Ashland closed her eyes and used her fear as a conduit, drawing in the surrounding Chaos. Raw, angry power surged through her. She turned away from Filbert, opened her eyes and released the stored Chaos into the rune marked upon Ran’s arm. It began to glow. She turned toward Wharton, their gazes locking.
“I will never surrender to you,” Ashland growled.
Filbert screamed. “Kill them!”
Curan remained calm…waiting.
He counted twenty-six guards at the back of the throne room, Wharton standing in the center, the messenger backing toward the opposite side, the magistrate upon the dais, and Queen Ashland seated on her throne. Flexing his left arm, Curan felt tension against the tight straps of the shield strapped to it. He twisted his body, so his right side faced the queen and waited to see if she would surrender. When the Power rune on his right bicep began to glow, he knew the answer.
An enormous surge of energy ran through him, hot and powerful and angry. White spots danced before his eyes, and he staggered as the power overwhelmed him. Now familiar with the feeling, he waited for it to pass.
“Kill them!” Filbert screamed.
The guards attacked.
Soldiers with weapons drawn spilled down the center aisle. Two standing near the end of the line fired crossbows at Curan. He twisted, dodging the first bolt and blocked the other with his shield. Lunging forward, he grabbed the nearest bench – twenty feet long and weighing hundreds of pounds – and launched it at the guards as if it weighed nothing. One guard dove out of the way, but the two holding crossbows and the four guards standing beside them were not so lucky. The bench crashed into them and drove them into the wall in a collision of crushed armor, broken bones, and blood. Splinters from the shattered bench were still tumbling down when Curan leapt. He arced high, nearly colliding with the domed ceiling three stories above, before landing at the far side of the room, eighty feet away. As he spun around, the guards at the fore attacked Wharton, the man’s blade a flurry as he tried to fend off three foes at once.
Curan slid two more benches forward, driving them through the heart of the attackers and sending two guards through the air screaming, bones broken. The benches collided with those on the opposite side of the room and settled to block the center aisle, dividing the enemy into two groups. Five guards stood to one side of the bench, three of whom were heavily engaged with Wharton. The thirteen other remaining guards turned to face Curan.
Gripping the hilt, Curan drew his sword and moved toward his enemy, down the path created by the displaced benches. He suspected they had never witnessed a fighter charged by a Power rune. If so, they likely would have run rather than attempt to face him.
With a lunge and the sweep of his arm, his Elastic-infused blade hammered through five extended swords, the force of the impact pushing them aside like blades of grass bending to the wind. Three of the five swordsmen lost their grips, and their weapons went spinning away. All five cried out in pain, and a few gripped their stinging hands.
Lowering himself to a crouch, Curan’s back-hand swing brought his sword across the legs of those same men, slicing through leather and flesh with ease. Screams filled the air as they spilled to the floor.
A female assailant to Curan’s left threw a knife, and he hastily lifted his shield to redirect the throw. Another blade appeared and sailed toward him, burying deep into his thigh. He cried out, but the Power surging through him carried an adrenaline that drowned out most of the pain.
He backed away two steps and gripped the hilt with his shield hand. A guttural growl slipped out as he pulled the dagger free and tossed it aside. Testing his leg, he found it still strong enough to support him, and he refocused on the enemy.
Four guards moved past their downed comrades and advanced warily while the other four circled around the benches to come at Curan from his left, down the outside aisle. Curan backed away and considered his options.
Rather than face two clusters attacking from different directions, he turned, jumped over five benches, ran along one, and leapt across the aisle, slicing the heads off two of the men attacking Wharton. Their bodies crumpled to the floor as Wharton ran the third man through.
Landing on a bench on the other side of the aisle, Curan lost his footing, stumbled, and banged his head against a bench. Everything went black.
Exhausted from her use of Chaos, Ashland slumped back in her throne. Sweat tracked down her temple as she watched the guards rush forward to attack Wharton. To her right, Curan burst into action, tossing a bench into some of the attackers before leaping across the room.
Magistrate Filbert suddenly obscured her view, the man scowling as he menaced over her.
“I knew you would not surrender. Neither you, nor your departed husband knew when to accept reality.” He sneered. “You’ll no longer hold your magic over us as a threat. It is time to be rid of you and your filthy Unchosen. They should have never been allowed out of the gutter.”
She glared back at him. “After all this time, you still cannot accept the Choosing Ceremony as a lie, that it was merely the Ministry attempting to weed out Chaos?”
“Oh, I know the truth of it all. The truth is that the Choosing Ceremony was too lenient. Rather than allowing those children to live as Unchosen, we should have just killed them and have been done with it.”
“You would murder innocent babes just to suit your agenda?”
“No. I would do it to suit Issal’s agenda.”
A knife appeared in Filbert’s hand, the blade wet, glazed glossy black. Terror gripped Ashland. One touch of that poison would kill in seconds. Trapped in her throne and weaponless, she froze.
He grinned. “Your magic cannot save you this time. You didn’t think I would know, but I do. You already wasted your power on that guard. Now, you die.”
Filbert raised the blade and paused. His jaw fell open, the whites of his eyes flaring as they bulged. Ashland made a desperate twist and rolled over the arm of the throne, landing rear-first on the floor with a grunt. The magistrate fell forward into the throne, his poisoned blade stabbing the padding, tearing down the back as he fell to his knees. His hand released the hilt, falling to settle lifelessly beside his head on the seat of the throne. The hilt of a dagger was sticking out from the back of the man’s neck. The messenger, Samantha, stood over him with tears in her eyes, her hands covering her mouth.
“I’m sorry…I had to do it.” She shook her head, crying. “I...I couldn’t let him kill my queen.”
“Thank you,” Ashland said as she scrambled to her feet.
She turned and found Wharton facing a swordsman. Wharton’s left side was covered in blood, yet he held his sword ready as the opponent advanced. Blood and bodies covered the floor before him.
Ashland searched the room for Curan. Eight attackers remained, circling the far end of the room with caution. Her gaze swept past the dead soldiers, past the broken mess of benches, and she found Curan lying on the floor, not far from his original post.
She scrambled off the dais, around the front benches, and knelt beside him. Blood ran down his forehead, his helmet lying on the floor beside him. With her hand on his cheek, she closed her eyes, and found her center. Extending her awareness, she coaxed his source of Order to heal him. He shuddered and came awake with a jerk. Opening her eyes, she looked up to find guards rushing down the outer aisle toward them.
“Hurry!” Ashland squealed as she scrambled backward.
Still lying on the floor, Curan grabbed the bench beside him and flung it away. It collided with the next bench, spun over it, and struck the three guards in the lead. The column behind them came to a halt as Curan rose to his feet.
Blood covered the side of his head and most of his sword arm. Tall, powered by Chaos, and wearing a grim expression, he appeared like death walking. When his gaze met Ashland’s, she gave him a grim nod.
“End this.” The command carried a determined finality.
Curan bent, picked up his sword, and turned back
to the assailants.
The remaining four guards shuffled past the broken bench, then advanced with their swords ready. Curan crouched and waved toward them with his shield. The four soldiers took a step, and then another. Curan reached down and grabbed his helmet with his shield hand. Rather than put it on, he flung it with a backhand flick. The helmet smashed into one man’s face, the force lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing into the mess of benches. His body settled and did not move.
Three men remained. As one, those three men attacked.
Curan blocked one strike with his shield, another with his sword, but the third caught his shield-side shoulder, slicing it open. He staggered back, holding his arm to his side. The men attacked again, but he shuffled backward, forcing Ashland to dart out the side door into the antechamber. Curan turned and followed, stopping just inside the room with his back to the wall. When the first man crossed the threshold, Curan ran him through. The guard fell to his knees and tipped forward in a pool of blood.
The other two guards backed away and then disappeared. Ashland waited for two panting breaths, and saw nothing, heard nothing.
“I can’t see them,” she said to Curan, who still had his back to the wall.
“I’ll go,” he said, his face twisted in a grimace.
Her gaze went to his bloody shoulder. “Let me heal you, first.”
“Sorry. Can’t wait.”
He spun, dove through the door, and rolled to his feet, ready for an attack.
“They’re running for the door,” he said.
Hearing that, Ashland ran back into the room. “Let them go. We must help Wharton.”
She rushed past the benches and found Wharton lying face-down in the center aisle, amidst seven dead guards. Squatting, she rolled him over. His face was streaked red, his side wet with blood. When she put her hand on his head and extended herself, she found his life force dim and weak. Gently, she coaxed his source of Order to heal the wound in his side but was forced to stop before she pushed him too far.
The throne room was quiet – eerily silent until Samantha spoke.
“Is he dead?” she asked with tears in her voice.
“No. Not yet, at least.” Ashland stood and turned to Curan. “This time, you will remain until I heal you.” She put her hand on his arm. “That’s an order.”
A shiver ran through him as the healing completed. Opening her eyes, Ashland looked up and found Curan’s eyes glazed over, staring into nothing. His stomach growled noisily, demanding food to compensate for the healing.
“Are you all right?” Ashland asked with a soft voice.
Curan blinked and looked down at her. “The stories my father told me about his battles against the Horde – they had always seemed so glorious, heroic. It was what I imagined when I left Mondomi to join ICON.” He shook his head and a tear tracked down his cheek. “But this…this is horrible. Killing men…women. The fighting, the dying, all for what? Power? Conflicting beliefs?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand. There has to be a better way.”
Ashland leaned forward and hugged the young man who reminded her so much of his father.
“I’m sorry, Curan. While we didn’t make the world the way it is, we can still try to make it better.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “I pray that one day, we will again find peace without abandoning our freedom.”
29
A Flash
The sun hung low in the west, hidden somewhere behind the castle-topped peak above the valley where Brandt and Quinn waited. Through a narrow gap in the trees, Brandt spotted guards patrolling the distant parapets, holding weapons that might be crossbows. The surrounding forest was quiet. Too quiet. It left him feeling as if someone were watching, just beyond his view. Quinn’s hushed voice came from above him, disturbing the silence.
“I see a wagon coming.”
She began a careful descent down the thickly branched pine she had used for her perch. When she reached the bottom branch, she hung for a moment while he wrapped his arms about her legs and then lowered her down.
“The wagon is still on the downslope, so we have few minutes before it arrives.” Quinn looked at her hands, covered in dark splotches. “Ugh. Sap. Now, my hands are going to be sticky the rest of the night.”
“You can worry about that later.” He glanced toward the cluster of rumberry bushes where they had hidden their packs. If he stared hard, he could see the straps of the packs, the leather of the water skins. Unless someone comes in here, knowing where to look, they’ll never find them.
Brandt waved for Quinn to follow. “Come on. Let’s get the tree in place before they reach us.” He hurried to the thick end of the downed tree, the roots raw and frayed from Quinn hacking at them with her sword. “Grab the other end of the tree so we are ready before they reach us.”
Quinn moved beside the tree, gripping the trunk three quarters of the way up. “Ready and…lift.”
Brandt grunted from the weight, gripping two thick roots tightly as he waddled, following Quinn as she crossed the road. When he reached the hole they had dug, he let the trunk fall, the thud of the landing tree joined by a grunt of relief from his lips. As Quinn set her end down at the other side of the road, Brandt scooped some damp soil from the hole and squeezed it against the frayed roots to hide them. Stepping back, he nodded, happy with his work.
“Looks good.” Quinn noted as she settled beside him. “They’ll think it just toppled during the storm.”
He dusted his hands off and showed them to her. “See. You’re not the only one with dirty hands.”
“Yeah, but yours aren’t sticky.”
“I prefer to keep it that way.” He spun about. “Come on. Let’s get into position.”
They walked through the woods, moving further downhill, and the road soon reappeared. Brandt reached the forest edge and peeked out to verify that the downed tree remained hidden around the bend in the road. He then joined Quinn, both of them squatting behind a clump of shrubs. After withdrawing a chunk of glowstone, he traced a symbol on his hand before turning to Quinn.
“Give me your hand.”
Her hand went to her chest, her face appearing shocked. “You’re asking for my hand already?” A devious smile bloomed on her face. “My, you are an eager one, aren’t you?”
“How droll.” He shook his head. “You know what I mean.”
She held her hand out to him, palm down. He drew the same rune on her and pocketed the stone. Closing his eyes, he grappled for Chaos and latched on, drawing in as much as he could handle. He then poured a portion of the Chaos into his own rune before shifting to the symbol on Quinn’s hand. The remainder of the Chaos rushed out, and her rune began to glow while his pulsed and faded. Exhaustion hit him and left him weak. His stomach flipped as gravity’s hold loosened – an effect of the augmentation.
A rumble arose from the forest, joined by the clopping of hooves and the squeak of wheels. The wagon rolled into view. Brandt and Quinn watched it through gaps in the shrubs as it rolled past them. Two Empire guards, a man and a woman, flanked the wagon driver. As the wagon rounded the corner and the obstacle came into view, the driver pulled the reins and drew the horses to a stop.
“Downed tree,” the driver said.
“I can see that. I’m not blind,” the female guard quipped.
The male guard added, “Must have fallen during yesterday’s storm.”
“Well,” the driver said, “are you two going down there to move it, or are we sitting here all night?”
With some grumbling, the two guards climbed out of the wagon and walked toward the tree. Brandt tugged on Quinn’s hand and gave her a nod. The two crept around the shrubs, through the long grass beside the road, and scurried to crouch behind the wagon before the guards reached the tree.
Sitting, they each pulled themselves beneath the wagon. Brandt then hooked his feet over the front axle, gripped the rear axle tightly, and lifted himself off the ground. With his weight drastically reduced, it took
little effort. Glancing to his right, he found Quinn in a similar position – off the ground and ready.
The guards returned and climbed into the wagon, causing it to wobble and shake. Moments later, they were moving, the ground rolling past just inches below Brandt and Quinn.
With gravity’s pull a fraction of what was normal, Brandt was able to support himself with little effort. Twice, they came across rocks that jutted above the road’s surface and scraped his backside, causing him to wince and nearly let go. Minutes passed, and, even at his reduced weight, he began to tire. By the time the wagon reached the mountaintop, his muscles were cramping, his arms shaking at the effort.
Brandt watched the outer wall roll past as the wagon entered the castle grounds. Within, he found an open dirt courtyard with hay bales lined along one wall. Holes dotted the white and red targets secured to the hay. Soldiers moved about the space, some in rank, others strolling about freely. The wagon circled to the side and entered an outbuilding before the driver pulled the reins.
“Whoa. Easy, now,” he crooned as the workhorses drew to a stop.
The two soldiers climbed out. “That’s it for us. We’re off for the night, Dillard. We’ll see you next time we draw escort duty.”
“Have a good night, Jira. Seward.”
The guards walked away as the driver climbed down and began to unhook his team. With the first horse free, the man led it further into the massive stable. Brandt relaxed his arms and let out a sigh as he lay on the dirt floor.
Quinn elbowed him. “Come on. We need to hurry.”
Obeying, Brandt rolled out from beneath the wagon and surveyed his surroundings.
Another half-dozen wagons waited nearby, all empty and lacking horses. Carts lined another wall, some of which held metal parts, some held tools, others stood empty.
Brandt scurried around a neighboring wagon and ducked down while Quinn settled beside him. He then noticed a small storage closet, the door halfway open. Through the doorway, he could see a pitchfork, a pair of shovels, and enough space for him and Quinn. Slinking in, he waited for Quinn to join him, and then he closed the door, leaving it open just a sliver.
An Imperial Gambit (Wardens of Issalia Book 3) Page 23
