Another halberd stabbed toward Orgoru. He parried, shoving it aside with his own weapon, and the rebel next to him pushed it down against the cobbles. The spearhead caught in a crack and the butt jammed back against the soldier’s belly. He sagged over it with a grunt, and the rebel struck with a blackjack.
Then there were three soldiers all at once striking at Orgoru, and he whirled his halberd madly, all the reflexes of his quarterstaff play coming to deflect their weapons. He didn’t succeed fully—blades tore into his robes, and pain streaked his side and his hip, but he kept up his defense while his fellow rebels worked their way in, seizing pikes and striking with blackjacks. Finally the last soldier dropped, and Orgoru sagged, gasping for breath.
“Look out!” someone cried, and another halberd was jabbing toward him. Orgoru managed to bring up his own weapon barely in time, striking the halberd up, and it cut his cheek as the blade hissed by. Shaken, he struck harder with the butt than he had intended, cracking into the side of the soldier’s head. He glimpsed blood before the man sank from sight, and Orgoru hoped he wouldn’t be trampled by his own mates. He faced another soldier—the troopers couldn’t get at very many of the rebels, because they were at the edge of a huge crowd. But by the same token, there were a lot of soldiers, each eager for his chance as the last one fell.
Each rank of soldiers charged into the crowd, and the rebels opened way for them, then closed in from the sides, shoving halberds down with their bare hands and striking with blackjacks and batons. As one rebel wearied, he fell back, and another took his place—but Orgoru found himself wondering how long they could keep it up. Who would fail first, the soldiers or the rebels?
He heard shouting in front of him, and whirled, then stared in amazement. Soldiers were fighting soldiers! Orgoru cheered, and led rebels in to help.
“Down with traitors!” one soldier cried, and rebels piled onto him.
“Long live the Protector!” cried another, and a rebel kicked his feet out from under him.
But Orgoru braced himself, waiting, and sure enough, another soldier cried, “Down with the Protector!” but the man he was fighting echoed him: “Down with the Protector!”
“How can we tell which is which, Orgoru?” another rebel asked him, bewildered.
“Take them both,” Orgoru answered. “We can apologize later.”
They did.
The Protector stared. Then he swung about to Gar, howling, “Traitor! You’ve suborned my army too!”
“Only half of them,” Gar told him, “but as you see, I’ve also taught my homegrown magistrates to fight. I’d guess your soldiers will all be bound tightly in fifteen minutes at most.”
For the second time, the Protector felt the stab of fear. He tried to ignore it and demanded, “How will you govern if you tear down my government?”
“Just as we have for the last five years,” Miles said. “I told you that we have all taken the places of real magistrates.”
“How many of you are there?” the Protector whispered. “Three thousand here, and five hundred more on the way. With the watchmen and soldiers who have joined them, seven thousand in all.”
“Five hundred magistrates and reeves! That’s half the officials in my realm!”
“Yes, Protector. We can govern with that many.”
“What did you do with the real ones!”
“They’re our guests, in the Lost City of Voyagend,” Miles told him. “We haven’t hurt them, but they’re very restless.”
“And you think they’ll be as glad to govern for you as for me!” the Protector whispered. But the shadow that haunted his face was certainty, for he knew human ambition, and knew the captive magistrates would do just that. He spun about to look out the window again, and saw that the rebels were winning.
“This is how it is throughout the land,” Gar said behind him. “The soldiers loyal to you are outnumbered two to one by those we have persuaded to see the glories of the New Order.”
“I think not,” the Protector snarled. “Far from this city, they will be loyal to me, and have triumphed! I have had messengers tell me this within this last hour!”
“They told you only what you wanted to hear,” Dirk said. “They were afraid to tell you anything else, for fear you might not promote them.”
“You lie!” the Protector snarled, and, to his ministers, “Seize them!”
The ministers threw off their cloaks, and instead of the gray-haired, reverend statemen they had seemed to be, they appeared as toughened sergeants who drew swords and leaped upon Gar, Dirk, and Miles.
Gar sank to his knees, arms wrapped around his head, and four soldiers fell on him with victorious shouts. Dirk spun about to set his back against Miles’s as he whipped out his rapier and Miles pulled a sword and buckler from under his robes. Eight sergeants surrounded them, but paused as the oldest commanded, “Drop your swords, raise your hands, and we’ll let you live!”
“Yes, long enough to torture us into telling you everything you already know,” Dirk retorted. “Have at you!” He leaped forward, thrusting and slashing, which was very poor tactics, because the soldiers moved to surround him.
Then halted, as a roar filled the chamber. They flicked glances over, astonished, and saw the pile of four of their fellows erupt. Soldiers flew back to strike into the wall and the floor as Gar surged to his feet, shaking them off and drawing his rapier. Before they could recover, he struck the swords out of the hands of two of them, then turned to the third as he scrambled to his feet. The fourth lay unconscious.
Dirk and Miles both struck while their opponents were staring at Gar. Miles’s buckler cracked the head of one, and his sword lanced another’s shoulder. The man fell back, clutching his wound with a howl as the sword dropped from his fingers—but the other two moved in. Miles backed up—and felt his spine jar against Dirk’s, who was facing two men of his own. Two others lay unconscious and bleeding.
Gar struck up the sword of the first man to reach him, then balled a huge fist in his tunic and yanked him off the floor to throw him into his fellow. Both went down with a crash. Gar leaped forward, kicking the sword hands; each man howled with pain, and the blades went flying across the floor. Gar turned to help Dirk.
Dirk wasn’t doing too badly. He had managed to catch one soldier with an arm around the throat and hold him as a shield while he parried madly on his right. The other sergeant fell back, clutching a bleeding arm, sword falling from nerveless fingers. Gar yanked both assailants off the ground, and tossed them onto the pile he had started. They landed just as two others were trying to get up, and knocked them back onto the floor.
Miles was already down, bleeding from three cuts, trying frantically to hold off the two blades that darted about him, fending some with his buckler, parrying others. Gar yanked both soldiers off their feet and sent them flying to the discard pile. Two more scrambled to their feet, staggering and woozy, but bringing up swords. Dirk shouted, and they turned to face him. He fenced madly for the minutes it took Miles to scramble to his feet; then Miles shouted, and one of the soldiers turned to face him. He thrust, but Miles parried. He swung his sword up for a cut, but Miles lunged and skewered the man’s shoulder. He shouted with pain, and his sword fell. Miles struck his head with the buckler, and the soldier collapsed, out cold. Moments later, Dirk’s opponent fell beside him.