Inherit the Flame

Chapter Fifty-Three

The most satisfying feeling in the whole of Ripka’s life thus far was watching Thratia’s gore-smeared tooth pop right on out of her smug mouth. The pain in her fist was well, well worth it. Thratia twisted, hit the ground with a meaty slap. Ripka was on her in an instant, grabbed her by the arm and flopped her over onto her stomach while Detan scurried backward to get clear of the scuffle. Not that he’d ever been any use in a fight.

Thratia kicked back, hard as a donkey, and all the wind left Ripka as her stomach exploded in pain. Detan got ahold of himself, then, darted forward and whacked Thratia across the back with a chair. Not the cleanest move, but considering the legs broke clean off the chair, he’d hit her with enough force to do some damage. Thratia cursed up a bloody storm and shoved her hands under herself to get upright again, but Ripka was already there, forcing her down, digging her elbow hard into that tender spot Detan had made.

The guards at the door had checked her for weapons, but they hadn’t been bothered about the silk ties around Ripka’s thighs and upper arms. It didn’t take long to have Thratia hog-tied and gagged, for good measure. Spitting mad, but subdued all the same.

“Got the bitch,” she said, when she’d tested the ties and they held.

Before she could get to her feet Detan swooped her up in both arms, let loose a mighty whoop, and spun her about, laughing. Her ribs sang with pain.

“My boy,” Dame Honding said, “the poor woman is injured.”

He pouted a little as he sat her down. “Sorry, sorry. Are you all right?”

“Nothing a little rest and wine won’t heal.” She inclined her head to the Dame, who returned the gesture a little deeper than was strictly necessary.

“Captain!” Enard ran up to the table, sweaty-faced and panting. “Fighting on the steps. Seems those guards didn’t take their medicine.”

“New Chum!” Detan had never looked so deliriously happy.

Enard grinned and inclined his head. “Good to see you again, sir.”

“No time for reunions,” Ripka said. “Who’s on the steps?”

“Honey and some watchers.”

“My guards?” the Dame asked.

“In the mix too, ma’am.”

“Good.”

Figured Honey went straight for the bloodbath. Damned good thing she was on their side. Ripka vaulted over the table, pausing long enough to pick up a meat-knife, then spun around slowly to survey the situation. The wedding guests had mostly fled when the fighting broke out, and now all that was left in the ceremonial hall was a pile of grey-clad militia being overseen by the servants of the palace. No Ranalae. No Aella. No Callia.

Tibal let out a little groan and crouched down by the banquet table, drawing up his knees as he shoved his head into his hands. Ripka and Detan converged on him, her fingers going straight to his pulse while Detan knelt alongside him and rocked back on his heels to watch.

His pulse was slow, but steady, his forehead warm and clammy with sweat.

“You got into the booze early, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Coulda’ warned me,” Tibs growled at Detan.

“And missed your stunning display of welcome to my new ex-wife?”

“Ass,” Tibs muttered.

Detan put a hand on Tibs’s shoulder to steady him. “Missed you too, Old Chum.”

“Did you drink any of the honey liqueur?” Ripka demanded.

Tibs squinted at her through bleary eyes. “I’m still standing, aren’t I?”

“Technically–” Detan began, but she cut him off.

“Right. You handled?”

Detan glanced to the servants, caught sight of Gatai coming his way, and nodded. “I’ve got this. We’ll start moving the militia to their ships.”

“Ships?”

His expression darkened and he glanced over at Thratia, still thrashing against her bonds. “I want none of this stain to remain in Hond Steading.”

“Understood, Lord Honding.” She saluted him with a wink and dashed after Enard, discarding her meat-knife for a few of the blades from the pile the servants were busy collecting from the sedated guards.

The doors to the stairs stood open, and she could hear the fighting even from the far end of the hall. The sun had sunk to the other side of the palace by the time she made it to the stairs. Knots of men and women contested in shadow, hard-fought but, from what Ripka could see, the matter was almost settled. There were a great many more grey coats scattering the ground than black or blue.

She caught sight of Honey down toward the bottom of the steps. Cursed woman hadn’t even stuck around long enough to pick up a proper weapon. She was ducking and weaving, dancing under longer cutlasses to score hit after hit with a meat-knife. Singing at the top of her battered voice all the while. Alone as she was, she had her contestants well in hand, so Ripka jumped into the nearest fray.

Some grey coats had pushed two watchers against the flat wall of the palace’s opened doors and were hammering them with sloppy blow after sloppy blow, but time and numbers were on the militia’s side. They were four against two, and the watchers they had penned were growing tired.

Ripka darted in, opened up the side of one and leapt away before the other could get turned about. One of the watchers closed that opportunity, took a hit on the hip but shrugged it off to ram her cutlass guard-deep into the chest of her opponent. Ripka winced at the pale look on the watcher’s face that had nothing at all to do with exertion.

Watchers didn’t see a lot of death, not by their own hands. They were trained to subdue, if at all possible. But it was damn near impossible to subdue a determined killer with a sword without doing mortal damage. She’d seen the results of knock-out blows to the head. If it were her, she’d rather be run through than knocked silly.

The second watcher moved in and between them they made short work of the last grey coat. Ripka gave a little thanks to Thratia for making her people so easy to pick out. It’d come as a surprise in Aransa, where the sudden flood of supporters had frightened everyone into their homes. Here and now, the coats only served to make her angry. And to give her a target to hit.

She spun around, looking for a new mark. Honey’d done her work and was on to another knot of fighting, Enard at her side. Where the fuck was Tibal, anyway? Not that he was handy in a fight, but still. If he’d run off to drink some more after that little display of his she’d pull his tongue out far enough to slap him with it.

Midway down the steps a couple of the Dame’s guards fought back to back with Falston, a bunch of his watchers busy taking the last hits on their own battles. Ripka jogged down the steps, intent on joining Falston in his defense.

The watch-captain slipped.

His heel caught the back of a step, bloodied from the battle, and as Ripka pumped her legs as hard as she could, urged herself to move faster toward him, his legs went out from under him, boots kissing the air. He let one short cry break free and then he was down, the hard stone steps knocking the air out of him, maybe even breaking his back.

“Falston!” she yelled, trying to get the watchers’ attention. Trying to get anyone, anyone at all, who was closer than she was to step in. To help. But the Dame’s people were hard pressed, now that they’d lost their third. But the grey coats weren’t.

Easy as you please, a militiaman turned, stabbed down, took Falston right through the heart. Ripka screamed defiance, flung herself at the man, connected hard and went tumbling with him down the steps. Somewhere in the tangle she got her legs around the man’s waist from behind and dropped her weapons, grabbed the man’s head and smashed it, hard as she could, into the edge of a stair. His body spasmed beneath her, jerking in a way that didn’t mean resistance – only death. She did it again. Again.

Enard grabbed her arm and wrested her to her feet. “What –?”

“Falston.” Every speck of her body ached, elbows and knees scraped and bleeding. Something clicked alarmingly in her foot when she stood. She shook Enard off, pushed through the pain to jog up the steps. The militia was dead, or subdued. Silence cloyed thick in the blood-heavy air. Somewhere, Honey sang a lullaby.

His watchers had already gathered around him, a semi-circular wall of blue. She shouldered through, vision blurry at the edges with fear and disbelief. Falston lay as he’d fallen, cheeks puffing with bloat as his blood flowed down the incline of the steps into his face. She dropped to her knees, scooped his head into her arms.

The life had already fled him.