Westkings Heist: The Complete Series

by Beth Alvarez

  A sharp, crackling sense of power filled the air and Tahl's hair stood on end.

  A mage. They had a mage.

  He dove into his cloud of smoke and almost slammed into the glass doors. The balcony beyond was clear of sentries and a long center path led to the railing at the far end.

  The flows of energy twisted around him without disturbing his smoke. Tahl braced himself to be snared, knowing he couldn't fight it off.

  Instead, the prickling sensation of magic rolled through him and past him, and the latch on the balcony doors snapped open. The doors swung outward and Tahl stumbled a half step before he caught himself. He threw a look over his shoulder as his smoke poured out through the doorway and left the hallway clear. The guards were not far behind. He slammed the doors shut and hoped the latch would slow them down.

  Sweet, soothing scents filled the balcony's garden. Tahl breathed deep as he ran. He relied on aromatic oils to relax his muscles now and then. After hours stuffed inside a bear, he doubted a single whiff would help, but he could hope.

  The balcony itself slanted ever so slightly downward, but leveled out at the far end. The castle's entrance was just below the rail, the platform higher than the courtyard surrounding it. A two story drop instead of four. He could make that.

  Somewhere in the courtyard, a shrill whistle blew. Word spreads fast. Tahl ran through the leap and landing in his head, even as his feet carried him toward the rail. The crown jangled against his elbow, hard and uncomfortable. He slid it farther up his arm. Why had he come without a bag? Even something to tie the blasted crown in place would have helped.

  The courtyard opened before the end of the balcony, wide and filled by guards with torches.

  Tahl vaulted over the railing and the drop launched his heart into his throat. He'd misjudged. It was more than two stories.

  The elevated platform before the castle's doors rushed up to meet him. He twisted to land in a roll, but the stone was still unforgiving and chased the air from his lungs. The edge of the platform threatened to spill him down the stairs. He caught the edge in his roll and thrust forward to vault over the stairs and roll again when he hit the ground. Stone scraped the skin off his knees, shoulders, and shins, even through the sturdy wool of his stolen uniform. Around him, guards gaped.

  He only had a moment to take advantage of their shock. Tahl sprang to his feet and let the momentum of his rolls launch him into a sprint. Guards in gray and red swarmed the front gate, reminding him he was on the wrong side of the palace. Even if he could get past them, Tahl wasn't positive he could lose them in the city, where their hounds already bayed and pulled against their chains.

  Tahl veered toward the side where the stables waited, away from the barracks where dozens more guards dragged themselves from their beds and hastened to join the pursuit.

  Whistles and bellowing alarm horns filled the air. Tahl skidded around the corner and almost collided with one of the Elite. Yelping in surprise, Tahl jerked backwards and narrowly missed a sword that would have had his head. He ducked wide and bolted before the Elite could take another swing.

  The yard ahead filled with guards determined to stop him. Tahl dared not draw his knives. He could fight, but not so many, and trying to fight would only slow him down. This wasn't like escaping the Queen's Museum. If he did anything other than run, he was dead.

  Might be dead anyway. He grimaced as he dodged another blade. Beside him, something pinged against the cobblestone and bounced away with a clatter.

  Crossbow bolts.

  Lovely.

  Already, a familiar heat laced his muscles in a warning that he couldn't push much farther. Adrenaline coursed his veins and overruled his body's concerns. There was no stopping. Stopping was death. Tahl tore past a cluster of men, hoping their bodies would shield him from the crossbow archers on the walls. He was fast, and the guards were many. Using their own numbers against them was his best chance for survival.

  The crossbows fire ceased, but resumed the moment Tahl slipped beyond unsheathed swords and grasping hands. A bolt tore through the loose fabric at the back of his calf and a hot sting followed in its wake. Nothing more than a graze, but too close for comfort. Then a bolt pinged off the crown on his arm and his guts clenched.

  These were nothing like the guards at the Queen's Museum. How had he ever thought their skill level might be similar? Tahl trained his eyes on the stables ahead—and the white horses that wheeled and milled in their small paddock—and struggled to focus his thoughts.

  Hints of warmth answered his call and Tahl drew them to the surface. Skittering streams of smoke crawled from the cracks between stones. He willed them to grow, to shield his movements and protect him from the bolts that streaked from overhead. The plumes thickened and around him, the guards began to cough.

  The paddock fence emerged from the smoke before him, sooner than he'd expected it. Tahl leaped and cleared the top rail, but crashed to the turf on the other side. He skidded in the dirt and gritted his teeth. A shade too late, he tucked into a somersault and found his feet, though he stumbled twice when he tried to run.

  Hands seized him from behind and Tahl sucked in a gasp.

  “Got him!” a guard roared.

  Tahl craned his neck until he saw a hand. Then he tucked in his chin and twisted inward to grab a finger between his teeth and bite down hard.

  A startled curse escaped the guard and his grip loosened just enough. Tahl dropped to his knees and swung a leg behind him in a low, sweeping kick.

  Caught off guard, the man went down with a cry. Unwilling to stay and fight, Tahl redoubled his efforts and ran.

  Smoke thickened the air and Tahl urged it to keep swelling. He couldn't split his focus between running and generating smoke for long, and whatever screen formed would have to be enough.

  Something white flashed in the haze before him. The horses. They had to be close.

  A powerful gust of air tore past him, scattering his smoke. Alarmed, Tahl spun. There was no way he could face a mage.

  Instead, a handful of men walked with giant, fringed fans spread as wide as their arms, the sort one expected to see waved over a pompous noble on a stifling summer day. It took two men to move each fan, but each heave dissipated more of Tahl's smoke than he would have thought possible.

  “There!” someone shouted. Spotted again.

  A crossbow bolt thunked into the soft earth beside Tahl's boot. A soft cry of alarm went up from guards somewhere behind him.

  Nearby, a horse wheeled against the fence, its eyes rolling white with fear. The horses. Of course no one would dare shoot at the emperor's horses.

  Tahl spread his hands and made soft, soothing sounds as he approached the horse, too slow for his liking and yet too fast for the animal to be comfortable. Still, it paused to swivel one ear in his direction and let him approach. He seized a handful of its mane and vaulted onto its back. He'd ridden a thousand times in his youth, but hadn't been astride a horse in years. Tahl gripped with his knees and curled both hands tight in the horse's mane, kicked hard and let out a whoop of encouragement.

  The horse burst forth like a spring and surged over the fence. Its horseshoes hit the cobbles with a clack and Tahl rocked forward against the horse's neck so forcefully, he feared he'd bust his nose on the animal's crest. He regained his seat a scant few seconds later, leaning close and holding tight as the white horse streaked across the yard.

  “Grip with your knees, steer with your legs, heels down, heels down!” Tahl chanted through clenched teeth. The horse darted between clusters of guards without breaking stride. Tahl pressed with his legs, urging the horse toward the curtain wall. It didn't need much encouragement.

  The last of the magical smoke he'd created cleared and Tahl saw the horse gate for the first time. The portcullis was closed.

  “Oh, for the love of leaves,” Tahl groaned, loosing his legs against the horse's sides and tugging back on its mane as he pulled up his knees. “Whoa!”

  The hors
e slowed and Tahl pulled himself into a crouch on the animal's back. “Sorry, this is going to be uncomfortable,” he muttered to the beast as they neared the gate. From the ground, he never would have made it. But from a horse...

  “Now! Shoot!” someone roared.

  Tahl leaped from the horse's back. His hands caught the edge of the walkway overhead and the rest of his body crashed against the wall and the gate.

  A cacophony of protests rose from the gatehouse as Tahl caught the very top bar of the grille with his toes and thrust himself upward. He hauled himself onto the walkway just as a pair of men appeared with spears.

  Tahl bent and twisted like a dancer to evade the jabs of the wicked, jagged-edged spearheads, each step carrying him closer to the far side of the wall.

  Both men plunged with their spears at the same time. Tahl leaped backwards to escape and his heel hit the edge of the the walkway. Grinning, he flicked a salute to the guards and let himself fall.

  Cries of surprise and alarm went up from the guards as Tahl fell to the soft earth below. He rocked backwards, morphing his landing into a backwards roll that brought him back to his feet. A hint of dizziness took his head and he fought it with a deeper breath. Fatigue couldn't get the better of him now. He wasn't free yet.

  His hand went to his arm. The crown was still there, somehow. For a moment, he'd forgotten to keep track of it. Had he dropped it, he surely would have noticed, but the fact that it had slipped outside of his awareness for even an instant was nerve-wracking.

  Crossbowmen appeared atop the wall, but they hesitated to fire. The far side of the wall was dark, and Tahl had already moved beyond the light that spilled through the gate and into the field. He ran—or tried to run. His injured leg protested after a handful of strides, but he couldn't favor it now. He wanted to curse. It hadn't seemed a bad wound. It felt like a scrape. But now he felt the cold, sticky slap of blood-wet fabric against the back of his calf, and the pain grew more intense as he ran.

  Beyond the castle yard, the moonlight seemed dim, and it took a moment for Tahl's vision to clear. White blotches moved through the field, most of them together. More horses. He cut toward them, unable to keep a limp from growing in his stride.

  The portcullises of the horse gate groaned and screeched as the gate opened. Already, the sound of horseshoes on cobbles echoed in the night. On horseback, they'd run him down in an instant.

  Tahl gulped for air and faltered in the grass. Even at his peak, he'd never run like that. His muscles throbbed, his head throbbed, and strange shadows that weren't of the night tinged the edges of his vision. Too little air for a man who was bleeding. He reduced his pace and struggled to fill his lungs. Better that he not run, he decided. It would be easier to entice a horse if he approached at a normal pace.

  The white animals were not far off. He swallowed hard against a thick, dry sensation in his throat and wet his lips just enough to whistle.

  A few heads went up, and several horses turned his direction.

  “Come on,” Tahl coaxed. He didn't dare look to see if the guards followed yet. “Come here, horse. I need you.”

  Several animals returned to grazing, disinterested in his approach. A handful more watched, wary. Only one seemed curious. Its hooves thumped softly in the lush grass as it inched toward him.

  “There, that's a good horse.” Tahl reached out one hand and a soft muzzle pushed into his palm, searching for treats. Chuckling, Tahl stepped to the side and slid his hand down the horse's neck, making his intent to mount and ride clear. “I need a favor, horse. Are you a boy or a girl? Too dark to see.” The words meant nothing to the animal, he was sure, but he kept his voice soft and friendly despite how hard his chest heaved.

  The horse stamped and whickered as Tahl gripped its mane and clambered onto its back. Pain shot up his injured leg, as if he could have forgotten it, and he sighed in relief when he settled on the animal's back and the pain lessened.

  “Go,” he whispered, nudging the horse's sides with his heels. It started slow and he clicked his tongue at it. The sound seemed to encourage it, and the horse picked up its pace. The rough trot was agony on his tired body and Tahl nudged the horse again in an effort to inspire a canter.

  Shouts behind him came with hoofbeats. The small herd of horses in the pasture scattered and Tahl's mount tried to follow. He pulled the white mane with both hands and pushed with his leg, urging the horse northeast.

  “Pikes ready!” a hoarse voice ordered from halfway across the field.

  Tahl fought a groan, but the threat was apparently enough to inspire his stolen horse. It snorted and wheeled the direction he'd been pushing, then lit off at a startling canter.

  Despite the protests of his bleeding leg, Tahl squeezed harder against the horse's sides and raised his seat from its back, knowing the pressure would urge the animal to keep moving and the way he hovered over its withers would keep him from falling. If his legs weren't exhausted first, that was. Hovering over a horse's neck seemed easy with a saddle. Bareback, it was all he could do to hold on, and he slipped precariously from one side to the other as he caught himself and over-corrected his posture again and again.

  With such an unpracticed rider, the speed of the horse wasn't enough. Pikemen appeared to the left and surged closer. Tahl ducked to the side, but without a saddle, he couldn't hold on. His legs slipped and the horse cut right. Rather than be dragged, Tahl let go of its mane and tumbled hard when he hit the ground. The crown slipped past his elbow before he clamped his arm to his chest, trapping his treasure in place.

  The pikemen shot past on their horses and turned back in wide loops. To Tahl's surprise, his own horse circled back, too.

  “Bless you,” he whispered to the horse as he mounted up again. Blood already smeared the horse's white coat where his injured leg had pressed and Tahl dreaded the sense of hope that would inspire in the pikemen when they saw it. His whole body shook with exertion and fatigue as he spurred the horse onward, just as the pikemen circled back.

  Shadows crept in on Tahl's vision again and he shook his head as if to dispel them. As if sensing its rider's distress, the horse lengthened its stride and lunged into a full gallop. The four-note rhythm of its hooves drummed through Tahl's being, hummed in his head as if to lull him to sleep. Deep weariness clawed its way over him and he felt his hold on the horse's mane give way.

  Without warning, the horse put all four feet down and squalled. Tahl flew over its crest with a startled shout, clearing the fence that came from seemingly nowhere. The edge of a cliff raced closer. He hit the rocky ground shoulder first, tumbled twice and rolled off the ledge.

  The crown slipped from his arm. Tahl spat an oath as it brushed his fingertips and plummeted toward the river below. Then he twisted to catch the stone. His fingers found purchase and he swung in hard. The crunch that came from Tahl's ribs when he hit the cliff face yielded a wince, but he didn't dare scream. His hands burrowed deeper into the crevices he'd located, even as tears of pain squeezed from his eyes.

  Scraggly brush sprouted from the cliff here and there. It wasn't much, but it was the best he was going to find. Tahl shimmied closer to a gaunt shrub and gasped in relief when he saw the small alcove beneath it. His foot scouted the ledge. It was no more than a foot deep, but it was enough.

  Above, armor rattled and a pair of voices conversed in inquiring tones as they approached the ledge.

  Using the bush for leverage, Tahl angled his body into the alcove and pressed close to the cool stone wall. Sweat slicked his temples and trickled uncomfortably down his spine. Tremors racked his slim frame, but he kept his breath steady. The slinking shadows hovered behind his eyelids, weighting them down. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall.

  “Nothing,” a man said above him, his voice disappointed.

  “It's a long drop. Think he could have survived?” a second voice asked.

  “Doubt it. You saw the blood, besides. Even if he landed in the water, he'd bleed out and be d
ead in no time.”

  Was the blood that bad? Tahl touched the back of his calf through his torn pants. The fabric was sticky, but it seemed the gash had dried. The injury was wider and deeper than he'd expected, his skin hot to the touch. He'd have to find a priestess before long.

  “What do we do now?” one of the men asked, dismayed.

  “Head back, I suppose. There's a fisherman's shack down there on the shoreline, across the river. If we come straight across from there, we can look for the crown.”

  A small sound of assent came as reply, and the crunch of booted feet against loose stone retreated from the ledge.

  At last, Tahl allowed himself to gasp for breath. The risk of hyperventilation was past, and the darkness slowly began to recede from his vision. The alcove was still too dark to see clearly, but it was cloaked in the soft, natural blue of night instead of the creeping black of unconsciousness.

  More than anything, he wanted to stay in the hollow of the cliff face and recover, but time was short. Even if the riders took their time carrying their pikes back to the castle, they'd move on horses, and Tahl needed to be far out of the area before they came to search for the crown. He leaned his head out of the alcove to look at the drop. Tahl wasn't afraid of heights, but the distance to the ground was intimidating.

  Slowly, he slid his good leg down the cliff face in search of another foothold. Inch by inch, he eased himself out of the alcove and down the sheer stone wall.

  Had he been less experienced a climber, he wasn't sure he would have made it. More than once, the stone crumbled beneath a hand or foot and sent him scrambling for a new hold. The cliff angled inward at its foot, which meant slipping would send him straight down instead of sliding along the stone.

  “Just have to not slip, then,” he grumbled to himself. The chalky stone dust kept his hands dry, despite the profuse sweating of the rest of him. Now and again, he paused and lingered in a secure place, resting his head against the stone and willing his body not to give out.