Chapter 10 (Part IV): Drafting Your Mission Statement

“The dragon should certainly be our overriding concern at this point,” Marcus agreed with Azraea, “Eventually she will tire of this conflict and intervene directly, and we are ill-equipped to confront her. Do you have a plan to deal with her?”

Azraea nodded, “We’ve prepared a trap for her in the east end of the kingdom. Or at least, we will have one prepared soon. If we can get her out there, it should knock her out of the air indefinitely, forcing her to fight on foot. Assuming it doesn’t kill her outright.”

“Even if you knock her out of the air,” Schroeder said, “you’ll have a hell of a fight.”

“If anyone here has any advice in that regard,” Azraea said, “I’d be happy to hear it.”

“Surprise," Jericho said, “Syliva doesn’t think quickly on her feet – or her wings – I always figured if you could take her by surprise you’d have a significant advantage. But you’re pretty much screwed if she can turn those tables on you.”

“How do you even damage her, though?” Schroeder said, “Those scales look impenetrable.”

“Some of them are,” Marcus said, “The big, broad scutes are covered in a layer of horn. They’re thick and as strong as steel. But they’re rigid, too, so they don’t cover her entire body.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about them,” Vinny noted.

“I fought a dragon once,” Marcus said, “when my kin were fighting for northeast Feguncia. It was smaller, and we got lucky, but we learned a thing or two. Its hide was like plate armor – weak around its joints. Syliva’s throat, right under her lower jaw, would be especially vulnerable, as are the backs of her legs.”

“Well, knowing that, she doesn’t seem so bad,” Schroeder said optimistically.

“Not if you’re another dragon, I imagine,” Jericho said, “but those are hard targets to hit, and vulnerable for a dragon is still pretty tough.”

“Yeah, we can’t just walk up behind her and slit her throat,” Schroeder said making a slashing motion across his neck.

Marcus, Jericho, and Verax all made noises, and shook their heads.

“That’s not how you do it,” Jericho shook his head.

“You want to puncture the jugular,” Marcus said making a stabbing motion with his thumb, “So penetration is the key, not laceration.”

“Unless you have an amazingly sharp blade,” Verax flicked the hidden razor out from under his sleeve, “In which case you’re actually going for the trachea.”

Azraea thought about what the dragon’s anatomy must look like, imagining her laid out on a giant version of the autopsy tables she'd gotten to know so well as a necromancy student, “Getting through her platysma would require penetration on the order of feet, and even if her carotid is as big around as my thigh, without being able to see it…”

“Killing her with a bow would be like killing a man with a sewing needle,” Schroeder nodded.

“Technically possible,” Verax said, “but not practical.”

“How did you bag yours?” Jericho asked Marcus.

“In the end? A pikehook chained to a war elephant. One of my men got the hook in the dragon’s throat before it killed him, and when the dragon tried to get free it panicked and ripped its own throat out.”

Schroeder swore, “I can get the pikehook and the chain. Anyone got an elephant?”

“It panicked?” Azraea asked. She’d seen that Syliva was easily flustered into impulsive, self-destructive action, and now wondered if that fault extended to combat.

“They’re not like us;” Marcus explained, “A dragon doesn’t cut itself on a broken glass, or stub its toe. I get the impression that when they do feel pain it’s something of a shock to them.”

“Well, that’s certainly worth passing on to Ochsner and Kaira,” Azraea said.

“You really think they can take her down?” Marcus asked.

“If you knew Ochsner you’d believe it too,” Verax said.

“And if Kairumina Doro Asterigennithika has set her mind to killing something,” Schroeder said, “I’m willing to gamble that she’ll succeed. That girl’s like a seven foot tall mountain lion.”

“Asterigennithika?” Marcus seemed surprised.

 “She comes from a family out east,” Azraea nodded.

“Well, this gets more interesting by the moment,” the elf once again had that pleased-to-know-something-no-one-else-did expression he seemed to revel in.

“Back on point,” Azraea tried to keep them focused, “We just need to get Syliva to them; that’s our number one goal. Playing on her pride is the best way to maneuver her, and I think I can do that if I can get her face-to-face in front of an audience. But I need to get past her troops for that.”

“With an audience to see it,” Jericho said, “And as much as that spectacle might draw a crowd, people won’t come out if they think her thugs are still in full rape-and-pillage stance.”

“Which is where you three come in,” Azraea said, “Someone needs to deal with her small army and someone needs to roust the people out.”  

“Medes took that little spat back at the gate pretty personally,” Jericho said, “When he regroups he’ll head here.”

“Do you think he’ll bring the dragon?” Schroeder said anxiously, “We’ve got direct access to the aqueduct and considerable stonework protecting us. This is the best possible place to hold off a dragon, but…”

“Going by the heralds, Syliva’s still trying to play like she’s the voice of reason and moderation,” Azraea shook her head, “I think she believes that people will accept guards killing each other, but they’ll hate her if she swoops in and burns you all in your headquarters. How long that'll last though...”

“Hopefully long enough to finish this. I’m banking on that reluctance to protect the refugees in Mudville,” Marcus said, “As much support as she’s given the Nationalists, she has not overtly advocated the racial violence they’re engaging in.”

“She likes to surround herself with racist, murdering assholes,” Verax said, “She just doesn’t want to be called a racist, murdering asshole.”

“So… this is good,” Azraea said, “We can bait her troops and her Firebrands. The Firebrands will want to continue chasing the refugees, and Medes will want to come after Schroeder’s remaining guardsmen.”

“My allies should be here by morning,” Marcus said, “We can take care of the Firebrands if they come out to meet us.”

“You can keep them busy?” Schroeder asked.

“Captain Schroeder,” Marcus said, “When the head of house Haorzawa says he’ll take care of someone, he doesn’t intend diversion or distraction. They will be taken care of.”

“Syliva’s troops will probably stay here,” Azraea said, “They might be able to justify pursuing the refugees as part of their ‘investigation’ but they wouldn’t dare leave the city with Schroeder’s guardsmen still here.”

Schroeder nodded, “I think there’re still enough of us to be a problem. Even 200 men can take control of an empty city.”

“200?” Jericho seemed startled.

“For the city,” Schroeder frowned, “We were already down to 800 men at the beginning of the summer – I only got the job I did through a favor – and since then we’ve had desertions, early retirements, the guard splitting, and some more unfortunate losses.”

“How many civilian volunteers do you have?” Azraea asked.

“A lot,” Schroeder smiled faintly, “so there’s that at least. I sent about half of them over to Mudville to help protect the refugees, though.  So, with my guardsmen that’s about 500 men inside the walls.”

“Forgive my ignorance of Kingstown security measures,” Azraea said, “but I didn’t see anywhere near 200 guardsmen out in the streets tonight…”

“The east gate is a small fort itself,” Schroeder said, “I’ve got 30 men there stationed in the fortification and the battlements over the gate.”

“Yes, of course, the archers that were supporting us,” Azraea nodded.

“We also cleared out the old barracks on the north end because I thought we might get people out through there, but the gates were too small to move a massive number of people; turned into an awful bottleneck when the north-enders left. Still, a door is a door, so I left another 20 men there to hold it. About ten men at the library, 40 men stationed here at the west barracks with our families, and the rest were in the field.”

“If the guard needs to go on the offensive then,” Azraea subtracted the west barracks and the east gate, “you could spare about 130 men to fight.”

“At most,” Schroeder said.

“You could manage more though if we trust the civvies to handle some of the defensive tasks,” Jericho said.

“That is true, but I don’t have time to drill and train them properly.”

“How many troops does Syliva have?”

“Firebrands, I have no idea,” Schroeder said, “I imagine that number changes quite a bit by the hour. As far as troops… Maybe 150 guardsmen stayed with her. Her special ‘investigative force’ was around a hundred men out of her personal security force, which was maybe… 300 for the city if you count the castle and all her businesses? She’s called in more in the past day or so. My troops at the gate had to let them through, but estimated about another 100 men.”

“So without her Firebrands it’s close to an even fight,” Azraea said.

“By numbers,” Schroeder said, “but a lot of those mercenaries are ex-military. Not exactly crème de la crème, but better armed and more experienced than my civilian volunteers.”

“And our standing military?” Azraea asked.

“In general,” Schroeder said honestly, “Caelia’s standing military doesn’t amount to much at this point. Militaries cost money, and the kingdom hasn’t had much for a long time. What passes for our armed forces though is scattered along the kingdom’s edges to maintain ‘border security.’  We’ve got minimal military presence in the city,” Schroeder said, “And outside the city… I think they’re waiting to see how it goes down.”

Jericho nodded, “Their duty is to the country, and I imagine a lot of them are scratching their heads over what that means right now. If the Caelian army splits like the KCG has, this civil war will spread across the entire kingdom. Best to get Syliva off the throne before any of them get too used to the idea of her being there.”

“Very well, then. My plan is threefold,” Azraea unrolled one of the diagrams Verax had brought from the library and set it next to a map the guardsmen had been recording information on. First, Captain Schroeder’s guards will reopen the gates, so that Mr. Haorzawa can draw the Firebrands out of the city. Second, Captain Schroeder’s guard will harass the Blackguard’s patrols here… here… and… here,” she pointed to patrol routes throughout the northern half of Kingstown, and then traced over to the diagram she’d laid out. “Those routes pass near access points to the catacombs. Your guardsmen can hit the Blackguard and disappear. Even if the dragon does get involved, it would be impossible for her to pursue them. Medes’ men will either have to follow your men into the catacombs or - as Kaira would put it - bend over and take it."

Schroeder smiled, “And the catacombs are an environment that mercenaries from outside the city will know little about.”

“Indeed,” Azraea nodded, “But I know a few of your civilian volunteers can guide your men through it quickly and easily.” She pointed to tunnels connecting to the barracks and slid the diagram over to Schroeder, “And you won’t even have to open the gates here.”

The guard captain studied the maze of lines eagerly, grabbed some onion paper and charcoal, and began tracing, “If we hit here… instead of… here…” he made a slight amendment to the plan, “Heh heh… we can draw them into this section... close off the tunnels here and here…” he pointed to some bottlenecks, “And just lock them down there until this is over.”

“I’ve been in that stretch,” Verax said, “They’ll be in water up to their hips.”

“Well that should dampen their spirits,” Schroeder grinned, “Hours standing in cold filthy, dark water – they won’t have any fight left in them when we let them out.”

Jericho pointed out some other spots, “You can also draw some in to these entrances,” he marked places near the walls, “draw them towards the inner city, run them in circles a bit, and then just leave them down there.  There’s miles of tunnel, and thanks to those renovations, any logic there was in building those catacombs is all but gone. They could be lost for hours looking for an exit bigger than a shithole.”

“If you can get a large portion of the guard off of the streets,” Azraea said, “I can rally people to accompany me to the castle; that’s the third part of the plan, and my responsibility.”

“You should take some of our civilian volunteers,” Schroeder said, “Nothing draws a crowd like a crowd.”

“And I can spare some men to escort you,” Marcus said, “But even if things go flawlessly, a portion of Syliva’s Blackguard will remain in the castle and lock it down while she’s gone.”

“Let them,” Schroeder said, “Let them sit in that place and rot while we put things back together. The castle lost its meaning when Syliva kicked Caelus IV out.”

“No,” Jericho said, “It definitely has meaning; that’s why she lives there, the symbolism of it; the power.”

“I agree,” Azraea said, “But I believe I can make it into the castle, and I can handle the rest from there.”

Chapter 10 (Part III): Getting to Know Your Conspirators

Azraea had Vinny detour to the public library to obtain some resources for them, and when he caught up to everyone at the barracks she rousted each of the men from their own groups and gathered them in what was, technically, the cityguard’s’ records room.

“I will be honest that though I’ve met all of you,” Azraea said, “I don’t know you all that well, so I thought we should start by going around and saying a little about ourselves…”

Schroeder laughed slightly. He was generally a very polite man, but it had come out before he could stop himself, “Sorry, it’s just… a lot of teachers used to start classes that way, so in the present situation it just seems…”

“Polite?” Marcus scowled at him, “In the Old Kingdom my people would have called such introductions basic etiquette. Marcus Haorzawa, at your service. Head of the Haorzawa family of Kingstown,” Marcus bowed.

“Thank you Mr. Haorzawa,” Azraea said resisting the impulse to curtsy like a teenage girl at a formal, “Azraea Thanel, master necromancer, formerly of Kingstown’s university.”

“I’m sorry,” Schroeder was obviously tired and stressed, but now he was embarrassed, and jumped in next, “Retger Schroeder, acting captain of the Kingstown Cityguard, ma’am. Three decades experience teaching military history and martial arts. About two months experience in the KCG.”

“Your star rose rapidly, Captain,” Marcus commented.

Schroeder shrugged, “What goes up…”

Jericho picked up next, “Sgt. Jericho Stone of the Caelian Highway Guard, ma’am. Formerly of the Gnoman Auxiliary Legion, and before that the Army of Caelia.”

“Verax Scorpio Vexarius,” Vinny said proudly. His real name surprised Azraea, and the title he gave surprised the others, “Legate of the 5^th Dexter Legion.”

Jericho whistled, “I knew that nose of yours looked familiar! Good God, your mother was the Scorpion of Slosi, wasn’t she?”

“Grandmother,” Verax said, “How old are you?”

Jericho shrugged, “Who keeps track these days?”

“Who indeed?” Marcus smiled at Jericho as if he knew some especially entertaining secret.”

Schroeder, however, looked irritated, “Dexter Legion my ass. I may not have left the borders of this country but I know my history – the Gnoman Empire doesn’t send lone Dexter Legionnaires into other countries in the middle of a civil war. The heralds were right, weren’t they? The Gnoman Empire’s been mucking about in our kingdom… if this madness is your fault…”

Azraea started to come to his defense but Jericho shut him down first, “If you had a dragon living on your northern border you’d do the same thing Schroeder. Remember Quinox? What did they call the Caelians that went north of the border?”

Schroeder sighed, “Military advisors.”

“And I think it’s fair to say that the roots of our present problems predate the earliest possible involvement of our Gnoman 'military advisor,'” Marcus nodded towards Verax.

“It’s all about perspective,” Jericho agreed.

“And right now we should have one shared perspective,” Azraea nodded, “the five of us, looking down the gullet of an angry dragon.”

Chapter 10 (Part II): Advanced Studies in Leadership

"The reason why group projects in classrooms are so difficult is because there’s never enough at stake to motivate people to do the one thing they really hate doing – cooperate with one another. Threaten to kill the lowest scoring group in every class, and their performance would doubtlessly improve. My suggestion to the dean was eventually rejected, though.”
- Victus Setis, Magister of Education Studies, Northern Gnoma University

The withdrawal to the cityguard barracks had been hurried enough there’d been little time for everyone to get to know one another, but Azraea made a point of ending up next to Jericho and starting a hushed conversation.

“I have to say I was surprised to see you in the thick of things back there,” she said, “from our last interaction I would have thought you’d prefer to stay away.”

“What makes you say that?”

“While I’m certainly grateful for your aid, I thought you left the military because you couldn’t abide the killing any longer. I recall you going to great pangs to avoid it.”

Jericho patted the blue obsidian knife on his belt. The primitive weapon was special – no matter what wound the blue obsidian inflicted, it would be nonlethal. Blue obsidian blades were treasured by healers, making excellent surgical implements, but Jericho had found considerable use for it as a member of the highway guard.

“Hard to take on a frenzied mob with a single glass knife,” he said simply.

“I understand but… Are you okay?”

That clearly took Jericho by surprise. In the midst of a whirlwind of violence and fear the young woman was concerned with the older man’s psychological and moral well-being.  He smiled; “Well…” he wasn’t sure what to say, because he wasn’t entirely sure what the truth would be, “It’s complicated.”

“Everything is right now, isn’t it? But I’m a fairly good listener.”

Jericho slowed his pace so that they fell towards the back of the group, giving them some measure of privacy, “The truth is… I’m not tired of killing.”

Azraea’s face betrayed a hint of surprise, but she didn’t say anything judgmental.

“It’s not that I like killing …” Jericho struggled to explain, “But I’m very good at fighting…”

“And everybody likes to do what they’re good at.”

“I’m not a sadist,” Jericho said, “I don’t like hurting people, let alone killing them, but… when it comes to combat… I don’t mind it either. And if it’s in service of a cause, protecting people…”

“I think that’s Kaira’s nature, as well,” Azraea said, “Would you think badly of me if I said it worries me somewhat?”

“Me? Think badly of you?” Jericho was surprised the woman was in the least bit concerned with his opinion.

“I feel it makes me something of a hypocrite,” Azraea confided in the older man, “I have blood on my hands as well, and even before that… I’ve realized how privileged I was to have the protection of those willing to do what I would have once condemned.”

“I don’t think worrying about a friend makes you a hypocrite,” Jericho said, “When it comes to killing people, there’s a line… Some people think you cross that line when you take a life – for any reason – but I don’t. I’ve seen a lot of men kill. And women, of course,” he added. “And I’ve seen men become so… numb to it, that they would resort to it whenever it was simply the most expedient way to get what they want. I’ve also seen men kill out of disgust for someone else – pure hatred – and maybe worst of all, I’ve seen men kill for the pleasure of watching someone die. I’d certainly like to think that I don’t fall into any of those categories.”

“I don’t think you do,” Azraea said, “either of you.”

“But you’re worried because you think it’s a slippery slope,” Jericho said.

“Yes, maybe. For both of us, actually.”

“Maybe that’s true… maybe not,” Jericho ruminated, “Most of the wickedness men do is a matter of circumstance, though. We swing between good and bad from moment to moment. If you say something you regret, something cruel to someone you love, is there no coming back from that?”

“Are harsh words really comparable to a plunging knife into someone’s back?”

Jericho grunted in a sort of half laugh, “I’ve been around a long time…”

“I’d gotten that impression,” Azraea said. In their first encounter, it’d been clear that Jericho wasn’t mortal, and she’d guessed it had something to do with the jeweled ouroboros around his neck. His age was impossible to guess, though – he might be a man in his mid-forties, or he might be older than the oldest of Kaira’s people.

“... And with age comes a lot of regrets. When it comes to killing, there have been moments where I have crossed that line. I’ve killed someone because it was easier than not killing them, or I’ve killed someone because I thought they deserved to die. I regret those moments, and I dwell on them… frequently. But as terrible as it may sound, there are still other things I regret more. Killing an enemy prisoner because he was too much trouble to drag back across the line of battle – I feel bad about that, yes… but there are lesser things – unkind words, moments of apathy – that I regret more.”

“Why?” Azraea asked.

Jericho laughed, not patronizingly, but rather with a sort of dark acknowledgement of the world’s absurdity, “Whatever you might tell yourself, you still care more about your friends, families, and lovers, than you do about some foreign fucker that just tried to kill you. Doesn’t matter if you’re a civilian, a soldier, or a king,” Jericho said, “You’ll always care more about some people than others.”

Azraea frowned as she recalled her argument with Kaira over the deaths of their former classmates.

“Either way,” Jericho sighed, “all the things I regret most were things I did at moments when I felt my life had no meaning – and I’ve seen that homicidal hopelessness in others, as well. So if you’re worried about that, just focus on your purpose, on why you’re doing what you’re doing.  That’s the difference between a murderer and a soldier – a soldier fights because he believes in something.”

“And fanatics?”

“Oh, those are the guys fighting for things you don’t believe in.”

Azraea smiled, “So, basically, it’s complicated.”

“It’s complicated,” Jericho nodded, “Change of subject…”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been impressed by your initiative, your level-headedness, and frankly your charisma. You’re very good at inspiring people to act, and keeping them from panic. So I’m wondering, would you be open to advice from an old man?”

“You don’t make it far in academia if you aren’t,” Azraea laughed.

“Right, of course. So… the way you were able to rally those people to fight was impressive, but this situation has quickly evolved from civil unrest into a paramilitary engagement, and leading an army isn’t the same as leading a mob.”

“Well, then I imagine it’s fortunate that the task hasn’t fallen to me,” Azraea laughed faintly.

“Are you sure about that?” Jericho asked, “I’m already responsible for my highway guard, Schroeder’s got his city guard, and Marcus… well he’s got his own army to manage. Three people with lots of responsibility, and two big egos amongst them, trying to decide what to do next, trying to decide who should decide.”

Azraea thought back to her conversation with Hylas’s spirit, and his final words to her. It was intensely strange to be having this conversation, but this was the path she was on, wasn’t it? She’d set out to get rid of the dragon, and that meant taking responsibility for everything before and after.

“Alright,” Azraea took a breath; if walking down the darkened streets wasn’t disorienting enough, the weight of the discussion was in itself dizzying. “I’m listening.”

“Leading a small group is very different from leading a large one,” Jericho leapt into it directly, “which is important to understand, because in a military context, you spend more time leading small groups than large ones.”

“How so?”

“The rigid hierarchy of  a fighting force is designed to make it that way,” Jericho said, “occasionally there’re speeches to rally the troops, but most of the time you’re interacting with the officers above, around, and immediately beneath you. If you’re the ranking officer, you receive advice from a handful of men, make a judgment, and then pass that judgment back to them to pass on down the line, handling the more specific details themselves. Follow?”

“I understand; I’m guessing that handling the officers below a person can be something of a chore?”

“Yes,” Jericho said simply, “There’ll always be a clash of egos and personalities, of course, but in all fairness, each man you work with will have a duty not only to follow your orders, but to advocate for his own men. A good officer will, anyway.”

“A good leader should always be mindful of the sort of risks she’s doling out,” Azraea said, “I have to wonder, though, what makes you think this group would listen to me.”

“Speaking bluntly,” Jericho counted off on his fingertips, “Schroeder doesn’t want to lead – he wants to retire. If he thinks someone else is competent to relieve him of the responsibility, he’ll hand it over eagerly. I know Marcus will never want to lead anyone beyond his own family and their employees and – frankly – he’s been looking at you like... I don’t know what that look is.”

“Ah, that wasn’t my imagination, then?”

“No, and I have no idea if that’s paternal affection, romantic interest, or just the shrewd gleam of opportunism and amusement. Past a certain age, people get hard to read.”

“Should I ask what your interest is?”

Jericho laughed as if it were a joke, “I think we’ve all had enough of old people running things. We need leaders who have more to look forward to than to look back on.”

“Most people would say someone my age is naïve and inexperienced.”

“Compared to Marcus, everyone’s naïve and inexperienced. And Schroeder’s got a daughter not too much younger than you; for better or worse, I’m sure that gives him a different perception of you. But… and this is important… even if we all had complete confidence in your abilities, none of us would make it easy for you to lead.”

“Because each one of you have your own personal concerns to account for,” Azraea nodded, “Schroeder’s cityguardsmen, Marcus’s elves, your highway guards… and each of you likely has a very different way of looking at the same problem.”

“That’s all I had to say. Well,” he smiled, “That and, ‘good luck.’”

Chapter 10 (Part I): Redoubt

When Schroeder had arrived at the main gate, tensions were high, but the fighting hadn’t started. He had a lot of men there, and they’d shored up barricades as well as retaining control of the overlooks built into the walls above and around the gates. It made for enough protection that they’d be a challenge for the Firebrands to get to. As a mob, the Firebrands could sweep through and kill them, but the dragon's lackeys hadn’t gone full-fanatic yet – every one of the Firebrands knew that the first guy to try to clamber over one of those barricades would have an arrow through the heart courtesy of the cityguard archers in the overlook. Everyone there was fine being the fifth or sixth guy in, but no one was zealous enough to throw himself across that barrier for martyrdom.

Evidently, though, Syliva’s mercenaries must have had orders to keep things going. Schroeder couldn’t figure why for certain. She probably wanted control of the gate, and maybe she wanted to see a large portion of his disobedient guardsmen wiped out, but it might have been that she just didn’t want her zealots to lose momentum.

Whatever the case, while the mercenaries probably understood the risks of being the frontline better than the Firebrands did, they also had quite a lot more armor. It was at least enough armor to give them a chance against anything that the cityguard archers had.

So, after the Firebrands stood and shouted threats for a while without making good on those threats, the Blackguard mercenaries pushed their way through to the front, and readied their shields. The order came from a familiar voice – Medes was on horseback at the back of the mob, wearing the same black armor and flanked by more mercenaries. On his command, the mercenaries charged forward as one.

Rather than try to clamber over the barricades and make themselves targets for the archers, though, they actually slammed into the barricade. Granted no amount of armor can help a man who throws himself into a solid wall, but this wall was not solid – it was a hastily constructed mishmash of overturned wagons, crates, barrels, and construction scraps, with some sandbags to hold things in place. The wall shuddered, shook, and a few piled things tumbled. It held – at first.

The black armored men leaned in and kept pushing, and the wall began to slide, wobble, and eventually buckle. One of the elf runners had told Schroeder there was one last large group of evacuees hurrying up the route to the gate. If the barricade fell, those people would be running into a trap, and Schroeder could only see one way to relieve the assault on the barricade.

He ran and jumped over it.

He didn’t think to give an order; if he’d stopped to think, he’d probably have been too scared to say the words, so he just shouted unintelligibly, drew his sword, and started hacking at the firebrands. It was callous, he knew, to attack the mob of civilians rather than the mercenaries he had leaped past, but he also knew that he could maim or kill five of the unarmored Firebrands in the time it would take him to down one of the armored professionals, and he knew that if the Firebrands were routed, even just for a short while, his men could put up enough of a fight to make the mercenaries go back to the dragon asking for a raise.

Of course, the mercenaries weren’t fools; they knew they were depending on the weight of numbers from their allies, and that meant defending them. Several of the mercenaries pushing at the center immediately abandoned their attack on the barrier, and converged on Schroeder. A distraction was all Schroeder had really hoped to provide though – he’d hoped he could buy the evacuees just a few more moments – exactly as long as his thirty years of experience could keep him alive while surrounded by an angry mob.

The bravery of his men was not something he’d really counted on, but it was considerable nonetheless. When the mercenaries turned away from the barricade to attack Schroeder, his men seized the opportunity. The cityguard behind the center of the barricade, as well as many enthusiastic orcs, piled over and inundated the mercenaries coming after Schroeder. Some of them followed Schroeder into the mob – Figgy, a large orc who'd shown up with farm tools in each hand, now tore through the mob like a steel plow driving through soft soil.

Schroeder could hear shouting, and then the approaching sound of armored boots, stomping rhythmically on the brick-covered street. He kicked himself free of his opponents, ran back, and scrambled up onto the barricade to see over the mob. Two dozen more armored mercenaries were marching down the street. They’d be fresh, not tired like his guards or the men they were fighting, and they’d reinvigorate the Firebrands.

From the other direction, Schroeder could now see the last of the refugees, dozens of men, women, and children, rushing down the street towards the gate. Five minutes more. They’d be out in five minutes, and once they were out the door, his men already had the order to drop the portcullis, preventing the Firebrands from following quickly.

The Firebrands, though, had apparently taken notice of their reinforcements, and as he feared, those who’d begun to retreat now turned heel and rushed back into the fight. It was a massive crush of people that even his armored guards couldn’t withstand, and his men were quickly being forced back to the barricade. Schroeder knew this was always how it might end, and he’d already decided what he was going to do when it did. He just hoped the remaining men at the barracks could defend his family.

Schroeder shouted again, and leapt back into the fray. He charged hard and fast through the mob, shield raised, making a straight line for Medes. He’d hoped he might reach the man before he died, but there were just too many people in the way – his progress slowed, little by little, and his armor rang with the blows of clubs and chains. Soon he was fighting to hold onto his shield, and his sword was caught in something, or someone. His old knees buckled as the weight of the mob bore down on him.

And then there was a scream.

There’d been many screams – even fanatics scream when you cleave into them with a sword or split their head open with a shield. The guards, the firebrands, and the mercenaries had all done their share of screaming. This though was the sort of shriek one normally associates with staged melodrama. And it was followed by another, and another, and before long the firebrands were as much fear as fury. Figgy knocked some of the panicking Firebrands aside, embedded one of his sickles in a man’s face, and pulled Schroeder to his feet with his freehand. What the orc pointed him to was reasonably terrifying, even in the midst of the blood-slicked carnage that surrounded them.
Storm drains, access covers, and anything else that connected to the tunnels below the streets were disgorging dozens of bizarre, monstrous creatures made of bone. The creatures rattled and chattered, flailed menacingly, and even began throwing pieces of themselves at the mob. The mercenaries who’d been marching to join the fight were completely surrounded by the things, and had locked together, back to back, shields raised but uncertain what to do.

Schroeder heard one Firebrand shout something about his aunt Elizabeth before screaming some more running back to the south, abandoning the fight altogether. Scores of Firebrands followed the man. Medes shouted to them to regroup, but it was futile; a mob that can be commanded isn’t really a mob. Finally he realized he needed to lead by example, and charged into a group of the creatures with his horse. He mowed them down effortlessly, scattering them like bowling pins. When his mercenaries finally attacked the skeletons surrounding them, it was the same. The bones fell, scattered, and rolled aside, knocked down like towers made from playing cards.

Medes shouted, “It’s but an illusion! You have nothing to fear from these creatures!”

But it was a hell of an illusion. Half the Firebrands were gone and nearly all the refugees were out the gate. Still, Schroeder knew that even if the refugees made it to safety, it would now be too late for his men. Medes still had more than enough men to annihilate the cityguard remnants at the gate, and given how personally he’d taken their rejection, that was is probably what he had come to do in the first place. Medes rallied Syliva’s mercenaries, and led them to the barricade at a fast pace, building momentum for a charge.

Fortunately, that momentum that was severely broken when a green fireball pegged his horse’s flank and sent it into a smoking panic. While the horse’s fur smoldered, Medes’ bright red cape burst into flames (apparently the Dragon wanted fine looking uniforms for her troops, but had gone pretty cheap on the material). His horse bucked wildly, finally throwing him to the street where his men tried to help put him out… by repeatedly stomping on him.

The woman Schroeder had talked to earlier was on a balcony of a nearby building flinging more fireballs down at the troops. Other Old Town residents, Men and women he himself had been unable to rally, were in second floor windows throwing whatever they could grab into the street. Furniture rained down on the soldiers – with great effort, two men actually launched a piano out a window – it only hit one guard, but it thoroughly removed him from the fight. It was when a couple of halflings started throwing out drapes that Schroeder realized they were pelting the mercenaries with combustibles. Before long the green fireballs had created a roaring bonfire in the midst of the troops.

The Blackguard troops scattered, very few of them seriously injured, and rallied to break into the houses where their assailants were fighting from, but before they could break in through the doors or windows, they were set upon by more enemies. The guardsmen and volunteers Schroeder had stationed along the now unnecessary evacuation route rushed up one of the side streets. The White Rose elves fired a volley into the Blackguard men with their expensive crossbows just before the guardsmen and orcs slammed into the mercenaries. They drove the dragon's forces apart, Medes and his Blackguard reinforcements were pushed back into the fire Azraea's group had created, and the Firebrands were caught between Schroeder’s reinforcements and his men at the gate like a school of fish caught in the mouth of a whale.

“You can’t hold that gate forever!” Medes shouted over the clamor of the battle, “You can protect your families at your barracks, or you can protect that gate, but you can’t do both!”

“You bet your ass he can!” a familiar voice shouted from behind Schroeder. His men hadn’t shut the portcullis when he'd ordered them to, and now Schroeder saw why. Men in highway guard uniforms were pouring in and climbing onto the barricade, loosing arrows into the Firebrands that didn’t have the good sense to retreat.

“Jericho!” Schroeder shouted, scrambling up to stand next to the man.

“Better late than never, right?”

“I’ll dock you points for punctuality but give some credit for style. How many?”

“Twenty two,” Schroeder said, “A lot of the highway guard has gone away without leave, and what’s left is straining to maintain some semblance of piece in the countryside. Technically the men you see here are on vacation.”

“Hell of a vacation.”

“You know what they say, ‘come to the city, see the lights, kill fascists,’” Jericho nailed a rushing Firebrand in the head with one of his arrows.

“Fascists?”

“Or anarchists? Honestly, I don’t give a shit what they are at this point. I’ll call them bad guys and have my moral introspection after this is over. The rest of the guard is held up at the barracks?” Jericho asked, “Strong position, but no escape from there.”

“I know. Our families are there too. Also got some people at the library.”

“Is this a fight or an organized withdrawal?” Jericho asked.

“A fight, Officer Stone,” Azraea had finally burned her way through the broken forces and made it over to the conversation, “At least for my part. I’ll certainly understand if Captain Schroeder wants to evacuate his people while he can.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Jericho said, “You’ve grown up a bit in the past… what? Has it even been two months?”

“You know each other?” Schroeder asked.

“Ms. Thanel had an unfortunate run in with some less reputable members of the highway guard. There was some mutual life saving. Are your friends around?”

“No, Kaira and Ochsner are working on a plan to kill the dragon.”

“Well that’s good. I already lost two fights with a dragon in my life and I don’t really want to test that third-time’s-the-charm rule.”

“If you’re alive, you can’t have lost too badly,” Schroeder looked at Stone skeptically.

“It’s complicated. How confident are you that they can kill the dragon?”

“Do you want percentages?”

“I want something that’ll make me feel good.”

“Very confident then. Provided we can get the dragon to leave the city and go to them.”

“Well then,” Marcus slipped into the conversation, wiping blood from his elegant curved sword, “What do we need to do to send our hideous overlord packing?”