Sorcha's Revolt
CHAPTER NINE - INTRUDER

DeSilva dashed out of the room wearing only his breeches and boots, sword in hand.

Sorcha wrapped the bedsheet around herself and followed him. They were not the only ones awoken; all along the corridor, doors opened and Kellion men appeared, all in various states of dress, some with women behind them, but all armed with sword or pistol.

Then the door to Sabra's room burst open. Two bodies piled out and carried the door and most of the frame into the opposite wall. One of the combatants was Sabra; she hit the wall and lay stunned amid the debris. Her attacker, a man easily four times her size, launched himself back from the collision with superhuman agility, kicked off the ruins of the doorway behind him, and landed in a dead sprint through the Kellions surrounding him. "Darian!" DeSilva shouted, and every man in the corridor brought his gun to bear on the lone invader.

Sorcha fell back against the doorframe behind DeSilva, her scream drowned in the thunder of over a dozen guns. Somehow, not one shot found its mark; the Darian charged through the men in his path like an enraged bull, and dove headlong down the stairs to the main bar, "Reload!" DeKellia's voice. He alone had not opened fire, the volleygun in his hands certain death to everyone in the corridor.

With DeKellia in the lead, the Kellions piled down the stairs in pursuit of the interloper. DeSilva hung back to check on Sorcha. "Are you alright?"

"No, I'm shaking." She held up her hands to prove it. "What about Sabra?"

"Stay with her, I know that Darian, I recognise him!"

Before Sorcha could protest, DeSilva was bounding down the stairs. From the bar-room came raised voices, one of them speaking in Darian while the rest cussed and swore in Kellion. Sorcha picked out the Darian's voice clearly but shook off the training that commanded her attention to any Darian and knelt instead at Sabra's side.

Sabra stirred, huddled against the wall amid the wreckage of the shattered door. She blinked and shook her head, but shoved Sorcha away the instant that she recognised her. "Get off me!" "Sabra, you're hurt!"

"I'm fine." Sabra picked herself up, using the wall for support, then leant where she was, breathing painfully. Sorcha had seen enough injuries to know, just from a glance at Sabra's posture, that her sister's ribs were cracked. "Come on, let's get you back to your room..."

Sabra rounded on her, lurching away from the wall and swaying on her feet, eyes blazing with hate-filled emerald fire, blood from a cut on her brow trickling down her face. "Don't touch me! If you touch me again, I'll carve your face off with a rusty knife! Whore!"

She shoved Sorcha hard. Sorcha was sent reeling, surprised by her sister's strength and the vehemence of her anger. Still muttering imprecations, Sabra limped back into her room unaided and sat on the bed.

Sorcha dithered in the corridor, reluctant to leave her sister alone but equally certain that Sabra would at the very least assault her if she tried to offer any first aid. Downstairs, the Kellion voices had faded to a low grumble, and only the voices of DeKellia and the intruder, both speaking Darian, were clearly audible. Then Sorcha heard footsteps on the stair and shrank back against the wall to let the Kellion men coming up from the bar pass her in the corridor. DeSilva was among the last, and he stepped partly across Sabra's threshold to check on her before turning his attention to Sorcha.

"Are you alright?"

"Nearly, just a bit shaken..." her voice trailed off and her eyes widened when she saw DeKellia coming up the stairs with the Darian behind him.

He was taller and leaner than most of his race, powerfully muscular nonetheless. His hair was the spiky mane typical to all Darians; he wore it long, and in his tension, each individual hair, thicker and stiffer than that of a normal man, stood up on his scalp like a hedge of quills. Unique among any Darian that Sorcha had ever seen, this one's hair was blond. The detail triggered a memory, and Sorcha realised she recognised him, a knight in the Darian Warmaster's service. He wore black chainmail beneath a pale green surcoat, and carried no less than six swords, one at each hip and four crossed on his back. The swords were light and thin, shorter, and more curved than normal Darian blades. Sorcha stood paralysed, unable to move or speak, barely able to breathe, until the Darian had passed her in the corridor. He spared her not a glance but looked once into Sabra's room before moving on towards DeKellia's room. "Sorcha." DeKellia had to repeat her name several times before she heard him. "How's Sabra?"

"I think she's alright," Sorcha stammered. "She hit her head and now she's swearing like a trooper, at least at me."

"Alright." DeKellia nodded for DeSilva to lead Lorac to his room, then gave Sorcha his full attention. "Do you also happen to know that Darian?"

"Yes, the blond hair... I only ever saw one Darian like that before; Lorac Dan-something-or-other, a funny-sounding name, like somewhere far off, very beautiful but very sad."

"Very poetic, I'm sure it's exactly like that," DeKellia said, irritably. "Now put some damn clothes on and find my son a shirt, then go see to your sister."

Sorcha had forgotten that she was wrapped in nothing but a bedsheet; all normal modesty had been shriven from her in the harem.

"I'll get dressed," she said, "but Sabra won't let me touch her."

DeKellia rolled his eyes and groaned. "Alright, come with me, we'll fetch Vashta."

She followed DeKellia to his room, where they found DeSilva perched on the windowsill and the Darian Lorac pacing the room. Vashta and Hnasi were on the bed, Vashta eyeing the Darian nervously while Hnasi's catlike eyes betrayed only curiosity.

DeSilva stood up and went to Sorcha's side where she lingered in the doorway; DeKellia assumed his son's former perch against the windowsill.

Lorac began speaking at once, quickly in Darian. Sorcha had learned enough of the language in the harem to obey instructions but could not follow the complexity of Lorac's message.

"Wait," DeKellia held up a hand, then glanced at Vashta. "Sabra's been hurt, go see that she's alright. Go with her, Sorcha, and for Haroum's sake put some clothes on."

DeSilva was still bare chested; DeKellia grabbed a spare shirt from the end of the bed and threw it at him. "Put that on."

Sorcha went out reluctantly, Vashta following her with an ill grace.

"Get dressed," Vashta reiterated, then went into Sabra's room while Sorcha returned to her own.

She dressed slowly, reluctant to so soon face her sister again. Only when she heard Sabra arguing with Vashta did she go next door. There she found Sabra stoically refusing any assistance. Rather than get involved, Sorcha went downstairs to the kitchen to warm some water and fetch a cloth to wash Sabra's head-wound. When she returned, Sabra had calmed down enough to allow Vashta to examine the cut on her brow. It was shallow; Sorcha handed over the damp cloth and stood by with the bowl of water.

"Och, away with you!" Sabra snapped at Sorcha and Vashta. "It's just a bump on the head."

"Oh yeah?" DeKellia's voice drawled from the doorway. "Lift your hand up above your shoulder."

Sabra cocked her head to one side with a very patient expression and lifted her arm.

"The other one," DeKellia said.

Sabra complied only to wince and let her arm drop quickly, her other hand pressed to her side. "You've busted a rib," DeKellia said. "You'll need it looked at."

"It's fine." Sabra said, then noticed the Darian towering behind DeKellia. "What's he doing here?"

As soon as she was aware of Lorac, Sorcha's nerves returned full force; she started shaking and had to put the bowl down before she dropped it. Only Vahsta noticed her distress and put an unexpected hand on her arm.

"Lorac brought a message for me," DeKellia was explaining. "Just his poor luck he got the wrong room. He'll be on his way soon enough. If you say you're fine, Sabra, then I believe you. Don't go back to sleep tonight and check you've not torn those stitches in your arm. Otherwise... carry on, Sergeant Kavnor."

Sorcha took a final glance at Sabra, now pressing the damp cloth to her head, and then followed Vashta and DeKellia out into the corridor.

"We'll have to get someone to fix that door, too."

"Sorry," Lorac muttered. "Wrong room."

"Lucky you didn't get the one next door; my son was knocking off his strumpet at the time."

Sorcha coloured and DeKellia affected to notice her presence for the first time. "Oh, my apologies, I thought you were still with Sabra." "Where's Monte?" Sorcha demanded, angry enough to forget the fear that DeKellia inspired in her.

"Oh, I sent him to fetch some rats, nothing to worry about."

"Rats?"

"Uh-huh. Say, could you find Veen and ask him for, oh... two barrels of coal oil? One will do, I'm sure, but you never know." "Oil?"

"That's right." DeKellia turned and headed for the stairs. "With me, Lorac. We've an hour and more to wait, no sense wasting it; I need a drink and I'm sure you do too."

Sorcha waited tensely for an hour, sometimes surreptitiously checking on Sabra or fruitlessly eavesdropping on DeKellia and his guest. Mostly she waited in her room, sitting on the edge of the bed and fretting until DeSilva returned.

He was grimy and tired, pausing at their room only to check in on her. In one hand, he carried a brown sack that squeaked and wriggled.

"What...?" Sorcha began. "Are those rats?"

"Yes," DeSilva said, wearily. "Just like at Narillion. Apparently, Veen has some coal oil for me to finish the job. I shouldn't be too long."

"Monte, be careful." Sorcha moved to kiss him but hesitated to come too near the bag of live rats in his off hand.

"I will. Don't worry, I'll be back."

Sorcha spent the rest of the night watching out the window. Vashta looked in on her before midnight; Sorcha only knew when she heard the door close and the tap of Vashta's heels behind her.

"What do you want?" Sorcha asked, glancing back over her shoulder.

"I frightened you before," Vashta said. "But you know I told you the truth. He has sent women to die and loosed burning rats upon the city. What will he next do? It will be something worse. He may murder the Warmistress in her bed, or unleash some darker force that waits to do his bidding..."

"There's nothing I can do about it," Sorcha cut in. "I just want to get out of here alive, and take Monte with me, and for us both to live happily ever after. It's hard enough saving myself, I'm a total failure at saving anyone around me." "We could stop him," Vashta insisted, joining Sorcha on the bed and sitting with her back to the window. "We have the witch-marks..."

"We can't use them," Sorcha interrupted. "Only Odacon knew how they worked."

"I know the secrets," Vashta smiled. "I was his consort; you were barely his concubine. When the time comes, you and I together can raise the magic of Naril to thwart DeKellia."

"And then what happens? A different bunch of people die rather than the people he'd have killed. So what? It doesn't matter, Vashta, whatever he plans or whatever anyone might do about it. You'll fail anyway; everyone always does against him. And then he'll kill you."

"You will change your mind," Vashta said, and left Sorcha alone.

Not long after, fire blossomed against the darkened skyline of Silveneir. Rapidly it spread along streets and rooftops, leaping from building to building in outspreading lines of fire. Sorcha had seen it before, at Narillion. Then, the Kellion city had already been under attack by two armies, with no available force to fight the fires. Here, the Silvan police rallied from the pickets at once, leaving only a skeleton watch to guard the barricade.

Leaning out the window, Sorcha was in time to see the dark shape of Lorac mount the barricade, then vanish across the rooftops, clearing gaps and obstacles in acrobatic bounds towards the city's outer walls.

Even as Sorcha watched, Sabra stuck her head out from her own window to see Lorac depart. Both sisters saw each other and made eye-contact, but Sabra withdrew without saying a word. Not long after, DeSilva returned. He was grimier than before, smelling of oil and smoke now, with myriad tiny bites on his hands and minor burns on his clothes.

As soon as he had shut the door, Sorcha stood up and threw away her harem-top. DeSilva embraced her wearily, leaning back against the door as she kissed him. Her fingers started working at the buttons of his shirt, but he put her gently off from him.

"Let me sit down a minute, love."

He limped across the room and sat on the bed, dropping his cloak absently on the floor. Sorcha picked it up and laid it over the back of a chair, then knelt at his feet and helped tug off his boots.

He caught her eyes with a silent question, but she said nothing, coming to sit beside him on the bed to unbutton his short.

His clothes stank of smoke and vermin. Sorcha bundled up the shirt and threw it into the farthest corner, swiftly followed by DeSilva's trousers. Naked, he lay back on the bed, and she swung her leg over to sit astride him, her harem skirts settling around their hips.

"You're right," DeSilva said, cupping her breasts with his hands. "I need to get away from him." "Your father?" Sorcha rolled her hips forward, teasing him with the brushing of her flesh over his. "Who else? I don't know what's to choose between treating with demons or being around him."

"I'd rather the demons.” Sorcha reached between them and guided DeSilva into her, easing herself down slowly onto him. He groaned and massaged her breasts more strongly. Sorcha grinned and pressed her hands over his, then leaned forward to kiss him. DeSilva met her lips, and Sorcha arched her back and braced her hands to offer him her breasts, rolling her hips all the while.

"Honestly?" DeSilva asked, somewhat muffled by nuzzling at her left nipple.

"Without a doubt."

Sorcha sat back and put her hands behind her, began to move more dynamically astride him, undulating her body with increasing force until DeSilva snarled and gripped her thighs tightly. Sorcha grinned at him. "Feeling better?"

"Slightly."

DeSilva pulled her down to her for another kiss, then rolled her beneath him and took control. Sorcha clasped him to her with her thighs, still moving against him, her hands alternately gripping at his shoulders or knotting in the bedclothes. He touched her gently beneath the chin and her whole body responded, trained responses answering the touch. Her back arched and tension shivered through her lower body, her feet bracing suddenly in the mattress and her hips rising. DeSilva scooped one of her legs over his arm and grasped her backside firmly, driving into her with rising urgency. Sorcha clasped her hands around his neck and lunged up to kiss him, fastening her lips to his, muffling her first gasping cry. Overcome, she fell back to the bed, utterly surrendered even as DeSilva shuddered, then relaxed completely and rested his head on her breasts.

Sorcha stroked his hair languidly while he caressed her tattooed skin with slow kisses.

"He made you do something dreadful tonight," she said.

"It's not the first time."

"Vashta says he's planning something worse."

"Oh, I know he's got something up his sleeve." DeSilva rolled off her and reached for his pipe. "He's having far too much fun to be up to anything good. I've seen him in a real crisis, he'd be far more paranoid. I think he's playing some game with this new Daishen, trying to sound him out."

"So it's definitely not you uncle wearing the Daishen's armour?"

"Definitely. My uncle used to laugh or crack a joke sometimes, this one spends all his time brooding alone with a bottle. What else did Vashta tell you?"

"Just that, and that she could use our witch-marks somehow, but I didn't let her elaborate."

"Why not?" DeSilva rolled on his side to face her, suddenly excited. "If you can unlock the power in the witch-marks..."

"I don't want to!" Sorcha curled into a foetal ball and hid her face in DeSilva's chest. "I don't like it, Monte, and I don't trust Vashta. I'll have to help her tomorrow, I know; she can see the battle, for one thing, and I can't bear just sitting here waiting while you go out to fight."

"Which tattoo let's her see like that?"

Sorcha touched the small tattoo framing her left eye, delicate dark lines like permanent make-up.

"Don't ask any more," she whispered. "I can't control the magic, but Vashta can. She can't use her own witch-marks though; she needs mine to work with."

"But she has the seeing tattoo as well," DeSilva mused. "So if she uses yours, you can use hers, and the same would go for all your tattoos..." he ran his eye over Sorcha's illustrated body with a new and different interest. Sorcha pressed closer to him. "I don't know anything more about them, Monte. I'll help Vashta see the battle tomorrow, but just so I don't go mad waiting and wondering if you come back at all."