Amidst the fireworks and the panic was a small little bar near the noble district of the city. A relatively run-down place that ran on House Korgan's contract, it was overseen by a rather bored looking orc and his daughter, who was tending the drinks of the bar's only patron this night. Many of the usual drunks who went to the bar, fresh from a day on the docks, or working the farms underground, were out in the city celebrating.
Which was odd that the single figure at the counter was there at all. He was a wry-looking man, an elf by the looks of it, with a calm, almost sardonic smile. He was wearing simple brown robes, taking on much the aspect of the ascetic, a monk on his pilgrimage.
And yet he indulged himself here, at this bar, and the five empty mugs by his hands were evidence of that.
Tirmo Telundela's vows did not forbid drinking.
And so he sat, and waited. He had honestly been expecting this night to be quick, if brutal. His employers had already made their decision, despite the fact that the letter that had been sent to the Lady Sunala had been vague on the final decision. He had been planning on sneaking into her estate, dispatch her, perhaps spend the night at one of the brothels in the town, and set out in the morning.
But this...
Ohohoho, the fireworks. A veil, for the untrained ears, for gunshots and modern weaponry. Telundela had not seen such brazen desperation since his time as a Son of Darwin.
And so, he waited. If the Lady Sunala was attempting a coup, then he wished her luck.
“My lady,” he said to the bartender's daughter, “Might I have another ale?”
She nodded. Poured him out another mug. Tirmo Telundela sipped.
Around half of the popping bangs outside were gunshots. He smiled.
And waited for the night's end.
***
“L-Lily-Ann,” Busciver said, “What's going on?”
The former Doge and his niece had been dragged to the Grand Commons from their home at Moonstone on the Len, taken by Sunala to the throne of the city, carried by air elemental to the front steps in a forest of fireworks. Elves flanked Busciver on either side, had thrown the Lady Busciver into a corner. A battle had taken place here, the old gnome could see. Tables had been shattered. One of the upper galleries had been obliterated. The walls were pockmarked with bullets and slashes. Every elf in the room had a weapon drawn, curved blades or spears or daggers. Three of them carried heavy rifles pilfered from some far off, far more advanced plane.
It was this aspect that terrified Busciver so. The complete and utter ignorance of the High Federation's laws. Despite everything, Lord Rithmound's – No, Doge Rithmound's words came back to him, from the debate.
“Fear the Federation. Fear the bear. Fear the lion. But know how they live. Know what makes them upset. Take advantage of that. And we shall prosper.”
This...
This blatant disregard, this was not fear. The elves carried none of that in them as they stalked the halls, looking over their shoulders with a cool, professional air.
The Lady Sunala herself was sitting on the throne of the Doge. She was wearing armor, a silver scale make that glittered even in the dusk of the fireworks show outside. Her right arm was gauntleted in mail. Her left, however, was bare, her hand replaced by a wooden prosthetic that glowed a subtle emerald. The armor ended at the torso, replaced instead by a long skirt, dark green in color. One leg was crossed over the other, and an assault rifle rested on her lap like a babe. A gladiolus flower rested in her hair, which was tied back into a long ponytail, revealing her thin face, her eyes which burned with a fierce desperation.
“What does it look like I'm doing, Busciver?” she said, “I'm taking back your city.”
“I...” Busciver swallowed, “Lily-Ann, this isn't...”
“Isn't what?” and her voice was dangerous. Venomous, “Right? Correct? The way to go about things? If you want power, Busciver, you need to be prepared to make gambles.”
“We made gambles, Lily-Ann,” Busciver said, “W-We made them, and we lost.”
She exhaled. She held her composure by a mere thread.
“And now, I am making more,” she said, “This will all be over soon, Busciver. We'll take what is rightfully ours. We'll open our gates to Tlantoia. Scuttleway will once again be an Elven client state. As it always should have been. As it always will be.”
“Then why am I here?” Busciver said, “I'm not... I'm not an elf.”
“You still have your uses,” Sunala said, “Better to have you at my side, then for the Militia to take you in, hmm?”
An air elemental drifted to her side, shimmering in the air like a heat mirage. It whispered words into Sunala's ear, who nodded.
“I see,” she said, “There's fighting in the streets. Looks like our little gambit at hitting Rithmound failed.”
She took a shuddered breath. For a moment the confidence she held so fast became undone, and she was a panicked thing.
But then, she stood up from the throne. Checked the sights on her rifle.
“It was a risk,” she said, “But, at least, we have the Grand Commons. The prison. If we hold here, we can hold forever.”
She took a few steps forward to better look down at Busciver. Her shadow cloaked over him.
“The... prison?” Busciver said, “Lily-Ann, stop this. You're killing people.”
“Of course I'm killing people, my old friend,” Sunala said, “I've already killed Captain Ramsey. I've probably taken out a few of Rithmound's retinue as well. I heard that Lady Deirdre was here, somewhere. I will have killed a lot of people, before this night is through.”
Busciver's blood ran cold. He choked back a sob.
“I-I know this isn't your heart, Lily-Ann,” he said, “P-Please. This won't... My god, you're going to get yourself killed.”
And, for a moment, the noblewoman wilted. For this... this was not her, despite her bravado. For a moment, Lily-Ann Doriama Sunala glanced around the room, as though sobered from a bad high, wondering how she had gotten here.
“I'm a dead woman already, Busciver,” she said, her voice a bare whisper, “Either I die here, or they... they send someone. To remove me. I've fallen too far, Busciver. The only way to reach my heaven is through this.”
She shouldered her rifle. Her eyes became hard again.
And there was the stink of ozone in the air.
She grimaced. Shoved Busciver to the ground, leaping in the same motion. A bolt struck the floor at the gnome's feet, and he let out a wail as his sight became marred by a blinding, cobalt light.
A moment later, a shockwave pushed him back. A boom echoed through the room. Elves were scattered, some of them leaping onto the walls and climbing to the upper galleries, others taking aim and firing at someone in the upper floors.
Lady Deirdre's guildfolk. Joseph Zheng. He had... he had guarded Busciver, hadn't he? During his gala. Had inadvertently ruined Sunala's plans to be rid of Rithmound, having taken her assassin off the board.
One of the elves had made it to the top gallery. He leaped over, blade in hand, ran into the hallway above-
And was thrown, a moment later, off the balcony, a deep rent torn through his chest. He crumpled on the ground. Lady Busciver let out a ragged scream. His niece, he needed to get her out of here, he needed to get-
The balcony above began to shine azure. A massive being, a demon in blue, an eagle the size of a giant, tore through more elves as they reached the top. One of the elves on the ground, one with an assault rifle, opened fire, pinpoint aim tearing through the eagle's eye. It dissipated. The glow disappeared, the blue day extinguished.
Sunala was glaring.
“Come out, Joseph Zheng!” she snarled, “This doesn't need to involve you!”
There was no response. Still more of her forces were moving upstairs.
He saw more lightning. Heard more screams. Sunala had moved off, as had the two elves flanking him. One was by the noblewoman's side. Another was climbing up the wall to get upstairs.
It was all too much. The noise in his ears, the sounds of heavy gunfire like the explosions of the fireworks. His niece was screaming still, clutching the sides of her head. The former Doge could do nothing except curl into a ball and sob.
***
The Amber Foundation, Militia, and House Rithmound forces weaved their way through the city, towards the Grand Commons. Rithmound was quick. Decisive, sending out a division of his own forces to eliminate those workers firing off the near-endless array of fireworks going off across the city. Becenti ran alongside Broon and Mallory, and the three of them watched as, one by one, the fireworks platforms went silent. The sky above festered with smoke. All had become eerily silent. Even the musicians had stopped playing. The city was disquiet as those Verdant Reclamation agents still in the city made their moves. Ambushed Militiamen. Attacked other House members. Orion's blade burst into flame as he swung it at a sudden attacker, taking a slash to the leg for his trouble. Ezel's water tore through a couple of elves who had been aiming crossbows at her from one of the rooftops.
The people of Scuttleway began to take note of the darker events of the night. Citizens watched as Militiamen, now fully set up in military wear, pushed towards the Grand Common. A barricade between the main street and the palace was set up. Airships took the sky, bright beams cutting through the smoke and pointed at the prison and the Grand Commons. One, the Recluse, positioned itself directly over the Lord Busciver’s estate. Ropes were lowered down, and House Rithmound forces snaked down to the roof, broke through, entered the building proper. Still more, including the Dreamer's Lament and the Titania Amber, alighted from Castle Belenus.
Meleko was aboard the Titania Amber, running scans of the Grand Commons below. He grimaced as the readings spilled out on the consoles. He clicked the button on the radio.
“Right,” he said, “Yeah, Joseph's in there, Becenti.”
Far below, Becenti made his way to the barricade. Was let through by the Militia. Heat rippled around him as he walked. He was starting to sweat as he brought a hand to his ear, but realized that the voice was coming from inside his head, from Wakeling's communication spell. Old habits died hard.
“How many elves?”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“Well, there's at least four dozen lifeforms in the palace, by the looks of it,” Meleko noted, “A bunch of elves. A couple of gnomes. Joseph. A human.”
“The Lady Deirdre,” Becenti said.
“Aye,” Meleko said, “The Dreamer's Lament and the King of Pigeons are overhead now.”
“I see,” Becenti said. Indeed, high above the Grand Commons was the guild's airship. Alongside it was a simply massive, hollowed-out praying mantis, four of its legs having been clipped and replaced by magical thrusters, its carapace thrumming with runes of levitation. Rithmound's flagship. Among the largest ships in Scuttleway. Rithmound soldiers were streaming down from it now, on ropes, via magic spell-
And were interrupted by the air elementals high above, which snared them and sent them plummeting to the cobblestones below.
Beside him, Mallory winced.
“A few of them are getting there, at least,” Broon said.
“Not our part to play,” Becenti said, “We help take the front entrance.”
The elves had set up a barricade on the front steps. Elves with assault rifles. Sunala knew just how dire her coup had gotten. She was prepared to hold the Grand Commons for as long as possible.
Becenti lifted a hand. The heat coalesced in front of his open palm. He, Broon, and Mallory took cover with a few Militiamen at a barricade between two buildings, just before the open plaza in front of the palace.
“Myron,” Ezel's voice whispered in his mind, “We're in position. Orion took a bad hit on the way over.”
“That's alright,” he said, “Can he still fight?”
“Elenry's applied a potion,” Ezel said, “Should be enough.”
He noted the hesitation in her voice. He chose to ignore it. He knew Orion. Knew the spellsword had been through worse.
“Alright,” he said. A few more send-offs rippled in his mind. He took a deep breath, “First volley, prepare. Fire on my mark.”
Mallory took a chug from her thermos. Steam began to rise from her fingertips. Becenti could imagine Urash preparing the gems on his spellrod. Aldreia's pillars of flame. G-Wiz playing a few keys on her zumbelaphone.
“Fire!”
He let loose his metapower in a wave of heat. At the same moment, Mallory fired off twin streams of steam from her hands. Urash's spell cracked the front steps of the palace, the ground opened in sinkholes, elves fell through, their destination the caves beneath the city. Aldreia's flames lit up, beams of fire that seared across the plaza and burned holes into her targets.
Steam settled in around the plaza square. Mallory's work. Like a fog, it sat rigid in front of the palace. Becenti started to hear screams. The Steamer's face was cool. Collected. Her magic was a violent one, when used in this manner.
Something set in Becenti's gut.
“Down!” he snarled.
He and Mallory took cover beneath the barricade as a hailstorm of bullets ripped into it. Becenti stayed put. Mallory retreated back away from the makeshift cover, moving to the corner of a building. She could still use her magic here. That was good.
But a pair of mages had set up an enchantment to block out the heat. That was the only explanation for why the elves were still active. Already they were laying down suppressing fire, bullets ripping through the barricade, keeping Becenti's head down. Streaks of ice tore through the steam, rocketing towards the other positions heading towards the plaza.
“Mallory!” Becenti said, “Drop the steam! It's cover! Ezel and Orion, fire off at them with water and wind. Go!”
The Steamer gestured, and the cloud she had made evaporated, revealing two elves with rifles, paired off with two magicians, spells in hand.
The Militia opened fire on them, crossbows thrumming towards their now exposed position. Orion swiped his blade, letting loose a gale of wind that tore through one of the magicians. The other's head snapped back as one of Ezel's water whips slashed against his temple, and he crumpled.
One of the Militiamen had been hit by a spray of gunfire. He was curled on the ground, his breathing quick, his eyes wide with shock. Elenry attended to him, working quickly, stripping off leather armor and working on the wound.
They all heard the thunder rumble, then crack, from inside the Grand Commons.
Joseph.
“One step at a time, people,” Becenti said, “Let's go.”
***
The fight in the Grand Commons had moved to the upper floors.
Joseph felt as though he had been walking through a blizzard. Pain, dull and throbbing, shuddered throughout his body. His knuckles were bruised. He was walking with a limp from an errant spear strike.
Yet, despite this all, he found himself smiling. It was a wild grin, a madman's. A wild animal's. His soul was screeching within his stomach, its claws dripping with blood both Elven and plasmatic. A few bodies were at his feet right now, one with his stomach torn open, another one against the wall, which had cracked as he flew into it, his body steaming from the full bolt of lightning Joseph had speared through him.
Joseph moved off. He could hear elves shouting now, the roar of gunfire below. Evidently Guerico had sent out the message. Good-
An elf appeared out of seeming thin air. No, from the shadows-
Joseph spun, soul's claw realizing over his own, blocking the blade, blue splashing on the ground. He rocketed his other fist into the elf, manifesting the right claw at the last moment, and three dagger-sized claws punched through armor, plunged into flesh.
Down the hall, leave the body behind. Joseph heard gunfire from below, shouts from above, on the higher floors. Had they airdropped people in?
He took a second to glance down into the main gallery, where the throne was situated. Sunala had left. She had taken Busciver with her. Lady Busciver, too. Joseph went down another hall. Took the stairs. He could hear gunshots outside. The world had gone dark, the fireworks had been extinguished.
Now there was no hiding the events of tonight.
He weaved down to the storage room where he had told the Lady Deirdre to stay put. Joseph opened the door-
And moved out of the way just as the old noblewoman threw the dagger at him. It wheeled right where his head had been a moment before, clattering to the ground outside the room. Joseph shot her a glare.
“Ah, Mr. Zheng,” Deirdre said, “Perhaps it would have been better to announce yourself.”
“Right,” Joseph said. He closed the door behind him, “Everything good here?”
“Yes,” Deirdre said, and her voice caught for a moment, “Ah, Mr. Zheng. You're covered in blood.”
He looked down at himself. Now that the adrenaline was gone, now that he could properly see himself, he noted how his blue jacket had been stained red. Not all of the blood on his knuckles was his own. He must have slipped at some point, because his knees were wet and sticky.
“I... I guess so,” Joseph said.
He could hear the screams, still, in his mind, now that he was taking a moment to process them.
No.
There wasn't time for that. Joseph took a deep breath. In. Out.
He turned for the door.
“I'm going to try and link up with the people upstairs,” he said, “See if I-”
“People upstairs, Mr. Zheng?” Deirdre said, “The Militia?”
“I don't know,” Joseph said, “There's fighting upstairs, though. Outside, too. I think there's some pushback.”
Lady Deirdre was silent.
“No one's really been able to get to you here, right?” Joseph said.
“I've hidden myself well,” the noblewoman replied, “And the elves have more pressing matters to attend to.”
As though in response to her words, they heard a series of cracks from downstairs.
“You're in a unique position,” the Lady Deirdre said, “Between two battles, in the middle. They know you’re dangerous, but they also can’t afford to give ground on either front.”
“Then it means I can finish this,” Joseph said, “Find the Lady Sunala. Stop her.”
He rolled a shoulder.
“Then better that they see me,” Joseph said, and he turned to the door, “Stay in here. Out of sight. I’m going to end this.”
“I...” the Lady Deirdre hesitated. Joseph glanced back at her.
“I don't want another young man to die for my sake, Mr. Zheng,” she said.
And at that, the metahuman gave her an absolutely vicious smile.
“Who said anything about dying?”
***
One of their magicians, upon seeing the Amber Foundation break through the front entrance, slammed a fist against the ground. The marble floor cracked, seized upwards like an unbroken wave that rippled towards Becenti and the others as they rushed in. People dove to the side. Becenti went upwards, forming a platform of heat beneath him that rose from the ground, over the wave. He heard it crash behind him, heard screams of pain. No time for that now, he broke off two of the platform's corners and sent them careening towards the magician. He missed the first, but the second slammed into the magician's head like a heated pan. The elf crumpled.
Others had managed to join him. Good. A few of the Militia. Rithmound's men. G-Wiz was writing RISE into the ground, and the floor shattered and lifted into the air to act as cover. Aldreia, too, had gotten inside. The former cleric pointed a finger, and a tower of flames consumed one of the elves taking cover behind a pillar.
But the mountain of marble behind them had sealed off the entrance. Becenti lifted up the heat platform as he landed, arrows plinking against the construct. More elves than he had expected were still on the first floor, firing off at him. They were pinned.
He grimaced.
***
On the top floors was a much different story. The Grand Commons, as a palace, had once been the primary home of the ruling governor of Scuttleway, back when the city had been a Tlantoian colony. The upper rooms were living quarters, bedrooms for the governor and his family, for visiting nobility. The beds, one day prior to the coup, had had their sheets cleaned. The bedposts polished, the floors swept, the walls cleaned, the desks dusted. Everything for a presentation, in case a few enterprising merchants decided to pay to use the palace to bed for the night.
Now, however, the rooms were caked over with blood. The fighting up here, due to the close quarters, had become physical. No bows and arrows here. Blades were drawn, spears were dropped for shortswords due to the narrower halls and smaller rooms. Death was dealt by the blade here.
And who else in the center of it all but Tiger. The big cat was snarling, his blade a whirl of green and gold as he swung at the elves in one of the halls, the barest edges of his curved sword dashing against the walls, rending deep scars into the marble. Mekke was beside him, her blade coated in red, her shield battered from combat. Her nose was broken, and she was missing a few teeth after an elf had slammed her full in the head with the pommel of their sword.
The hall was taken. It branched off in two directions. Mekke looked to the right. Tiger to the left. Both of them were breathing heavily.
“Good,” Mekke said, “Hall, clear!”
A few of Rithmound's soldiers, those who had managed to make it past the air elementals on the roof, shouted out affirmatives. Not as many as Mekke had hoped. Nor were there many of her guildmates – Archenround had been forced to stay aboard, an errant gust of wind cutting a deep gash in her shoulder. Nova was flying high above, squaring off with the other elementals. Hopefully to let more Rithmound troops down.
Yet there were just as many of them as there were elves on the ground.
“Myron,” Mekke gasped, tapping into Sunala's communication spell, “We're losing men fast up here.”
“Pinned,” Becenti's voice was tight with energy, and she knew that he was experiencing heavy resistance, too.
“Right,” Mekke said, “We'll make our way down to you.”
She turned to Tiger. The big cat's ears were turning, and he let out a low growl.
“They're coming up from the floor below,” he said, “Ten.”
Mekke glanced. Only two of Rithmound's soldiers were still standing.
“Even fight,” Mekke said, and she spat out a wad of red spit, “We'll hold here, wait for backup.”
Tiger chuffed. He allowed Mekke to take point. The first line of elves appeared – the narrow hall allowed for only two at a time. They came from the right. Mekke shoved her shield forward, pushing the first elf back. The other's blade flashed forward, but Tiger deflected it, giving Mekke time to run the blade through the elf's leg. Her guildmate took off the elf's head a moment later-
And another took the elf's place. This one was better, his scimitars flashing like twin moons. They glowed oddly, reflected a bit too keenly against the moonlight-
Enchanted.
The blade cut through her shield like butter. Mekke dropped it at the last moment, blade thrusting towards the elf, whose partner parried the blow. Tiger made an overhead swing, and it rang against the scimitar-wielding elf's. Mekke attended to his partner, thrusting and slashing, only to be met with a solid defense.
Another exchange. Tiger let out a growl as the scimitar-wielding elf gave him a cut across the side. Mekke dispatched her foe, running him through.
And another elf took her place.
She grimaced.
This was going badly.
***
Joseph stalked down the halls, trotting up the stairs, keeping low to the ground in case someone decided to start opening fire on him. But the Lady Deirdre had been right – there were more pressing matters to attend to. Sunala had arrayed her forces on the top and bottom floors of the Grand Commons. A battle on two fronts. One that she would, inevitably, lose.
Best for him to find her directly. End this before any more lives were lost. He moved quietly from hall to hall, room to room.
Until he found her. A large, empty gallery of some sort. Once upon a time, the Tlantoians had set this room up to show off the artifacts from the governor's family line, the curved blades, the leaf-hewn sculptures, the paintings made by the governor's ancestors. But all of those had been consigned to the fire during the revolution.
All, save for one. Amidst the empty white walls, the empty white tables, and the empty white podiums, rested a single, simple pot, a flower sprouting from the soil. It was a deep scarlet in color, its petals shaped vaguely like crescent moons.
Lady Sunala considered the flower, flanked on either side by two elves. The Lord Busciver and his niece were in the corner, holding onto each other, the gnome with a deep, purple welt blooming over his eye.
Four against one. Joseph liked those odds. He took a deep breath, was about to enter the room, when Sunala turned suddenly. Her rifle was aimed at the opposite wall, at the window that was now opened, letting in the warm summer air.
But then the noblewoman faltered. Did not open fire immediately. Instead, she simply said one word:
“Rosemary.”