Eban

27 - Marika

The bell broke her from her sleep.

Marika sat up, pushing strands of escaped hair back behind her ear. The move was a mistake, she realised, as pins and needles threatened to engulf her arm. It had been an excellent pillow, but now she paid the price for the luxury.

Dong...Dong...Dong...Dong...Dong

Marika shook the sleep from her head. Her mind felt thick, as though her brain had turned to mud. Mud with stakes, she thought, as the movement drove a lance of pain into her eyes.

Something's wrong. The tower bell should not be tolling like that, not unless they were under attack.

Beneath the cacophony of the bell, Marika finally started to make out other sounds. Crashes. Screams. Shouts and always the incessant dong, dong, dong.

She froze. No, it can't be.

She ran to the window. They were wider here than anywhere else in the castle – after all, light is generally a good idea if you plan on reading in the library - but the walls were thick, which made them difficult to look out of. Hoping no one would come in and see her un-princess-like behaviour, she pushed her chair to the wall and clambered up onto the ledge. Crawling to the window, she peered out.

Fates, help us. The courtyard below was in chaos. Soldiers wearing chain and leathers emblazoned with he Ferann phoenix ran freely. Some of Burford's guards were still fighting in one corner, while the remnants of the soldiers sent to protect Marika stood three stories directly below her, defending the entrance to the keep. Their bravery was inspirational, but pointless. The Agaithians were outnumbered and outmanoeuvred. However the Feranns had managed it, they were in, and they would stay.

Marika turned, climbed back to the ground, and ran for the door. If she could get to her room, she could get her sword. There was little she could do now, she knew that, but she refused to be caught empty-handed. She was the Princess of Agaith and she would not be taken easily.

A knock sounded.

Marika's body stopped. She stumbled as her momentum kept her moving. As she pushed herself back up, her mind felt torn. Thoughts whirled through her madly as she tried to understand what she was seeing and hearing.

She recognised the door. She recognised the knock.

It sounded again, short and sharp and far louder than it had any right to be. Marika glared at the door, as if simply wishing it to go away would solve her problem for her.

The handle twisted. Marika could only stare as the door opened. She had spent months dreaming about that blasted door – a door that had, until last night, always been closed – and now it opened? Just like that? She knew she was being ridiculous but come on! How was that fair?

The sword tip made her focus. A man, young with light brown hair and wild eyes, ran at her. There was no more time to consider the door, or the fact that the man was the wrong person. Right now, had to duck and dodge and thank the gods for her brother's incessant combat drills.

Marika was a little surprised to survive the strangers first attack. The second attack was easier – there was no surprise this time, and she knew the room better than he did. Her fingers found a book. Thick and heavy, it made a very satisfying thud as it connected with her attacker's shoulder. A distant part of her mind noted its title – An Atlas of Agaithian Rivers and Their Trade.

Looks like geography finally came in useful, Marika thought, running behind another set of shelving. She would have to remember to let Mistress Sevan know when she next returned home.

When the Ferann did not follow her behind the bookshelf, she stepped forward. A thud of falling books behind her made her jump around. Her heart thumped painfully as she saw the blade poking through what, moments before, would have been her liver.

Marika yelled, anger and fear warring for a louder voice, and jumped against the shelf. It gave way, falling with a crash that was not quite enough to drown out the animalistic scream of her attacker.

Not bothering to see if he had been caught by the shelf, Marika ran for the door. Something caught her ankle and she hit the floor hard. Gasping to reclaim lost breath, she rolled, only to come face to face with her attacker as he launched himself at her.

"Get off me, you barbaric pig!" she snarled, fingers clawing at his face.

His sword was gone, dropped in the mess of books behind them. Her relief at that observation was short-lived, however, as he pulled a dagger from his belt and pushed it against her throat. Marika caught his wrist and, with strength born of desperation, managed to hold it still. Unable to do anything more for risk of losing her grip, she screamed.

"Callum!"

The man above her jerked, struggling against both her and two sets of hands that were pulling him up. The moment he was off her, Marika rolled away, grabbed a book, and set her back against a wall.

There was nowhere for her to go, but she was armed with – a glance confirmed the genre – history, and she would make these Feranns pay for invading her library.

There were more of them than Marika had thought. Three newcomers had joined her original attacker. For the moment, they were all focused on him. The man had gone wild and had not recognised them as friends. Two of the newcomers held him down, while one leant over him, speaking softly. Whatever he said seemed to have an effect, as the man went limp.

Marika glanced at the corridor. She was light on her feet. If she ran for it, she might be able to get past them.

She glanced back at the group. The man – boy, she realised with a start – met her eyes.

It was something, Marika supposed, that thosebrilliant blues were as wide with shocked recognition as her own.