Conquest of Avalon

Prologue: The Soldier

“Welcome home, Jare!” Linda wrapped her arms around him, the warmth in the gesture hitting him all at once—a shock, for all that he could have expected it. “We really missed you here. Especially after the fire.”

“I missed you too.” Jareth had to marshal every drop of his strength to stop himself from crying, pulling his arms away before any weakness could take hold of him. You heard me say I was never coming back, but you were always too nice to bring something like that up. It was just as well—Jareth’s resolve had only lasted until his first battle, in truth, though he’d have denied it at the time.

“Dad’s at the neighborhood meeting right now, but he’ll come over for dinner when he gets back,” Linda told Jareth gently, startling him from his memories. “Helen’s with him.”

“But she won’t be joining us,” Jareth guessed. Things were bad enough when I left. And now... Everything had fallen apart, and it didn’t seem possible to put it back together.

All Jareth had was his life, a meager thing after the bruising it had taken. But not in jeopardy anymore. He couldn’t forget that.

“So..” Linda awkwardly moved past confirming that their sister wouldn’t visit. “Now that you’re back, what do you think you’ll do?”

His tour was over now, and with it, any part he might play in the Micheltaigne War. Whatever it had taken to get back, he’d done it, no matter the cost. He wouldn’t die on some desolate mountain from the Blinking Death or an insurgent’s poisoned arrow. Or our own binders’ blades.

“I have no idea.”’

≋

Is this how it ends? The sky was filled with fire, wispy green waves flying through the air at every odd angle, tearing through the armada as Jareth watched helplessly.

“We weren’t meant to fly. This is why. Weren’t meant to do it. None of us.” Kenny kept rambling repetitively, accent getting heavier with every incantation. His hands were gripping his safety straps so tightly that they’d taken on a different color, trembling at every slight shake or bump. It wasn’t all that different from their first takeoff, when he’d been plastered in terror against the wall during the entire ascent. But in training he’d been a joke, the Fortan yokel who should have known better.

Right now, his words were harder to dismiss.

“Shut up,” barked Desher, swiping her hand down so close to Kenny’s face that it was surprising not to hear the sound of a blow. “Can’t fucking think over the sound of your mouth flapping.”

“Like it matters what you think,” Katie scoffed, swaying slightly in her straps. “I’m sure the whole of Avalon is depending on your keen strategic mind.”

“Do you have a better idea? Because I wouldn’t mind a bit of quiet.” Janice sighed, leaning forward enough that Jareth could feel her breath as she quietly asked, “Did Douglas tell you anything before he left?”

“Sir Douglas,” Jareth corrected, though their commanding officer was not there to hear it. Raising his voice so the others could hear him, he said, “Our commander told me that we were doing Avalon proud, and that he had faith that we’d prevail.”

If only. To Jareth, he’d managed ‘That’s a good lad. Chin up’ before jumping from the ship, probably because Jareth had volunteered to stay behind and leave a parachute for his commander. No one else’s sacrifice merited even a mention, apparently.

But telling them that would only be demoralizing. They still had a chance to bring the ship safely to ground. And it wouldn’t help anyone if someone got the idea to do something cowardly. With the enemy who’d just boarded their ship, that was a very real risk.

The Foolhardy Sage of Flammare. A practitioner of human sacrifice so treacherous that even the other cultists disdained her, a vicious warrior with no regard for human life.

And more powerful than all of the crew put together.

She was the reason they were fighting this war, distilled into a single evil woman. “Barricade the door,” Jareth barked, trying to keep his voice steady as he gave the order. “Every second we hold her back is another chance for our comrades to escape. If we can hurt her badly enough, we win the battle in one fell swoop.”

For a moment, Jareth almost managed to believe his own words, a sense of hope cautiously creeping up from within.

Then an ethereal green flame sliced through three inches of metal door, newly cleaved edges glowing as the pieces clattered to the ground.

≋

“Helen...” Jareth’s mouth dropped as his sister crossed through the doorway.

“Hey, Jare.” Her voice had the rasp of a woman thrice her age, dappled burn scars cutting across the top and left of her face. Her hair was cut short, not growing at all in a large stripe of scar tissue above her temple. “You look like shit.”

Jareth could help but let out a laugh, pulling her into a hug before she could object. “Linda said you weren’t coming. Bad blood from when I left.”

‘Are you fucking stupid?’ had been Helen’s exact words, followed quickly by “You’re going to die out there. And for nothing!”

“I’m going to serve,” Jareth had replied. “Not just my country, but the innocent Imperials suffering under cruel and vicious cultists. I’m even serving ingrates like you.” He’d been trying to convince himself as much as her, but saying it had helped solidify his resolve. Even after everything he’d been through out there, Jareth still understood his own decision. He’d needed to get out of here, to escape the hopeless grind of factory work until death.

He’d just chosen the worst possible way to do it.

“A friend told me that I wasn’t doing myself any good holding onto grudges. And he said you’d need a lot of support right now.”

“Sounds... sounds like a sentimental friend.” Jareth tried to keep his voice clear, his posture straight. “But I’m glad you came.”

≋

“...Your mission is to apprehend an Arboreum noblewoman they call ‘Her Verdance’. If you heard anything about the siege of Lorraine up north, this is the same one that escaped a few months back. Intelligence got a tip that she’s being sheltered in Fleuville—probably one of Hermeline’s, now that she’s cooperating—which means that today we will right that wrong and apprehend our enemy.”

Isn’t that the same woman that the Red Knight killed hundreds outside Lorraine in order to free? Was there any reason to believe he wasn’t still protecting her, ready to cut through all of them without blinking, as he’d done with the soldiers besieging Lorraine?

Jareth had heard the whispers from up north, the brutality of seven hundred people trapped inside their ships as they slowly burned. As horrific as it had been to plummet helpless towards the Rhan, at least he’d been able to breathe clean air despite the flames engulfing the ship, to see the sky instead of dying in darkness.

The Red Knight was the second-to-last person Jareth ever wanted to face, not the first only thanks to the personal impact the Foolhardy Sage of Flammare had made. And the Arboreum is already ours. Lorraine surrendered once their leader was gone—why are we going looking for trouble now?

Jareth was the last to outlive the A.R.S. Crete, the veteran of the Battle Above the Rhan who’d come closest to death in the entire battle, and one of the three people “lucky” enough to survive seeing the Foolhardy Sage close up.

If you can even call the Murder Twins people... As fearsome as the Sage had been, she hadn’t been the one to cut the Crete in half, sending it hurtling to earth in flaming ruins for no other reason than avoiding any surprises. Lady Clarine had mentioned it herself offhandedly when she’d debriefed him, then lost interest the moment it was clear that the sage had told him nothing about some gauntlet they were looking for.

The both of them had left that day, leaving Jareth to pick up the pieces.

To dig for hours under the ashen rain. To bury Katie, Janice, Desher, and Kenny. To lie to his entire regiment about what brave, defiant heroes they’d been. Over and over, the cultist’s words had echoed in Jareth’s mind. “What pointless death. Just, considering what you’re responsible for in Micheltaigne, but hardly heroic, or even worthy of any real notoriety.” She’d said it with such little investment or emotion that it was hard to write it all off as enmity, whatever her crimes.

Jareth hadn’t dropped any bombs on Micheltaigne, only helped repair the ship, but he’d still been there, still helped ensure it could happen. That had been his orders, an action against an enemy who sacrificed children to vicious monsters, who hoarded wealth and food as Avalon starved. Did that make it just for him to die in a burning wreck as it tumbled from the sky?

And if it does, why am I still alive?

“Question, sir?”

Sir Douglas Astor paused in his briefing, disdain plain on his face. “You are here to follow orders, soldier, not ask questions.”

“But the Red Knight—”

“Is a fable! Superstition!” Sir Douglas scoffed in Jareth’s face, making him flinch. “One man in red armor cannot and did not stand up the might of an entire Avaline regiment. General Echols’ investigation concluded that a force of six hundred cavalry conducted a sneak attack on the besiegers of Lorraine, not some mythical warrior.”

“Foxes,” Emmett supplied, earning a smile from their commander. He’d been on the crew of a different airship, the A.R.S. Dalton, whose balloon had been punctured badly enough to fall to the ground, but slowly enough that all but two crewmen had survived. All of the “grounded” soldiers left without an airship to crew had been consolidated to Sir Douglas’ command for infantry operations until such time as new vessels were in need of them, taking advantage of their position behind enemy lines.

The intact ships, meanwhile, had already returned home to help keep Cambria safe. If the Foolhardy Sage had chosen slightly differently, Jareth would already be home right now.

“Officially, we’re at peace with Malin now,” Sir Douglas corrected Emmett, though it was clear from his voice that he agreed with him. “In any case, whether or not one of these scoundrels painted his armor red makes no matter to us. Their mission was to abduct Her Verdance from Avaline custody, and after today, they will know that they failed.”

I should have just joined the fucking navy. The airships paid better, and let their crew witness the marvel of flight, but it didn’t seem so marvelous anymore. Too, Jareth had grown increasingly sure the better pay was to compensate for how dangerous the zeppelins were. A boat would never explode into a cloud of flame, raining scarlet shrapnel down into the river.

Besides, without a ship to crew, he’d been reduced to infantry, the one role Jareth had been smart enough to avoid. Though not for long, apparently. All while the kids who’d picked a little different at the recruitment office sipped wine on the decks of ships patrolling the Lyrion Sea.

“Sir—”

“That’s enough out of you, soldier. The Red Knight is a fanciful story, but only cowards jump at shadows.” Sir Douglas scratched his chin, taking a moment to think. “In fact, all of you can thank his cute story for tomorrow’s drills. In this terrain, we must be masters of amphibious combat, so I think a swim in the Rhan would do you all a world of good.”

A few groans were audible, quickly silenced under the commander’s stare. The Rhan was still running grey and black with ash, foul-smelling even at a distance. Swimming in it was sure to be miserable.

And now they all blame me. Courtney, from Oxton, looked particularly perturbed, giving Jareth uninterrupted glares for the entire rest of the briefing.

Sir Douglas continued, pointing his sword towards Emmett. “You’ll lead eight soldiers of his choice in the raid at 03:00 this morning. And take ‘cute story’ along so he can see there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Jareth kept silent from then on, listening to Sir Douglas brief them on the back-alley pirates den where Her Verdance had been sheltering with growing horror at the menagerie of cut-throats and criminals they’d have to break through to get to her.

This wasn’t a job for a group of soldiers this few in number, but Sir Douglas’ confidence couldn’t be broken, and Jareth had no choice but to comply. As he was so often reminded, he was being paid to fight, not think.

Though if anyone asked me, I might mention that we started this war to liberate desperately needed supplies from vicious human-sacrificing cultists, not to bomb Micheltaigne into oblivion or force the Rhanoir to heel. Nor was it all that important to recover some wealthy Baron’s property, despite what the Murder Twins would have you believe.

The moon hung dark in the sky, a glint of pink around the edge the only hint that it remained at all. It had been like that since the new year, with no signs of returning to normal. Compared to the sun going out thanks to that cultist, Loomyair, things could have been a lot worse, but still. About as poor an omen as you could hope for.

“Move in,” Sir Douglas commanded, signaling Emmett to lead the charge through the door.

Jareth followed closely after him, holding his rifle at the ready—one ‘upside’ of the Battle Above the Rhan, as Sir Douglas had put it, was the comparative abundance of equipment for the remaining soldiers, it being more likely to survive the fall than the crew.

There were gamblers and brigands aplenty here, immediately jumping to their feet and reaching for their weapons, but no one who matched the description of the Arboreum aristocrat. A group of players were also caught up in the raid, cowering against the bar in their silly costumes as the other patrons ran for the exits.

“Surrender Her Verdance,” Emmett growled, waving his gun across the room. “Comply immediately and no one will be hurt.”

“I think not,” boomed the voice of a man in red armor, sabre already wet with blood. How did he appear so fast? Where did he come from?

Already inside, he must have been hiding here already, luring them into an ambush. Was the aristocrat even here, or was the whole thing a setup from the start?

“Die, cultist!” Emmett shouted, firing his rifle directly at the Red Knight’s armor. When the smoke cleared, the metal was barely dented, its red color untarnished.

“Uninspired,” the Red Knight boomed, charging forward and slicing a massive gash in Courtney’s stomach, causing him to collapse forward onto the floor. He hardly stopped for an instant before his sword cleaved through another soldier, then a third.

“Fall back!” Emmett yelled, an instant before the Red Knight’s sword pierced his throat.

Jareth wasted no time obeying, following the player in a fairy costume out a door near the bar as the sounds of slaughter filled the air. He felt his breathing, heavy, blood pounding in his temples that didn’t recede once he reached Sir Douglas Astor.

“The raid was a failure,” Jareth reported through grit teeth after the survivors had regrouped, only four of them aside from Jareth and Sir Douglas. “Thanks to the Red Knight from my ‘cute’ story.”

“I won’t have any attitude from the likes of you. Your failures are not my own.” Sir Douglas sneered, a medal on his chest glinting in the light. “Dismissed.”

≋

Jareth felt impossibly out of place at the neighborhood meeting, the very community he’d been so desperate to escape when he enlisted. All for nothing. There was some comfort in seeing old faces like Smittie and Sharoll, or Max, but the absences were noticeable. Gerry of Gerry-and-Max, for one, and even thinking about Lizzie Two-step trapped in that burning factory sent Jareth back to the wreckage of the crashed Crete, desperately trying to escape.

A miracle of fate. What else could you call surviving something like that? And everything that had followed?

Just, perhaps, as the Sage said. But then why had Jareth lived where so many had died? He wondered if any of the Princess Lizzie’s survivors felt the same way, whether they’d survived unscathed or burned and battered.

Did Helen?

“It’s ok,” she said, squeezing Jareth’s hand. “We’re safe here.”

We’re not safe anywhere. No one could survive in Micheltaigne for long without knowing that. Even after a week back home, Jareth knew better than to let his guard down. “It’s fine.”

≋

“Hiding in caves, we think.” Sir Douglas rapped his hand against the map behind him, drawing attention to the stretch of mountains to the south of occupied Salhaute.

Oh, do you? Jareth had brought up that possibility months ago, after that infernal white pegasus had appeared out of nowhere and set fire to most of their supplies with flaming arrows, along with several of the soldiers guarding them. It had disappeared behind a mountain almost as fast as it had come, then eluded weeks of aerial reconnaissance.

After that, they’d had to seize supplies from the locals of Salhaute, already none too inclined to view the Avaline army kindly, amassing crates full of spat-on food, watered-down wine, and—in the most egregious case—hundreds of pyreflies.

Their glow had been stable, uninfected by the Blinking Death, but the warning was impossible to ignore: We can get to you.

Sir Douglas had made an example out of that household, hanging husband and wife from the jagged, bombed-out edge of the stone pier where the Micheltine flew in and out of Salhaute. The children, he’d spared, leaving them without parents or providers, then seized the remainder of their food anyway.

Jareth felt their seething contempt with every step he took through the city, every corner risking an ambush like the one that had gotten Dimna, stabbed so many times in the chest that they couldn’t even lift him off the ground in one piece. That incident, Sir Douglas had been content to sweep under the rug, since gambling was strictly forbidden for all on-duty soldiers, but when the same thing had happened to Radney, another round of hangings had followed.

Micheltaigne’s Queen Consort, Serein, had surrendered officially, which was supposed to mean an end to any resistance. Sir Douglas had even trotted her out to the ruined remains of the square to call for an end to the violence, but the insurgents didn’t seem to pay her any heed.

It wasn’t every day—sometimes weeks would pass between attacks, occasionally—but just when Jareth would begin to feel like he could catch his breath, there would be a rain of arrows from the sky, or an explosion under a bridge, or a comrade found dead in his bed when morning came.

In some ways, it was worse than the Foolhardy Sage or the Red Knight—they’d kill you, but they didn’t leave you constantly on edge, living in fear of an attack at any moment.

And that was before the Blinking Death had begun to spread. Bombing the mountains had left fires burning for weeks, enough flames to put the pyreflies into a breeding frenzy, and infection seemed to do nothing to slow their reproduction.

You learned to keep your eyes down, walking through the mountain paths, lest an errant glance at their rapid multi-color flashing leave you bedridden for weeks, if it didn’t leave you blind or dead. Infected pyreflies were dangerous enough, but any human who glimpsed them would show signs within a few days, their eyes flashing a hundred colors in a second, witnessing unseen horrors as the sickness ravaged their body.

And while their eyes were flashing, it wasn’t safe to look at them either, unless you wished to share in their fate.

Jareth would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered it. The blinded ones got to go home.

But the dead didn’t.

“We’ll descend the Coulée Pierre until we reach this path.” Sir Douglas tapped on a goat-trail not even marked on the map before the stroke of his own pen. “That’ll take us straight to their rat-hole. Capture the Princess if you can, but don’t worry too hard about it. The rest, we’ll burn.”

Because of course they’ll just let us walk right up to their hideaway without a fight. “Sir, if I may, that path will have us walking single-file into the enemy’s high ground. They won’t even need a pegasus to turn us into pincushions.”

Sir Douglas smiled, as if he’d heard the punchline to a private joke. “They’ll try. That’s what I’m counting on.”

That’s what I was afraid of. Sir Douglas with a ‘clever’ plan was—if anything—even more dangerous than when he took the most brutal, obvious measure possible. Even if they didn’t have to slowly waddle up the mountain, eyes low enough to avoid the pyreflies, even if they weren’t presenting their enemy with the best possible avenue to win despite inferior numbers, even if their commander could have been trusted to react cleverly in the field...

This is a terrible idea. Just about the worst thing Jareth had heard in months, and there was stiff competition.

“And in recognition of your valuable contributions, Jareth, you’ll be leading the assault.”

No, wait, it’s that.

≋

“This is my brother, Jareth,” Helen rasped, introducing a tall, lanky kid who looked maybe nineteen or twenty. “He just got back from Micheltaigne.”

Jareth braced himself for the pity, the horror imagining what he’d seen out there, but it never came. The boy simply smiled, shaking Jareth’s hand without a moment’s hesitation. “It’s great to finally meet you, Jareth! I’m glad you were able to come.”

“Likewise,” Jareth said automatically, realizing a second later that his response didn’t really make sense. “Although I’m not exactly sure what this is...”

“I told you, it’s a neighborhood meeting,” Helen said, exasperated. “Everyone in Princess Lizzie’s housing. Were you even listening? We have to stand together. That means you too, now that you’re back.”

Another fight? Jareth wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He’d felt so uncomfortable since getting back, at once restless and exhausted, totally at loose ends. One night in three, he dreamed of the crashing Crete and awoke hours before he was supposed to. Even on the nights he slept through, pyreflies still danced at the edge of his vision.

“It’s a way to make sure we’re all on the same page,” the boy added, jarring Jareth from his thoughts. “We keep up with what’s going on, help people who need the help, make sure that everyone’s in agreement if we need to make demands of VM or give direction to our solicitor, and...” He turned his head towards Helen, waiting for her response before continuing.

And she looked visibly unsure, hesitating as she looked back and forth between him and Jareth.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Jareth said, feeling some satisfaction as he saw Helen’s discomfort dissipate. “I’m sure it’s not anything I need to know.”

“No, you should.” Helen shook her head. “It’s fine. You can tell him.”

The boy nodded, his smile returning so smoothly it was hard to be sure it had ever left. “Why don’t we just get started? It’s sure to come up in the meeting.” He stepped back towards the center of the room, the disorganized mob of neighbors falling into a loose circle around him. “Welcome everyone! Let’s begin!”

≋

“Let’s review,” Sir Douglas said, whiskers slightly singed by the explosion he’d only narrowly avoided, one final trap to spite them as they entered the cave. “We want to make sure our report is in tip-top shape before returning to Salhaute.”

You want to make sure we cover your ass after a catastrophic failure anyone could have seen coming, you mean.

“Let’s start with what went wrong,” Jareth said, not quite managing to keep all the venom from his voice. “With all of us bunched up on that path, we were stuck once they dumped that burning oil down the mountain.” He tried to adjust his posture, jarring the broken arrow shaft still sticking out of his chest, then winced with pain.

“Good start,” Sir Douglas said, either not noticing or willfully ignoring the obvious unspoken accusation. “No accounting for them hauling cauldrons of oil all the way up to that cave just to get us. Impossible to predict.”

Not unless you assumed the townsfolk were helping supply them, which anyone could.

Courtney had been the first to see it, and even managed to jump out of the way as he shouted his warning, but it hadn’t saved him from an insurgent’s arrow right in the neck. Jareth hadn’t ever much cared for him, but he still felt hollow after losing the comrade he’d served with the longest. Another one of the elite few to see the Red Knight and live, though he no longer held the latter accolade.

Four years on, it’s just me left.

Tristan, whose arms were still raw from the burns he’d taken on pulling Jareth out of the way, allowed his face to twist with rage, though he still had the restraint to keep his mouth shut.

Restraint even I’m beginning to lack. He’d told Sir Douglas half a hundred times. Warned him. And where had it gotten them?

“There were more of them than you briefed us on,” Asaello added, blood dripping down his face where the gust of wind had slammed him into the walls of the cave. “They even had a wind cultist.”

“Mercenaries, I’d expect,” Sir Douglas provided, scratching his chin. “If the Princess had the funds to hire them, that suggests that Micheltaigne hid more of its treasures than we’d thought. Very good to include in the report—especially if it gets Sir Thomas Alcock to take an interest. I hear he might be visiting soon.”

There was a time when Jareth would have been delighted to meet the celebrated archaeologist, all the more so to actually get caught up in one of his adventures. A time that feels so very long ago, for all that I’ve only been out here four years.

“The whole operation was a failure,” Jareth summarized, stepping close enough to Sir Douglas that the commander looked visibly uncomfortable. “An extremely predictable failure.”

“I don’t disagree, but in the report, I think it’s best we call it a ‘qualified success’.” He took a single large step back, trying to put a bit of distance between them. “Otherwise we’re liable to be stuck on sentry duty in Salhaute for the next few months.”

You say that like it’s worse than your combat missions. “We were unprepared, disadvantaged, lost half our number before we even reached the cave, and found nothing more than beds and soup inside, the insurgents long-gone.”

“But not before we learned invaluable information about their strategies and movements!” Sir Douglas swept his finger up, visibly sweating under Jareth’s glare. “Let’s not be too hasty to judge.”

“But I haven’t even mentioned the worst part yet,” Jareth said, feeling tension leave his shoulders as the decision settled in him. I’ve been fighting to stay alive for four years now. Only twenty-eight days before I go home.

This isn’t any different. “Our commanding officer didn’t make it out of the fight,” Jareth said, resolved.

“What on earth are you talking about? I’m sitting right in front of you!”

Asaello glanced at Tristan, then nodded. “Tragic, really.”

“How did he go, Jareth?” Tristan smacked his fist against the palm of his hand. “Might be they tied him up and let him burn.”

“Or maybe filled his guts with so many arrows they could use him as a quiver,” Asaello supplied, eying a bow on the floor of the cave.

“No,” said Jareth.

Instantly, the nervousness on Sir Douglas’ face vanished. “I’ll have no more jokes about that, or you’ll be scrubbing the floors until your fingers are blue. Discipline is vital, or we’ll have anarchy!”

“Shut up,” Jareth told him, feeling no satisfaction from it. Then he turned back to the other two soldiers.

“We don’t want any suspicion, nothing that could point back to us,” Jareth continued as Sir Douglas began backing away. “Best to keep it simple. This isn’t about revenge, but survival. Grab him.”

“This is insubordination! This is mutiny! I’ll have you all hanged for this!”

The three of them cornered the knight at the end of the cave, Tristan and Asaello grabbing hold of his arms.

“No, no, no! Please! I’ll do whatever you want! Field promotions all-around! B-better pay! I could send you home! The medic listens to me, we could say you went blind from the Blinking Death! Please!”

“Hold his head against the ground,” Jareth said, picking up a large rock from the floor of the cave. There’s only one way out, and it’s not one that you could ever hope to promise.

≋

The neighbors had grown ever-more restless as the night wore on, sharing grievance after grievance. After the fire, Princess Lizzie’s had laid off a quarter of the surviving workforce, apparently still too large in number to work the remaining machines, then insisted that the building was safe to return to despite its visible strain to remain upright after so many of its supports had burned out.

Pay had been flat for four years, opportunities negligible, and Bonnie and Temet had even been arrested for allegedly causing the fire, completely absurd to anyone who’d known them for even five minutes. They’d been sentenced to labor in the Territories until they worked off the damage they’d supposedly caused, which at the rate they were getting paid, would be decades after their death.

Apparently, without a solicitor funded by some unseen benefactor, they’d have sentenced Helen and Linda too, and fifty more workers besides. And they wouldn’t have stopped at the Territories, either.

Though I doubt it’s much comfort to Temet and Bonnie.

Two more fires had broken out in the time since, though they’d been extinguished quickly enough that no one was hurt—not that that stopped VM from docking the day’s pay for lost productivity.

The latest offense seemed smaller by comparison, laying off Tommy Whiteside six months before he was due to retire, just because his hand had been mangled by the loom. But Jareth knew all too well how things could build up slowly over time, each offense not so very much worse than the last, until you were charging uphill into a river of burning oil as arrows blotted out the sky.

“Enough is enough!” Helen shouted, visibly pained to raise her voice. “We can’t live like this.”

“We can’t let them push us around!” added Max.

“Fuck no!” Sharroll raised her first to the air. “I’m not working another day until they give us what we need.”

“None of us should,” said Smittie, tugging on his collar. “But do you remember what happened last time? VM security broke the strike. Jenny got clubbed so hard she still can’t speak right.”

“So you’re just going to let them push you around?” Sharroll asked, a chorus of ‘no’ echoing after her from the other workers. “Say it can’t be done so we shouldn’t even try?”

“I’m just trying to be realistic! The moment we make any headway, the guards will sweep in and they won’t stop until we’re back to work or dead. You were there after the fire; I know you remember.”

“Things are different now,” said Helen, her voice finding surer footing. “We have Christophe to help defend us. And he’s not the only one...”

Christophe? What possible difference could one person make? And who else is she talking about?

Me?

“Christophe can’t fight in public without risking his whole life here. If he gets caught, they’ll kill him. Or worse.”

Alright, you have my curiosity.

“That’s a risk for me to take, if I want to. And I do.” The lanky boy Jareth had met earlier patted a reassuring hand on Smittie’s back, as if to say there were no hard feelings about the disagreement. “And as for my friend, she’s due to return in two weeks. If you can wait until then to start the strike, we’ll both be there to defend you, come what may.”

“Your friend?” Jareth found himself asking, not entirely sure why. Does he really expect her to turn the tide against an army of guards from Versham-Martin?

“The Blue Bandit,” Helen whispered, trying not to strain her voice any further.

“The Blue Bandit’s not real,” Jareth said instinctively, repeating words he’d thought a hundred times in Salhaute. But was I wrong to? No one out there is really running into burning buildings to save people, or sabotaging the factories polluting the sea, let alone leaving the owner dangling out the window by his ankle. Nor was there any chance that the Bandit had really stopped a guardian from shooting someone by twisting their pistol into a pretzel, or stolen ninety thousand mandala from Lord Esterton’s vault. Even if the neighbors knew someone who called themself ‘The Blue Bandit’, it was a fantasy, the sort of thing people clung to to get through the day.

Plus, if she were real, we’d have been trying to find and kill her, like the Red Knight. That, more than anything, disproved all the rumors and whispers.

“She saved me from the fire, Jare. And I saw her again outside Jeremy’s, delivering a sack of books. Or ask Max—he told Christophe about Laurie’s arrest, and the next day the whole prison was empty. A binder, on our side!” She coughed, the emphasis at the end clearly paining her. “Christophe has magic too; he built a way out for everyone trapped on the eighth floor.”

“Really?” Jareth examined Christophe in light of this new information, trying to see how this lanky boy could possibly be fearsome enough to stand against all the swords that money could buy, or brave a flaming building...

It’s not the strangest thing ever. That wind sage the Princess hired was even scrawnier, and it didn’t stop him from blowing Sharlow off the side of the mountain. Even thinking about it filled his ears with Sharlow’s futile screams, growing fainter by the second as he slipped from view.

“Really,” Christophe answered, apparently totally unperturbed by the question.

And if he’s the real thing...

“But you don’t have to fight, Jare.” Helen grabbed Jareth’s hand and squeezed it. “You just got home. That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not.” Jareth pulled his pistol from his belt, laying it down in front of his feet, then knelt. “We have to make a stand. I’m with you.”

At last, a battle worth fighting.