by K. G. Wilkie
The Alchemists were dressed in dark cloaks, spells for camouflage and distraction coating the threads to give them their best chance of success. It was one thing to break into the royal palace to release a prisoner, but it was quite another thing entirely to do it without taking any precautions for their continued existence as being marginalized only by their own people and not be hunted as wanted criminals by the royal family and all of the fire-breathing dragons associated with them.
The group made quick work of the door, smearing a putty across it that quickly burned through the surface. A spell still blocked the entrance even once the first barrier was gone, however, so they quickly had to figure out a way to break it. The group looked at the only unarmed member and called for Greta to come forward. A goggled Alchemist stepped up to the entrance and threw a green powder at the invisible barrier. It smoked at first and the others looked at it in alarm, but she calmly explained that dragon spells had a tendency to run hot but her powder could still work perfectly fine. It slowly cooled as promised and individual glyphs and numbers appeared in green typeface like a sheer screen. She stroked her chin, looking at the icons and muttering to herself, then she pulled a small, charm shaped like a door off a chain filled with other tiny doors on her wrist and slapped it on the spell. "I think this backdoor is exactly what we need to get past this particular spell," she said. The letters of the spell flickered uneasily and some of them started to break into pieces before the spell gave up, and the letters washed away to fill the entire spell screen a deep green with an error message popped up on it. She poked at the message and dragged it away, and finally the spell dissolved fully and they were able to break through.
They walked into the cell. She was still curled under the covers of the bed, moping, and hardly noticed them come in. The invisibility and silence spells had done their job a little too well.
"Hey, Alyss," Darien called out to her. He poked her in the side as he had done so many times before at home. Sadly, it wasn't working on her there.
"Hey! Wake up! We are running against the clock here!"
She groaned and turned over in bed. The retrieval team looked at each other, then silently came to an agreement. They yanked out the covers, and she tumbled out of the bed.
"Whazzamatter with you," she demanded of them, bleary eyed. They hushed her and shoved a bundled of clothes at her, which she reluctantly put on. "You aren't any good at magic so we made a look--away suit for you, but you'll still have to be quiet and do your best to be sneaky to help it do better. No one had time to weave spell threads so all you've got is a jumpsuit that had the spell put on top of it. It isn't an ideal solution, but it will have to do for now."
She grumbled and showed her agreement, and they went out. Two of the Alchemists had to hold her by the arms and haul her out, but eventually she woke up and became cognizant enough to realize they were trying to help her escape, so she became more obedient and started to actively participate in her escape. They padded along through the exit to her chamber and sneaked through the prince's private chambers that were attached to them. They made lefts and rights and opened door after door, but somehow none of the doors or rooms were the way Alyss remembered them from her earlier tour, and she was no help to them at all in trying to navigate out of there. Finally, they stopped in a minimally furnished sitting room where they could clearly see the door they had come in from moving. Alyss ran to it and frantically opened it, again and again, and always it spit out into another room marked with the prince's round seal of a red dragon encircled by three red dots on a white field. There was no mistaking it, none of the doors they had used so far or were likely to find would ever let them leave Aeron's apartments within the palace, let alone the palace itself.
The spell cracker walked up to the enchanted door and went to work cracking its security. Unlike the repurposed guest apartments Alyss had stayed in, however, this was the heart of the prince's private quarters and he demanded the utmost security in his own rooms to reduce the risk of malcontents rushing him while he was relaxing in his pajamas. This door did not appreciate having someone try to spell crack it, and it made its upset known by releasing a blaring alarm that was projected through all of the palace grounds. Greta slapped her backdoor on to the protesting door and it finally killed the alarm, in the process revealing that the actual entrance with the spell removed opened onto a hallway they needed to get out. They started running along it.
Alyss had forgotten to warn them of the golem cupboard, however. When they passed by it, the golems stored inside turned on and activated their intruder alert sequence, which was even louder than the door's.
The Alchemists looked at each other in alarm. Alyss was the first to dash forward again. "What are you doing? Run!"
The alarms rang in their ears as the rest of them rushed forward after her. The security systems in the halls had been activated and darkness was everywhere, pierced by frequent points of light popping up and moving around the place to disorient them. They pumped their legs and their arms and pushed to go faster and further as they started to hear the sound of a set of feet pursuing them.
The next hall had normal lighting still. The change in lighting slowed them down as it was just as confusing as the random strobe lights had been and had the added effect of stinging their eyes that had finally grown used to the darkness. As they ran around yet another corner some men in livery spotted their frenzied escape and followed after them.
Once they'd been spotted their pursuers activated the security for this wing of the palace, and soon the bright lights of the previous hall were obscured by putrid smoke pouring out of vents in the next one. Still they went forward, lungs burning from the exertion as much as from the stench assaulting them. "Run, run, run," they insisted to each other as they burst into the main hall. The palace guards were summoned and began to dash after the escapees.
"Run!" The Alchemists screamed at each other as the guards started closing in on the slowest, their members graced with vampiric speed or charmed boots or their own natural wings slowly letting them overtake the speed of the humans regardless of their own magics.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Battle
The council stretched on through that day and crept forward into the next. The delegates were still divided on the issue, and neither side was willing to move on from discussion of their territories and problems in trade to focus on the pressing cause they had been brought here for.
A crash could be heard echoing in the hall, but the council continued their discussion with a few absent snaps at footmen to go check on the commotion. Both princes looked undisturbed, but they still sent some members of their personal guard, dressed as plainclothes palace workers, to look into the situation. Aeron's man, Elodair, was Alabastor's right-hand man from the Blue Crows and had plenty of experience preventing disturbances from becoming battles, and the crown prince was certain that whether the disturbance was as insignificant as a maid breaking some crockery or as extreme as the rebels choosing now to cause a commotion, that it would be promptly and properly resolved with the man's usual efficiency.
The council chambers stood quiet as the security spent their time in the halls looking for trouble makers. Still, the council bickered on and many of the representatives became distracted by trying to gain more power or prestige for their region or to complain about the rule of the dragons. One impertinent pixie even dared to try to take the podium to complain about Aeron, but he was quickly sent out of the room with a daemon to hassle him and singe off his body hair once he'd been kicked out of the palace grounds.
More rumbles came and the delegates stopped to look at each other in concern. The room shook and the chandelier started swinging on its chain, casting the light in all directions so it became as disorienting as a strobe light. Another rumble came and swung it more. The delegates stood up in surprise. A woman shrieked and raised a shaking hand forward to point as they were all staring at the huge dragon-sized doors that were rattling in their frame
.
A guard hopped up on the meeting table. "Get the royals to safety!" The Red Guard and Blue Crows huddled around the king and Aeron and started ushering them away from the room. The Perse Patrol was not far behind bringing Richard to safety.
They had not gone very far when the far side of the wall collapsed inwards from the force of a bomb. The royals started moving towards the wall in between the broken one and the rattling doors when the doors were forced in as well by giants and shifters alike. The draconic family dared not spread their wings in their human forms here and risk getting them slashed by arrows or claws. Going into their full draconic forms posed risks as well to potentially squish their protectors. Even if they did take their natural forms as dragons, they might as well have painted giant bullseye targets on their backs. Their guards saw the problem in an instant and elected to take hold of their monarchy by the waist and fly each of them up as passengers.
Hawthorne broke through the ceiling first with the king in tow. His sons soon got there behind him and stopped in horror at the scene before them. There was their father, pinned on the ground with dragonsbane stuffed into his mouth. The monarch had grown grey and the tips of his ears and fingers had blackened. The necrosis was rapidly spreading up his arms and legs. Hawthorne saw he had an audience, and he grinned as he stabbed the king in the skull. "Death to the dragons," he spat at them. Richard cried out in distress and rushed forward to yank the poison out of his father's mouth. In the process the knife fell out of his head. Blood trickled out of the wound site. He ripped off his shirt and pressed it down to slow the bleeding.
Hawthorne smiled at Aeron and the guards and jumped through the hole in the floor to rejoin the battle down below. Aeron shrieked the first war cry he'd ever used in a true battle and followed after him.
Aeron and Hawthorne faced off on the long wooden conference table, the papers from the council meeting becoming scattered by their dancing feet. The area was wide enough for the two of them to fight and not harm any others, but Aeron needn't have worried about that because all the delegates in the room had either run out to the transport portal room non draconian species had to resort to for instant transport or they were standing on the floor, engaged in their own fights.
Hawthorne threw off his dark cloak and revealed that he had eschewed his uniform in the prince's colors to be instead clothed in a black tunic and long, tight-fitting tan pants, bound together with a rope at his waist. His face was scrunched up in anger. He slowly drew a long sword from his belt. The blade made a hissing whisper as it was removed from the sheathe. All the while, Aeron was holding Hawthorne firmly in his gaze.
Hawthorne was wearing a red sleeveless shirt and loose-fitting black pants. On either hand he had sturdy metal gauntlets. Hawthorne bent down and stretched his back. He turned his neck from left to right, popping it with a series of clicks in rapid succession. Then, he proceeded to do the same with the rest of his body as he loosened up.
"Don't hold back or I am going to break you." Aeron snarled at Hawthorne.
Hawthorne shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and slowly brought one foot behind his back. He put his weight on it and brought an open palm up. "Wait," he said and put his hand up to say "stop."
Aeron turned his head in curiosity.
There was a band of players to Hawthorne's right and they had an array of instruments. The jaunty tunes that brought the bar to life came out of their instruments. They had everything from woodwinds, to percussion, to string instruments in their possession and were quick skilled with them.
Hawthorne looked over at a band of players. He reached into his pants, pulled out a coin purse, and tossed it to them. "Play something I can tap my foot to," he said with a winning smile.
The band leader grabbed the purse out of the air, "One two..." he tapped off, then his band began playing a quick, pumping melody.
Hawthorne turned his attention back to the fight, "Now, where were we?" and with a quick flick of his hand, as if to say, "Come on," towards Aeron. The fight was on.
Aeron rushed at the Hawthorne. He dipped and weaved right as he was about to reach him and slashed downwards with the sword. Hawthorne parried with one of his gauntlets and the blade clashed against the metal strapped to Hawthorne's arms with a shriek that sent sparks flying into the air. The swordsman was quick and uppercut slashed at the hand-to-hand warrior, attempting to catch Hawthorne from stem all the way to stern.
Hawthorne sidestepped to the right just enough and the blade passed a hair's breath from his face.
Quickly, before Aeron could respond with a followup, Hawthorne swiftly punched Aeron in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of the swordsman, and stunning him for a brief moment.
The fight had taken Hawthorne and Aeron dangerously close to the edge of the arena and Hawthorne had his back almost to the wall, despite his counter offensive.
Aeron was still open for more attacks, though, and Hawthorne was not done.
The quick blow had opened Aeron up for another attack and Hawthorne obliged him, putting a simple sidekick into the swordsman's stomach, doubling him over. Hawthorne followed that up with a quick rising uppercut.
The crowd watching their fight let out a collective wince for the man.
Taking the opening and using the environment to his advantage, Hawthorne back flipped onto the wall and pushed off towards Aeron. The maneuver sent him front flipping towards Aeron and just before he reached the swordsman, Hawthorne flattened his body out, feet first. Instead of colliding with his adversary, though, Hawthorne opted to wrap his feet around Aeron's neck instead.
The maneuver caught Aeron off guard as he was recovering his wits, once again.
Hawthorne gave him an apologetic shrug, midair. As if to say, "sorry" for what was going to come next.
Hawthorne used his momentum in a creative move. Instead of piling into his opponent, he jerked to the right and swung around Aeron. Then, when he was directly behind his opponent, Hawthorne curled his legs into his body and angled his body towards the ground, changing the direction of his fall, putting the weight of his jump into a powerful throw.
Aeron was pulled off his feet violently and was thrown across the floor. He skidded and tumbled along the ground, uncontrollably. He was stopped by the other end of the dance floor, about five feet from the wall. A groan escaped his lips as the pain from the attack started setting in.
Aeron looked up, and his eyes opened with surprise.
As Hawthorne was about to let go of Aeron, during the throw, he had planted both hands on the ground. When he completed the attack, Hawthorne sprang off his hands, throwing himself into a quick back spring, followed by another, another, and another to build momentum. When Hawthorne was almost to Aeron, Hawthorne bounded off the ground and threw himself into a spin that would have made an expert gymnast jealous. Flattening out in the air like a sideways whirling tornado, so that his body was perpendicular with Aeron's as he neared the fallen swordsman, Hawthorne's spin got increasingly fast as he whipped his arms in and out, efficiently putting Hawthorne into an almost uncontrollable rotation, arced at Aeron.
Just as Hawthorne was about to reach Aeron, the warrior threw one of his legs out, shin angled down. The entire force from the spin was pushed into his leg.
The entire room was silent and it was as if time itself was holding its breath as Hawthorne descended. Every person watching the fight was so enthralled, waiting for the next move in the epic fight.
Aeron barely had time to breath, let alone dodge. But it was a testament to his experience in battle that Aeron kept the presence of mind to roll to the right in a desperate dodge, towards the wall of the dance floor. Just in time.
Hawthorne's leg smashed into the ground, with his knee and shin flat into the wood, crushing the floor into a torrent of splinters that rose up around him in the air.
Seeing Aeron dodge, most warriors would have allowed their opponent to stand up. That was the honorable thing to do. But there are no rules in a bar fight.
<
br /> With the speed of a cat, while the splinters were still hanging midair, Hawthorne spun his body around and swept his foot towards his opponents head. The attack was so quick that Aeron wasn't hurt; it actually pushed the assassin a foot and a half into the air.
Aeron was curious, why had that not hurt?
That was Hawthorne's intention. Swiftly, Hawthorne rolled forward and halfway through, slid straight, so that he slid under Aeron and stopped facing the rising assassin's back.
Hawthorne cocked both arms back and double punched upwards into Aeron's back. Air whooshed from the swordsman's lungs as he was pushed even higher into the air. The impact from the attack gave Hawthorne a couple feet between him and Aeron.
Hawthorne looked to his right and saw the lip of the meeting table, just an arm's length away now. "This is going to hurt you, just as much as it is going to hurt me." Hawthorne promised Aeron with a forewarned wince.
Hawthorne quickly performed a handspring to his feet and, crouched just under Aeron with his legs coiled underneath him. Hawthorne exploded from the ground towards Aeron's rising form. He grabbed the assassin around the waist, twisted midair, and arched the two of them towards the wall, easily angling Aeron head first towards the raised lip of the dance floor.
Aeron collided with the raised floor, and his head plowed through the woodwork with a painful cracking and crunching sound as the wood shattered under the enormous pressure from the attack.
Hawthorne let go and managed to aim himself towards the level below. He landed with ease and rolled to his feet. Then, Hawthorne looked back at the assassin and a look of brief sadness flashed across his face.
Aeron's body hung vertical for the briefest moment, suspended in an ephemeral moment in time, then he collapsed, head still firmly stuck into the ground. The rest of him hit the ground in an uncomfortable position, but Aeron was still breathing.
"That had to hurt," Hawthorne said to himself. He looked down at one of his hands and noticed one of his nails bleeding. "Dammit! I broke a nail!" He exclaimed in frustration. Aeron slashed at his arm while he was distracted. The assassin cursed at him and fought back. Together they tousled still more, but the meeting hall had been crowded with other fighters on all sides and it soon became hard for them to move much at all, let alone fight. The table was now splintered and what was left of it had mostly been reduced to ashes, and they had to move whenever the crowd moved to making way for the stomping of the giants. It soon became clear they would both have to give up on their fight there.
