The Price of Valor (23 page)

“Hayver,” Marcus said. “Which way are we going?”

Hayver put his eye to the window while Marcus steadied the curtain.

“All the way across. Looks like the door's open.”

Marcus looked again. At the other end of the courtyard, another pair of doors stood ajar.

“That's got to be a hundred yards,” Marcus muttered.

“We'll never make it,” Karl wailed.

“Will you shut up?” Andy spit.

She'd acquired a broomstick from somewhere along the way, a big one with a long, sturdy handle. She propped carefully against the wall and stomped on it, just above the head. The wood broke with an almighty
snap
, spraying splinters.

“I thought I said to be quiet!” Marcus said.

“Sorry, sir.” Andy hefted the orphaned handle, now reduced to a serviceable club with a jagged, splintery point. “Thought it might be best to have something to hand.”

Karl moaned again. Andy rolled her eyes.

“Leave him alone,” Fredrick said. “He's too sensitive for this.”

“All
right
,” Marcus said. “I'll go first. Everyone stay close. Walk fast but
don't
run until I say. From a distance we're just another group of rioters, right?”

There was a chorus of assent. Viera walked to a small marble bust and lifted it, testing the weight.

“Your girl is right,” she said when Marcus gave her a questioning look. “Best to be prepared.”

Marcus shrugged. “Hayver, can you get that bolt?”

Hayver threw his weight against the rusty metal, and it moved with a squeal of complaint. The door opened, letting in daylight that cut through the shadows of the dusty hall like a knife, illuminating a swirl of dust motes. Marcus blinked a few times to let his eyes adjust, then started forward, trying to walk with confidence. He spared only a brief look over his shoulder to make sure the others were following.

The hundred yards to the other side of the courtyard stretched out beneath his feet, until he was certain he could feel the distance increasing with every step. Unbidden, his hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. He hadn't expected a fight, so he was the only one who'd brought a real weapon, but he didn't want to use it on what were, after all, civilians.
Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Nearly there.

They'd crossed three-quarters of the distance when a party of shouting, laughing men entered the courtyard through one of the side paths. There were
at least a dozen of them, and they pulled up short in shocked silence, taking in Marcus' army uniform and the students' robes.

“It's them!” one of the rioters shouted.

Now would be my chance to reason with them,
Marcus thought,
and chide them for making unwarranted assumptions. Try to bluff our way out.
He took in the look on the man's face, the fury rising in his eyes.

“Run!” he shouted.

They ran. Andy and Hayver, in their uniforms, easily outdistanced the four scholars, who were slowed by their clumsy robes. Marcus stayed in the rear, ready to grab anyone who stumbled. He looked over his shoulder and found the rioters closer than he'd thought, practically on their heels. Spinning, he clawed his saber from its scabbard and raised it to block the way, bringing the first pursuer up short.

“Get him!” another shouted, pushing forward and swinging a wooden post like a club.

It would have been easy to skewer him, but Marcus wasn't ready for that, not yet. Instead he sidestepped the clumsy blow and rammed the saber's guard into the man's face, feeling bone crunch in his jaw. He dropped like a broken puppet, clutching his face and writhing in pain, and Marcus took advantage of the despite to backpedal. They were nearly to the door, Hayver standing beside it, white-faced.

“Marcus! They're inside!”

“Good!” Marcus turned his back on the rioters and edged past the ranker. “Close the door!”

“No, I mean—”

“Colonel!” Andy said. “A little help?”

Hayver dragged the door shut, plunging them back into gloom. Before the light vanished, however, Marcus saw another half dozen men, advancing down the corridor toward them.

*   *   *

They must have been inside already.
No wonder the door had been open. Marcus swore and jogged forward, sword at the ready. Andy had her broken broom in a passable attempt at a guard position, and Viera stood behind her, clutching the marble bust. Karl and Fredrick were pressed against the wall while Volaht hovered uncertainly nearby.

“Out of the way!” Marcus bellowed in his best parade-ground voice. “These people are under the protection of the Royal Army of Vordan!”

“It's the Army of the Republic now,” one of the men blocking the corridor spit back. He had what looked like the leg of a chair in one hand.

“Yeah, you work for us!” another said.

“Put the sword down!”

“Get out of the way,” Marcus repeated. “I don't want to hurt any of you.”

“Oh yeah, soldier boy?” said one of the men, from the safety of the rear of the back. “Gonna stab us?”

Marcus took a step forward. The man in the lead had the expression of someone comparing his chair leg to Marcus' polished steel and coming up short. He gave ground, pressing into the huddle behind him. Encouraged, Marcus took another step forward, flicking the point of his weapon forward until it was practically under the man's nose.

That was a mistake, he saw almost immediately. With his arm at full extension, he wasn't in a position to attack, and one of the smaller men lurking behind the leader sprang forward before he could recover. He got both hands on Marcus' wrist and pulled him sideways, slamming his hand into the stone wall of the corridor. Marcus' fingers exploded with pain, and his saber slipped away, clattering noisily on the floor.

“Get 'em!” the leader shouted.

The rioters rushed forward. Marcus, still clutching his hand, managed to stick his leg out to trip the nearest, sending him sprawling to the flagstones. Then the man who'd grabbed his hand was on top of him, wrapping his arms around Marcus' shoulders and trying to bear him to the floor. It was the move of someone who'd been in more drunken wrestling matches than honest-to-God street fights, and Marcus let him come close before driving a knee up hard into his groin. All the strength went out of his assailant, and he folded up like a damp cloth.

Andy, standing in the center of the corridor, met the rioters' rush head-on. The leader came after her with his chair leg, a clumsy overhand swing, and she moved neatly out of the way and cracked him on the back of the head with the end of the broom handle as he went past. The next man hesitated, pulling up short, but misjudged the distance—he ended up stopping at the perfect range for her to swing the broom into his face with all the leverage of three feet of solid wood. The
crunch
of his nose breaking was audible, and he tumbled bonelessly backward.

The last two rioters were big men, and they moved as though they'd fought together before. They spread out , one going left and one going right, and when Andy wound up to hit one of them, the other moved like a snake, grabbing her
arm with both hands and locking the her elbow behind her back. She gasped in pain and let the broom handle fall.

Marcus' right hand still hurt, badly enough that he was certain he'd broken something. He stepped up behind Andy's attacker, ready with a kick to the back of the knee that would have sent him sprawling, but something snagged his foot. He looked down to find the man he'd tripped grabbing his ankle, hanging on like a drowning man clutching a log. Marcus spun and kicked him in the side of the head, once and then again when he didn't let go.

One of the big men punched Andy, a hard blow across the face and then a jab to the chest that connected with a flat
thud.
He followed it up with a knee to the stomach, and she doubled over with a choking wheeze. The man holding her arm let go, turned around to face the others, and found the marble bust of a long-forgotten scholar coming down fast into his forehead. The blow dropped him with a sound like two billiard balls meeting.

The last rioter raised his fists, confronting Viera, who was still holding the bust and breathing hard. After a moment, Hayver joined her, holding his own fists up in a way that made it clear he didn't have the faintest idea what to do with them. Volaht stepped forward as well, face white as a sheet.

“That's
enough
,” Marcus growled. He'd retrieved his sword, holding it awkwardly in his left hand, and he leveled it at the big rioter's throat, taking care to keep well out of range of a sudden grab. “Sit down and put your hands on the floor.”

The man raised his hands in surrender, sliding down the wall to a sitting position. Marcus looked over the other rioters, but none of them seemed about to get up and renew the contest. Andy, curled in the fetal position, was alternately coughing and swearing imaginatively.

“Volaht, Viera, help Andy up. Hayver, is that door bolted?”

“Yes, sir,” Hayver said, glaring at the sitting man.

“Then keep going. You know the way.” He beckoned to Karl and Fredrick, who were huddled together against the wall. “Come on, you two. It's over.”

As the brothers picked their way through the fallen, groaning men, and Andy was hauled to her feet, the sitting man's expression became a snarl. “Fucking foreign trash,” he muttered. “Need a Vordanai girl to fight for you.”

“May I hit him, Colonel?” Viera said.

“Please do,” Marcus said. “We can't have him following us.”

“Wait—” the man managed, before the marble bust came down again.

“Are you all right?” Marcus said as they hurried through the corridors of the Longer Hall as fast as Andy could manage.

“'M fine,” she said. A bruise was already swelling over one cheekbone, and she spoke as if her mouth were full of cotton. “Had worse kickings than this.”

“And delivered worse, I'd guess.”

She gave a lopsided grin. “You have no idea.”

“Through here!” Hayver said, standing beside another double door. “Looks clear.”

There was another courtyard beyond, this one shaded by evergreens and heavy with the scent of pine. It was hard up against the outer wall, and more of the ubiquitous ivy grew across the brickwork. Marcus glanced nervously at the archways leading in either direction, but no rioters were in evidence. Sounds of breaking glass and shouts from elsewhere on campus indicated that the destruction continued.

“Here.” Hayver rushed to the wall and fumbled with the ivy. “Some of the bricks are missing, I'll show you.”

“I'll go over first,” Marcus said. “Hayver, you bring up the rear. Andy, are you going to be all right?”

“I'll manage,” Andy said. “Will you?”

Marcus tried flexing the fingers of his right hand. They hurt abominably, but they moved. He winced. “I think so.”

“Two of the spikes at the top just come off if you pull on them,” Hayver said.

Marcus looked up at the wall, which suddenly seemed quite formidable, and its spiky crown. “Right,” he said.

Truthfully, the climb wouldn't have been at all difficult to someone who had full use of both hands. As Hayver had promised, there were handholds in the brickwork, and at the top Marcus was able to lift two of the iron spikes out of their sockets and set them aside. More bricks were missing on the other side, and he picked his way down, using his right hand as little as possible. By the time he dropped to the turf, Viera was already coming over, taking a moment to smooth her long skirts at the top before descending.

They followed, one by one. Marcus helped Andy to the ground after catching her wince as she bent to turn around at the top. Hayver, coming last, conscientiously replaced the two spikes before making his way down.

“Now what?” Fredrick said. He had one arm around his brother, who hadn't spoken since the fight in the hallway. “Where are you taking us?”

“Oldtown,” Marcus said. “But you'll need to ditch the robes first, or we'll be followed.”

“They'll be watching the road to the west,” Viera said.

“I know. We'll go south to the Old Ford. It'll be a bit wet, but we'll get across.”

“We're going to
wade
the river?” Fredrick said. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“If you'd care to head in any other direction, be my guest.” Marcus gestured south. “Come along, if you're coming.”

They all followed, of course. The University grounds outside the walls were grassy hillsides dotted with a few small trees, descending gradually until they met the river. The Vor was placid here, only a foot or two deep and broad enough that it might have been a lake. Long before the network of bridges to and from the Island had been built, the Old Ford had planted the seed of Vordan City, the medieval village whose bones still lay underneath Oldtown.

It didn't come to actually wading the river. A number of enterprising bargemen sold their services to those who had cargoes to bring across and couldn't afford a cart, poling their shallow-bottomed craft just barely above the gravel of the riverbed. Marcus herded his charges onto the first such boat he could find, gave the owner ten times his usual fare, and told him to head for Oldtown and not ask any questions. This was apparently not an unusual request, and the gap-toothed Southsider remained silent for the entire journey and pushed off again once they'd disembarked without a complaint.

From there, Marcus waited with the students and Hayver while Andy went off to secure more suitable clothing. She returned a quarter of an hour later with sacklike brown tunics and britches for the men and a shapeless green dress for Viera. The students, grumbling, changed clothes in the shadow of an anchored riverboat. Marcus got a long linen cloak, which would at least hide his uniform from casual observers.