…
Mara threw herself against the wall and peered around the corner with wide eyes. Fastion, who had already dashed across the hallway, held a hand up. A patrol – regular guard – marched past. A moment, then Fastion gestured for Mara to come. She darted to his side. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her behind him.
"How much farther?" Mara whispered. He looked down at her.
"You're not completely recovered," he said, concerned. "You shouldn't have come."
"Am I slowing you down?" she snapped, trying to ignore the pressure mounting in her head. He furrowed his brow.
"Not at all," he replied. "We're close."
They turned and darted down another corridor, delving deeper into the bowels of the castle. Here, silence was heavy, tangible, stirred up like dust by the footsteps of the two runners. Their single lantern strove against the suffocating darkness, passing over stones that slumped beneath the weight of a thousand years of secrets and neglect. The shadows snatched at Fastion's uniform, dismembering his head and hands until the lamp light reclaimed him. Mara shivered at a drop in temperature. This was a place for mysteries and Black Shields. She suddenly longed for her horse and an open road.
Their pace slowed to a creep as they slipped across a hall, through a doorway, and into a familiar room. After a moment, Mara recognized it as the chamber preceding the collapsed anteroom.
"Where are the guards?" she dared to whisper. Fastion stole to the second doorway.
"There aren't any," he finally said, though he still kept his voice hushed.
"That doesn't make any sense." Mara stepped to his side. "Why would they leave?"
When no answer came, they proceeded to descend to the lower level. Mara knew she was capable of negotiating the rubble herself, but she couldn't complain when Fastion took her waist in his hands and lifted her down the steeper drops. At the bottom, they held themselves still, listening. Nothing.
The passage stretched as long as Mara remembered. Last time, however, there'd been that infernal buzzing. Now there was nothing. "It's not there," she murmured.
Fastion pressed onward, determination setting his jaw.
"Fastion, it's not there. They must have moved it."
"We're almost there," was his only response. Mara sighed and followed him in silence. The passageway finally opened into the room. Fastion stood utterly still, staring into the darkness beyond the lamp light. Mara placed a hand on his arm.
"They would take it somewhere closer to everyone," she said, pulling him back toward the hallway. "If it is indeed proximity that gives it its power over people, then they would bring it up to the populated areas of the castle."
Their pace quickened. "The throne room," he said. "It has to be there. It's the center of the castle."
"And fortunately for us, it has more than one entrance."
"Each of which will be guarded."
They began running.
"If I can gather the Riders and if you can find the Weapons that aren't affected, then we should be able to create a distraction big enough to allow someone to go in and destroy it."
They climbed up the rubble.
"Assuming it hasn't already affected the rest of us, of course," he said, a bitter undertone to his words. "It controlled us all the night the king disappeared." In a rare exhibition of emotion, he kicked out at a chunk of floor. It tore free from its niche and bounced down to the floor.
Their footing jerked, then the whole pile began shifting as its precarious balance was destroyed. Fastion swore fiercely and grabbed Mara, throwing her up to the ledge. He scrambled to reach the top, boots skidding over collapsing stones. As the rubble crumbled beneath him, he leaped and grabbed the ledge. Mara hauled herself up and turned to helped the Weapon, who hung by his fingers.
As if in response to the fallout below, the stone beneath Mara groaned. She grabbed Fastion's armor and heaved even as the floor fractured. He struggled and managed to throw one leg up, but the stone was disintegrating too quickly. His leg slid back off, but Mara clung to him.
"Let go!" he shouted, hands splayed and frantically searching for holds. "Get away!"
The floor groaned again, then finally splintered beneath Mara's knees. With a deafening crack, it gave out and they fell, swallowed up by the collapsing stone.
…
The blade flashed past Alton's eyes. He felt it smack against his shield and he flinched. The Weapon pulled back and resumed his walk, circling like a predator, twirling his sword easily in his hand. Alton took a deep breath. He was tired. He'd held his shield too long, against too many attacks.
He knelt in the center of the throne room, arms wrapped unceremoniously around Estora Coutre. The physical contact made it easier to shield her. And she was terrified. Understandably so.
Black Shields circled them, wicked blades gleaming, eyes flashing, teeth bared. He felt Estora shudder as swords spun in expert hands. Another Weapon stepped forward and slashed at the queen-to-be's neck. The sword bounced away harmlessly, but Estora still whimpered.
Why they didn't just pull her away from him, Alton didn't know. Perhaps they were enjoying it, tormenting them both in this way. Whatever the reason, it was all because of that machine. Alton peered through the circle of Weapons. It sat on the throne in sick mockery of the king, miniscule and beautiful, throwing colors that sparkled in the crimson blood pooling around it, drained from the throats of all who resisted its influence. Six Weapons stood around it. Weak-minded traitors. Alton closed his eyes and pushed Estora's face into his neck as blades lashed out at them.
Someone screamed. Alton took a deep shuddering breath and raised his head. Two Weapons dragged a third down the runner. She screamed and growled as they hauled her toward the throne. Her eyes flashed to Estora and Alton and he caught a glimpse of the full force of a Black Shield's rage.
They forced her to her knees and held her head at the machine, her nose almost touching it. "Vow your loyalty," a Weapon said. She struggled valiantly against them, eyes squeezed shut, hands like claws as she fought. But, just like all the others, her struggling calmed, her breathing quieted, her eyes opened, and she stood and joined the others.
"Aeryc help us," Estora whispered. Alton echoed the sentiments, barely pulling up his shield in time to deflect another sword swipe. "How much longer can you sustain this?"
"Don't worry about it," he answered, trying to sound unconcerned. But he was very concerned. He'd felt the razor tip of the sword on his arm. Looking down, he saw a tear in his sleeve. It wouldn't be long now until his shield gave out completely and the attacks became lethal.
Too much. This was all too much. The blood on the throne had dripped down, trickling over the dais steps and staining the runner. Long streaks indicated where bodies had been dragged across the floor and pools oozed beneath the growing pile of corpses. Nobles, soldiers, commoners – all lumped together in gruesome symbolism.
"The governors."
Alton raised his eyes and met Hendry Penburn's. He and Timas Mirwell sat beside a column, their wrists and ankles bound by skin-chafing ropes. Penburn's eyes reflected the same misery that masked Mirwell's face.
"I'm sorry," Alton mouthed. Hendry closed his eyes as he was lifted and dragged to the throne.
Timas Mirwell, on the other hand, threw himself face down on the floor, screaming obscenities and writhing as the Weapons struggled to grab him. Alton couldn't help but smile at his obstinacy. For the first time, he was glad of Mirwellian pride. Three Weapons carried him up the dais and slammed him into the floor. Timas thrashed in their grips. He even managed to knock the device a little to the right before hands wrapped around his throat and forced his head against the seat. Blood splashed onto his face. A knife was produced and dug into his cheek.
"Vow your loyalty," a Weapon said.
Timas glared at the device with the fury and pride of a thousand years of Mirwellian history, then spat on it. Estora buried her face in Alton's chest. The knife moved down to the lord-governor's throat.
"Mirdhwell," one of the Weapons spoke. "You resist."
Mirdhwell?
"You defy your own destiny," another said in the said monotone.
Timas rolled his eyes up to stare at them.
"You were once loyal and won the praise of all."
"Join us again, and you will be rewarded beyond what you can dream."
The Long War. Mirwell sided with Mornhavon then. "Gods," Alton whispered. "It's him."
"That wasn't long enough," Estora hissed. "Karigan took him to the future. It hasn't been long enough."
A shadow flitted across the floor. Alton blinked. The shadow passed again. Alton looked up. A figure dashed across the windows, outside. Someone had scaled the castle wall.
"If continue to resist, you will be of no use to us. We will kill you," a Weapon was saying.
Timas continued to stare. Alton could see the emotions flitting across his features, but it wasn't enough just to say it – the machine had to control him, like the Weapons. Even if he tried lying to save himself, he would still die. They would know, just like they knew when Lord-Governor Coutre had lied.
The silence dragged out.
"Vow."
A shudder rushed through Timas' body. The device had no power over Lord-Governor Mirwell. He would die.
Something squeaked. Alton looked up at the window again. A small square was missing and the figure was climbing, feet first, through the new hole. A rope had already been lowered.
At that moment, the castle seemed to shift. The floor rumbled and gave a sharp jerk. The Weapons, incredibly, lost their balances. Alton, knocked back on his elbows, watched as the figure, dressed in the fine clothing of a gentleman and with a half-mask covering his face and a sword at his hip, dropped to his feet, bounded across the room, sprinted up the dais, and leapt onto the throne. As one, the Weapons turned to him.
"Raven Mask," Estora breathed.
The man snatched the device from the reaching hands of Timas' captors, then jumped up to the top of the back of the throne as swords lashed out at him.
Behind him, the King's door opened. Black Shields and other soldiers spilled in: a siege to reclaim the castle. Chaos ensued and Alton lost sight of the Raven Mask and the device.
Alton hoisted Estora to her feet. The regular Sacoridian guard poured in from the main throne room doors. He pulled the lady out of the way and bustled her into an alcove.
"Alton!" someone shouted. Alton turned. A handful of Riders had joined the fray. "Come help!"
Help? What could he do? What could they do, for that matter? He looked down. His saber had been taken long ago by the Black Shields. He was of no use to anyone.
"There he is!"
Alton followed Estora's pointing finger. The Raven Mask had somehow broken free of the melee and he raced toward the window, the device clutched tightly against his chest. He jumped and caught his rope mid-leap, smacking his feet against the wall. He struggled to climb.
Black Shields were hot behind him. Some reached for him, others for the rope; some drew out knives…
Alton threw up his hands and hurled every ounce of power left in him. The thief and rope were suddenly out of reach; knives impaled empty air, rotating sluggishly until finally losing momentum and clattering to the floor. Black Shields threw themselves against the shield and Alton rocked on his feet. Estora steadied him. "A little longer," she whispered.
Sweat ran into Alton's eyes. The Raven Mask slipped once, dangled from the rope with one hand, then swung himself up again and continued to inch up to the window. Alton's body shook, his brooch heated up on his chest. The thief reached out and set the device in the hole in the window. He then climbed up beside it, met Alton's eyes across the room, gave him a nod, then slipped through the hole.
Alton vision flickered. He released the shield and dropped to his knees. Estora clung to him.
"Now what happens?" she whispered.
"We pray that he takes it far, far away."
…
Xandis Pierce Amberhill was trying to be better. Really, he was. Today, for example, he incapacitated two traitorous Black Shields, rescued a lord-governor from certain death, and used his wicked skills to steal a mind-controlling machine from beneath the fingers of its brainwashed minions. All in all, he flattered himself to think that today had been full of good deeds.
Standing on the narrow sill of the throne room window, he considered. Climbing back down the wall with the device in one hand was out of the question. He twisted his lips and held it out in front of him. It hummed softly, dripping blood, dazzling him with colors and tickling the edges of his mind. His ring, on the other hand (literally), was hot, flashing brilliantly in the sun, and pulsing crimson. Amberhill fancied it was protecting him.
Destroy it, something thought. He thought. That had been him, hadn't it?
Without hesitation, he opened his hands. The device plummeted, smacked against a stone wall, bounced off, plopped into the grass, rolled a little ways, then settled comfortably, by all appearances perfectly intact.
Damn.
He proceeded to descend the wall. His muscles shook and protested, especially where that Weapon had taken a swipe at his leg, but he managed to make it far enough down so that when his body finally gave out, he didn't have far to fall. He rolled over in the grass and crawled to the device. The strange little machinations inside whirred and buzzed at him innocently. He picked it up and rotated it in his hands. Not even a scratch.
"Him!"
Amberhill looked up. Soldiers charged toward him. Damn. Gritting his teeth, he tossed the device behind him and drew his sword and knife. Three soldiers, probably some sort of patrol. He handled the first one easily, twisting his saber around the man's longsword and forcing it out of his grip. His knife hand, rolled into a fist, came around and cleanly knocked the man flat on his back.
The next two met him at the same time. He avoided their attacks and danced away, gauging them. One, with a big red nose, was slow and lumbering, but strong. The second, horrible scars ornamenting his face, was too enthusiastic and ran ahead of his partner. Amberhill smiled grimly. Scar-face first.
His saber rang against the soldier's blade. While Red Nose plodded after them, Amberhill lured his over-zealous companion farther and farther away. He gave the man a feral grin. Poor fool. A few flourishes with his saber, a spin, a parry, and a smart kick, and Amberhill knocked Scar-face to the ground.
He had misjudged Red Nose's progress however, and stood in shock as the powerful long sword shattered his saber. Damn. Amberhill raised his arm and lobbed his sword hilt, not caring whether the broken end impaled the man's head or not. It didn't, but it sent him crashing to the ground.
Amberhill collected the machine, frowning down at the glass windows. It was as though it watching him. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his coat off and wrapped it up. Now, what to do with it? Dropping it onto stone from half a mile up hadn't done anything. He picked up his sword hilt and pulled his coat back just enough to stick the jagged sword edge between the glass and the metal. He pried, but the device remained intact.
He fumed for a few moments. If he couldn't destroy it, then he would just have to take it somewhere where it had no power. He looked up. The walls surrounding the castle were heavily patrolled and the portcullis appeared impenetrable. Easy, he told himself. You've snuck past worst. He just had to get to the wall by crossing open fields of grass, climb the wall, outwit the soldiers, climb down the other side, get through Sacor City, then do the same to the outermost wall. Easy.
The gardens were on the other side of the castle. At this moment, they offered the most cover for the longest distance. He set off at a run. He didn't like the way his ring was heating up, or the lights bleeding through the black velvet of his coat.