by Viola Grace
He struggled to stay upright, then leaned toward Jamis. “This will not go well for you.”
The king glared at Brock. He gripped Brock’s hair, spat in his face and turned away.
“At least show her the honor of arming her,” he shouted at the king who had returned to the side of the arena, mounting a stair to his box. Seeing no response, he looked to Peri. “Please. If nothing else, arm her. Even just a staff!”
Peri turned away from Brock, facing Verda. “I am very sorry.” He looked up at the stands, scanning the audience, who were now shouting, cat-calling and stomping their feet in fury.
Let her go!
Kill her!
Fights broke out. The entire place was on the verge of rioting. Brock struggled against the bonds, and one guard left him, striding out to the center of the ring. “Fight,” he commanded. Peri swallowed. He looked sick. Verda stood tall and straight. All fear had left her face.
Peri bowed to her, rose and tossed one sword to her feet. It was too long, too heavy, but she picked it up and gave it and experimental swing. How long had it been since she’d held a blade? A decade? More? She clasped the pommel in both hands and passed it to her right hand. Her movements were smooth and efficient.
Peri suddenly looked worried.
“I’ll try not to kill you, Peri Stroop.” That was all she said. She lifted one hand and gestured to the tall, dark-haired man. In a flash, Peri was on her, his deadly blade gleaming under the lights of the arena.
But Verda was no longer there.
Chapter Seven
Years and years of unrelenting pain hadn’t prepared Verda to leap and roll, sword in one hand and an attacker at her side. But those years had trained her to move through the pain, so though her landing was awkward, she managed to roll, twist and slash out at Peri Stroop’s unprotected legs.
The blade sliced clean, though shallow, and while he wasn’t crippled, the fight was suddenly more even. She rolled, gaining enough space to rise to her knees, and then to her feet. She glanced at Brock. His guard was in place but hadn’t noticed how Brock struggled with the heavy rope around his arms.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
She nodded at him and returned to the fight, keeping an eye on the other guard. Now that Brock had announced her secret to the world, there’d be no escaping.
Peri was up, charging her with pain and fury masking his face. Pain usually prompted men to commit acts they’d wind up regretting. If he killed her, Peri might lose a few night’s sleep. Or he might be haunted by her death forever. But if she could, Verda meant to spare him that inconvenience. He came at her, and she ducked his swing, coming up to slam the flat of her blade into the base of his skull. He went down again, face first. His sword had fallen inches from his outstretched fingers, and she kicked it away, then backed toward it, not willing to turn her back on him. Already, he was moving, groaning out a low curse.
She should kill him.
She looked over at Brock again and watched as he sawed at the bindings. Those nubs on his arms weren’t actually blades, but they served their purpose. The rope snapped and in that very movement, Brock stepped back, swung an arm, and a gaping red wound appeared in the guard’s throat. He attacked Brock, then abruptly fell to the ground, gouts of blood spattering the sand.
With both blades in hand, Verda backed away from Peri, who was on his hands and knees, slowly shaking his head back and forth. He was probably concussed. When he retched and vomited, she turned away, facing the second guard.
Brock stalked that guard. The sleeves of his tight shirt were shredded, his tengs flared out like long, serrated teeth. He bore down on the guard, blocked a flashing knife, and punched at the big man’s belly with the heel of his hand. He jerked his hand back, blood shining red on a prong-like spike extending from his wrist.
She stared for a moment, horror and fascination warring in her mind. He was a lethal weapon. He hadn’t needed swords or blades to defeat his enemy.
“Brock!” she shouted, gesturing to the wall of guards leaping into the arena from the king’s box. She extended the extra sword and tossed it to him. He caught it in time to lop the hand off a royal guardsman. There’d be no fixing that injury.
In seconds, they were both surrounded. She was fading fast, the weakness in her leg, the wicked pain taking a toll on her stamina. But she kept on, never moving from her spot, always twisting, ducking and striking at those who kept coming. Those who kept making the same mistakes, over and over.
One guard moved on her, forcing her back, step by step until she felt the softness of a body beneath her heel. Glancing down, she saw Peri, still on the ground. His legs lay in a pool of blood. She swallowed and held her ground, blinking her eyes as they burned and watered. Just yards away, Brock was taking the bulk of the guardsmen, and now other fighters had been sent into the arena. Some came at Brock like hungry animals, while others stood their ground, guarding him. Several took up arms in his defense.
No—in her defense. An older fighter with a broken nose sketched a quick bow, saluting her with his sword. Another grinned.
“Knew your parents, miss... I mean... Highness. Fight on!”
And she did. She caught the occasional glimpse of Brock through the melee, his skin had darkened, the etched lines and patterns were in high relief. His hair was blazing that red-black shade so unique to him. She glanced up and saw that through the skylights, the sky was clear and blue, there wasn’t a cloud in sight.
She wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. All around, fighters were looking up, then turning back to their fights. The crowds were pointing up. There was cheering. And there was blood.
She took a blow so hard it knocked her off her feet, and Verda went down hard, the breath slamming from her chest. She struggled to rise but couldn’t. She was dizzy and disoriented. She screamed, but she couldn’t possibly be screaming so loud that she deafened herself. She rolled upright and went down again, seeing the other fighters struggling as the world upended. Cracks opened and sealed themselves in the arena floor. Massive sections of the walls came away, the sodden plaster heavy and wet. In the stands, spectators were stampeding out, but the floors were giving way.
King Jamis was surrounded by his nobles and his guards, but as she watched, the supports gave way, and the dais began to list. Brightly garbed men and women fell, some leapt. Screams mingled and got lost in the roar of the earthquake. Once again Verda struggled to her feet and was flung down.
“Verda!” It was Brock, struggling past the violent tremors, leaping over downed men and women, crawling when he could no longer keep his feet.
“Brock!” The quake eased. Dust and dirt filled the air. The abrupt silence revealed the groans, the piteous sounds of the dying. The screaming shriek of snapping timbers snapping filled the air and stone tumbled and collapsed, blocking the aisles. All around them, the building was shattered, dumping its burden onto the sands of the arena.
“Brock!”
Heeding her warning, he spun and pierced his attacker with the extended teng of his hand and slashed at another with his free arm. King Jamis stood supported at the end of Brock’s arm, his fury fading to puzzlement. He looked at Verda.
“You did this...” he croaked, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
“No, Uncle. You ignored my warnings.” She watched as Brock drew back his shoulder, and the body of Jamis slid to the ground.
He still lived.
“We must go.” Verda could barely stand, much less walk, but it was time. She clasped Brock’s arm, seeing the shock at what he’d done. A guard lay at his feet, bleeding from a grisly wound down his chest, and Jamis lay, blood trickling from a perfectly round hole in his torso. He might survive that, but she had the feeling there was more to come.
As though in agreement, another tremor shuddered through the ground.
“Where?” he asked, swinging Verda into his arms. He ran, leaping over bodies both alive and dead. He scrambled over piles of rocks and timber.
“North, to the mountain behind the palace!”
He ran, never seeming to grow weary. He ran with the burden of Verda in his arms, and when he could no longer run he walked, pausing only to brace them through another tremor. When the climb became too steep to carry her in his arms, she rode on his back, silently praying his strength wouldn’t fade.
The clear blue of the sky turned red, as though the very world bled and died. Sunset was beautiful, and it was horrible. Verda hid her face in Brock’s shoulder, imagining she could hear the dying screams of her people.
Her people.
If she’d ruled, would she have gotten them away in time? Would she have done better? She was weary and in pain. Riding on Brock’s back was making her nauseous. She thirsted. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep.
“Verda?” Brock’s voice was breathless, and she felt a tremor in his muscles. “Is this it?”
He stopped, and she slid down his back to the ground, looking at the massive flat pad that jutted from the side of the mountain. Against all odds, it was still intact. And for the first time, she began to believe that this insane plan would actually work.
“Look.” She pointed at a huge recess in the side of the mountain. “Those are the hangar doors.” She walked, her left leg barely able to move. Brock steadied her, looping one massive arm around her waist. She found the thick iron door and stroked the panel hidden in the dark stone. It lit up with an eerie amber glow. Taking a deep breath, she lay her hand flat on the panel.
For a moment, nothing happened. She bit her lip. She’d gambled everything on this. She’d trusted in the chaos of the riot and the earthquake. No one should have suspected—
The door groaned, and when she depressed another spot on the pad, the hangar doors parted in near silence. Few people knew of the mechanic’s entrance to the port. The seconds gave way to minutes, and when the doors fully opened, she knew their time was short.
Someone had activated the emergency systems. The planes and ships were all powering up. All save one.
“That one.”
The darkened ship sat alone, dwarfing the other craft. It was older, but not archaic. She limped toward it, moving as fast as she could. “We can’t get out till the other craft are moved.”
Brock again scooped her up, hurrying toward the ship.
“It’s the only one equipped for off-planet travel.” She shouted over the noise of the readied craft around them. “They can fly elsewhere on the planet, but ultimately, they won’t find safety.”
“Looks like it hasn’t been used in ages.”
“It hasn’t.”
He set her down as they approached, and she found the access panel on the ship’s belly. This time, she lay her hand on the plate with confidence. The ramp dropped smoothly, and Brock had them up and in before it fully deployed. Once in the dimly lit interior, she retracted the ramp and locked them in. Dim lights activated as they moved through to the bridge.
“Welcome to the North Wind. This was my parent’s personal craft. It was keyed only to them. And to me.” She looked around, remembering hours spent on this ship, her father laughing while her mother set Verda on a jump seat on the bridge, strapping her securely into a webbing of straps and restraints.
“Can anyone else board it?” Brock gently took her arm, steadying her as they ascended up a ramp to the upper level.
She shook her head. “Not without some major equipment. And maybe a bomb or two.” He smiled at her quip, and she smiled back. It was happening. They were escaping. Finally.
Within minutes they were in the cockpit. It had been a long time, but the pre-flight checks had been drilled into her brain as a child. Their familiarity brought comfort. She nearly felt her family onboard this ship, giving her guidance and strength. “Take that seat. Strap in.” She pointed to the larger of the two seats. The one her father had used.
Brock followed her instructions. “You know how to fly this?”
She grinned at him weakly. “I did when I was a kid. Of course, my mother or father were always with me. But they let me pilot the ship once we were out there.” She imagined the depths of space. The silence and solitude. “They taught me to use auto-pilot and to engage the DV Drive. I can also calculate navigations.” She nodded to the bound sets of charts that were neatly secured to her left.
“You know where we’re going, then?”
“Away.” She switched the arrays onto low power and powered up the computers. They were dated, but still in working order. She’d update their data later. Now was the time for business. “There’s a station about a day’s journey out, but we’ll bypass that one. I’ve heard its rough.” Not to mention, they might be intercepted by her uncle’s people as they rushed back to Attigua.
She shared a display to his station, using her finger to highlight their destination. “We’ll go here first, to re-provision, check our energy levels and update my charts. After that—” She highlighted a larger, better-known station. “Here. And we can make plans.” Plans, because Brock was dead-set on returning to his home. Verda would continue on her quest for a healer. They’d be in different systems, countless miles and hours apart.
Feeling slightly sick, she continued through the checklist while Brock sat in silence. She thought about provisions and water. It should still all be in place, albeit a bit stale. They’d survive. The power levels were up, the fuel crystal was in place, and finally, Verda drew a deep breath, held it, then let it out. She powered up slightly more, giving them a good view of the port. Others should be coming in just minutes. She desperately wanted to go. To get the hell away from here.
“I could blast through their ships,” she said. “The North Wind is armed.”
“You could.” Brock grinned. “Whose craft are these?”
“They belong to the royals. That’s Jamis’s personal ship.” She nodded toward a sleek winged craft. “They have no business evacuating. They’re the leaders. They should be on the ground, helping with the recovery.”
“We could do that. Just blast our way out of here. Then they couldn’t leave.”
Verda sighed. She sat back in her seat. “I shouldn’t be leaving either.”
Brock just looked at her without speaking.
“These are my people, Brock.”
“Jamis was alive when we left the arena. Chances are, his political machine is intact. It was only because of the quake that we escaped with our lives.”
She stared straight ahead, looking at the instrument array, then out at the view screen. She felt a tear trickle down her cheek. “My father didn’t want to be the king. He wanted to leave... to see the universe. Jamis didn’t need to kill him. My parents would have abdicated.” Another tear. And now her nose was running. “Oh, Brock. He didn’t need to kill them!”
He unfastened his restraints, gathered her in his arms and held her, easing back into the wide seat she’d assigned him. He held her while she cried for grief and for pain. For fear. She gripped his shoulder, then pounded it lightly.
“I didn’t know if you were alive! You were just gone, and he took me to his quarters. Locked me back in my old rooms. He questioned me repeatedly. He was sure I was planning a rebellion.” She sniffed. “Some rebellion... just the two of us.”
He squeezed her, and she lay her head on his shoulder. “I think you may have started a rebellion back there. Or maybe I did, exposing you like that. For which I’m so very sorry.”
“It was time. I may not be here to lead it, or even to help my people flee, but Jamis’s treachery has been exposed. If the city survives, he may not survive with it.”
“What then?” He reached up and stroked her hair. “Who will step up as leader?”
“Perhaps there won’t be only one leader. Maybe there will be many, as there were in the past. Or maybe there will be none. The leadership under Jamis was bad. If he didn’t survive, whoever steps in may be worse. Though that’s hard to imagine.” She straightened, looking out the view screen. “Oh, look.
”
People were appearing, running from the rear of the hangar, stumbling over themselves in their hurry to reach the readied crafts.
Verda gave a rueful sniff. “The royal family’s quarters connect directly to this hangar, so they can access their craft using the commercial ports.”
“There are lifts? And you had me carry you up the side of the mountain to get here?”
“You’re strong.” She smiled. “And it was safer. I’ll bet the palace has started crumbling.”
She watched as people she knew pushed their way into crafts that were overloaded. She didn’t see King Jamis anywhere. She did see Janine... her cousin. As Verda watched, the older princess ran toward a waiting craft and came to a sudden halt. She stood for a long moment. Verda toggled the viewfinder, zooming in on her cousin. And her heart nearly broke. Janine looked over her shoulder, her face white and tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked back at the craft, and her shoulders slumped. Someone leaned out, screaming at her, hands reaching, but Janine didn’t move.
“She’s staying,” Verda murmured.
“If her father’s dead, then she’s the queen.” Brock looked at her. “Well, officially.”
Janine trembled so hard she nearly slipped to the ground. Turning away, she stumbled, her delicate dress in tatters, and sudden resolution on her face.
“If she survives, she’s earned her seat on the throne.” Verda closed her eyes, praying for her cousin. “There may be nothing left to salvage here, other than survivors.” And the pull to remain behind hit her hard. She pushed up off Brock’s lap and winced at the pain. She wobbled, her legs unsteady. And the truth was exquisitely painful.
“I’m no use here.”
“Verda?”
She looked at Brock, barely able to see him through tears. “I can’t do anything to help.”
“Perhaps not on the ground. But we can help from a distance. We can send ships. I have money.”
She shook her head. “This isn’t your battle. Nor is it mine. Not now. Maybe in the future, if Janine will accept me.” They’d never gotten on. Janine was one of the few who knew the entire truth about Verda and her parents. She wasn’t amoral like her father, but she’d done nothing to intervene with him when she could have.
