Chapter 4

The curtain swayed erratically, a bizarre testimony to his quick movement. Gregor held his sword in front of him in the most threatening way he could imagine. The angry crowd was closer than he'd expected. They spotted him right away.

"It's the Warrior!" someone called.

"He wants to kill Sandwich!" a second cried.

Their expressions reminded Gregor of his battles with the rats during the last war. They didn't jump at him in manic glee like the rats had done, but they did yell a lot, point fingers, and rush forward. They moved so fast it was like a flood of gushing water that filled the museum corridor in seconds.

Gregor told himself not to hurt any of them if he could avoid it. But he didn't see how he was going to do that and still manage to draw them away from the museum long enough for Ripred to get Luxa and Nerissa as far away as possible.

In a flash, he knew what to do. He would goad them. Yell so loud none of them could resist. "If you want me, come and get me."

The crowd hollered in loud excitement. They clearly had not expected to draw him into the open so quickly. Gregor began to back away the moment he had their undivided attention.

"Come on, you losers!" he purposely taunted again.

The crowd had done nothing besides yell a lot so far, but he felt sure that would change now they had seen him.

His blood throbbed in his veins, and the familiar splintering of an enemy's body happened the moment the crowd neared him. But this awakening of his rager side was hardly conducive to his vow from moments before not to hurt any of them. He instinctively wanted to dismember as many of them as he could as fast as possible.

He thought of Hamnet then. Of how his fighting had caused nothing but harm to so many. Of how he had fled to the jungle so he wouldn't even be tempted to fight anymore. He had to be like Hamnet. He wanted to be like Hamnet.

He fought against his instincts as hard as he could. Remembering what Ripred had said in a letter about using breathing as a way to calm himself, he slowed his breathing. He thought about math class, about falling asleep from boredom, about anything that would help calm his blood.

But it was no good. All that breathing slower did was dim his eyesight. Thoughts of boredom made him remember school, which led to thoughts of Steve, which made him think of how he'd punched him. The grim situation wasn't helping to calm his raging blood either. Desperate now, he did the next best thing. He ran.

Fortunately, the crowd ran after him, abandoning the area near the museum. He pelted down the palace's stone corridor, a hundred crazed humans hurtling after him. He did his best to lead them into a rarely used section of the royal palace, but he wasn't entirely successful. The occasional guard on patrol or innocent bystander became trapped with him every time he switched directions.

His memory of the palace layout had grown dim during his two month absence from the Underland. He'd been absent much longer before, but this time he had spent weeks actively trying to forget that Regalia even existed. He'd tried to make his memory as foggy as possible. But that hazy memory now hindered him at every step. Before he knew it, he somehow found himself in the corridor where the modern nursery was located. Boots might not be in there this time, but Dulcet and several children must surely be as trapped as he was now.

The moment he realized his mistake, he tried to change direction again, but the crowd had already managed to cut off his only escape route. Caught with the nursery at his back and the angry crowd at his front, he decided to stand and fight.

"I have no wish to hurt any of you," Gregor called. His voice was instantly swallowed up in the noise generated by so many yelling people. He tried again. "STOP!"

Amazingly, the crowd ground to a halt. The silence of that moment was eerie and complete. It rang with promise.

Gregor crouched low, ready to fight, but repeated his words in a final bid to avoid bloodshed. "I don't want to hurt any of you. Don't make me."

"We make you do nothing, Overlander!" one individual sneered. "You harm us by existing!"

"I've come to help," Gregor said, still fighting to calm his blood.

"Help?" one asked incredulously. "You would have us kill our prophet!"

"Of course I would," Gregor said back, his words echoing in the stone hallway. "His stupid poems almost got me killed about a hundred times. I lost my bond because of him. Do you think I have any love for the guy?"

"We only want our way of life preserved."

"Of course you do," Gregor said. "But I-"

"You are a threat to that!" someone else yelled.

Another added, "If you will not go, we will make you go!"

Gregor sensed movement behind him, and whirled to clash blades with the man standing between him and the nursery. Breathing deep and slow to cool his rager desires, he was still able to disarm the man in two strokes. Not wanting an enemy behind him, he clubbed the stranger on the head with the flat of his blade.

It was a mistake.

"He harms us when he promises peace," someone cried. "He fights not for us, but against us!"

"Oh geez," Gregor muttered under his breath. The man had come from behind to threaten him. What was he supposed to do? Let him? But to point that out wouldn't go over well, or at all. There were too many emotions involved to reason with these people. He lifted his sword to the ready position just in time.

Reminding himself not to favor his left side, Gregor met the following surge. He fought off the first onslaught with just a few swipes of his sword, doing his best to push away the blades thrust at him rather than impale his enemies. But he was one among many. It was inevitable that someone would get around him.

He decided not to wait till that happened. Aware the nursery was only at the other end of the corridor, he pushed the crowd aside until they parted, leaving an opening he darted through, hoping they would follow him.

They did. He turned just in time to dodge a vicious downward swipe, push three more swords away, kick an opponent in the stomach, and disarm another furious Regalian.

But the people's backs were to the nursery now, focused on him rather than the surroundings. His plans so far had been highly successful.

But now he had no idea what to do. He badly wanted to start spinning, but that would probably do nothing but kill all of them. So he resisted with everything he had in him. He refused to hurt a bunch of misguided wanna-be soldiers. Besides, he only had to hold them off long enough for Ripred to lead the cousins to safety before he could… what? Run away again? Start killing? Let them kill him?

Sandwich wasn't worth dying for. Or killing for. But he didn't know what he could do to avoid either.

"I hate that man," he thought as he shoved yet another blade aside. "I wish they'd just get rid of him. Life would keep going, I bet. But try telling them that."

Of course. He might as well try saying exactly that. It might even work.

"Sandwich wants nothing but war!" he yelled in between sword strikes. "He wants the races to hate the humans. He never wanted peace because peace is boring!"

"Sandwich is our salvation!" someone yelled back. "His words are true. You've proved it yourself."

"I fought the Bane because he said I had to," Gregor retorted. "I thought it would help. But I was stupid. It did nothing but kill my bond."

"You would rather the rat had killed all of us? Even our queen?"

It was a low trick to bring up Luxa like that. "I didn't say that! Stop putting words in my mouth."

"His words are always right, but yours are not!"

Okay, he'd tried. Clearly they weren't listening to him. But he didn't want to fight. He probably shouldn't try running again since he wasn't sure where he was in relation to the palace as a whole. Maybe he could…

Without warning something cut deep into his back. Pain exploded. A fire burned from his right shoulder down to his left hip. Surprise momentarily disoriented him.

What looked like a thin black rope wrapped around the hilt of his sword and ripped it from his hand. Before he could react, someone grabbed his arm. Without thinking, he swung as hard as he could. His fist impacted something soft, and he was free, but only briefly.

Many hands grabbed him then, pulling first one way, then the other, always keeping him off balance. Still he writhed and twisted, partly to get away, partly due to the fire in his back. But all his twisting did was incite the crowd further. They hollered a triumphant cry now, gone wild with whatever they had done to his back. He couldn't hear anything but a constant roar of noise.

They thrust him to the side, and he tripped over his too small shoes. He could see fine now that there was so much noise, but there was nothing to see. The stone wall of the corridor rushed at him and he slammed into it. His cheek rested on the cold stone as several people yanked his arms to either side. Rope wrapped around his wrists, holding him in place. He felt the cool blade of a knife wedge up under his shirt, slicing the material. The first sliver of fear scurried up his spine. What was going on?

"Hold him!" someone yelled. Silence fell.

CRACK!

Pain exploded across his back. A cry of agony burst from his lips.

"Again!" yelled the crowd. They pulled his arms so tight against the wall he could barely breathe.

CRACK!

A river of pain rippled down his back. Something hot trickled across his skin. His hazy mind identified it: blood.

CRACK!

Pain again, more than he'd felt so far, worse than what the cutters had done, almost as bad as his chest after the Bane.

Pain had become his life now , his total existence. He couldn't breathe for the fire in his back. When the pressure on his arms suddenly disappeared, he couldn't stop himself from falling to the floor.

Noise cascaded over him. Confusion. There was yelling, swords crashing, cries, more confusion. Gregor huddled onto the floor, the coolness of stone competing against the fire in his back. He thought at first that rats had attacked him, then remembered that rats were no longer a threat. So what had happened?

Without warning he was lifted up. What he thought was several people handled him gently, but with quick purpose. The thought to writhe again entered his mind just in time to be thrown over a shoulder. His carrier ran. Gregor could hear him panting. He jounced and bounced, but found it too much effort to move on his own.

Then he was thrown onto something furry. Something black. Someone landed behind him, held him in place. That someone cried, "Fly!"

In a moment he was airborne. Wind rushed by him, cooling his back, calming his breath. This was a familiar sensation, one he'd shared with friends so many times. It reminded him of times with Ares. Good times. The best. Safety.

With a mighty effort, he collected himself enough to curl his fingers into the black fur under him. Another breath and he was able to relax his legs. The pain in his back eased. He breathed easier.

Then a spasm tightened every muscle in his body. The pain swooped in again to mock his attempts to relax.

"Be at ease, Overlander," came Howard's voice from behind him. "We are almost there."

"Where?" he croaked. It seemed they had flown so far already. Rough rock caverns zipped below them. Darkness surrounded them, cut only by his natural echolocation. It seemed like hours had passed. Where in the Underland were they going?

He never would have predicted Howard's answer.

"We go to your home. To the Overland."