The Age of Undeath

8. The trident - Tatiana

She knew a battle cry anywhere. Tatiana leapt off her chair, knocking it over as she wrenched the trident out of its harness. Elves charged into the ballroom, their eyes alight with a potent mix of fear and exhilaration. Without hesitating, Tatiana pushed Trill behind her back and braced to defend him. Her heart hammered with purpose.

The avishkar were holy messengers – the only link left between Chala and mortals. For one to have left his Aerie was momentous. Wasn't it? She didn't have time to question the truths of faith. Either these Denmorians were ignorant if they treated him with so little respect, or she was. Tatiana could easily believe it was herself, but not yet. Just in case, she would do her Mama proud.

New music of screams and breaking glass filled the ballroom. General Espinoza drew his sword and marched into the chaos like it was any other Starday. Tatiana counted twelve assailants pour into the room, swinging knives, axes, pokers, and shovels. Not all of them were elves, though. Two had thick, long horns protruding from their hairlines, growing flat across the crown of their heads before rising into hard, sharp points. One had skin as purple as iris bells, the other inky blue. Their eyebrows were made of thick, hard scales and their reptilian tails were long enough to touch the floor, but they curled up instead, the solid muscle lashing to-and-fro. Dragon-sired. Or as the Denmorians called them dracothi.

The General's companions, dressed in velvets and silks, had at least brought swords. Tatiana heard the rebels make demands of 'clear out' and 'this place is ours'. They choked off quickly at the sight of soldiers, the frontline of rebels realising this would be a real fight. A few had the sense to look afraid, but those who didn't... Tatiana recognised the hard-set determination in their eyes. Do or die.

"No, no, don't hurt anyone!" Trill cried. She thought this was a general plea to the whole room. No one cared. Nobles squashed against the walls and out onto the balcony, shrieking, pressing her and Trill backwards. Tatiana braced; the pole of her trident held firmly ahead as her feet slipped through the balcony doors and almost down the steps onto the veranda. She refused to be pinned against the balustrade again that night. The screams didn't grow any fainter. A cacophony of turmoil echoed from the main street on the other side of the manor, bouncing back across the water. Smoke blotted out the shimmering sky.

From the ballroom, the distinct, piercing screams of agony made her blood run cold. With every wet thwack of metal against flesh, Trill moaned. "Oh no, no..." He pushed past her with shaking arms. Tatiana followed, tall enough to see over the crowd. She watched as two elves were cut down like sheaves of wheat.

"Mesra, don't go," she said, reaching for Trill's shoulder, afraid of how he'd react.

The dragon-sired with purple skin threw down her sword in surrender, too late. The soldier she'd injured ran her through. Tatiana bumped into Trill's folded wings as he froze, gasping, hands across his beak. They watched the dracothi crumple onto her knees, then fall forward onto the marble floor.

Blood splattered everything. The tablecloths, the guests, the mirrors. It ran in rivers as it mingled with water from the smashed flower bowls, liquid enough to reflect the candlelight. Tatiana stared at one uncrumpled hibiscus head floating on a red puddle until someone's boot squashed it. She looked at the foot's owner. Caladrius seemed oblivious to the squashed flower. The rugged man held his employer stiffly, Brunhild Marchand, as she wept against his chest, his gaze far away and expression stern.

Nobles complained of twisted ankles, ruined gowns, and broken noses, but they all seemed alive. Unlike the elves. None of the assailants was left. As nobles turned on servants, demanding to know who had let them in, a Guard burst into the ballroom, panting and streaked with sweat.