//------------------------------// // 34. Turning a Blind Eye // Story: Love, Sugar, and Sails // by DSNesmith //------------------------------// Rye followed Zanaya through the crowded city streets. They squeezed past the streams of terrified civilians. A few brave Zyrans crossed their path, heading for the harbor; most of the intelligent ones fled in the opposite direction. Not long ago, Rye would have had trouble keeping track of an individual zebra that he’d just met in a crowd of dizzying black and white stripes, but after so much exposure to the pirate crews he’d grown adept at picking out their distinguishing features. Every time Zanaya looked back over her shoulder, her cool blue eyes guided him forward like a beacon. The wind carried the smells of smoke and sulfur, widening the hollow pit in his stomach with every step. That scent, combined with constant, distant shrieks of dismay, was dragging him back through the years to relive his last siege experience with shocking clarity of memory. It had been bad enough, seeing the flaming ruins of the field in front of Canterlot and the tongues of fire creeping upward from the city. But the real horror hadn’t begun until he and Cranberry had begun exploring the streets of their childhood home to aid in the search for survivors. He shuddered, shaking his head. This isn’t like that, he thought, trying to quell the nightmarish memories. The camels want to steal a trade monopoly, not commit genocide. Still, those vivid images of burning buildings and piles of the dead and dying would not be banished so easily. Rye took a shaky breath. I won’t let that happen again. Ahead, Zanaya suddenly stiffened, and motioned to the left with a hoof. She ducked out of the street into an alleyway, flattening herself against a wall. Rye followed suit as quickly as he could. A few moments later, a group of zebras with silver circlets around their fetlocks charged past toward the harbor. Zanaya let out a relieved sigh as the Watchzebras passed. “Not friends of yours?” asked Rye. Zanaya looked grim. “Who can say, anymore? Best to avoid them for now.” Rye’s mouth twisted unhappily, but he nodded. “A shame… we could use some help for this. Zireena’s bound to have some guards with the Marquis.” “Why didn’t you ask some of those pirates to help us?” “Tyria needed them more.” He glanced westward over the rooftops at the tower rising over the bay. Good luck out there… my love. It sounded awkward, even in his mind. She was still just… Tyria to him. In all her glory. Pet names seemed confining. He gave a mental shrug. The two of them continued on. The surrounding crowds were far too preoccupied with their own situation to listen to the continuing conversation. “We’re nearly to the Watch’s headquarters,” said Zanaya. “And the safehouse is where, exactly?” “In the dungeons. There’s a secret entrance in one of the cells, a grate in the floor. I was stationed here when they started construction. They wouldn’t tell anyone what it was, but we saw them hauling dozens of wheelbarrows filled with dirt out of the holding cells, so it was pretty obvious what was going on.” Rye nodded thoughtfully, shouldering past a Zyran. “I suppose I can’t think of a much more secure location in the city.” “Normally, yes, but the new emergency protocols Zireena instituted last year leave the building almost entirely unoccupied during a crisis. She claimed it was better to have us out in the streets, on the scene, than to be sequestered inside.” Zanaya snarled. “I believed her. More fool I.” “Don’t take it too personally.” Rye threaded his way past a panicked zebra. “You’re not the only one who’s been betrayed today.” Slightly mollified, she gave a brief nod. “At any rate, that’s why I think she’ll bring Zahira here. No untainted witnesses around to see her kill the Marquis, if it comes to that.” Rye cringed and quickened his pace. “We haven’t got much time before Bre—er, Viridian, shows up. A couple of hours at most.” They reached Mercullius Square at last, the crowd thinning somewhat in the large open space. A large, beige building loomed on the opposite side, more ascetic than aesthetic. As Zanaya had said, there were no guards posted that Rye could spot. Crossing the square, he drew close behind Zanaya. Upon reaching the door, she gave it a light push, and it swung open easily. Zanaya swore quietly. “Not even locked.” The room inside was a lobby, filled with chairs and numerous desks where officers could take reports or informal depositions from the public. Zanaya led him through, passing the empty desks and heading straight for a door in the back wall. Traveling through a short series of halls, they came to a heavy oaken door set in the wall on enormous brass hinges. Rye helped Zanaya heave it open, revealing a stone stairway that led down into darkness. Rye lit his horn, and Zanaya blinked in surprise. “I didn’t think pegacorns could do magic.” She coughed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Er, no offense.” “None taken. This is about the limit of my arcane abilities, though.” Rye led the way down, his horn shining softly orange. “What’s waiting for us down here?” “The high-security cells. A bit of a misnomer, I’m afraid. The real prison is out on Serran Island, a genuine oubliette. This is more of a detention center for prisoners in transit to or from that location.” “Would Milliden be down here?” Zanaya’s face tightened. “He’s supposed to be.” Rye grimaced. But we both know he’s not. Someone had lit that green smoke signal, after all. They reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped out into a narrow intersection of two hallways. One ran sideways in both directions, the other straight ahead. Rye could just barely make out more cell blocks on either side of the one before them. He kept his light dim. “This way, I think.” Zanaya led him to the right, passing a few blocks before pausing. She counted under her breath, then nodded and turned left. The walls of the block were lined with heavy doors like the one above the staircase, but these ones had square slots in their middles, barred with iron. Rye peered curiously inside a few as they passed, catching glimpses of huddled shapes inside. The prisoners didn’t react to the light. Either they were asleep, or they’d learned not to pester the guards. “Which cell is the entrance in?” “It should be the last one on the right…” There was a hoarse cough from the cell on Rye’s right. A muffled voice spoke. “Ambassador Strudel?” Rye jerked to a halt, leaning up against the door and peering through the barred slot. Through the bars, he could see a manacled orchid-purple earth pony sitting upright, rubbing her eyes. He blinked in surprise. “Captain Petalbloom?” “It is you!” Petalbloom’s shoulders sank in obvious relief. “Oh, thank the gods you’re alive.” “What are you doing in here?” Zanaya cleared her throat sheepishly. “That might be my fault, actually.” Petalbloom heard her and her face stiffened a little. “Finally found him, I see. Took you long enough.” Her expression softened. “Is Tyria with you?” “She’s alive, but she’s elsewhere in the city.” Rye glanced over at Zanaya. “Where are the keys?” “Not far. I’ll be right back. Keep that light on.” Zanaya took off back down the hallway. Rye turned back to Petalbloom. “We’ll get you out of there.” “Am I being released, then?” Petalbloom stood stiffly, rolling a foreleg and setting her chains rattling. “I didn’t think Zahira would let me go so easily.” “Not exactly…” Rye gave her the briefest description of the current crisis that he could manage; focusing on the camels and skimming over most of his and Tyria’s travels and travails. Petalbloom listened with an increasingly dismayed look. “At this point, can we even stop them?” “We might. Assuming we get to Zahira in time.” Rye heard a clinking noise as Zanaya returned with a ring of keys. While the zebra fiddled with the lock, Petalbloom scowled. “Milliden was down here, in the cell just next to mine. Is he still there?” Rye glanced over at the adjacent door, which hung slightly ajar. He shook his head. She smiled sourly. “Of course not.” The cell door swung open, and Petalbloom stepped out, holding up her manacles to Zanaya. The detective quickly placed a key inside and twisted, and the chains fell to the floor. The Equestrian captain rubbed her fetlocks with her hooves, sighing in relief. “I’m afraid I didn’t see them let him out. I was sleeping until that light woke me up. What time is it, anyway?” “Late afternoon, by now,” said Rye. “Can you fight?” “If I have to,” said Petalbloom. “Lead on.” The three made their way to the end of the cell block, finding the final door swung wide open. Inside, there was an overturned bed and a rug that had been pulled aside and lay crumpled in the corner. A wide circular hole in the stone floor revealed a black pit. Rye stepped closer and shined his light down into the hole. It was a short drop, about a meter and a half, and it led into a tunnel. He peered his head down inside and frowned. “See a door? Anything that looks like a safehouse entrance?” Zanaya glanced over her shoulder. “No, it just goes on for a while. I suppose we’ll have to follow it.” Behind them, there was a creak of wood. Claws rasped against metal as a shadowy figure grasped the bars of his cell’s viewing slot. “You won’t follow it far.” Rye stood upright with astonishment. “Well! I wasn’t expecting to find you in here, Tatius.” The griffon ambassador looked haggard and worn. His beak poked out from his cell, covered with dirt. His blood-red robes had been replaced with brown rags. Manacles, much tighter than the ones they used for ponies, were fastened around his wrists. Tatius gave a dusty cough. “I see you survived your kidnapping.” “No thanks to your friends,” said Rye crossly.  “They’re not my friends,” said Tatius, a little fire returning to his eyes. “I only helped them because they helped my country.” Zanaya snorted. “You helped them to save your job. Not exactly the same thing.” Tatius deflated. “A job that’s gone with the wind anyway. All for nothing.” He withdrew his beak from the slot, shaking his head. “All for nothing…” Rye couldn’t feel much sympathy. Breaking the law to help one’s nation was one thing; arming pirates with bombs was quite another. “What was that you said about not following the tunnel far?” “I heard them come through here,” said Tatius, leaning back through the bars. “That zebra officer and your colleague.” “Milliden.” Rye’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.” “The officer let Milliden out of his cell, gave him something—his robes, I think. He explained that the ‘boss’ wanted them to ‘light it up’.” Tatius looked expectantly at them for clarification, but received only stony glares in response. He shrugged. “They moved that furniture around and went down the hole. As they left, I heard Milliden say that he’d go on ahead, and that the officer should follow behind, caving in the tunnel as he went. I expect the way is blocked after a few meters.” “Damn,” muttered Rye. “There’s one more thing, but…” Tatius’s eyes turned to slits. “If you want to hear it, you’ll have to let me out.” “What, so you can fly off back to Grypha scot-free?” Zanaya scowled. “You’re the only one here who actually deserves to be in that cell, griffon.” “Not to Grypha.” Tatius wilted. “I cannot return after this fiasco. King Aelianus never officially sanctioned my… collusion with the Pit Vipers.” His face creased in pain. “I would be punished most severely for disgracing the nation and ruining ties with Zyre.” His shoulders slumped hopelessly. “In truth, I’m not sure where I’ll go.” Rye put a hoof to his chin. “I have an idea or two…” Tatius tilted his head, confused. “Yes?” Rye set his hoof down. “Fine, Tatius. We’ll let you out on two conditions.” Zanaya made an outraged sound, but Rye waved her down. “Consider it a work release, Detective.” He returned to Tatius. “First, you tell us that last little tidbit. Second, you come with us to help save the Marquis.” Tatius tried to snort dismissively, but it turned into a hacking cough in his dry throat. Wiping his beak with a claw, he shook his head. “You want me to go near Zahira? She’ll have me beheaded on the spot.” “Not if you help save her life. And the second she’s safe, you’re free to go as far as I’m concerned. I’ll even put in a good word for you with Celestia. You might find asylum in Equestria if you choose. Under an assumed name, of course.”  Tatius sighed deeply. Rye thought for a moment that the arrogant, stiff-necked diplomat might actually be foolish enough to refuse, but at last Tatius pulled back from the slot and said, “Open it.” Muttering darkly, Zanaya fiddled with the keys and the lock, and the door slid inward. She undid the manacles while Tatius spoke. “The zebra officer said one more thing before he and Milliden vanished into the tunnels. ‘The boss will meet us there in an hour. She’s bringing the phoenix.’ Judging from what you’ve said, I’m guessing that means Zahira.” Zanaya nodded, alarmed. “That was the code name for the VIP during security protocol drills.” Rye snorted. “I wonder if it’s a Phoenixian reference? The Marquis would not be flattered by the comparison.” “I know where they are,” said Zanaya, ignoring him. Her face was tight with worry. “Milliden’s signal pyre was up on the face of the volcano. There’s an abandoned research station up there. The place is practically a fortress. If this tunnel is sealed off, I’m not sure how we’ll get in.” Petalbloom butted in. “He said an hour. Giving them fifteen minutes to get to the Marquis, that’s not much time to get up to the volcano. She didn’t stop for reinforcements.” Zanaya gave a short nod. “A relief, to be sure, but they could hold that place with only half a dozen zebras. The walls were built to withstand lava flows.” Rye smiled broadly. “Lava doesn’t have wings.” He looked expectantly at Tatius. The griffon, still massaging his wrists, grimaced. “Yes, yes, very well. I will help you. But I’m not sticking around once the Marquis is freed.” Rye nodded and proffered a hoof. “Just remember my offer.” Tatius shook the hoof gingerly. “I will… consider it.” “Fine, fine,” said Petalbloom, cracking her neck. “Are we done wasting time?” “Yes,” said Rye with a dry smile. “Now that we’ve assembled our little group of traitors, disgraced officers, and enemies of the state, let’s go save Zahira from her loyal servants.” “With pleasure,” purred Zanaya. * * * The speartip shone like a star in the dusty air. It hurtled toward Tyria’s face, shoved by the camel’s hoof. Tyria’s blade flashed forward, glancing off of the spear’s shaft, and slashing for its wielder’s head. The camel jerked his head back, and her blade scored only a surface cut across his cheek. He converted his dodge into a swift uppercut with the butt of his weapon, swiveling it in its bracket to come swinging up at her. Tyria slid to the side and avoided the blow, continuing by slamming her shoulder into the camel and knocking him back into the press of hostile soldiers behind him. There were far too many of them, but for now, the door was working for her and the zebras. Only a few camels could make it inside the tower at once. Around her, the pirates fought ferociously. Already, a few camels had fallen. None of the zebras had followed suit yet. That spear came sweeping down again as the soldier recovered. Tyria whipped her blade up to catch it. Metal rang, and sparks flashed as Tyria skidded her weapon across the metal tip, flinging the spear aside. She leaped forward, bringing her machete down. It bit deep into the camel’s neck, and he let out a gurgling scream. Tyria ripped the blade back out, pulling away, her heart pounding as flecks of blood splattered across her snout. There was no time to think about it. Another camel charged forward to take the first one’s place, this one wielding a knife clenched between the toes of his soft cloven hoof. She retreated, parrying his first blows. Her crew was falling back, the camels finally pressing them in with the weight of their reserves. If they stayed down here, they’d be finished. “Retreat!” she yelled. “Up to the next floor!” Experienced pirates were good at running away. The lot of them fled hastily for the stairs, but not in a panic. Tyria held up the rear, batting aside spears and rearing up to kick at the knife-camel when he got too close. She turned and ran, making it through the door a mere meter ahead of the nearest camel. The pirates slammed it shut and barred it behind her. There were a few thuds on the door, followed by silence. Tyria panted for breath, looking around at the bloody carnage in the room from the Pit Vipers’ surprise assault on the Zyrans. An idea began swiftly forming. “They’ll be gettin’ that ram,” muttered Zevan. Sure enough, after a minute there was a loud SLAM against the door. It quivered mightily, the bar vibrating in its iron holders. “Well, it took them a good ten minutes to get through the first one,” said Tyria. “Aye, but these doors aren’t nearly so sturdy.” Zevan pointed to the hinges, which were already showing some splinters. “They’ll rip it out o’ the frame afore the bar breaks.”  “Five minutes, then.” Tyria looked around the room at the corpses of the Zyrans. “Zab, Zennan, Lem—smear some of that blood on yourselves. Lie close to the door until a couple of them get inside, then we’ll catch them by surprise. The rest of you, set up a semicircle with me here.” She took up a position a few meters back from the door. The zebras complied, Zevan giving an approving nod at the plan. “We may shank a few o’ them, but there be at least thirty camels down there.” “That would be the standard shore party. We’ve killed what, four?” “Five,” said Zab. “Counting the one you hacked up.” Tyria bit back an instinctual defensive reply. He meant that as a compliment, she thought queasily. “Twenty-five left, then. I’ve heard of worse odds.” It wasn’t as uneven a fight as it might have seemed. The camels were professionals, but their military was run by spendthrifts. That armor was linothorax, made from layers of linen pressed and glued together. The main advantage was the extreme cheapness of the material compared to plate or chain armor. It was effective enough at stopping low-velocity arrows and most blunt weapons, but it was insufficient against a determined blade strike. It did little against a strong zebra with a hoof-mace, either, as Zevan had demonstrated downstairs. Two of those kills had been his. SLAM. The door jumped, straining against its hinges. Tyria gritted her teeth, taking up her fighting stance. The ambushing zebras lay still near the door, their weapons close at hoof. “Zekel,” she said, motioning to one of the pirates beside her. “Go upstairs and see if you can figure out a way to brace the next few doors. At this rate, we’ll only be able to hold them for half an hour. We need more time.” “I saw an out of service ballista on the third floor earlier,” said Zab from his spot on the floor. “They had it taken apart for repairs. Plenty of wood we could use.” Zekel nodded. “I’ll get it apart and ready to block the door with.” He raced up the stairs. Tyria inhaled deeply. “All right, we just have to hold them off for a few minutes while he gets that together. Then we can fall back upstairs and hunker down until the Equestrian fleet gets here.” “What about the blackpowder?” said Lem. “Are ye crazy?” asked Zevan, alarmed. “We’d blow ourselves up along with ‘em.” “Too dangerous,” agreed Tyria. “We can’t risk damaging the tower mechanism.” SLAM. All of them winced. The next few minutes passed in agonizing slowness. Tyria stretched, preparing to resume the fight, replaying the moves she’d seen the knife-wielding camel pull. Those hooves were surprisingly dexterous. Outside, through the window, she could see the sky tinged with pink as evening approached. It didn’t seem like it had been that long since they’d arrived at Zyre in the early afternoon, but a constant adrenaline rush had a way of distorting time. It might be the last sunset you ever see, she thought to herself. All those colors, more beautiful than any brushwork. She blinked and shook her head, willing the distraction to vanish. Focus. Focus and survive. The portable ram slammed against the door again. “It cannae take many more o’ those,” whispered Zevan. Tyria adjusted her grip on the machete. With a final, mighty impact, the door’s hinges ripped away from the wall, nails flying through the air. The door fell backwards, into the camels, and was quickly heaved aside. The first camel grabbed the bar and threw it into the room, and then charged after it. As three more camels followed him in single-file, locking their spears into forward position, Tyria shouted, “Now!” The zebras on the ground leaped up, knives flashing. The camels whirled, caught off-guard, and the pirates sank their weapons into the weak points of their armor. “Ha!” yelled Zab, pulling his knife free. The camel collapsed at his hooves. Zab whipped around to face the next camel as the soldier came through the door. Tyria charged forward to help. The pirates closed in, surrounding the entrance in a tight cluster, but the camels were prepared for the tactic, and burst inside behind a forest of spears. Soon the formations dissolved into a melee. She locked her blade with another spear-camel, trying to get inside his range, but the camel was cagier than the first one she’d fought. He kept his distance, poking at her and forcing her to fall back. Tyria couldn’t wait for an opening, so she made her own. Bulling forward, she lifted both of her front hooves and clapped them to either side of the camel’s spear. The foolhardy action caught him by surprise, which gave her the briefest of moments to yank the spear toward herself. The camel realized too late to catch it, and Tyria pulled it cleanly out of its socket. Falling to the ground on her haunches, she whirled her hooves to bring the spear around to point at the camel, and flung it forward. It stabbed the camel in the chest, sinking into his armor and catching in the layers of linen. He yelled in shock, but the spear hadn’t penetrated fully. Scrambling back to all fours, Tyria raced forward and swung her blade across his throat to finish the grisly job. She closed her eyes against the sight, feeling a warm spray across her face. The urge to vomit rose suddenly, but she buried it. Survive. See Rye again. That’s what matters. Opening her eyes, she looked up to see Zevan locked in combat with another camel. The pirate captain slid through the fight with astonishing agility, almost graceful in the way he weaved around the disciplined thrusts of the spear. But his finesse belied the dirty way he fought. Zevan finally slipped inside the camel’s guard, spitting in his eye. As the camel recoiled, Zevan brought his hoof-mace across his opponent’s chin in a jaw-shattering blow. The Dromedarian hadn’t even hit the ground before Zevan had moved on to his next foe. From the doorway emerged the camel with the knife. His eyes were locked on Tyria, and she met them with fierce anticipation. Thought vanished, replaced with pure, animalistic focus. The camel darted forward on three legs, his blade flashing at the end of the fourth. He moved like a dancer, or a snake, swaying from side to side. The tip of the dagger was in constant motion, tempting the eye to follow it to anticipate parries. Tyria kept her vision locked on the camel’s face. The dagger would lie. His body would not. They circled like ballroom partners, making a few testing probes with their weapons. Each was swiftly beaten aside, but the ripostes were foiled by quick retreats. Tyria had the greater reach, but the camel was fast. She felt a chill run down her spine. Suddenly, another camel sprang at her from behind. Tyria heard him before she saw him, his hooves scraping across the floor and his spear locking forward. She twisted her hindquarters, bringing both hind legs up and bucking hard. Her hooves caught him in the face, and there was a sickening crack. The camel folded. The knife-wielder seized instantly on the distraction and lunged in, ducking under her instinctive machete slash. The camel rose inside her guard, swiping for her throat, but a black-and-white mass collided with him from the side. Zab tackled the camel to the ground, his knife clattering to the floor. “Finish him, Tyria!” She flipped the machete forward with her mouth, bringing it down to stab, but the camel deftly twisted in Zab’s grip and caught the blade with his dagger’s crossguard. He jerked his neck with a grunt of pain, jarring Tyria’s machete from her mouth and sending it clattering to the floor. With a snarl, the camel plunged his free hoof down under his linen chestplate, and withdrew a second dagger between his toes. He whirled the dagger and sank it deep into Zab’s breast. Zab gave a cry of pain and released him. Tyria dived for her blade, scooping it up and swerving to face the soldier. The camel stood, falling back, his right hoof holding up the second dagger and scraping it against the first, now held in his mouth. He ran the blades back and forth across each other as though preparing to dice her. Tyria could feel her heart beating in her head. She exhaled forcefully, steam rising from her snout. The two measured each other for another moment as the frenetic fighting around them continued. The camel moved first, hoof-blade whirling as he approached. Tyria knew he was waiting for her to attack, but every moment she dragged this out was another chance to lose the entire battle. She stepped forward, feinting an overhead sweep. The camel moved to parry, but Tyria converted the attack into another advance, whipping her head down and thrusting the blade at him from chest-level. The camel caught it with the dagger in his mouth—and grinned. Tyria realized with alarm that he’d been baiting the blade engagement. The camel flipped the dagger over in his mouth with his tongue, trapping her blade in his Y-shaped crossguard. He thrust inward with the dagger in his hoof, holding her outstretched and vulnerable. She did the one thing she could. Tyria let go of the machete, slamming her head forward and headbutting the camel square in the jaw. Following up, she reared back and smacked him in the face with her right hoof, knocking the dagger out of his mouth and sending it skidding away on the blood-slicked floor. He was off-balance. She reached down, scooping up her machete and bringing it up in one smooth motion across his chest, cleaving through his armor and drawing a crimson streak that followed her blade into the air. The camel gasped in pain. Tyria released the blade for a brief moment, twisting her head to clench it in the opposite direction. She brought it sweeping back down toward the camel. His eyes flashed, and his head jerked up. The machete carved through the air, whistling. The camel flung up a foreleg and her blade sank deep into it, drawing an instant well of blood. What? she thought, before she realized her blade was stuck. Caught off-guard by the suicidal maneuver, she did not have a tight enough grip to prevent the camel from yanking his leg away and the machete with it. The weapon went flying across the floor. The camel whipped his other hoof up, the knife slashing across the left side of Tyria’s face. Time slowed to a sluggish crawl as a line of searing pain crossed from her cheek up to her brow. Half the world went suddenly dark. Tyria fell backwards, the air somehow having turned to thick jelly. Her hooves wheeled in lethargic circles, trying in vain to regain balance. The stone came rushing up to meet her, slamming hard into her back. Someone was screaming. Tyria pressed a hoof against her left eye, unable to breathe. She felt something hot and sticky running down her cheek. The camel raised his hoof, twirling the knife, still bleeding from his other leg, his face filled with murderous intent. Tyria lashed out with a hind leg, catching his wounded limb. It knocked him off balance with a yell of pain, giving her just long enough to scramble away. “Back! Back to the upper floor!” yelled someone. Zevan, she thought foggily. Tyria stumbled to the stairs, her left hoof still pressed against her eye. The screaming continued, pausing with her ragged breaths. She realized belatedly that it was her making that noise. Someone grabbed her. She tensed, turning her head, but it was only Zevan. He hoisted her onto his back like a sack of flour, and raced up the stairs, the crew behind him. It seemed like there were fewer of them, but Tyria was having trouble counting for some reason. They made it through the door, slamming it shut in the camels’ faces. Zennan, sporting a new red gash across his snout, slammed the wooden bar into the metal grooves. The camels hacked at the door for a few moments with their weapons, but the noise soon faded. “Shore it up!” barked Zevan. The pirates began shifting large bars of wood to brace the door. Tyria crumpled against the wall, lost in a haze of pain. Something was wrong with her, she knew, but she couldn’t think straight. It felt as though her mind were floating somewhere above her body. She pulled her hoof away from her face, staring at it. She couldn’t see it. Move it to the right. There we go. She could see it now. It was covered with thick, runny red paint. Who’d brought paint here? She giggled deliriously. Gods, she was covered in the stuff. She ought to buy a smock. Zevan knelt beside her, placing his hooves on her shoulders. She’d never seen him look concerned before. The effect was downright fatherly, she thought in a haze. “Zab, get me a binding fer this,” said Zevan, but no aye-aye answered him. He twisted his head. “Where the hell be Zab?” “Dead, Captain,” said Lem, panting. He had a wicked slash across his side, still weeping. His eyes burned like coals. “Took a stab wound to the heart.” “Damn.” A flash of genuine pain crossed Zevan’s face. He opened his eyes, looking into Tyria’s. Half his face seemed blurry. Tyria tried to focus on his eyes, but a sudden incredible shot of pain blasted through her head. She whimpered.  “Are ye all right, Tyria?” That was the first time he’d used her first name, she thought blankly. Was she hurt that bad? “I can’t… I can’t see,” she said. I can’t see. That wasn’t paint. Oh, gods, no, no, no, not that, anything but this— “I can’t see.” She felt her chest heave for breath. Suddenly it seemed as though there was not enough oxygen in the world. “Shh, shh.” Zevan patted her shoulder. “Come on, let’s get that bandaged.” He removed his green neckerchief and wrapped it diagonally around her head. He tied it behind her, and she felt it grow immediately damp. Her breathing was spastic, jerky. Hyperventilating, she gasped. “I can’t. See!” “Stay calm, Tyria,” said Zevan, through gritted teeth. “Ye’ve still got one good eye. Now what be the plan?” One good eye. Tyria couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see. “You don’t—you don’t understand—I have to see to paint—“ “Paint?” Zevan stared at her in complete bafflement. “Come on, girl, don’t crack up on me now. Yer goin’ into shock. Breathe slow.” Tyria inhaled, sucking down the air like she was drowning. She forced it out slowly, then took another deep breath. “I… I can’t…” SLAM. Zevan snarled. “Brace it!” “We’ve got half a damn ballista jammed up against it, Captain,” said Zennan, pressing his back against the wooden spars they’d stuck between the floor and the door. The heaviest planks of wood were braced against the hinges. “Not much else we can do.” Tyria’s head rolled to the left, giving her right eye a view of the window. Outside, the sky was red and purple. She could see the volcano in the distance, that column of green smoke still rising up from near the peak. She could see. With another deep breath, she felt the binding across her eye and trembled. “It’s holding for now, Captain,” said Lem, slouched against the central pillar. “But they’ll get through eventually.” “We be waiting on reinforcements,” said Zevan. “Tyria, girl, when will they get here?” Tyria swallowed, forcing herself back to reality. Things seemed to be growing clearer. Almost hyperclear, with the edges of everything she laid her eye on standing in sharp relief. “Twelve more hours, at least.” Her voice sounded alien, still raw from screaming. “Assuming Wheatie gets that fleet moving as soon as he arrives, and they sail like the wind.” “Then ye’d best come up with another plan. This door won’t hold fer half o’ that.” Her mind was slowly creaking back into motion. “We have three more floors to retreat to. Before this door falls, we can disassemble the barricade and retreat upstairs, then lock ourselves in again. Three hours per door. If we can hold that…” and if Wheatie is a miracle worker, “then we win.” “Well, the bracing is working; there’s no sign of damage to the hinges yet,” said Zennan, checking the door. “I’d say we have an hour, at least. Three might be pushing it.” “Right,” said Zevan, standing. “Let’s get our wounds tended while we wait, then.” He produced a flask from somewhere, offering it to Tyria. She took a grateful sip, nearly gagging as the liquid burned down her throat. A few moments later, and the pain throbbing in her head dulled slightly. Tyria pressed her hoof to the bandage, closing her eye. Well, my love, we’ve both got our scars now, she thought. Twinless tears rolled down her cheek.