Page 97 of Veinblood
The merchant picks up a large piece of pottery. “No. I’m done staying silent.”
He throws the shard, and it hits the soldier’s breastplate. The sharp crack echoes through the now silent square. The soldier’s arm swings out, and his fist catches the merchant across the shoulder, sending him sprawling.
The entire square seems to freeze, every breath held for the length of two heartbeats … and then someone grabs a wooden stool and swings it at the soldier’s legs. The man goes downhard, and in less than a second the crowd isn’t just watching anymore.
They’re attacking.
“Isaidstand back!” the captain barks, but his voice cracks slightly. Three men, even with swords, facing thirty angry citizens are not good odds, and he knows it.
A piece of fruit hurtles across heads to splatter against armor. Another person kicks over a merchant’s table, sending it into one of the soldier’s backs. The order of the marketplace dissolves into chaos as decades of suppressed rage finally finds a target.
Violence erupts like water through a broken dam. Fists and improvised weapons against armor and steel. Voices raised in fury instead of fear. Hands striking instead of cowering.
A baker throws a rolling pin with enough force to dent a helmet. A fishmonger’s wife swings a gutting knife that opens a gash along an armored forearm. Children dart between adult legs, pelting the soldiers with stones and rotten vegetables, before scrambling away from grasping hands.
The captain’s sword flashes as he tries to carve space around himself, but bodies press in from all sides. His blade catches someone across the ribs. A young woman, who stumbles back clutching her side, blood seeping between her fingers. But two more people immediately take her place, grabbing at his sword arm while others attack from behind.
“Fall back!” one soldier shouts, but there's nowhere to retreat.
The crowd has surrounded them completely, a tide of fury that’s been building for so long it can no longer be held back. Pottery shards and wooden clubs rain down. Hands tear at straps and buckles, trying to strip away the symbols of the Authority.
One soldier goes down under a pile of bodies. His helmet rolls away across blood-slicked cobblestones. His sword disappears into the crowd, passed hand to hand until it finds someone who knows how to use it.
Corwin raises it above his head, catches my eye, and smiles.
Beyond the immediate crush around the soldiers, people are overturning stalls to build barricades. Others grab whatever weapons they can find—carving knives, hammers, rope. One soldier breaks free and runs toward the street that leads to the garrison. He makes it ten steps before someone tackles him from behind, sending both men sliding across stone. They roll, grappling, until others join in and overwhelm the soldier, pinning him to the ground while they strip him of his weapons.
The violence spreads, and I track its progress by sound and movement. Breaking glass, shouted orders, the clash of weapons. Voices carry from neighboring streets as word spreads and more people pour out of buildings. Some come armed, others bring nothing but rage and hatred.
The captain staggers, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers coming toward them. Blood runs from a cut above his eye. His swings grow wild, desperate, as hands grab at him from every direction. When he finally falls, the crowd doesn’t stop. They keep hitting, kicking, tearing at the uniform that represents everything they’ve learned to hate.
The remaining soldier, barely more than a boy, backs against a wall with his sword held in shaking hands. His eyes dart left and right, searching for escape routes that don’t exist. The crowd advances slowly, savoring his fear the way he and his kind have savored theirs.
“Please,” he whispers. “I never hurt anyone.”
A woman steps forward, holding a knife. “Neither did we. But that never stopped you.”
The circle tightens around him. The terror in his eyes reminds me of every scared kid I’ve ever seen, and my stomach twists. They’re about to kill someone barely old enough to shave because he’s wearing the wrong uniform.
How does that make them any better than the Authority soldiers who have terrorized them for years?
I can’t let this happen, but I also can’t waste the time I need. Things are fast reaching a point where I have to call lightning. My eyes track the woman moving toward the young boy.
No. I would never be able to live with myself if I allowed them to cut this boy down where he stands.
“Stop!” My voice cuts through the air before the woman reaches him.
The crowd freezes, every face turning toward me.
“He’s just a boy.” I step forward, pushing through the crowd. “Look at him!”
The young soldier’s eyes find mine, wide with terror. His sword shakes in his grip.
“He wears their uniform. He serves their purpose,” someone calls out.
“Yes, but is that because he believes in what they stand for or because he has no other choice? How many of you have had sons join their ranks because it was the only way they could feed their families?” I stand in front of him, stretching my arms outto either side. “You have a choice. You can spill his blood, or you can show him mercy.”
“They never showed us mercy!”
