She patted him on the shoulder and got to her feet. “I knew you were a good one the moment I laid eyes on you. Go.”
Elea took in a deep breath to calm herself. As long as the soldiers didn’t get into the castle, they had a chance. She had a chance. It would give the villagers time enough to gather their weapons and help in the fight.
She took one step toward the armory, and a bullet landed at her feet, imbedding into the ground. Her heart constricted in fear and it was hard to breathe. But she took another step and another until she reached the door of the armory. At least this one wasn’t locked. The room was almost empty though. All the swords, daggers, and pistols had been taken. The villagers had looted it when they’d taken the food from the castle stores. Still, there were bows and arrows, relics from another time. Another age. Now used for sport.
Taking another deep breath, Elea grabbed the closest bow and slung it over her shoulder. She picked up a quiver of arrows. Archery was an acceptable sport for a lady, and Elea was a decent shot.
The door to the armory swung open and Elea saw her little army. All boys, ages eight to thirteen. They were skinny and underfed. Their faces were dirty. Yet they were the only ones who had come when she called. She ought to have prepared a fancy speech, something to make them believe in their chance of success. But she was too scared for speeches. She simply handed them each a bow and a quiver.
“Adair, do you know where the arrow loops are?”
“The what, Your Majesty?”
“The narrow openings that look over the drawbridge, where we can shoot from?”
The boy looked at her with his mouth open.
Another lad, the smallest and wiriest of the bunch, with dark skin, curly black hair, and an impish smile raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“I do, Your Majesty,” he said. “I’ve hid there many a time to avoid a beating.”
Relief washed over her. “Good, lead the way.”
The imp led them through a series of stairs and doors to a dark, dank area. Every three feet there was a little square cubby that narrowed to a triangle before ending in a small slit of open air. Each cubby was only big enough for one person to stand in. Even the boys filled the space.
“Everyone take a cubby and shoot as many arrows as you can.”
Elea ran down the corridor to the last cubby and slung her bow off her shoulder. She took an arrow out of her quiver and pulled back against the string. Peering through the narrow slit, she aimed the arrow at one of the greencoats who was shooting his pistol at the castle. She let go, the feathers at the end of it brushing past her cheek. Her arrow struck the man in his throat. He grabbed his neck before falling into the moat. She winced as his body splashed. Had she killed him?
Without thinking, she grabbed another arrow and cocked it. She aimed again into the crowd of soldiers; her arrow hit a man in the leg. More arrows shot by her little band of rebels began hitting the front row of soldiers. She watched as the Urkan soldiers covered their heads with their arms. Elea cocked another arrow and let it fly. She didn’t wait to watch where it struck and pulled another arrow from her quiver.
When she aimed this arrow, she saw that the soldiers had turned their attention from the drawbridge and were pointing their guns at the arrow loops. At them. Her hands began to shake, and she dropped her quiver of arrows. They spilled out into the narrow hall. She bent down to grab another arrow when the sound of a bullet echoed in their small chamber. She peeked down the hall to see Adair’s body hit the stone. The young man was dead. Elea slumped to the floor and dry heaved.
What use were arrows against guns?
When she glanced up, the little imp, with the dark curly hair, was picking up her arrows and placing them back in the quiver. He handed them to her.
“What’s your name?”
“Brently.”
“Thank you, Brently,” she said.
The boy smiled at her. It was like a candle in a dark room. The spark that she needed. Elea placed her next arrow against the string and pulled back. She shot arrow after arrow, waiting, hoping for the villagers to come to their aid. But the only bodies she could see were more and more green uniforms surrounding the castle.
The villagers were not coming to her aid.
Did they not know that her uncle would kill them anyway for harboring her in their city?
Soldiers started jumping into the moat and swimming over to the castle. Elea peered down and saw that some were trying to climb up the bottom of the drawbridge. Then she saw a shower of steaming brown liquid hit the soldiers. They fell back into the water of the moat. Mother Walsh and her maids were pouring out boiling tea.
Elea would have cheered, except she heard two more thuds. Two more boys had been hit. There were only five of them left, including her. It felt like someone was holding her heart in their fist and they were tightening their grip. It was impossible to breathe. All she could do was pick up an arrow and then another. When her quiver was empty, she stole down the narrow hall and took the quivers of the dead boys. Returning to her position, she saw the soldiers again climb out of the water. This time they were met by falling rocks. But more soldiers were jumping in the water.
A bullet whizzed across her cheek, burning like fire. Elea collapsed in surprise. She looked down the hall; there was now six puddles of blood. Six boys were dead because of her. There was a loud crash and the castle shook. Brently peeked out of his cubby and stepped over his friends. His face was ashen.
“They’ve dropped the drawbridge. They’re coming inside.”