Uprising!

“We have to go back in, get everybody out!” Claire yelled as she stumbled out of the shrubbery towards the knot of her siblings. “They don’t understand.”

“They will soon enough,” Mirabelle said. “We have our own problems.”

The guards struggling through the palace’s secret door behind Claire were not their only problem. Twenty others were already there, had been waiting outside since Adolphus attacked the Count. They had no idea that their queen was in flames and their Chief dead.

Annabelle held them at bay with her torch, but as new guards ran out of the palace they closed a circle around the children, wooden clubs and stone knives in hand. In the gardens and lawns behind them, servants stood watching events unfold, staring at the smoke.

“Wait, listen,” Claire shouted over the roar of the flames. “Your Chief is dead. The magician killed him. The queen is hurt and may be dead. The palace is burning and you should get everyone out of it. We can help! Together-”

From the palace erupted shrill screaming. One of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting ran from the secret door, dress on fire. She clutching at the guards, begging them for help. The men pushed her away, but not before one’s uniform caught fire as well.

Gerhardt tore off his jacket and threw himself on the burning girl, knocking her to the ground and rolling her in his coat until the flames went out. Watching this drama unfold, one of the guards pulled off his own coat and threw it over his flaming comrade.

Mirabelle pulled her brother off the lady-in-waiting, who looked up at them in shock.

“I, I, beg your pardon for um, for my um…” Gerhardt stammered.

“Necessary familiarity,” Mirabelle supplied, dragging him back to the others. “We’ve got to go.”

Confusion spread amongst the guard. Some still circled the children with purpose, others set aside their weapons to tend the fallen, still others looked aimlessly for guidance.

“Is it true?”

The shout came from the manicured lawn, where the ring of guards seemed thinner, but only because of the crowd of palace servants bearing down on it.

“Is the queen dead?”

Other voices joined the first.

“The Chief is dead! The queen is dead! The pretender is dead! Down with the Guard! Aubergine! Aubergine!”

The voices built to a feverish pitch. Backs still seared from the lash flexed, and hands gripped hoes, rakes, pruning knives, and ladles. The humble tools of servitude brandished in anger became the tools of revolution. A rock flew from the back of the crowd. It’s always someone in the back, someone with the least to lose. More rocks, more shouts and taunts, and then the guards organized and charged, better equipped but hopelessly surrounded.

The first peasant fell, and the next three and more, writhing and screaming on the ground, pulp everywhere. But then a guard was down, and another, and the angry servants seethed forward.

Claire scooped Bettina into her arms and ran, with Mirabelle, still clutching Gerhardt, right  behind. Adolphus and Annabelle followed, Annabelle waving her torch like a talisman to fend off any who might follow.