CH936 · Rewrite
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Chapter 936: Close Combat

“What did you say?”

The King of Dawn shoved the dancer aside and came to his feet. She went down hard. A beautiful woman, barely covered by a pink silk scarf — she did not make a sound, though she was obviously hurt. Everyone else in the hall went still: servants, performers, jugglers, all of them suddenly studying the floor.

“Your Majesty…” The Secretary of State swallowed. “Your Prime Minister has rebelled.”

Rebelled.” Appen said the word as if tasting it for poison. “Are you certain he’s rebelled — not simply courting those idiots outside the walls?”

He had known about the plotting nobles. Everyone who had survived Hermes and made it home had seen what he’d seen: the knightage wrecked, the king’s escape, the end of something. Loyalty was not a feeling that outlasted a military disaster of that size. The lords who returned had arrived at the same calculation, and gathering support from the three great families of the king’s city was the obvious first step toward whatever came next.

Appen had watched for it, prepared for it. He had expected the families to wait — to hedge, to lie low, to let the situation clarify before risking themselves. That was how men like Horford Quinn worked. Caution. Patience. Decades of accumulated instinct for keeping the family safe.

Not this.

Not Quinn — of all three, Quinn — standing up in public and inviting the foreign lords to his mansion. Not secretly. Openly. With an invitation.

An invitation to support the Quinn family.

Appen stood there, working through it, and could not make the pieces fit. The man had no army in the city. No soldiers, no territory, nothing sharper than a dozen household guards. What did he think he was doing? The move was so brazen it looked idiotic — and Horford Quinn was not an idiot. The sheer spectacle of a Prime Minister asking for support while sitting in the middle of a hostile king’s city would make him a laughingstock before the foreign lords, not a rallying point.

Something was wrong with the picture.

“Pass the order,” Appen said at last. “Commander Duke Bachov leads the patrol team to the earl’s residence. Bring Horford Quinn in front of me.” He paused. “Everyone else in the household is to be held in custody. Any resistance, they may be killed on the spot.” He wanted to see the old man explain himself. He wanted to see it done openly.

The hall emptied. Appen sat in the silence.

He didn’t particularly want the pleasure he’d dismissed. But when the room went quiet, the sounds from Hermes started — the roar he had been unable to stop hearing since the moment the first flash fell. Not thunder. He had heard thunder. This was something that had no correct name, because the world had not needed a name for it before he rode into that field.

The battle. The one-sided dissolution of his army.

He had come home and found he no longer had the courage to think about Roland directly. The failure at the battlefield had done something to him that was harder to identify than grief — he knew, with a flat and final certainty, that the Moya family had lost the Kingdom of Dawn. Not today, not this year perhaps, but the calculus was complete. A powerful neighbor with that kind of force and the Moya family with nothing left to put between them: the outcome had only one direction. Appen was simply waiting for the date.

He had wanted, when he took the throne, to be remembered well. A stable kingdom. Citizens who didn’t need to fear witches or demonic beasts or foreign pressure. One year in and it was already over.

Roland Wimbledon. The name tasted like ash. That was the source of all of it — a king bewitched by his witches, unmade by ambition, an aberration that had nonetheless cracked the whole structure of things. If not for him, Appen might have been something worth remembering.

He was still sitting there when the afternoon arrived with bad news.

The new minister stumbled in at a run. “Your Majesty — Sir Bachov is dead. The patrol team — the whole unit — is gone.”

“What?” Appen grabbed his collar. “Traps? An ambush in the mansion?”

“Hidden bodyguards, Your Majesty. I saw it myself.” The man’s words tumbled out. “Bachov demanded the earl come out. When refused, he forced the gates — and was killed by the guards immediately. Then those same guards came out of the courtyard after the patrol team outside. Boning knives, wooden sticks, stone bricks. In less than half a minute, the platoon was broken.”

“How many of them?”

“Seven. Perhaps eight.”

Bastard.” Appen hit the minister, who went down. “Seven or eight and you’re calling it an ambush? In this city, any merchant keeps a dozen guards. There were a hundred and fifty in that patrol team — two hundred, possibly. You’re telling me they were beaten by eight men with kitchen knives?” He leaned over him. “Can’t you even fight at the level of wild boars?”

“Your Majesty — those people aren’t human.” The minister pressed himself against the floor. “Most of the patrol couldn’t survive a single blow. The strength, the speed — it wasn’t a man’s.”

Appen straightened.

He had seen this kind of thing before.

His father’s killers had been Pure Witches from the church. And before the assassination, those women had given him a demonstration — had made him watch what the God’s Punishment Army could do when given a target. He had never forgotten it.

Earl Quinn. Connected with the church.

The anger that rose in him was different from the ordinary kind. It came from somewhere older, somewhere he kept banked and sealed.

Riseth!

The knight entered at a run and dropped to one knee.

“Summon every mercenary in the City of Glow. Crossbows, rockets. I want Quinn’s residence burned to the ground.” His voice was flat and absolute. “Everyone inside. Human or monster — I want them ash.”

“But, Your Majesty, that’s the Inner City.” The knight hesitated. “If the fire spreads—”

Do what I say.” He did not raise his voice. That made it worse. “If you don’t burn them, don’t bother coming back.”

Even the God’s Punishment Army could be killed with enough crossbow fire. If Quinn wanted to throw in with the church, he would get the same end the church was getting everywhere.


The next morning, another report.

The mercenary force had been prevented from reaching the earl’s residence. On the Rising Sun Avenue — in the middle of the street, in front of witnesses — an acrobatics troupe had attacked them from mid-performance.

Appen made the minister repeat it. Then he sat with it for a while.

An acrobatics troupe. Performing, and then fighting.

And fighting the same way Quinn’s guards had fought.

This time they had been carrying the weapons they’d taken from the patrol team: daggers, iron hammers, wooden shields.

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