Rise of Empire (The Riyria Revelations #3-4)

When did that change?

Images flooded back to him. He remembered her hanging out her wet undergarments at Sheridan. How stubbornly she had slept under the horse blanket that first night outside, crying herself to sleep. He and Royce had both been certain she would cancel the mission the next day. He saw her sleeping in the skiff that morning when they had drifted down the Bernum, and remembered how she had practically announced her identity to everyone when drunk in Dunstan’s home. She had always been their patron and their princess, but somewhere along the way she had become more than that.

As he sat there, pelted with rain and helpless in the mud, he was tormented with visions of her death. He saw her lying facedown in the filthy street, her dress torn, her pale skin stained red with blood. The Imperialists would likely hoist her body above Central Square or perhaps drag it behind a horse to Aquesta. Maybe they would cut her head off and send it to Alric as a warning.

In a flash of anger and desperation, he began digging in the mud, trying to dislodge the stake. He dug furiously, pulled hard, then dug again—wrenching the stake back and forth. A guard spotted him and used a second stake on the chains connected to his wrists to stretch him out flat.

“Still trying to get away and cause mischief, are ya?” the guard said. “Well, that ain’t gonna happen. You killed Gaunt. You’ll die for that, but until then, you’ll stay put.” The guard spat in his face, but the effect was hardly what he sought, as the rain rinsed it away. It crushed Hadrian to know that it was Arista’s rain washing him clean. Lying there, he saw the first sign of dawn lightening the morning sky and his heart sank further.





Emery could see the horizon as the faint light of dawn separated sky from building and tree. Rain still fell and the sound of crickets was replaced by early-morning stirrings. Merchants appeared on the street far earlier than usual, pushing carts and rolling wagons toward the West End Square. They neglectfully left them blocking the entrances from King’s Street and Legends Avenue.

Other men came out of their homes and shops. Emery watched them appear out of the gray morning rain, coming one and two at a time, then gathering into larger groups as they wandered aimlessly around the square, drifting slowly, almost hesitantly, toward the armory. They wore heavy clothes and carried hoes, pitchforks, shovels, and axes. Most had knives tucked into their belts.

A pair of city guards working the end of the night shift—dressed only in light summer uniforms—had just finished their last patrol circuit. They stopped and looked around at the growing crowd with curious expressions. “Say there, what’s going on here?”

“I dunno,” a man said, and then moved away.

“Listen, what are you all doing here?” the other guard asked, but no one answered.

Barefoot and dressed in a white oversized shirt and a pair of britches that left his shins bare, Emery strode forward, feeling the clap of the sword at his side. “We’re here to avenge the murder of our lord and sovereign, King Urith of Rhenydd!”

“It’s him. It’s Emery Dorn,” the guard shouted. “Grab the bastard!”

The guards rushed forward, but they were too late to realize their peril as the groups closed around them, sweeping together like a flock of birds.

The soldiers hastily drew their swords and swung them. “Back! Get back! All of you! Back or we’ll have the lot of you arrested!”

Hatred filled the faces of the crowd and excitement crept into their eyes. They jabbed at the soldiers with pitchforks and hoes. The guards knocked them away with swords.

For several minutes the crowd taunted with feints and threats, and then Emery drew his blade. Mrs. Dunlap had found the sword for him. It had once belonged to her husband. In all his years of service, Paul Dunlap, carriage driver for King Urith, had never had occasion to draw it. The steel scraped as Emery pulled the blade from the metal sheath. With a grim expression and a set jaw, he pushed his way through the circle and faced the guards.

They were sweating. He could see the wetness on the upper lip of the closest man. The guard lunged, thrusting. Emery stepped to the side and hit the soldier’s blade with his own, hearing the solid clank and feeling the impact in his hand. He took a step forward and swung. It felt good. It felt perfect, just the right move. The tip of his sword hit something soft and Emery watched as he sliced the man, cutting him across the chest. The soldier screamed, dropping his sword. He fell to his knees, his eyes wide in shock, clutching himself as blood soaked his clothes. The other guard tried to run, but the crowd held him back. Emery pushed past the wounded man and, with one quick thrust, stabbed the remaining guard through the kidney. Several cheered and began beating the wounded men, hacking them with axes and shovels.

“Enough,” Emery shouted. “Follow me!”

The guards’ weapons were taken and the crowd chased Emery to the flagstone building with the iron gate. By the time they arrived, Carat was already picking the lock. They killed those on duty only to discover most of the rest were still in their beds. A few had gotten to their feet before the mob arrived. They stabbed the first confused man through the ribs with a pitchfork, which he took with him when he fell. Emery stabbed another and an axe took a third’s shoulder partway off, lodging there so that the owner had to kick his victim to pull the axe free. Swords and shields lined the walls and lay in pine boxes. Steel helms and chain hauberks sat on shelves.

The mob grabbed these as they passed, discarding their tools of trade for tools of war. Only ten men guarded the armory and all died quickly, most beaten to death in their beds. The men cheered when they realized they had taken the armory without a single loss of life from their side. They laughed, howled, and jumped on tables, breaking plates and cups and whatever else they could find as they gleefully tested out their new weapons.

All around him, Emery could see the wild looks in the eyes of the men and realized he must wear a similar expression. His heart was pounding, his lungs pumping air. He felt no pain at all from his back now. He felt powerful, elated, and a little nauseous all at the same time.

“Emery! Emery!” He turned to see Arista pushing through the men. “You’re too slow,” she screamed at him. “The garrison is coming. Get them armed and formed up in the square.”

As if pulled from a dream, Emery realized his folly. “Everyone out!” he shouted. “Everyone out—now! Form up on the square!”





Arista had already begun organizing those men who remained outside into two lines with their backs to the armory and their faces to the square.

“We need to get weapons!” Perin shouted at the princess.