They heard a shout from across the field, then a roar as the garrison drew their swords and rushed forward. Arista felt the vibration of charging men. They screamed like beasts, their faces wild. They struck the line in the center. There was no prepared weak point—Emery and Pool were dead, the tactic lost.
She heard cries, screams, the clanging of metal against metal, and the dull thumps of swords against wooden shields. Soldiers pushed forward and the line broke in two. Perin was supposed to lead the left flank in a folding maneuver. He lay in the mud, blood running down his face. His branch of the line disconnected from the rest and quickly routed. The main line also failed, disintegrated, and disappeared. Men fought in a swirling turmoil of swords, broken shields, blood, and body parts.
Arista remained where she had collapsed. She felt a tugging on her arm and looked up to see the blonde woman again. “Get up! You’ll be killed!” She had a hold on her wrist and dragged Arista to her feet. All around them men screamed, shouted, and grunted. Water splashed, mud flew, and blood sprayed. The hand squeezing her wrist hauled her backward. She thought of Emery lying in the mud and tried to pull away.
“No!” the blonde snapped, jerking her once more. “Are you crazy?” The woman dragged her to the armory entrance, but once she reached the door, Arista refused to go in any farther and remained at the opening, watching the battle.
The skill and experience of the garrison guards overwhelmed the citizens. They cut through the people of Ratibor and pushed them against the walls of the buildings. Every puddle was dark with blood, every shirt and face stained red. Mud and manure mixed and churned with severed limbs and blood. Everywhere she looked lay bodies. Dead men with open, lifeless eyes and those writhing in pain lay scattered across the square.
“We’re going to lose,” Arista said. “I did this.”
The candlemaker, a tall thin man with curly hair, dropped his weapons and tried to run. Arista watched as six inches of sword came out of his stomach. She did not even know his name. A young bricklayer called Walter had his head crushed. Another man she had not met lost his arm.
Arista still held Emery’s sword in one hand and clutched the doorframe with the other as the world spun around her. She felt sick and wanted to vomit. She could not move or turn away from the carnage. They would all die, and it was her fault. “I killed us all.”
“Maybe not.” The blonde caught Arista’s attention and pointed at the far end of the square. “Look there!”
Arista saw a rush of movement coming up King’s Street and heard the pounding of hooves. They came out of the haze of falling rain. Riding three and four abreast, horsemen charged into the square, shouting. One carried the pennant of the Nationalists, but the foremost brandished a huge sword, and she recognized him instantly.
Throwing up a spray of mud, Hadrian crossed the square. As he closed on the battle, he led the charge into the thickest of the soldiers. The garrison heard the cry and turned to see the band of horsemen rushing at them. Out front, Hadrian came at them like a demon, whirling his long blade, cleaving a swath through their ranks, cutting them down. The garrison broke and routed before the onslaught. When they found nowhere to retreat to, they threw down their weapons and pled for mercy.
Spotting Arista, Hadrian leapt to the ground and ran to her. Arista found it hard to breathe, and the last of her strength gave out. She fell to her knees, shaking. Hadrian reached down, surrounding her in his arms, and pulled her up.
“The city is yours, Your Highness,” he said.
She dropped Emery’s sword, threw her arms around his neck, and cried.
CHAPTER 17
DEGAN GAUNT
The rain stopped. The sun, so long delayed, returned full face to a bright blue sky. The day quickly grew hot as Hadrian made his way around the square through the many mud-covered bodies, searching for anyone who was still alive. Everywhere seemed to be the muffled wails and weeping of wives, mothers, fathers, and sons. Families pulled their loved ones from the bloody mire and carried them home to wash them for a proper burial. Hadrian stiffened when he spotted Dr. Gerand gently closing the lifeless eyes of Carat. Not far from him, Adam sat slumped against the armory. He looked as if he had merely walked over and sat down for a moment to rest.
“Over here!”
He spotted a woman with long blonde hair motioning to him. Hadrian quickly crossed to where she squatted over the body of an imperial soldier.
“He’s still alive,” she said. “Help me get him out of the mud. I can’t believe no one saw him.”
“Oh, I think they saw him,” Hadrian replied as he gripped the soldier under his back and knees and lifted him.
He carried the man to the silversmith’s porch and laid him down gently as the woman ran to the well for a bucket of clean water.
Hadrian shed his own bloodstained shirt. “Here,” he said, offering the linen to the woman.
“Thank you,” she replied. She took the shirt and began rinsing it in the bucket. “Are you certain you don’t mind me using this to help an imperial guard?”