Those Below: The Empty Throne Book 2 by Daniel Polansky Page A

against the two remaining Cuckoos, though after a few seconds one retreated at a run and one expired slowly on the ground. Or perhaps he would survive – Pyre was no doctor – but at least he would not again have a left hand.
    They sprinted downslope without celebration, the narrow cloistered streets loud with the Cuckoos’ cries of warnings, cacophonous and distracting, Hammer turning for a moment and seeing that they were close behind him and then turning back round and not looking any more, Pyre just in front of him, legs pumping and chest straining. Through a small street market, dodging round a brazier frying onion and pig belly, the Cuckoos following after less agile, upending the grill, the proprietor screaming and the Cuckoos screaming also, Pyre and Hammer plunging through a clothing stand, carrying bright strands of cloth along with them for a dozen steps afterward.
    When they turned a corner and came up against a blind stone wall and no hope of escape, Hammer felt a first brief flicker of fear, saw Pyre smile beside him, felt it smother immediately. Death was a certainty but fear was not, fear was foolish, there was no point to fear. For a month and a half Hammer had known the truth, known the certainty of his own worth and purpose, and how many men could claim the same? None that Hammer had ever met, none apart from these, his new-found brothers, and how fine a thing it would be to die beside one of them! How fine a thing to die for a purpose! Perhaps better even than to live for one.
    The Cuckoos seemed as surprised to discover themselves in a blind alley as had been Hammer and Pyre, and not a happy surprise either, a half-dozen of them coming in two waves, the fatter ones trickling in late. The breed of Cuckoos that nested on the Third dealt mostly with citizens happy in their subjugation, and had no experience with the sort of casual cruelty that was the chief purpose of their fellows downslope. But violence was what was needed now, there could be no question otherwise, no question to Pyre or to Hammer at least, though looking at the infirm faces of their pursuers it seemed no altogether settled question.
    Pyre’s blade was free and naked. ‘Well, brothers,’ Pyre began, smiling a smile that Thistle had sometimes worn, in that distant age when he had wished for nothing more than a skull to bruise a knuckle against. ‘This will be a happy death for Pyre, the First of His Line – can any of you say the same?’
    ‘You’re … you’re under arrest,’ said the bravest of them, though his voice wavered.
    ‘Pyre will walk out of this alley, or he’ll be carried.’ The steel like a finger pointing at the lead Cuckoo. ‘And not Pyre alone.’
    The evening falling fast now, too dark to make out the Cuckoos except by their eyes, which were wide and uncertain. And this would be why they would win, Pyre knew, why he fell asleep every night exhausted but happy, why he woke in the morning without regret and brimming full of energy to spill in the name of the age to come. At bottom, the Cuckoos knew the truth, as Pyre had known even before he had taken his new name, as every human knew.
    There was no discussion, no debate. The Cuckoo who had spoken looked round at his fellows, and when none met his gaze he swallowed hard and moved out of the way, and the rest of them soon did the same, ferules flaccid in their hands, Pyre and Hammer shuffling through the sudden aperture swiftly and with blades still drawn.
    ‘You’re always welcome at a meeting, brothers,’ Pyre said, just before turning to sprint downslope towards freedom, yelling over his shoulder, ‘The truth comes to all who are willing to hear it!’

6
    T he stars peeked through a cloudless autumn evening and into the great open hall that made up some modest, some minor, some negligible portion of the Aubade’s estate. Great braziers of scented wood were set out at even intervals, each tended by an immaculately dressed house-slave. Other servants –