carved pillars gave the area a sense of light and openness. While it lacked the grand windows of the capitol building in Olinda, the interior of the Citadel was far less utilitarian than its rough-hewn exterior suggested.
Leão wondered about the people who had once lived there. They’d obviously been devoted to security—the arrow slits, watchtowers, and murder holes proclaimed that clearly—but they hadn’t completely sacrificed beauty for safety.
On another night, when he didn’t have murder on his mind, he might have stopped to study the soot-stained carvings, to see what types of things this people had valued enough to immortalize in stone.
Pira trotted a few paces ahead, bow in hand. She gave a cursory peek down the dark corridors that branched off the hallway, making sure each was clear. Leão was certain the remaining guards were at the Citadel’s entrance, but Pira was sticky about protocol, which was probably why she’d been promoted to officer so early in her career.
They edged near the open portcullis. Outside a fire cast orange light into the hallway, making long shadows dance across the entryway. A fire so bright was foolish for men on watch. They would have been able to see much farther by the light of the moon and stars, but Leão guessed they weren’t really watching for anything—especially not for something sneaking up on their backs.
Leão pressed himself into the nook created by the supporting pillars on either side of the portcullis and peered at the men beyond. There were three of them, two with their backs to the Citadel and one on the far side of the fire.
Besides their dirty uniforms, they didn’t look like soldiers. Their hair was long and greasy and their faces sported uneven beards. The man Leão could see most clearly was thin to the point of skeletal.
“It’s a ’festation, I tell ya. Snakes like these ain’t right,” one voice complained. “It’s like they wanna bite us, always crawling in our boots and packs.”
“It’s not an infestation,” another man corrected. “It’s a curse. My gramma said this land was cursed because of what Inimigo did to the king and his kin. My gramma said—”
“I don’t give a flying carp what your gramma says,” the skinny man interrupted. “The only snake I care about is my own and if he’s gonna get a turn with that girly upstairs.”
Their laughs cut off abruptly as an arrow penetrated the thin man’s eye. He toppled backward as Pira surged through the doorway, nocking a second arrow as she moved.
“What the—” The surviving soldiers stumbled into startled action, scrambling for weapons they’d discarded for the sake of comfort.
Pira’s second shot caught another guard under the chin. He collapsed onto his side, his sword belt just beyond the tips of his fingers.
That left the third man for Leão. The soldier stood slowly, holding his hands out to the sides of his body, showing he was unarmed. “Don’t hurt me,” he pleaded. “I don’t have a weapon.”
Leão hesitated. These men were brutes, pillagers, rapists. They didn’t deserve to die with any honor. Yet Leão couldn’t bear to run a man through who was trying to surrender. It wasn’t as detached as shooting someone from a distance. Stabbing a man was personal.
At least I can let him die with a weapon in his hands.
Leão kicked a sword belt toward the soldier. “Pick it up,” he commanded.
“Leão, what are you doing?” Pira snapped.
He heard the whisper of an arrow sliding free of her quiver.
“Pick up your weapon.” Leão stepped in front of her, blocking any shot she might take.
The man bent at the waist, moving with the careful precision of a person confronting an angry dog. His eyes darted nervously between Pira, Leão, and the dead bodies of his comrades.
“How’s about you let me go? I never saw you. You never saw me.” He stood, but didn’t reach for his sword. “I’ll walk out of here and not look back.”
“Leão,”
Leão wondered about the people who had once lived there. They’d obviously been devoted to security—the arrow slits, watchtowers, and murder holes proclaimed that clearly—but they hadn’t completely sacrificed beauty for safety.
On another night, when he didn’t have murder on his mind, he might have stopped to study the soot-stained carvings, to see what types of things this people had valued enough to immortalize in stone.
Pira trotted a few paces ahead, bow in hand. She gave a cursory peek down the dark corridors that branched off the hallway, making sure each was clear. Leão was certain the remaining guards were at the Citadel’s entrance, but Pira was sticky about protocol, which was probably why she’d been promoted to officer so early in her career.
They edged near the open portcullis. Outside a fire cast orange light into the hallway, making long shadows dance across the entryway. A fire so bright was foolish for men on watch. They would have been able to see much farther by the light of the moon and stars, but Leão guessed they weren’t really watching for anything—especially not for something sneaking up on their backs.
Leão pressed himself into the nook created by the supporting pillars on either side of the portcullis and peered at the men beyond. There were three of them, two with their backs to the Citadel and one on the far side of the fire.
Besides their dirty uniforms, they didn’t look like soldiers. Their hair was long and greasy and their faces sported uneven beards. The man Leão could see most clearly was thin to the point of skeletal.
“It’s a ’festation, I tell ya. Snakes like these ain’t right,” one voice complained. “It’s like they wanna bite us, always crawling in our boots and packs.”
“It’s not an infestation,” another man corrected. “It’s a curse. My gramma said this land was cursed because of what Inimigo did to the king and his kin. My gramma said—”
“I don’t give a flying carp what your gramma says,” the skinny man interrupted. “The only snake I care about is my own and if he’s gonna get a turn with that girly upstairs.”
Their laughs cut off abruptly as an arrow penetrated the thin man’s eye. He toppled backward as Pira surged through the doorway, nocking a second arrow as she moved.
“What the—” The surviving soldiers stumbled into startled action, scrambling for weapons they’d discarded for the sake of comfort.
Pira’s second shot caught another guard under the chin. He collapsed onto his side, his sword belt just beyond the tips of his fingers.
That left the third man for Leão. The soldier stood slowly, holding his hands out to the sides of his body, showing he was unarmed. “Don’t hurt me,” he pleaded. “I don’t have a weapon.”
Leão hesitated. These men were brutes, pillagers, rapists. They didn’t deserve to die with any honor. Yet Leão couldn’t bear to run a man through who was trying to surrender. It wasn’t as detached as shooting someone from a distance. Stabbing a man was personal.
At least I can let him die with a weapon in his hands.
Leão kicked a sword belt toward the soldier. “Pick it up,” he commanded.
“Leão, what are you doing?” Pira snapped.
He heard the whisper of an arrow sliding free of her quiver.
“Pick up your weapon.” Leão stepped in front of her, blocking any shot she might take.
The man bent at the waist, moving with the careful precision of a person confronting an angry dog. His eyes darted nervously between Pira, Leão, and the dead bodies of his comrades.
“How’s about you let me go? I never saw you. You never saw me.” He stood, but didn’t reach for his sword. “I’ll walk out of here and not look back.”
“Leão,”
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