Free Well of Sorrows by Benjamin Tate

the guardsman who held the pike, eyes pleading, almost confused.
    Then he sagged forward, the knife he held in his other hand dropping to the ground beside him, his knees giving way. He fell forward until his knees hit the ground, bearing the pike down with him, then halted, the pike itself holding him upright.
    Except for the blood, for the blade jutting out from his back, he could have been praying.
    Everyone stilled, breaths drawn and held. Tom used the moment of hesitation to grab the men in front of him by the shoulders and haul them back, stepping into the space between them, sliding forward to within a few paces of Shay, the man’s face red with rage.
    Then the moment of stillness broke.
    In a single heartbeat, the space between Shay’s men and the Armory closed, Shay bellowing, “For the Avezzano! For the Family!” Knives slashed downward; swords were raised. The pikeman kicked the dead man’s corpse off of the end of his pike with a jerk. Blades flashed, edges now slicked with blood, and Tom felt himself pulled forward with the tide, the men Shay had seeded throughout the crowd rushing the wharf in outrage, an outrage Tom could feel prickling on his skin, an outrage that sent terror into his gut as the mob overran Sartori and his entourage, guards and all. Screams split the afternoon sunlight, wordless bellows that sounded like battle cries as all of the tensions between those from Lean-to and Portstown finally exploded.
    Tom tried to shove back, to retreat, but he was thrust forward. He stumbled into the man before him. The pommel of Arten’s sword slammed into the side of the man’s neck, and he dropped. Tom staggered into his place, falling to one knee, white-hot pain searing up into his hip as his kneecap dug hard into the dirt. He hissed and jerked backward—
    And found Arten’s blade trained on his throat.
    He froze, muscles locking. His heart halted in his chest for one breath, two, resumed with a shuddering pain. His gaze latched onto Arten’s. In their hazel depths, he saw cold, calculated death.
    Tom raised both hands, palms outward, empty, and thought of Ana, of Colin.
    “I came here for work,” he said, voice hoarse, tongue suddenly dry. He swallowed, his throat making a harsh clicking noise. “Nothing more.”
    The sword didn’t waver. Something flickered in Arten’s eyes, there and gone.
    Then the Armory commander took a single step back, sword still level with Tom’s throat, and turned.
    Weakness washed down through Tom’s legs, trembled in his arms. He lowered his hands to his knee, the riot raging around him, the man Arten had knocked unconscious so casually slumped to the ground before him. Someone shouted a command, the Armory on all sides responding, boots pounding against the wharf, but the sounds were distant, removed.
    Sam appeared, knelt down by Tom’s side. “Tom, are you all right?”
    Tom nodded, still shaky. “I’m fine.”
    “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
    He grabbed Tom under the shoulder and hauled him into a standing position, turned and reached behind him to catch Paul’s attention. Paul held a knife at the ready with one hand, defensively, the other clutching his upper arm, blood seeping out between his fingers.
    “I’ve got him,” Sam said over the tumult around them. “Let’s go.”
    Paul nodded as Sam threw Tom’s arm over his shoulder and began shoving out of the riot. When they saw the blood staining Paul’s arm, they cursed, the rage in their faces tightening.
    They broke through the back of the crowd into the streets of Portstown, near one of the mercantiles. Sam dragged Tom over to the side of the building. They leaned against the wood, gasping, men and women running away from the riot around them, a few running toward it. Three Armory guardsmen pelted past, pikes before them; Paul hid his knife behind his back until they’d gone.
    Sam wiped at the sweat on his forehead with one arm. “That turned into one cursed mess.” His breath