It wasn’t hard to find people ready to repay the Empire for what they had done to G’shar. Veth left, and returned a short while later with Kran, a Vel, and two of Einar’s rebels. They met where the dirt track which ran along the side of the Rows began.

Without a word, they set off towards the Docks, where G’shar had been attacked, Veth and Scar-shoulder leading the way.

Rehs could hardly believe this was actually happening. He had been ready for so long to strike against the Empire, to pay them back for the things they had done. Tonight he would get his chance.

“Will they still be there?” one of Einar’s rebels whispered as they passed the Rows. “At the Docks?”

“They won’t have left,” Veth whispered back from the front. “They want revenge, same as us. They won’t settle with just one defenseless farmer.”

“And you’re sure this is right?” Kran whispered. “Attacking the soldiers? Utgar—”

“We won’t kill them,” Scar-shoulder whispered. “But Rehs was right. We can’t take this lying down. If we let them attack the people here, what will their next target be? Crops? Homes? Daughters? No, we stop it here.”

They lapsed into silence.

Rehs was sweating. Veth had passed him a crude knife, carved from Volcarren bone, and he gripped it tightly, the hide wrapped around the handle preventing it from becoming slippery.

He had none of Kran’s doubts. He had meant every word he said back home. This was something they needed to do.

Veth found the place quick enough – a shadowy gap between two large store sheds. It made the perfect place to lurk unseen, and sure enough, Rehs could make out several shadows in the alley, crouched down and waiting. He would never have seen them if he hadn’t known to look for them.

Veth knelt, beckoning for the others to gather around him. They were just at the head of the dirt path, obscured by the shadows cast by the massive buildings of the Rows.

“Remember,” Veth said, “no killing. I don’t like it,” he added, as one of the rebels frowned, “but Einar has a point. Utgar will have to accept war eventually, but I won’t be the one to force him into it. Rehs,” he said, turning to him, “your job will be to distract them. Go around and come back through that alley they’re in, act like you’re coming home from the docks. They’ll focus on you, and when they do, we’ll attack from behind. And don’t worry,” he added. “We’ll get them before they do anything.”

Rehs wasn’t worried. He was ecstatic. His greatest fear had been that he wouldn’t be able to fight. “I’ll keep them distracted,” he promised.

“Go,” Scar-shoulder said. “We’ll be ready.”

Rehs nodded and rose, then made his way onto the docks, skirting the place where the Imperials lay in wait. He had no sleeves to hide his knife – only Northerners wore that kind of clothing – so he decided to simply hold it flat against the inside of his arm, and trust that the soldiers would miss it in the darkness.

He rounded one of the buildings which made up the alley, and then paused, just out of sight. His heart was hammering with excitement, and his palms were sweatier than ever. The Docks were mostly deserted – there would be no rescue for the soldiers.

After waiting for about a minute, he judged Veth and the others had had enough time to prepare. He bowed his head and slouched his shoulders, as if he were tired from a days’ work on the Docks, and then began a slow walk towards the alley.

It was hard, keeping his pace slow when his heart was practically flying inside his chest. But he kept his wings drooped, his arms loose by his side. He could feel the knife, the blade pressed against his arm, the carved bone cool on his skin.

He entered the shadow of the alley. One foot before the other. Slow, measured, don’t look up, don’t—

“You there!”

Rehs snapped his head up despite himself. Three soldiers in the partial plate of guards stood before him, three more lurking in the shadows behind them.

“Do you support the Empire?” one of the soldiers asked, stepping forward menacingly.

“I’m just the son of a farmer,” Rehs said slowly, playing for time. He thought he could see Veth and the others approaching from the other end of the alley, but he kept his eyes drooped, his posture exhausted.

“That’s not what he asked,” another guard said, approaching on Rehs’ right. “He asked if you supported the Empire.”

Rehs shrugged. “I guess,” he said, slowly focusing on the soldier. “I mean… we make all the food. We do all the work. So… yeah, I guess you could say we support the Empire. I mean, it would fall apart without us, right?”

The soldiers glanced at each other, unsure.

“Makes you wonder,” Rehs said slowly, barely concealing his grin as Veth positioned himself behind one of the soldiers in the shadows, “why the Empire tries so hard to turn us against it. Taking all our food? Unfair taxes? Soldiers everywhere? You’d think they’d be smarter, what with us supporting them and all.”

“I’ve heard enough,” the first soldier said. He drew his sword, a straight, thin blade, and advanced on Rehs. “You are the kind of ground-lover who caused this problem,” he snarled, stopping before Rehs. “Thinking you can run the Empire, that it belongs to you somehow, that you alone keep it afloat. Maybe we need you, but you need us more. Without the Empire, there’s chaos. Without us, you’d be some obscure clan, fighting for survival. And this is the thanks we get.

“Well I’m going to teach you a little lesson tonight, farmer: you need the Empire. You all do.”

“Why?” Rehs said. Out of the corner of his eye, Veth, positioned perfectly behind one of the soldiers, nodded to him. “Because we need your protection? We don’t. In fact” — he gripped his knife tightly — “we can defend ourselves just fine.”

And he stabbed the soldier in the gut.

He was surprised at how easy it was. He had expected the soldier to be ready, to block with his sword perhaps, or at least step back. He did none of those things. He just stood there, not realizing fast enough that Rehs had a blade, and let the dagger slip easily beneath his breastplate and into his stomach.

He staggered back, pulling himself off of the knife, howling and clutching his gut. “The little groundling!” he bellowed. “Kill him!” The two soldiers who had been nearby advanced on Rehs, but then paused and looked back, as sudden shouts and cries of pain issued from behind them. Veth and the others had attacked.

Rehs took the opportunity to easily stab the closest soldier in the back of the leg, as he turned to face the ambush. Warm blood gushed over his hand.

The soldier fell as if Rehs had decapitated him, gripping his leg and rolling away from Rehs, straight towards the Vel, who happily kicked him in the stomach as he neared.

Scar-shoulder barreled towards the other guard, who barely had time to get his sword out before he was tackled to the ground. Rehs leapt out of the way as the two rolled towards him, a mass of arms, legs, and wings, all trying to grab or punch.

Kran and the two rebels seemed evenly matched – perhaps the soldiers they had attacked had been more ready. Veth and Kran were fighting one together – as Rehs watched, the soldier staggered back, one of his wings bent and dripping blood.

The Vel had tackled the soldier Rehs had stabbed, and was rapidly adding to his list of injuries. The soldier’s attempts to keep the Vel from him were becoming feebler and feebler.

True to their word, no one except Rehs had used a weapon. They were punching and kicking without remorse, using their wings like cudgels, not giving the soldiers a chance to draw their weapons.

Rehs leapt forward, seeking an opening on one of the three fighting soldiers. Maybe he could slip his knife between their wings, or stab them in the leg…

The fight seemed clear to him, every detail plain. He glanced down at the knife he held, and saw that blood had coated the blade, and was dripping down onto his hand. He wiped it off with his other hand, and approached one of the soldiers.

“To arms!”

The cry echoed from the other end of the alley, where Rehs had come from. He turned as feet thundered behind him. Someone else had joined the fray.

They were Imperials. Real soldiers, wearing full plate.

One crashed into the Vel, kicking him off of the guard he had been attacking, slicing with his sword. The Vel fell back, gripping his arm. Another reached into the mass of limbs which was Scar-shoulder and his opponent, and separated them, throwing Scar-shoulder against the wall.

Two more soldiers rushed to help the other combatants, one running straight at Rehs.

He didn’t know what to do. His knife couldn’t penetrate armor, and there were no gaps. The soldier didn’t have a helm, and Rehs raised his blade, ready to strike, but he never got the chance: the soldier slammed his wings forward, armored like the rest of him, and they both rammed into Rehs, striking him square in the chest.

He toppled over backwards like a dead reed. He couldn’t breathe. He struck out with his arms, trying to stop his fall, but he hit the ground hard anyway, and for a moment, everything around him seemed to shift and grow quiet.

After what seemed like a long time – during which Rehs was only vaguely aware of dark shapes struggling around him, punctuated by cries and blows – he was picked up roughly and pinned against a wall. He was finally able to take a breath, and sucked in air, gulping like a fish on a boat. His vision cleared, and sound seemed to sharpen. He became aware of a terrible pain in his chest.

“How is he?” someone asked overhead.

“Stabbed in the gut,” a voice answered. “Not doing well. He’ll need the healers for sure.”

“And Hev?” the first voice asked.

“Stabbed in the leg, a broken wing, smashed nose… stabbed in the side, too, I’d say.”

“Ground-loving farmers!” another voice shouted. There was a sound of knuckles hitting flesh from nearby, accompanied by a grunt of pain.

“Leave them!” the first voice shouted. “Don’t touch the Volcarrens. Do you want to bring a Valkyrie down on us?”

Rehs squinted, and was finally able to make out the shapes in the darkness. He and the others seemed to have been thrown against a wall. The alley was littered with bodies, all of them stirring: the guards. There were at least five on the ground. Rehs grinned despite the pain in his chest.

“Three Volcarrens,” a new voice said, “a Vel, a kid… who are these two? They don’t look like farmers.”

That voice… Rehs recognized it. He looked up painfully. “You!” he spat.

Geren, the freeman bounty hunter, glanced at him.

“You traitor!” Rehs said.

“I’m not a traitor,” Geren said, kicking Rehs in the side.

Rehs’ chest flared, and he gasped in pain.

“I’m a patriot,” Geren said, glaring at him. “I serve the Empire. This vermin though…” He turned, and Rehs saw that he was looking at the two rebels, both of whom looked barely conscious.

“You,” Geren said, hauling one of the rebels to his feet and holding him against the wall by his throat. “You see that?” He pointed to one of the guards on the ground nearby, who was holding a wing and moaning. “You did that,” Geren said. “You broke Nrat’s wing. His wing! He won’t be able to fly for months.”

“I’d do it again,” the rebel growled. “And I’d break his other wing too.”

There was a sudden sharp snap, followed immediately by a shout of pain.

“How about that?” Geren spat, as the rebel collapsed on the ground, howling.

“You Imperial—”

The other rebel was silenced with a blow to the stomach.

“I’m going to do to you,” Geren said, “everything you did to Nrat. And maybe a little more. He was a friend of mine. No one hurts one of my friends without answering to me.”

His blade flashed in the night, and the rebel let out a screech of pain. A splatter of blood struck Rehs across the face – only a few drops, but still enough to make him recoil.

His eagerness of before was gone, but it wasn’t replaced with fear or pain. Rehs was angry. A raging hatred was within him, but he was held firm by one of the guards, who still pinned him against the wall.

The sword flashed again, but this time it didn’t descend. A figure dropped from the sky and met the blade with his own: a broadsword. The thick blade batted aside the smaller one of the soldier, and the flat of the broadsword crashed into the soldier’s unarmored face. Not a lethal blow, but a painful one. The soldier staggered back, clutching his face.

“Taelord!” Rehs shouted, new strength surging into him.

It was Taelord, and he wasn’t alone. Six Volcarrens dropped into the alley after him, all armed with axes.

The soldiers backed away, and when the Volcarrens didn’t pursue, took to the air, leaving their wounded behind. The guard holding Rehs released him and went with them.

Taelord extended a hand and pulled Rehs to his feet.

“You changed your mind!” Rehs said, putting a hand on the wall as his head swam. “You came back… to help us.”

“I didn’t,” Taelord said, as the other Volcarrens with him began helping up the other wounded.

“But—”

“I’m not interested in your rebellion,” Taelord said. “I came to stop you.”

“But… you hate the Empire!” Rehs said. Taelord turned away, and Rehs staggered after him. “You fought them! You won!”

“I fought for survival,” Taelord said, turning suddenly. “Get that through your head, Rehs. I know you think I’m some kind of hero or something, but I’m not. I want peace. Nothing else. You… You have that. Don’t throw it away.”

He left then to help the other Volcarrens, leaving Rehs standing there, the pain in his chest clamoring for his attention.