Chapter 1:
Chapter 56:
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The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 57
As the night grew long, the crowds held torches and stood watching the Magistrates’ Court burn. Many grabbed whatever gravel or pebbles they could find—or pulled out rocks and bricks they had secretly carried with them—and threw them at the courthouse. More windows broke. In the crowd’s enthusiasm, they even broke windows unconnected to Fawlkin’s office or courtroom.
Torch-bearing members of the crowd moved to the foot of the steps. The crowd, with bodily odors and the aroma of burning torches, pressed against Tsura. The energy of so many irate individuals made her heart pound fast. The crowd shouted demands:
“Release all the Sensitives!”
“Release all Sensitive families!”
“Your power is over, Marshals!”
“Come out and show your ugly face, Fawlkin!”
“Set the Sensitives free!”
“We will have justice!”
Someone stepped on Tsura’s foot, and she winced. She felt panic rising in her throat. She disliked crowds. Worse, she had lost both Myrtle and Fanny, since the mob had jostled them away. She pushed through the crowd until she reached the front edge. There, she took a deep breath.
Watching the front doors thrown open, Tsura widened her eyes. Carrying a hefty rock, she pushed someone out of her way and threw the rock. Out stepped at least a dozen Marshals, carrying pistols and clubs. One of them fired a weapon up into the night sky. But few members of the crowd turned and ran. Instead, they charged at the Marshals, up the steps.
Tsura felt concentrated heat pass by and looked up to see a flaming orange fireball flying overhead. Despite the noise of the crowd, she heard it hissing. She gasped and felt as though time slowed down. The fireball flew toward the cluster of Marshals and, with a roar of flames, set a cloak on fire.
Flames immediately shot up around the hem of the Marshal’s cloak. The burning figure danced, flapping its arms under the dark cloak to put out the fire. Tsura’s heart raced. Like others in the front of the crowd, she stumbled backward. Someone yelled at her as she stepped on a foot. The closest Marshal beat at the burning one, who collapsed to the steps and rolled until no longer burning.
Another Marshal shot a pistol into the crowd. More than one individual screamed. A woman carrying a torch fell to the ground, spreading fire. The fireballs multiplied, hissing and flying over the heads of the crowd while emitting a faint scent of sulfur before setting more Marshals on fire. Some fireballs flew through broken windows.
A man in rags assaulted one of the cloaked figures, pulling his hood off before punching him in the face. As the Marshal fell, the raggedy man ran for the front doors. Tsura narrowed her eyes and watched, wondering whether she should follow suit. Was it worth risking her own life, to storm the Magistrates’ Court?
Yes, she decided, it was. Tsura charged up the steps, brandishing her torch as though it were a weapon.
People marched in the streets in such large numbers that they clogged the cobblestone streets and alleys and, as they stopped to confront the Magistrates’ Court, they formed a formidable crowd. Most of them carried torches—word had spread. Some carried sacks full of more rocks, which they threw.
From the steps, Tsura watched a bag full of rocks crash into a many-paned window and heard the sharp breaking of glass. Some stones bounced off the building’s heavy walls and fell to the steps, but others hit the entrance doors and caused cracking sounds, scarcely audible over the din of rocks, shouts, and crashing glass.
The chaos continued well into the early morning. Tsura felt so exhausted her eyes blurred, and her limbs seemed made of rubber and not properly attached to her body. By then, despite her distress upon seeing people on fire, she’d lit up several Marshals’ robes with her torch. She hid behind a column. The situation scarcely seemed real, and Tsura would probably look back on this night and feel shocked at herself for setting anyone on fire, villains or not.
She’d stolen two pistols, but she couldn’t bring herself to use those loud weapons, so she descended the steps and handed them to other rebels. She continued to use her still-burning torch to club as many Marshals as she could. She set some of their robes on fire and gulped back her gorge more than once. Both protestors and Marshals hastily backed away from the flames and pushed over others in the crowd—some fell to the ground. Tsura feared people might be trampled in the chaos.
Crowds of torch-bearers and empty-handed citizens arrived on the scene and charged into the fight. The conflict ceased when no Marshals remained standing. Their cloaked bodies, many with hoods pulled back, lay on the steps and on the cobblestone street before the Magistrates’ Court. Tsura took comfort in knowing the Marshals were far out-numbered, confirming her observation that they had become increasingly more unpopular. In the past, the Marshals were always able to kill the small gatherings of protesters. Bleary-eyed, she wondered how many Marshals were safe at home.
Bleeding and limping after dawn, Tsura headed home and drifted out of the street. She was so fatigued she dispassionately pictured Marshals banging her front door down and shooting her dead in her own home, in front of her parents and siblings. She scanned the thinning crowd for Myrtle or Fanny, but in vain. She hoped to see them soon enough. Now she yearned for sleep.