The Reformer

Adrian spoke again, his voice tinny in his own ears after the monstrous blow of the explosion in the tunnel's confined space. 'Simun, Tohmus, no crowding. I'll go first.'

He plunged in, coughing, waving a futile hand in front of himself. The breeze was strong from the seaward, from the blocked end of the passageway-previously blocked now-smelling of patchouli oil and flowers under the sulfur stink of the powder. The plug was scattered in toe-stubbing chunks for a hundred yards back from where it had spanned the tunnel, bits of it having bounced off the curves in the walls. Beyond it was the chamber Center's eerie sound-vision had shown, but the doors beyond were splinters hanging from twisted hinges. Ahead was a long sloping corridor, then a staircase with sunlight filtering down from above.

And barrels on either side; one was smashed, and the rich fruity odor of wine filled the confined space. Above the casks hung hams in nets, bunches of herbs, sacks of fruit. .

'Gellerix's cunt,' whispered Simun, beside him. 'Anrew, Mattas, you pick six reliable men and guard this, you hear me?' To Adrian: 'Sorry, sor-don't want to tempt the lads mor'n's right. And sor? Might be an idea to draw yor sword now.'

Adrian did, gripping the little brass-rimmed buckler with his left hand. He peered around. 'Storerooms. .'

Center strobed one of the lateral corridors giving off the big arch-roofed cellar. There was an ironbound door set into the wall there, with a massive lock-rare and expensive.

'Simun, put that under guard too-I think it'll bear investigation. We'll keep going straight up,' he said, indicating the stairwell.

* * *

Keffrine was still sobbing, her eyes squeezed shut and tears leaking out from under them. Helga waited. .

. . and a dozen women broke and bolted as the soldiers approached the front row. Eldest probably knew they would, ran through her; that was probably why she'd gone first, to spare herself seeing the indignity. The gathering dissolved into a chaos of running women and harassed, determined guardsmen. Blades began to flash, not in the orderly execution planned but in a frenzy, men slashing at figures that ran by or trembled and pled.

Helga moved herself; sideways, to where a tall fretted-brass brazier sent a coil of incense upwards. She gripped it by the base and heaved, toppling the man-high structure against the wall. Glowing embers scattered into gauzy hangings, and flames began to lick upward.

'Fire!' she screamed in Islander. 'Fire!'

A guardsman had been approaching, blade in hand. He looked aside-no sailor or town dweller but had a healthy dread of uncontrolled flame-and when he looked back he met the second brazier full in the face as she swung it two-handed. Brass met flesh and bone with a loud thock. Helga scooped up the falling sword; it was a different shape from the ones she was used to, and too heavy, but that didn't stop her short efficient jab up under his chin.

'Come on,' she shouted to Keffrine, and grabbed her by one hand. Trailing the sobbing girl, she bolted for the exit to the basement storerooms.

* * *

'Keep the men well in hand,' Adrian said.

Screams were coming from the room at the head of the stairs. Women's screams, but also men's shouts, and the distinctive, unpleasant sound of steel driving into flesh.

'Let's go!'

The noises ahead were loud enough that it was several heartbeats before anyone noticed the enemy surging up through the passageway. Adrian had time to check his rush a step in sheer astonishment at the sight before him; a room floridly overdecorated even by Islander standards, full of running, screaming women-dying women-and soldiers in black-lacquered armor trying to butcher them all. Dozens down on the floor, wounded or dead; a nauseating mixture of smells: perfume, flowers, blood, shit. .

And right in front of him, one of the women fighting a pair of soldiers. An auburn- haired woman, one he'd swear was Confed-born, not an Islander. Not doing badly at all, either-

She beat aside a thrust, both hands on the hilt of the long saber. The other soldier lunged as well, at a smaller blond woman by the first one's side, and the point of his blade slammed out her back. The redhead screamed and slashed him across the face, blood and a spark where the blade grated off the nasal bar of the killer's helmet.

'Get the hell out of the way-sir!' someone shouted in Adrian's ear.

Men poured past him. He leapt forward himself, batted the saber of the man fighting the redhead aside and lunged with his own basket-hilted, Emerald-style sword. The black-armored man vanished in the melee; a second later Adrian saw him toppling into the fountain pool in the center of the room with a javelin through his neck. The fighting was brief, three mercenaries against an Islander here, four there-overwhelming numbers. The screaming didn't stop, and now he saw his own men chasing the women. They obviously didn't have butchery on their minds, but-

'You!' he said. One had grabbed the auburn-haired woman-girl-from behind, hands over her breasts. 'You! Release that woman!'

'Wait yer turn-' the mercenary began.

Get them in hand now, or you never will, Raj said.

'Right.'

Adrian took two steps forward and smashed the hilt of his sword into the would-be rapist's face. Bone crumbled under the blow, with a tooth-grating yielding feeling. He had time to see the woman's face go slack with surprise, and then he tossed her his sword to clear his hand.

He hooked a grenade out of his pouch, the ceramic cool and pebbly under his fingers. His other hand whipped the slowmatch from its covered metal holder on his belt, twirled it to make the lit end glow brightly, touched off the fuse. He waited three seconds, and then tossed it gently underhand into the pool.

THUDUMP.

Water-and bits of the dead man dangling over the fountain-sprayed through the room. The water prevented the fragments from being deadly. . or not very deadly.

Silence fell in the echoing aftermath of the explosion. Adrian held the slowmatch next to the fuse of another grenade.

'If discipline is not restored immediately,' he said, half-surprised at the calmness of his own voice under the enormous reined-in tension, 'I am going to light this grenade and drop it in the pouch.'

'We'd all be killed!' one of the Sea Strikers wailed.

'That's the idea.' Adrian nodded. 'We have a battle to fight, and it's that way. Anyone have a problem with that?'

'No, sir.'

There was a general chorus of agreement, and men who'd seized women released them, forming up and heading for the doors.

'Simun.'

The little mercenary came up, limping and pressing the tail of his tunic against a slash wound along one thigh-a vulnerable point in light-infantry armor, protected only by the studded leather strips of the military kilt.

'Simun, get some of the walking wounded together. Police this area, get the surgeon working. . oh, he is.'

The man had half a dozen of the more seriously wounded lying on improvised pallets, and twice that number of the hareem's occupants. Some of the hale ones were tearing up sheets to help him.

'Anyway, keep things under control.'

Simun nodded. 'Good choice, sor,' he said. 'Cut like this, Gellerix 'erself couldn't tempt me.'

'I'll be with the unit,' Adrian went on. 'See you when it's over.'

'I'm coming too.'

Adrian looked around, startled, and met level green eyes. The auburn-haired girl offered him his sword; she'd taken a similar weapon from one of the dead, and a small buckler. The filmy hareem costume was plastered to her, mostly with blood, and there were smudges of it across her face where she'd bound back the russet-colored hair with a strip of cloth.