Bastial Energy (39 page)

It was easier to be more accurate, but there were two problems: Some wouldn’t make it into the slit, even with him right below it. They would fall back down onto his shoulders or head, where they would scamper around until they tried to jump into the slit or until another rat fell onto them and pushed them off. The other issue was the rats he threw into his own face out of haste. That was, by far, the worst part of it all.

He threw one against his mouth and had to stop to wipe his lips on his arm, spitting until the tickle of rat fur was gone.

“Don’t stop. We need more rats!” Rek continued to shout.

Meanwhile, the King’s warriors who Rek had persuaded to help created a protective circle around the party, each wielding a light-blue shield of Kyrro containing the image of a gold crown lined in silver. Not all of them could fit under the balcony above, so one mage shot fireballs at their assailants directly atop them while the other mage aimed at the balcony on the far side of the door.

From what Cleve managed to witness as he hurled rats into the castle, it looked as if the incoming fireballs were of far more concern than the throwing daggers, which were easily defended by the warriors’ shields and armor.

He knew fireballs could kill a man through a full plate of armor if they caught him in the head. They needed to be dodged, deflected with shields or intercepted with the “shell” spell. Cleve caught sight of a few instances of the spell when the Sartious mage snapped her wand at an incoming fireball, creating a long, rectangular shield of translucent, emerald green color. It was just as tall as the woman casting it and twice her width. Cleve saw how the spell got its name, for it curved slightly around wherever she aimed to give it the shape of a turtle shell.

Cleve had never seen the spell in action before and was too busy with the rats to get a long look at it. But from what he could tell, it appeared to be falling and coming apart immediately after it was cast each time. Though, it was still strong enough to stop fireballs. When they slammed into the Sartious Energy field, the fireballs shattered and dispersed over the green shell, like a ray of sun exploding into an emerald so that the whole thing glistened.

“That should be enough rats!” Rek shouted after what felt like a few hundred had made it inside. The sea of fur around them looked no thinner than when they’d started. Rek closed his eyes with his hands against the castle wall as Cleve wiped feces from his hair, face, and neck, spitting a few more times to make sure his mouth was clear.

Rek had told them that once enough rats were inside, he could get them to remove the bolt that held the impenetrable door shut. “A solid steel bar slides up from the ground and into a hole on the underside of the door,” he’d told Cleve. “The bar is connected to a lever down the hall from the entrance, hidden inconspicuously on the floor in the corner of an uninhabited room.”

Cleve stayed low, behind the wall of warriors with their shields still at the ready. He didn’t mind the rats crawling on him as much now, as long as they weren’t above his knees.

The mages on the balconies had retreated back into the castle, perhaps needing to regain energy, but the warriors remained. They continued to throw knives, but they weren’t capable of piercing armor. A dagger needed to hit bare skin to do damage.
Luckily for us, they haven’t any bows yet,
Cleve thought.
Or perhaps they just don’t possess the skill
.

There was a deep thud. “I got it,” Rek announced. “Open the door!”

Two warriors ran to the door and shoved their shoulders into it. Slowly, it gave under their weight, opening wide enough for them to slip through, but they did not enter. Instead they returned—following Rek’s plan.

Rek’s arms pushed outward, and the hundreds of remaining rats ran through the door. It took about a minute for them to flood in.

It was followed by an eerie moment of silence.

They had opened the door. The first part of their plan was complete—
the easy part,
Cleve reminded himself.

Their mages needed a few breaths to regain their energy. Cleve used the time to ready his bow and calm his breathing.

When their mages were ready, they provided cover by casting fireballs at the warriors on the balconies while Rek ran toward the door. Cleve and the rest followed.

Chapter 42: Orders

CLEVE

As soon as the Elf was through the doorway, Cleve noticed him glancing straight up.

“Move!” Rek shouted, pushing those who’d gathered in front of him and diving after them. Cleve knew what it must be and went the other way, doing his part to push a few others with his free arm who were slow to react.

Cleve pressed himself to the floor and covered his head. Then he heard a jug break against the ground behind him. Next came the sound of what had to be boiling water raining around them, but only a few drops found his legs. They were absorbed by his pants, doing no damage.

He hopped to his feet, anticipating a flood of warriors rushing down the stairway, but no one awaited them on the first floor. It gave Cleve time to check on his group. Most were still rising, checking each other for injuries. Half of them hadn’t made it through the door yet when the jug had been pushed over, and they were cautiously entering now.

One of the mages was holding his leg. Under their robes were usually thin garments made of cotton, and Cleve saw this mage was no different. The stone around him was wet, but he reassured everyone he was fine as he gripped his leg.

The screams within the castle took Cleve’s focus. He found chaos and panic everywhere from the second floor up. Warriors, mages, and other inhabitants dressed without importance were yelling and running frantically in every direction. Two prostitutes, showing more skin than clothing, hollered their way down the stairs to the first floor as they ran for the door.

A few of Rek’s warriors parted to let the women through. The frightened prostitutes were pulling rats from their hair and plunging bodices. One rat fell from between the legs of a poor woman. With incredible speed, it hurried back up the stairs to be lost among the other vermin swarming the second floor.

More people made for the exit. Chefs, servers, chemists…each ran past Cleve without so much as a glance at him or the others. They were all too busy throwing rats from their clothes.

“Are there any other exits?” Cleve asked.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Rek answered. “Unless some secret passage was developed, the King has no way out but through us.”

Dozens more ran past them to escape the infested castle, each bringing several rats that diligently climbed back up the stairs once their victims had tossed them aside. The second floor was nearly empty by then, so most of the rats had moved farther up. Cleve followed them with his eyes when suddenly a falling water jug intercepted his view. It smashed into the ground where the stairs began, cracking open with a sharp explosion so that boiling water was thrown in all directions. A small cloud of steam quickly rose and dissipated. Luckily, no one was running by as it happened.

Cleve looked for more water jugs waiting to be pushed over. He wasn’t sure what caused the others to fall, but most likely it was an accident caused by the rats. The castle was well lit, so it had taken some time for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. Now he could see there were too many water jugs for his two arrows, but most rested atop banisters on the third and fourth floors, perhaps close enough for the mages. He addressed the two nearby who’d used fire to help defend their party outside. One was the man whose leg was burned.

“Either of you able to knock those water jugs over?” Cleve asked, then pointed.

They each looked with squinted eyes. The victim of boiling water said, “It’s a tough shot. No mage is known for accuracy with fireballs over long distances.” He shook his leg. “Perhaps from the second floor we may be able to.”

They were interrupted by the shouts of a black-haired guard clad in an ornate steel breastplate. “This is Hem Baom, the commander of the King’s Guard!” He stood stoically on the sixth floor, leaning over the railing. “I demand that you stay where you are and call back the rats or you will be attacked!”
Baom…it’s Alex’s brother. This could get ugly,
Cleve realized.
I mean even uglier,
he corrected himself as he watched Hem swat a rat from his shoulder.

Colimp limped forward and held the stair banister, straining his neck to look above him. “Hem, it’s Colin.” He cupped his other hand around his mouth. “Rek just needs to speak with the King. He’s on our side. We need him for this war.”

“You know our orders!” Hem pointed aggressively, then shook a rat from his arm. “He must have control over your mind for you to go against the King. Think for yourself!”

Rek put a hand on Colimp’s shoulder to draw him back a step. Then the hooded Elf looked up at the commander. “Hem, you remember me as a child. I would never hurt the King.”

“Because of our past you haven’t been killed yet, but this is your last chance before the rest of the King’s Guard comes at you.”

“Come here and detain me. These men will stand down as long as you bring me to the King so I can speak with him. That’s all I want.”

“I can’t allow that. But I’ll do everything in my power to set up an audience with him before your trial.”

King Welson Kimard would never meet with Rek unless forced,
Cleve thought, and figured Rek was thinking the same. In fact, it looked as if that had become obvious to everyone listening. Members of their party drew their swords and wands while guards from the higher floors ran to rally behind Hem.

“The future of Kyrro depends on the King speaking with me,” Rek replied. “These men know it and are willing to fight for Kyrro and its people, but there is no need for bloodshed. Just let me pass, and the King will thank you.”

“I’m sorry, Rek,” Hem replied.

He must be too far for psyche
, Cleve figured. He readied himself for battle by gathering Bastial Energy into his stomach and chest.

Hem stepped away from the banister. In his place appeared a woman with hair as dark as Hem’s, but her skin was golden brown, the color of fresh bronze. She stuck out her head as if just curious about what was below, but then she produced a bow and pulled an arrow over her shoulder. To Cleve’s surprise, she aimed it at their group. Everyone started to scatter—everyone except Cleve.

He was sizzling with energy. It burst through his arms and danced across his fingertips. Faster than he could think, he drew an arrow of his own, pulled back on his string hard and steady, and aimed at her weapon.

The arrow soared upward, and he saw with relief that his shot was perfect. It smashed her bow in two with a loud snap of what could only be wood shattering.

The young lady gasped so loudly he could hear it six floors below. With half her weapon still in hand, her wide eyes fell on Cleve. She had a silly, open-mouthed grin, and her palms were outstretched with bafflement. She said something, and Cleve thought he heard it as
“Bastial hell!”

Cleve let down his bow and wagged a finger at her. It came out so naturally, he surprised himself. It was the same feeling as belching after a long drink. The young lady laughed and shook her head.

His showy reaction confirmed a suspicion he had about himself.
I guess I’m one of those kinds of warriors,
he thought, but more self-reflection would have to wait because Hem was rushing down the stairs with dozens of warriors behind him.

Cleve couldn’t let poor old Colimp be the first line of defense, but with one arrow left, Cleve needed a different weapon. He’d left the shabby broom outside the castle walls, unable to hold it and his bow.

“Colin, you’ve been through enough,” Cleve said. “Get behind us and lend me your sword.”

“If you need a sword, get one from the wall in there. No need to insult me.” Colimp pointed to some sort of formal meeting hall.

Looking behind him, Cleve first saw the room’s walls were adorned with a variety of banners, and it hosted a large oval table surrounded by embroidered seats. When he entered, he saw what Colimp was referring to—two swords mounted over a hearth.

Inside, two rats appeared lost. They were running along the walls, stopping to sniff every few feet. Above the swords was an exaggerated portrait of Westin Kimard, the late father of their current king. His arms were folded below a stern expression as if judging Cleve for bringing rats into the castle.
I know,
Cleve agreed,
the rats are a bit much
.

The two rodents followed Cleve out and ran up the stairs toward their attackers, who were now speedily descending to the third floor. The sound of their boots slamming against the wooden steps was a deep, thunderous noise and steadily getting louder.

But Cleve was ready, confident even, and he knew psyche had nothing to do with it. It helped that every guard seemed to have his own battles raging against the rats within his armor, for they all danced and shimmied with wild hands while trying to maintain their speed. But Cleve knew that wasn’t the main reason he was unafraid. He trusted his ability. This was battle. This was what he was trained for. This was the opposite of Reela, who made him weak with a mere smile.