slammed into them—first the titanium spears that shattered through their wooden ones, then the wall of steel braced by three lines of men running as one—bending the spears and halberds to breaking in an instant. The force of the combined shock maneuver was like nothing any of the Baron’s Men had ever experienced before. Their bones were broken, some shattered, the exact instant they impacted. Others were thrown back. It was a tidal wave of steel that slammed into them, stopped only because the first line had become a barricade of crippled and broken men across the ground.

  The second line of Baron’s Men squeezed in between to take the place of those who were crushed by the charge, slamming with their own shields and spears. The air became misty red as steel scraped and shields slammed against each other again and again. Their backs were to the wall. The gates were closed on them. They weren’t going to surrender and be slaughtered by these fanatics. They will fight with every breath to keep breathing. Even as arrows flew past their ears from behind the portcullis, even as spears were thrust from behind the thick steel shields in front of them, as the man to the left or right of them fell, they would fight. There was no other choice. If they surrendered, they knew it would end the same. So, might as well die with a spear in the hand than a noose around the neck.

  As the mob scattered, Nina moved from shadow to shadow across the square, keeping her dark cloak over her with one arm across it. She had to hide her servant’s dress for as long as she could. They already had the bells tolling alarm for the attack, the last thing she needed was for them to call alarm for an infiltration and have them attacking the servants. She knew the Baron would gladly have all the servants slaughtered just to be sure. She had enough blood on her hands. It was as they charged that she finally reached the foot of the Palais wall, on the side where the battle wasn’t happening.

  She found where the old bricks of the wall still remained and felt for holds. Most were barely enough for the tips of her fingers, but that was more than enough for her. Unlike when she climbs in the streets, though, she wasn’t barefoot. She was wearing leather soled boots that were belted nearly to her knees with studs to protect her shins. Her knees were padded. Under her cloak—beneath the servant dress, of course—she was padded by leather, hide, studs, and belts. And blades. All of them. As she climbed, she regretted every gram she carried. But she knew once she was up there, she would be thankful if she needed them and had them.

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  Nina reached the top and took a peek over the ledge.

  Sprinting crossbowmen.

  She quickly let herself drop down as they passed. The roar of the battle below was getting louder. There was a rattle from within the Palais courtyard. If only she could get word to warn them of whatever she was about to see.

  She looked again. No one was coming. She lifted herself over the bricks and softly, silently, onto the wooden boards of the wall walkway. Toward the battle, there were arrows flying into the Palais that appeared only as they struck the archers they sent toppling backwards. Below, in the courtyard, the Baron’s numbers were burgeoning around a long wooden contraption they were feeding bolts into. That made Nina shudder. Those bolts will go through their armor.

  She searched for something she could do about that. Oil? A well-aimed crossbow she might find somewhere on her way, perhaps?

  She started moving as quickly as she could while crouched down. The Palais Rohan buildings formed a square, but there were gaps between them at the corners for the servants to be able to move between work areas without disturbing the nobles. That was where she would be able to move from the one she was over and get to the center building, where the entrance to the dungeons was. Unfortunately, it was also where Christophe and all of his men were. She looked back to the weapon they were loading to see how close they were to finishing.

  They were closing a holed board across the back and latching it. Too late. She was too late.

  She winced as she heard the ping from a sledge hammer slammed down on a pin at its side. Dozens of bolts shot out from it and through the portcullis all at once. Nina bit her lip and turned away from the roars and screams that filled the air. She has her battle, they have theirs.

  The Cleric in front of Draka ducked his head even though it was the man in front of him who was suddenly dropped. Draka gaped when one moment, the line of knights pressing into theirs was still fighting and a blink later, the Baron’s Men were trampling corpses to be met by the second line.

  Draka gritted his teeth. They had a ballista-array on the other side of the gate. He wanted to roar. Instead, he blew his horn. Another volley from that and his lines would be cut in two, right down the middle.

  Keeping their shields together, the Clerics and knights began moving, changing the formation from a line into a ‘U’ that pulled them away from the portcullis and gate. The Baron’s Men shifted their own formations, but didn’t follow. Now, it was crossbows they brandished from behind their own shields, both on the ground and on the walls.

  Draka didn’t have to blow the horn this time, the Clerics already had their men loading the crossbows, shooting back. He looked back to the rooftop buttresses of the Cathedral. Are the Artificers ready yet? When will they be ready? He needs that breach now!

  A bolt stuck out the back of the Cleric’s head, nearly piercing Draka’s throat if it hadn’t been stopped by the steel helm. It had managed to go through the sliver of space between the shield wall and the shield held over their heads, through the Cleric’s eye, because he leaned his head at the wrong moment.

  Draka scrambled to grab the back of his collar to pull him upright and keep his shield in place. With his other hand, he tugged for the knight holding the shield over their heads to step forward so that sliver was closed.

  He leaned himself into the Cleric’s back, his chin on the dead man’s shoulder, now gripping the man’s hands over his grip of the shield, as if he were embracing him from behind. He could smell the man’s sweat, smell his blood, could feel the bristles of the whiskers that had grown since he shaved in the morning. Draka swallowed it down. He had to hold the shield up until the Artificers did their job.

  A bolt made a dent in the steel shield…and a tear. Draka gaped at it. Either they refitted their entire garrison or—more likely—they were targeting him!

  He turned a glare toward the bolt sticking through the shield. Through the split around it, he searched the top of the wall for whoever was reloading as he reached up and took hold of the haft sticking from the shield. There was someone hunched over behind the rise of the wall, moving as if he were cranking a heavy crossbow.

  Draka twisted and jerked the bolt from the hole. He reached up and grabbed the crossbow hanging at the side of the knight he had pulled to close that gap between the shields. The knight gave him a look but let him have it. He loaded the bolt, watching with one eye through the hole as the man on the wall lifted the oversized crossbow onto it.

  The man used the wall embrasure as a brace to angle his crossbow downward towards Draka. Draka’s bolt struck him through the same eye he had killed the Cleric with, through the very same hole in his shield. Draka loaded another bolt.

  “They're ready, majesty!”

  Draka looked up and over. He heard Enya calling down from the buttresses, “Brace for breach!”

  It was echoed throughout the line. Everyone, including Draka tightened into their shields, tucking as tightly as they could into their armor.

  Nina tried yet another window. Once again, it was locked. If she moved any closer, she would be right in front of the captain commanding the Baron’s Men from the second floor balcony.

  She climbed, staying in the space where the building moving north to south—the one she had climbed up and over to get in—and the one that moved east to west—where she needed to get inside—met and out of their sight. She reached the roof and carefully crept across.

  There were windows on the opposite side of the building she might be able to get into. Otherwise, she might have to just break into one.

  She kept crouched down and moved fluidly so that it wasn’t too noticeable to anyone not purposely searching for her. Her eyes were constantly glancing below.

  The battle had become one of projectiles, but there was a long mound of slithering bodies beyond the edge of the palais light as a reminder of what this had already cost. She tried not to think of anything other than…

  Something glowed from the Cathedral rooftop and she froze.

  She was only halfway across to the other building, halfway across the roof of the building she needed to get into. Exactly two levels above the actual men shouting orders to the enemies of her side in this. Literally four levels swarming of armed and armored soldiers who will kill her on sight if she doesn’t cross their path in a certain way, with a certain manner, at a certain speed, with a certain greeting. And her eyes looked to the glow of the torch and the tube shape it was going behind.

  Her mouth gaped. Barely able to whisper it to herself, she growled, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I said storm the Palace, not bring the whole bloody thing down on top of them!”

  She looked down over the edge of the roof at the closest balcony. There were none on the other side and the ones over here were about to be gone, too.

  She had no choice. And it was a long way away. A long way.

  She bit her lip. And sprinted. Third floor. Last balcony. Second to last chimney pipe, two paces, jump. Roll when you land. Roll when you land.

  “They’re shooting a Dragon’s Tail! Run for your lives!” The Baron’s Men began shouting in the courtyard. Archers and crossbowmen scrambled, clawing over each other.

  Roll when you land. Roll when you land. Nina saw the tube rocket launch from over the Cathedral buttresses and arc across the square like a pointed comet.

  Run faster! And she moved. Her legs carried her faster than her lungs could breathe. Her arms jerked her forward. Her knees lifted. She bounded into the air over the second to last chimney pipe. She crossed over the edge of the roof, her arms waving as she watched herself plummeting.

  Down…

  Down…

  Stones…

  Bricks…

  Wood…

  Ground…

  Death…

  Balcony!

  Nina tucked her head into her arms as her heels landed on the balcony and she struck the rail before she could roll. If not for her boots, if not for the roll of her feet or maybe the way she bent her knees—she felt it in her knees, though—she would be yelping in agony. Or maybe it was something else. It was definitely instinct that leapt her sideways through the balcony window at that moment.

  The comet finished its arc. Bricks, iron, mortar, steel, splinters of wood, and gravel blew across the courtyard in a deafening roar and blinding, painful cloud of sharp debris.

  Nina tucked and rolled sideways as it all crashed through what was left of the window she had destroyed. Bricks bigger than her head and chunks of stone bounced across the bed and crushed the dresser. Even though she plugged her ears, they were still ringing a little.

  “Grab ten of your best men,” Christophe took hold of Felix’s arm, “And ready my boat in the dungeons. Order the rest to hold the Palais to the last man. Are you with me?”

  Felix nodded. “I’m with you, my Lord. For House Strasse.”

  “Good man,” Christophe slapped his shoulder. “Go!” Now, all he had to do was get his wife and daughter, set his study on fire, and get to the boat.

  Draka can have the ruins.