Sorcha's Revolt
CHAPTER SIX - THROUGH THE BARRICADES

A gentle kiss roused Sorcha from sleep.

She stirred, blinked, and then mumbled a baffled complaint that it was still dark outside.

"I know," DeSilva said, "It's nearly midnight, we've slept out the day. We should try and get back to the inn."

Sorcha buried her face in the blankets for a few more minutes, then crawled out of the warmth and into the dusty cold of the warehouse office. Hurrying into her inadequate clothes, she was still cold. DeSilva put his cloak around her shoulders, more practically dressed in shirt, boots and trousers. He also sported four pistols, two swords and a magic ring; Sorcha was entirely unarmed. "Would you like a gun, before we set out?" DeSilva asked.

Sorcha shook her head. "No, Monte, I don't want one at all, or a sword. I'm not Sabra and I don't wish to be, you'll just have to keep me safe."

They slipped out of the warehouse the same way they had entered, through the unboarded window and then down from the balcony to the neighbouring roof.

"We'll go back over the upper terraces," DeSilva said, "more likely to meet Kellions at the barricade, rather than police pickets on ground level."

They went quickly and quietly along the terrace, past darkened windows on the near hand with matching two-tier buildings on the far side of the street. The cobbled street ran ten feet below them, deserted of traffic, likewise lined with darkened doors and windows.

They saw no one, but DeSilva kept a pistol drawn and Sorcha look constantly about, alert to any movement on the midnight streets.

The only crossing from their terrace to the next was by stairs down to street level. They crossed the main street furtively and hurried back up to the wider views and more open air of the upper terrace.

Within a few blocks, crossing bridges from one terrace to the next, they came in sight of the Foreign Quarter.

The police pickets still burned in the street, but they were eclipsed by the blazing of buildings on either side of the barricade. A smog of gunpowder shrouded the barricade itself, darker than the night but lit up constantly by flashes of gun- shots and the longer flare of firebombs.

Shadowy figures moved on the barricade, women in grey uniform trying to force a passage over or through the improvised barricade and the black-clad men defending it.

A muted roar throbbed from the cordite fog, men and women snarling like animals as they fought, the clash of swords and the reports of rifles. Then cannon roared, and a blast of debris went up from the barricade. The attacking Silvans converged on the spot in force.

Another cannon spoke farther up the street, and in the momentary flare Sorcha saw a second force of Silvan police storming the barricade at another spot.

In the echoes of the cannonfire, a whistling sound in the distance suddenly became an unendurable scream as several dozen rockets arced smoking and shrieking from within the Foreign Quarter to fall like blazing arrows among the Silvan lines.

"Monte, we'll never get through!" Sorcha gripped his arm in terror. "And even if we do, there's no point, we're safer here behind the Silvan lines."

"Yes, so long as those cannons are in play." DeSilva's in the shadows looked as dark as his father's midnight stare. "Taking one of them out will focus the Silvan attack on one main point, but if I can draw enough of them away, I could make a pause in the attack here long enough for you to get through. The men on the wall won't fire when they see your clothes."

"I can't leave you, Monte, please..."

"It's the only way." He kissed her swiftly, then drew his sword. "Wait here. I'll take out both cannons if I can, you just take your chance when it comes. I'll join you later, back at the inn."

Before she could protest more, he was gone, vanished like a shadow into the night. She did not even hear his footsteps, stealth learned from long adventures with his father and Dacoit uncle Noth Kalidor, men who could move without a sound in city or wilderness.

Sorcha remained crouching in the shadows, peering over the lip of the terrace at the fighting on the street below. She recalled vaguely their original plan and looked for a footbridge where she might cross from her terrace to one flush with the barricade. The Silvan police were attempting the barricaded lower street, but on the upper terraces there was no fighting at all. Kellion riflemen stood on the roofs, picking off any Silvan to appear in sight through the smog, but Sorcha trusted enough in DeSilva's faith that in her harem silks she would be recognised as a non-combatant.

But there were no intact walkways from Sorcha's terrace to the Foreign Quarter; the remained of two still jutted from their buttresses on the dual-level street, but the bridges had been thrown down precisely to deny anyone from entering the revolutionary enclave that way.

Sorcha cursed in frustration, looking the other way up the street for any sign of DeSilva. Revolutionaries came and went all the time by secret ways from the besieged area, but more than that Sorcha had never bothered to learn. She briefly considered trying to gain entry through one of the buildings, but every door and window at ground level was barricaded.

There was nothing for it but a desperate run across the street at the first opportunity, waving for the attention of the riflemen on the barricade. Sorcha moved quickly, down a nearby flight of stairs to ground level, where she glanced out into the street only to flinch when the cannon roared again and hurled murder against the barricade. Then a bright, red light shone out from the neighbouring streets and alleyways; the unmistakeable killing argence of Stantine Fenn. The unseen cannon exploded, blooming fire in the night and hurling debris high into the air.

Orders were screamed from the Silvan lines and the nearer attack force fell back, no longer supported by artillery and suddenly ware of a surprise danger behind.

The last stragglers to withdraw from the barricade were cut down by a final volley of rifle-fire from the defenders. Sorcha took her moment and ran towards the barricade, waving and trusting in the firelight to reveal her harem silks. As she reached the foot of the barricade, a man appeared on top of it with rifle in hand. Sorcha had chosen her moment well; he was still reloading, and even as he brought the rifle to his shoulder, he recognised Sorcha. A hand was thrust out her and she was hauled up the barricade, the first man joined by a second who helped her together over the improvised barrier.

"Here, you're DeSilva's girl, what are you doing out there?"

"Monte's out there still, we got caught outside in the rioting."

The men looked out into the darkened street, just in time to see another flare of hellfire. Silvan soldiers came scampering back from an alleyway, and the burning figure of Stantine Fenn appeared, with DeSilva pacing after like the demon's shadow.

One Silvan raised a longbow and tried a shot; bow and arrow became ash and fire in her hands, the women bursting into flames a split second later. Stantine Fenn advanced, scattering the enemy before him. All who would not flee died, struck down by his mere presence.

As the demon approached the barricade, Sorcha and the men beside her felt the heat of the demon's proximity. It did not climb the barricade, however, but stood near the foot of it, guarding the way until DeSilva had clambered up to Sorcha's side.

She flung her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. When she looked again, the evil glow of Stantine Fenn was gone; she and DeSilva stood on the barricade with the two baffled revolutionaries.

"What the hell was that?" one of the men demanded.

DeSilva only shrugged. Around them, other Kellion men emerged from cover now that it was clear that the Silvan assault had been beaten back.

"Where's my father?" DeSilva asked, and one of the men answered:

"Where the fighting's thickest. He was here; soon as the cannon started, he went to lose the rockets; we've not seen him since."

"He'll be at the other cannon," DeSilva decided. "Sorcha, go back to the inn. Anyone who wants to, come with me; we need some men here just in case, but the assault's not done yet elsewhere."

Sorcha wanted to protest, but she knew Desilva was right. She knew better, too, than to destroy his authority with these men by arguing with him here and now. She kissed him, briefly, then made her way down the inner face of the barricade and hurried up the street, looking back once to see DeSilva and half the revolutionaries moving out along the upper terraces.

Sorcha broke away from the other revolutionaries and fled into the inn, searching for DeKellia's concubine, Vashta.

Vashta, like Sorcha, was Silvan woman who had been held in a Naril harem; she sported the same extensive tattoos that Sorcha wore, the indelible marks of their past captivity. However, while Sorcha had been a prisoner of the harem for only a few months, Vashta had been held for years. She had been taken, Sorcha knew, along with her daughter Fethne who had been then only five years old. With Fethne held hostage, Vashta had remained the concubine of Odacon Karmensis, the same Naril warlord who had taken Sorcha prisoner and added her to his harem.

Sorcha found Vashta down in the kitchens, the domestic work of the inn being maintained by the women while the men plotted and fought. There was no work being done now, though. All the women of the revolution had taken shelter from the fighting in the kitchen, always the central and most secure room of any Kellion house besides the nursery.

The women were calm but subdued, some two dozen Kellions and a handful of former Silvans brought, as Sorcha had been, into the harem on the tides of war. Vashta stood in the centre of the room, still dressed in harem silks but wearing a Silvan mask and girt with a long sword.

"They're both on the barricade, Monte and DeKellia," Sorcha blurted, only for her voice to fail her when Vashta replied, "Yes, I know."

There was a viridian shimmer to Vashta's Naril tattoos, the witch-marks glimmering palely in the dimly lighted room.

"You can see them," Sorcha realised aloud, remembering the feats of vision and far-seeing she had witnessed from Naril magic.

"I see DeKellia," Vashta replied, her eyes staring through Sorcha, blind to the room in which they stood and the other women now becoming alert to the growing light of sorcery.

"Where's Monte?" Sorcha asked, moving reluctantly closer to Vashta.

"Yours or mine?" Vashta smiled with distant madness. "Take my hands."

She reached out, and Sorcha accepted nervously. The instant that they touched, the latent fire in Vashta's tattoos flowed into her. Sorcha's tattoos too caught light, the designs on her wrists writhing and growing, mingling with the living patterns on Vashta's hands.

Sorcha's perspective suddenly shifted and she was flung upwards, out of her body to look down upon the Foreign Quarter. The streets were in darkness, lit up along the outer face of the barricade by police pickets and burning buildings, but still Sorcha saw clearly despite the leaping shadows.

Guided by Vashta, Sorcha's attention zoomed in on the most embattled part of the barricade. DeKellia was there, bestriding the improvised barrier in the face of the Silvan charge. The men fighting alongside him all availed themselves of cover, crouching down to fight and fire over the barricade at the Silvan attackers.

DeKellia stood on the wall in plain view, directly in the teeth of the arrows and cannons fire of the enemy. Occasionally an arrow or projectile would strike and tear his shirt, but he barely more than staggered, laughing and cursing at the enemy as he returned fire.

He fought with perfect co-ordination, his sword darting in parry and thrust at any foe to mount the barricade, kicking with vicious precision at any face or limb in range, his off-hand ever moving to draw a fresh pistol from his many-holstered rig, firing and replacing each discharged weapon before he smoothly drew another.

An arrow whipped for his face and he reeled; for a moment Sorcha thought he had been hit. But he had flinched minutely aside, the arrow whipping through his hair and drawing a cut on his scalp, doing no other harm. DeKellia jeered at the Silvan sniper and fired, picking the woman off the opposite rooftop with ease.

Then a shadow mounted the wall, a figure that leapt from occluding darkness to sudden brightness in Sorcha's sorcerously endowed vision. The woman was a Silvan Diva, her spirit blazing like the silver fire of her unsheathed sword. In two bounds she gained the barricade, meeting DeKellia in a flashing salvo of slash and parry.

DeKellia stood his ground, feet braced on the improvised rampart of the barricade, balance perfect and his sword an impenetrable web of defence before him. But while he was engaged with the Silvan champion, the main assault redoubled, and grey-clad police began mounting the barricade in ever greater numbers.

Sorcha tore her attention away, fighting against Vashta's will to find Monte on the battlefield rather than remain focussed on DeKellia. She found DeSilva at once, the presence of Stantine Fenn a beacon that shone clearly the instant that she sought it.

DeSilva came like a pillar of living flame along the barricade, hurling himself into the fight with a dozen revolutionary reinforcements behind him. Sorcha could not tell if he had called up Stantine Fenn or not; through the eye of sorcery, she saw both her lover and the demon that indwelt him superimposed.

DeSilva's superior agility outpaced the men following him; for an awful few moments, he was alone against the renewed assault of the Silvan police. Sorcha saw him mobbed by half a dozen swordswomen, staving them off with desperate skill until the Kellion revolutionaries rallied around him. For long minutes, the tide of battle wavered on the lip of the barricade.

Then a light went out on in the combat; the Silvan Diva, pierced through the throat by DeKellia's sword. With her fall from the barricade, the heart went out of the Silvan assault. The revolutionaries surged forward, driving the enemy back. DeKellia rejoined the main fight, meeting DeSilva in the centre of the barricade.

"We can stop him," Vashta's voice echoed in Sorcha's mind. "Strike at him now through the power of Naril..."

"Fenn..." Sorcha realised suddenly, trying to tear her hands free of Vashta's grip. "No, I won't let you! You'll kill them both, you don't know what you're dealing with!"

Heat flared suddenly between their hands. Sorcha wrenched free of Vashta's grip and darted back. The spectral flames that had wreathed them both dissipated. Vashta swayed and stumbled to a chair, weakened by the vision. Sorcha was no less overcome but made it out of the room before her balance failed. Leaning against the wall, she struggled upstairs and slumped against the bar in the main room. There was hardly anyone in the room, only the handful of men left behind to hold the building in readiness should the majority be driven back from the barricade.

The barman put a drink in front of her, but no one else paid her any heed. Sorcha drank the wine and felt recovered enough to pull up a barstool. She sat studying the wine until the glass was empty, signalled for more and repeated the process. On the third refill, the barman left the bottle. Sorcha finished it and signalled for another.

She was halfway through that, and very drunk, when the inn door crashed open and Messerach Veen staggered in. He was filthy from battle, his skin starkly pale against his black clothes and the red smear of blood across his face. But he was on his feet, and his eyes blazed.

"Call the women," he rasped. "We've wounded coming in."

The bar erupted into life, a couple of the men heading below to bring the women up from the kitchen while the rest hurried out assist the wounded coming in. Soon the main room of the tavern was a makeshift hospital, medicinal drinks and essential stitches being administered freely.

Only Sorcha remained where she was, unable to trust her balance to stand, much less the steadiness of her hands to give first aid. She was saved from having to try by the return of DeSilva. As soon as she saw him in the doorway, she lurched to her feet and promptly fell face-forward into his arms.

DeSilva caught her automatically and she sagged against him.

"Hello, Monte. I've been so worried..." Sorcha trailed off into a drunken burble.

Behind DeSilva, Sabra and DeKellia entered the inn. Both were reeking with smoke and drenched in the blood of others, but themselves unwounded.

Sorcha was sufficiently alert to wave at her sister and slur her name. Sabra took off her sooty mask and glared at Sorcha.

"You're drunk," she stated, accusingly.

Sorcha made deep thought on this. "Um... yes? And you're sober! What a turnaround!" Sorcha broke down giggling and slumped against DeSilva again. "Monte, take me upstairs, please...?"

"Yes," DeKellia grunted, "get her out of here, the pair of you."

Sorcha's world was swimming, but she could still hear clearly and put names to voices.

"Me?" Sabra's voice raised in surprised outrage.

"Sure." DeKellia, laughing grimly. "She's your sister, who better to help carry her to bed?"

Sorcha's world listed, then began to bump uncomfortably. She stirred and blinked partially awake, vaguely aware of being carried up the stairs, DeSilva lifting her under the arms and Sabra holding her feet.

"Of course you can't just carry her yourself, Monte," Sabra was complaining, "Oh no, that'd be far too manly for you to accomplish..."

"Oh, just shut up," DeSilva replied. "Just because the battle ended too soon for you, you'd not had your fill of slaughter..."

"You were right up there in front too, Monte, stabbing like a good 'un!"

Sorcha managed a vague sound of complaint; Sabra and DeSilva stopped bickering long enough to get her up the stairs, where they slung her arms across their shoulders and half helped, half carried her down the corridor. Reaching their room, Sabra helped prop Sorcha upright while DeSilva unlocked the door. Sabra passed Sorcha to him and left, uttering a final guttural noise of disgust.

DeSilva kicked the door to and carried Sorcha to the bed.

"We seem to keep ending up here," Sorcha murmured. "Why is that, Monte?"

"Because you're a sex-crazed bimbo?" He suggested.

"We used to have sex in all sorts of places..."

"Yes, we were on the run."

"It's nice to have your own bed." Sorcha frowned, suddenly melancholy. "I haven't had a bed of my own in ages..."

"Aw, don't start crying." DeSilva sat on the bed and took her hand in his. "What's this about, love?"

"I was worried about you, stupid!" Sorcha tried to sit up but had to lie down again when the room spun around her. "Monte?"

"Yes?"

"Make love to me."

"I'm making sure you're not too drunk first."

"No such drunk as too drunk," Sorcha said, then giggled and tried again. "No thing as drunk too such... Drunk as such no... too... much?" "If there is, then you're it."

"Oh, shut up!" Sorcha tried to throw a pillow at him but succeeded only in flailing vaguely at the bedclothes. "Take your clothes off!"

"Oh, you really want it?"

"Yes!" Sorcha began struggling out of her clothes, only to get stuck halfway out of her harem-top. DeSilva broke down laughing when he saw her and stopped unbuttoning his shirt to help her. She slumped back on the pillows again and let the room swim around her. Darkness closed in only to receded as DeSilva mounted the bed.

He swung both Sorcha's legs over the crook of his arm and entered her, then leant forward to kiss her. Sorcha rolled her hips languidly and knotted her outflung hands in the bedclothes, too far gone with wine to do more.

He lifted her legs to his shoulder and began to move strongly inside her. Sorcha murmured and gave herself up to the rising swell of sex and inebriation that engulfed her senses.