Second Son - A Prequel to The Shattered Throne

by Cate Dean

  Liam closed his eyes, nodding. His supply was so recently arrived, he hadn’t even had them distributed, or the men trained with them. “Thomas.” He leaned forward, kept his voice low. “How accurate are they?”

  “From my small experience, not very.”

  “All right.” Liam pulled him back into the alley, joining his other men. “This is what we’re going to do.”

  He told them his plan, all of his guards shaking their heads by the time he finished.

  Xander raised his hand. “If I may speak freely, milord?”

  “Please. All of you. I want input, ideas, harsh criticisms.” The other men smiled. “I am not my father, and I will be the first to admit that. He was a brilliant strategist. My strength is in negotiation, but I don’t think that will work, when we’re trying to dodge lead bullets.”

  Xander crouched down, pulling out his knife. “Your basic idea is good, milord. But here is the flaw.” He turned up the flame of the lamp he carried, just enough to light the ground in front of them, and set it down. With an ease that told Liam he’d done this more than his share of times, he drew lines in the muck, showing Liam the fatal flaw in his plan. “Now if we do this,” he wiped some of the more convoluted sneak attacks, and sketched out an ambush plan of stunning simplicity. “We may have a better chance of getting in past them, grabbing the young Lord Micah, and leaving them in confusion while we escape.”

  Liam stared at the guard. “You thought of this? Just now?”

  Xander shrugged. “My da was a guard under the Duke, milord. I liked to tag along on campaigns.”

  “When this is over, Xander, we are going to talk.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Now, go over it again, quickly. There is every chance they’ll move Micah somewhere else before dawn. Wherever they are planning to—” He cut himself off, hardly able to think of the threat, much less voice it.

  “Milord.” Thomas gripped his shoulder. “We won’t leave without him. And if necessary, we’ll follow these villains. Lord Micah is a favorite of many in the garrison.”

  To a man, they nodded, their intent clear.

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Liam cleared his throat. “Thank you all.” He stood, held out his hand to Xander. “I am trusting you to lead us. Carry out your plan, and please feel free to order me around.”

  A smile flashed across the guard’s face. He took Liam’s hand. “It will be my privilege, milord.”

  Liam stood back, allowing Xander the room to take charge. Hope began to filter in through the dread that had all but smothered him since he read that note.

  “Keep yourself alive, little brother,” he whispered. “We’re here to take you home.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Micah worked as fast as he could, hindered by his bound wrists, and a shoulder that complained louder every time he used it.

  The plan was simple—make a bomb from the parts he had to work with. A bomb that would distract, and throw enough small shrapnel to give his captors something to worry about. The execution was proving more difficult than he expected, especially with the unknown of the gunpowder.

  Liam refused to allow him to experiment with it, until it had been completely tested and approved by his garrison. Now Micah would have to guess at proportions, something he hated doing. He couldn’t control results, something he hated more.

  “No time,” he whispered. His last visitor told him he would be left alone. He didn’t believe a word out of their mouths, so he followed his gut, which told him they could show up at any moment.

  This next part would demand precision. Micah rested his forearms on the edge of the table, leaning down to wipe the sweat off his face, and push the shorn hair out of his eyes again. His hands shook, and he had started losing dexterity in his fingers.

  “All right—I need to do this now.” Before he couldn’t move at all.

  He carefully filled the pitcher he was using as a container for his explosives, laying every other component out where he could find it. Once he emptied the lamp of its oil, he’d be working in near darkness, only the small candle lamp he found as his light source, and the flame for his fuse.

  With his fingers fast becoming useless, he rushed himself, risking what could be a deadly mistake in his need to finish. His arms ached by the time he threaded in the end of the long fuse, made from the rag used to gag him. Now all he had to do was transport it to the step in front of the door. Without dropping it.

  He had planned to carry the pitcher by its handle, and designed the bomb with that in mind. Now he could barely move his fingers, so that was out of the question. Instead, he gently scooted the pitcher to the edge of the table, and used his chin to slide it on to his bent arms.

  The weight shocked him, and his shoulder throbbed at the pressure. Now he was grateful for his bound wrists; when his left arm shook uncontrollably, he supported it with his right, and pushed his chin down to keep the pitcher in place.

  As much as he wanted to rush, he forced himself to a shuffling walk, keeping contact with the floor. His arms started to cramp, and he suspected that he may not be able to straighten them when he finally reached his destination.

  Unfortunately, he proved himself correct. Sweat slid down his face, stinging his eyes, as he used the wall to lower himself, the rough stone scraping his right side. Once he made it to his knees, he bent over from the waist until the pitcher hit the stair. The cramping became painful, and the worst scenario happened.

  His arms froze in place.

  “No—please…”

  The second worst scenario came on the heels of the first. Literally. Footsteps echoed outside his room.

  Micah let go of the pitcher and threw himself to the floor.

  The expected explosion didn’t happen, which told him the gunpowder was more stable than he calculated. Fortunately, he threw himself in the direction of the table. He rolled to his knees, used the last of his strength to stand. His legs shook as he picked up the decorative candle lamp with his teeth, and moved to the door as fast as he dared.

  This time he had to lower himself with his own muscle. He crouched first, then rocked forward on to his knees, and finally rested the candle lamp on the step. Now he could move fast, and he did, shoving the flame against the edge of the rag.

  It lit the rag—and roared over the top, where he added some extra lamp oil to keep the fuse from dying.

  “No—”

  He made it halfway across the room before the door opened, fanning the already hot flame. The explosion threw Micah into the far wall.

  ~ ~ ~

  Liam and Xander had just reached the front corner when an explosion rocked the building.

  “Micah!” Liam gave up any pretense at stealth and bolted toward the door. It was open, smoke pouring out. Liam covered his face with one coat sleeve and ducked inside.

  A handful of men lay on the floor, choking or unconscious, most of them bloody. Pieces of metal and ceramic littered the floor, spreading out from a hall on the other side of the room.

  How—

  Micah. Only he would be able to build a bomb out of whatever came to hand. Liam had seen him do it before.

  He bent over, coughing as smoke filtered through the wool of his sleeve, and followed the trail of shrapnel.

  A tall man dressed completely in black stumbled out of the hall, his face and head covered by a deep hood. He had one hand pressed to his left side, blood staining his fingers. He did nothing to challenge Liam.

  When Xander stepped into the room the man rushed him, knocking him into an overturned chair. He escaped before the guard could recover.

  “Milord!”

  “Here, Xander.” Liam lowered his arm long enough to be heard, and promptly started choking.

  “Milord.” Strong hands grabbed his arms, started to lead him out.

  “Fine,” he gasped, yanking out of Xander’s grip. “Micah—”

  Xander nodded, and moved ahead of him, down the narrow hall. Smoke hung in the air, but it started to d
isperse by the time they reached the door at the end.

  At least, what was left of the door.

  A second man sprawled on the floor, next to the door, clearly dead. Liam clenched his jaw, and glanced at the ravaged face, hoping to recognize him. The features were mostly intact, but the dead man was not familiar.

  Coughing filtered through the shattered door.

  “Micah!” Liam slammed his shoulder against the wood. “Hold on—we’re here—”

  Xander helped him shove the door in, and Liam leapt over the threshold, skidding to a halt when he saw the figure huddled in the far corner, covered in blood. “Micah—”

  He stumbled forward, dropping to his knees. Tears blurred his eyes as he gently eased Micah to his back. Blood soaked the front of his shirt.

  “No, Micah… please, not him…”

  “Liam?” The rasping whisper brought his head up. Blue eyes stared at him, glazed with pain, but alive. Thank the heavens—he was alive.

  “Hold still, little brother.” Liam’s voice shook; he didn’t care right now about being weak or not showing emotion.

  “You found me.” Micah flinched, gasping when Liam touched his bound wrists. “I believe the explosion dislocated my shoulder. Again.”

  “Where else are you hurt?” Liam didn’t want to touch him more than necessary, but he had to find the source of the bleeding.

  “Just—my pounding head. And my ears are ringing. Why?” He lifted his head, blinking when he spotted the blood. “Oh. Not mine.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Pretty much, yes.”

  Liam rubbed his eyes, pushing back the tears. “Can you walk?”

  “I don’t—believe so.” He voice faded more with every word. “Long night.”

  A smile tugged at Liam’s mouth. “I imagine it has been. Let’s get you home.”

  With Xander’s help, he slit the rope binding Micah’s wrists. Micah bit back a cry, and lowered his head, his body shaking. All Liam could do was hold his arms in place as blood started flowing back into his hands. They were an ugly purple, and swollen. Liam hoped Raine could help him. He just had to get Micah to her as quickly as possible.

  “I am going to carry you, Micah. No argument.”

  “Hurts, Liam.”

  “I know, little brother.” Carefully, he picked Micah up, and headed across the room. “Stay with me.”

  Micah swallowed, leaned against Liam’s shoulder, his face white under the soot and blood.

  Xander cleared a path, blocking the dead man from Micah’s sight. He moved ahead of Liam, sword out, and stopped at the end of the hall.

  “They’re gone, milord.”

  “All of them?”

  Xander nodded, sheathing his sword. “Please allow me to take him, milord. We can find a place here, bring the Shira to him.”

  Liam thought about it for less than a moment. “I want him safe. We can’t protect him in one of these buildings, not with so few men.”

  “There’s a stable, at the end of the street. You waking the owner to borrow horses will go over much better than me doing it.”

  “Thank you, Xander.” The guard slid his arms under Micah, pulled him out of Liam’s grip. Micah had thankfully passed out, his breathing slow but steady. “Protect him with your life.”

  “No question, milord.”

  Liam sprinted out of the building. Thomas appeared around the side, the other guards behind him.

  “Nothing, milord. They’ve all escaped.”

  “Not all. There’s a dead man. Xander can show you where.” Liam pushed past the revulsion at having a dead criminal in his home. “I want him brought with us. Someone knows him, and I will have his name by the morning. Xander is inside with my brother.”

  “Where are you going, milord?”

  “To beg for some horses!”

  Liam ran down the street, toward the stable. He was going to owe the man who owned it a lifetime of favors.

  Eleven

  Raine watched for them, terrified that one of the brothers wouldn’t come home alive.

  Horses galloped up the road, the riders in front holding torches to light the way. She held her breath until she spotted them. Liam, alive but grim, holding Micah in front of him. Micah lifted his head, and her heart started beating again. It skipped when they passed through the gate, and the light spilling from torches in the courtyard picked out his too pale face, the blood on his shirt.

  Raine whirled away from the window and ran to the main hall.

  Liam strode through the open doors, Micah in his arms. “Where?”

  “Dining room,” she said. She had already prepared the space, and the table would give her easier access to Micah.

  Liam kept moving. The rage in his blue eyes told her more than any words could, as did the gentle way he settled Micah to the table.

  “His hands need attention first. He has been bound all this time.”

  Raine cursed under her breath and moved to Micah. His hands were red, which meant blood was getting to them. But checking for damage was going to hurt him.

  “Micah.”

  He opened his eyes, smiled at her. “Raine.” His voice barely crossed the space between them.

  “Can you move your fingers?”

  She watched as he struggled to make a fist.

  “It—hurts, but yes. More than I could do before.”

  “Did you lose feeling in your hands? Mobility?”

  “They turned a nice shade of purple.” He coughed, closing his eyes as pain tightened his face. “Shoulder,” he whispered. “Dislocated.”

  She looked over at Liam. “Which one?”

  “Left,” Liam said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “His hands were more important.”

  “Liam.” She tried not to sound like she was lecturing him. “If his shoulder is dislocated, it needs to be taken care of. He must be in terrible pain.”

  Micah proved her right, and nearly bolted off the table when she touched his shoulder.

  “I’ve got you, Micah. We’ll have your shoulder as good as new in no time.” She glanced at Liam. “I’ll need your help.”

  He moved to Micah’s side, and crossed his arms.

  Raine let out a breath, found her patience. Something happened, and she would pry it out of Liam later. Right now, he was going to be there for his brother, even if she had to bully him.

  “Help him sit, then brace his right side for me.”

  Micah gasped at the movement, hunching over his left arm. “That hurt—more than I expected.”

  “Dislocated doesn’t sound all that painful, does it? Until you have it happen to you. I’m going to straighten your arm, and I’m afraid it’s going to hurt.”

  “I figured.”

  She smiled, brushing hair out of his eyes. Her hand stilled. “Oh, heavens—they cut it, didn’t they?”

  “Small demonstration.”

  Liam looked stunned. “I didn’t—”

  “You were—busy. Saving me.”

  “You did that all by yourself.”

  Ah—there it was. Some of the anger, anyway. She had a feeling the rest was focused at himself.

  To distract Micah, Raine talked as she slowly straightened his arm, her other hand gently massaging his shoulder. He was tight, and she needed him to relax. “That sounds like a story I want to hear. With a nice hot drink, in front of a roaring fire. Who knew castles were so cold all the time?”

  “A well-kept secret,” Micah whispered. He blinked, glancing down at his arm. “When did you—”

  A sharp cry cut him off as she rotated his arm and the bone moved back into the shoulder socket.

  “Sorry. It’s easier when the patient is distracted. Give it a minute, the pain should be easing now.”

  “It is. Thank you.” Micah met her eyes. He looked older with the shorter hair. It barely touched the collar of his shirt now. She could clean it up for him, once he felt like sitting for more than a few minutes. “I th
ink,” he swallowed, his face pale. “I need to lie down.”

  “Relax, now,” she said. Her arms slid around his waist as he sagged against her. “I’ve got you.”

  Liam helped her lower Micah to the table. He closed his eyes, and let out a ragged sigh.

  Raine gently pulled the blood caked shirt open, certain none of it was Micah’s. Liam would have been more frantic if he had been bleeding badly enough for this much blood.

  “I want you to do a thorough examination,” Liam said. “And stay, until he is well enough to not need assistance.”

  “Of course. I’ll need to go home, for supplies, a change of clothes. It will take me less than an hour,” she said, seeing the resistance light his eyes. “And there are things I need. Salves I can’t duplicate here, that I already have pots of in my medical kit.”

  “Fine.” He moved to the tapestry at the end of the room, lowered his head.

  “He blames himself,” Micah whispered. “For all of this.”

  “We can snap him out of it. I’m certain you will be able to think of something.”

  A smile flashed across his face. “I am more than certain.”

  “Can you lift your head? I want you to drink some water.” She knelt, and poured water from the pitcher she left on the floor into a glass. Micah emptied it, and she ended up refilling the glass twice before he waved her off. “I’m going to do a quick look, see if we missed anything in the excitement of your rescue. Any bruises, anywhere you feel pain?”

  Micah closed his eyes, took in a deep breath. “Just the usual kidnapping bruises.”

  “Aren’t you funny?” Raine unbuttoned his shirt, gasping when she saw the bruises on his torso. “You weren’t kidding.”

  “I was tossed around a bit. Then there was the explosion.”

  “That is going to need more of an explanation. Were you the cause of the explosion?”

  “It was my escape plan. I overestimated the amount of gunpowder I’d need to blow through the door.”

  “Gunpowder?” She glanced over at Liam, saw his shoulders hunch. “The men who kidnapped you had pistols?”

  “Yes. I was surprised they didn’t threaten me with them. I had a good old fashioned knife shoved in my face.”