The Chosen Prince (16 page)

“That's a diversion,” Nestor says. “Their real business is here.”

“I understand,” Pitheus says. “They're not in the building yet, but it won't be long. There's heavy fighting in the street by the main door.”

Nestor quickly assesses the situation. Peles and Leander have finished with the brace. But all three of them are barefoot and Leander's weapon is on the floor beside his cot.

“You two, put your sandals on; I'll help the prince. Leander, get your sword. Do it now.” He kneels at Alexos' feet, slips on his boots, and hastily ties the laces.

“What about my father?”

“He has his own men to protect him. You are our only concern—and I'm sorry but we really have to hurry!”

Pitheus comes in. “Now!” he says urgently.

From below they hear the tearing of wood as the raiders break down the door, then shouts as men scramble through the breach and into the building,
rapid footsteps on the stairs.

Roughly, Peles takes Alexos under the arms and Leander grabs his legs. Then they haul him out the door like a piece of furniture. There's no time to stop and rearrange themselves to carry him more efficiently. They just run as they are—stumbling and bumping against the walls, with Nestor in the lead, Pitheus and Silanos protecting the rear—through the darkness to the far end of the corridor.

“Where are we going?” Alexos shouts.

“Out the side door,” Nestor says. He says it in a hoarse whisper, a warning to Alexos to keep his voice down. They don't want to call attention to themselves.

At the end of the corridor, they turn to the left and head down a flight of stairs. There are no torches in the sconces here, no lamps; they have to feel their way in the darkness, step by step. Alexos is tilted at an angle now, his head higher than his feet. This is more comfortable for him but it's harder for Leander, who now has to bear most of his weight.

They stop when they reach the landing. Nestor had been sure there'd be a door here, matching the one on the east wing of the building. But there is none, just another flight of stairs leading down to a basement storeroom. Nestor curses. “Keep going,” he says.

Halfway down, Leander loses his footing and Peles
is pulled off balance. They hit the stairs hard, a shocking blow, followed by a bruising slide over sharp-edged stone. For a moment they just lie there, sprawled and gasping.

“Alexos?” Leander whispers. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Dead?”

“No.”

It's amazing how Leander always finds the perfect thing to say—often, as on this occasion, the very opposite of what would seem appropriate.

“Good,” Peles says, catching the spirit, “so now, if my lord Leander will please pick up the prince's legs, perhaps we can find a less painful way to carry him down the stairs.”

The storeroom is large and cool and the darkest place of all. Alexos doesn't like it. If the building is set ablaze, as it almost certainly will be, the whole structure will collapse on top of them, and the thought of being buried in an avalanche of burning timbers makes him want to scream. They have to get out of this death trap—
now!
If they run into raiders, so be it. Better to fight their way out. Better to die by the sword, if it comes to that.

“We have to go back,” Alexos says. “This was a
mistake.” He doesn't even try to hide the panic in his voice.

“No, my lord,” Nestor says, “I think we'll be all right. It's a storeroom, so it must have a door. It'll be on the north wall, opening onto the alley in back. Since we're below grade, I expect there'll be a ramp. I'm sure I can find it.”

“But won't it be locked?”

“Probably bolted from the inside.”

“I hope you're right.”

“Yes, my lord. So do I.”

They wait while Nestor feels his way along the north wall. They hear the soft scuffing of his sandals in the darkness, the thump or clang as he knocks against amphorae filled with olives or wine, barrels of salted fish, boxes of linens.

Upstairs, the chaos continues; but here in the basement the sounds of fighting are muffled by layers of wood and stone, reduced to background noise, like the wind on a stormy night. Alexos sets that aside and listens instead to the sounds of the room—Nestor searching, the others shifting nervously, their quiet breathing. And beyond that, faint but unmistakable, footsteps on the stairs.

“Shhh,” he hisses in warning, and for a moment they all freeze. Then Nestor continues his search, but more
quietly now, while Leander and the other guards creep toward the stairway door, their swords out and ready.

And suddenly Alexos understands what this is all about, why the raiders are here on this particular night when they've never broken the truce before. This is no ordinary attack. It's a limited strike with a specific target, planned at the last minute when, quite unexpectedly,
Alexos arrived
.

How King Pyratos came to hear of it is anybody's guess. Maybe the odious Carrot-head was actually a spy (“May I humbly ask, Your Majesty, if you will grace our presence for long?”). Or maybe the Ferran sentries simply saw the boys ride in. It wouldn't be that hard; all they had to do was peer through the pitiful barricades that divide the two armies.

But however he found out, Pyratos wouldn't hesitate to break a sacred truce if he saw an advantage in it. And the chance to kill both father and son with a single blow, thus putting an end to the royal line of Arcos, was an opportunity not to be missed.

Upstairs, the battle to kill the king continues: shouts and screams, heavy thumps as bodies are slammed against walls, the metallic ring of sword on sword, the crashing as chests and tables are overturned. But Ektor is only half the prize. The other half is sitting on a storeroom floor, feeling particularly
helpless and exposed, while outside on the landing, men with swords wait in silence, hoping they haven't given themselves away, getting ready to spring out and catch them unawares.

No one moves. Though Alexos can't see them in the gloom, he knows that Pitheus, Silanos, and Leander are somewhere near the door, frozen in a defensive position, every muscle taut, waiting. Alexos, too, is primed for action, his sword out and angled for a sideways sweep. He reminds himself to swing high enough to strike at the knee, above the protective greaves.

It's better than nothing, a way to fight back, but he'd far rather be standing. He'd also like to have something to hold on to—his cane, for instance, which is still upstairs leaning against a wall.

Now he hears the slightest intake of breath. Nestor has found the door. Then the silky swish of hands on wood and iron, exploring the bolt apparatus, trying to imagine what it looks like and exactly how it works. When the moment comes, Nestor will have to shoot the bolt free and open the door in a single, rapid motion. There must be no delay, no unexpected complications. Because once he starts, it's going to make a lot of noise.

Still, nothing. The wait seems endless. They strain
to hear the slightest sound—the creak of a board, the whisper of metal sliding against leather as a sword is slowly drawn. Alexos isn't sure whether he's actually hearing a soft tread, mostly drowned out by the noise from above, or if he's just
feeling
the ominous presence on the other side of that door.

No, he's hearing it, and it's inside the room, coming closer, practically beside him now. But Alexos doesn't swing. It's probably Leander, who always seems to know what Alexos needs, often before Alexos does. And sure enough, there comes a gentle touch on the shoulder. Then, squatting behind him, Leander grips Alexos firmly under the arms and heaves him up.

Alexos does what he can to make this easier. He leans forward, planting his left foot to keep his legs from sliding. Once he's upright and balanced, Leander leads him slowly away from the center of the room. They find a large cask for him to lean on for support. Then, with a last consoling touch, he melts back into the darkness.

There's no way the raiders could have failed to hear them. Leander had grunted softly with the exertion of lifting him up, Alexos' brace had creaked, and he'd dragged his right foot as they walked. But it probably doesn't matter. The soldiers already know they're in here. Any moment now.

There is only the briefest warning as the latch is raised. Then the door from the stairway flies wide and slams against the wall. At the same moment, on the other side of the room, Nestor opens the storeroom door. Dim orange light pours into the room, followed by clouds of acrid smoke. It startles the attackers and blinds them for a moment, giving Nestor time to join the others.

There are four against four and they're evenly matched—or they would be if the prince's guards were wearing all their armor and Leander had anything besides a sword. They've paired off, two by two, all of them trained swordsmen, so natural and assured that for a moment it feels more like a demonstration of swordsmanship than men actually trying to kill one another.

And they might have gone on like that for a long time—striking and trapping, dancing and ducking—had Peles not crept unnoticed out of the shadows, a crate held high over his head, and brought it down with a sickening thud on the back of Leander's opponent. For a moment they stand in stunned amazement looking down in wonderment at the inert figure. Then Leander dives back into the fray and Peles runs across the room to Alexos.

“We need to go,” he whispers.

Alexos hesitates. He is watching the fighting, his heart in his throat.

“Please forgive me, Your Highness, but I know what you're thinking. And I feel bound to remind you that it isn't your duty to stay here and fight. Your duty, if you'll pardon me for mentioning it, is to survive this attack. For if you and the king should both die here tonight, then Arcos is truly lost.”

Peles is right on both counts. That
was
what Alexos was thinking. And it
is
his duty to run away, just as it was his duty to go on living when he'd rather have died. So, step by awkward step, they make their way toward the door.

“If you could move a little faster, my lord, that would be good,” Peles adds.

“Doing my best,” Alexos mutters, then tries harder. They are locked so tightly together, Alexos can smell the man's sweat, feel his breath, warm against his cheek.

It does not occur to either of them how visible they've become, two dark shapes against the glowing light from the fires. And one of the raiders, having a clear view of the figures in the doorway—a tall youth in a long tunic who swings his right leg stiffly with every step, and another man who is holding him, helping him walk—knows this must be Alexos, the lame prince of Arcos.

In a single, fluid movement, he lunges at Silanos, driving him back for a moment, then whirls around and runs across the room. Instantly, Peles swings Alexos to the proper angle for using his sword, then ducks down and wraps his other arm around the prince, steadying him in a protective embrace, becoming a human shield.

It happens so fast that Alexos has no time to think. He can only do what he's done so many times before, first in the practice yard, then in his exercise room. Using the muscles in his back and hips for added power, he swings with all the might of his strong right arm. The motion is smooth and familiar till the sword strikes bone; then the recoil throws him sharply back. He and Peles come close to falling, but it's the soldier from Ferra who drops like a stone.

Then Peles all but drags him into the night.

THE FLAMES AND SMOKE
are more apparent here. Figures dart along the streets, shadows in the glowing air, like patrons pouring out of a theater after the play is over. That's how it feels to Alexos, like the end of something.

Peles leads him through a warren of winding streets and back lanes, always tending in a northerly direction, away from the central compound. They don't talk; they save their breath, because this isn't easy for either of them. Finally they come to a blind alley that looks to be a builder's staging area. Boards are stacked neatly against one wall. Near it are a pile of gravel, a heap of stones, and all manner of boxes and barrels. Several handcarts lean against the walls. Peles stops and looks at them.

“No,” says Alexos. “Don't even think it.”

“But, Your Highness, we could move so much faster—”

“No, Peles. I mean it. But you
can
find me a staff. Then I'll be able to walk on my own, and faster too.”

“You're sure, my lord?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Peles, just find me a staff! Look in that pile over there.”

Alexos leans against the wall, breathing hard, exhausted.

“Nothing too heavy,” he calls to Peles' back. “And not too big around to grip with ease.”

“I will try, Your Highness.”

The sky is pulsing with orange light; the fires must be spreading. And though Alexos can't tell for sure from where he stands, he's afraid the headquarters is burning too. Great clouds of smoke are building in that direction.

He thinks of his father and wonders if the guards have managed to protect him, if they've gotten him away to safety. He thinks of Leander fighting experienced soldiers twice his age without benefit of armor or a shield. And he tries not to imagine their deaths—his father, his friend. But it's hard. Alexos is afraid he's going to be sick.

“My lord?” Peles is back with a handful of sticks.
He notes the grim expression on the prince's face but doesn't remark upon it. “If any of these are acceptable, I will smooth the hand grip for you.”

Alexos tries them one by one—it's a good, simple task; it takes his mind off death for a moment—and picks the best of a bad lot. Peles finds a rock and goes to work, rounding off the sharp edges and filing away splinters. Then they're off again, still moving north toward the edge of the compound. It grows darker as they move away from the firelight, dark and eerily still. No one's here at all. Every man has gone to fight or put out the fires.