Authors: Violette Malan
The Mirror Prince (23 page)
“Never would have thought of that,” he muttered under his breath as he hooked the sword on the belt loop in his harness.
Noise and movement at the door caused them both to turn around. While Max was pleased to see that his own sword was up and ready almost as quickly as Cassandra’s, the relief when he saw that it was Lightborn proved that he wasn’t as ready for slaughter as he thought. The pale Rider made a quick face, as if he smelled the body and the blood that were no longer there to be seen.
“Are you safe?” he said. “Warriors have been appearing throughout the keep. Who would have thought so many of the Basilisk’s Riders knew Griffinhome well enough to Move here?”
Cassandra shrugged, closing the zipper on her shoulder bag. She adjusted the strap to its full extent, and slipped her head and shoulders into it, making sure the strap passed under the long sword hanging down her back. The bag hung low behind her left hip, where it would stay out of the way of her sword arm.
“Come, my mother holds the main stairs, but we must make our way quickly to the stables before more of the Basilisk’s warriors arrive.” Lightborn opened the door and looked out, keeping flat against the wall.
“Can’t we Move there?” Max said. He picked up his own saddlebags, and Cassandra helped him balance them over his left shoulder. For all that they were full of metal, they seemed very light.
“We must rejoin my mother first, my Prince,” Lightborn said, “I cannot leave her to defend Griffinhome alone, not even for you. Do you follow me, Warden, and the Prince can be eyes-behind.”
“Lead by all means, my lord. But the Prince will be safer between us.” The look on her face was exactly the thinly disguised irritation of any professional who had been given instructions by an amateur. Max had often seen that look on the guy who did work around his house. Lightborn looked astonished—like a teacher corrected by a student. He covered up quickly, but not before Max noticed, and started wondering how much he actually liked the man. Max stepped into position between them to forestall any further discussion. He was ready to get moving; all this talking was just delaying things.
“Were we betrayed?” Cassandra murmured as she motioned Max to follow Lightborn through the door. Her voice was a mere breath in the relative darkness of the castle passage. “Where is Windwatcher?”
Good question,
Max thought, but his attention was drawn by the sounds of fighting in the distance. It amazed him how quickly the room behind them had come to seem a refuge, even though the sudden appearance of the woman soldier proved that doors and walls weren’t much of a sanctuary where Riders were concerned. Still, being in the passage made the fine hairs on the back of his neck lift up.
Max thought, but his attention was drawn by the sounds of fighting in the distance. It amazed him how quickly the room behind them had come to seem a refuge, even though the sudden appearance of the woman soldier proved that doors and walls weren’t much of a sanctuary where Riders were concerned. Still, being in the passage made the fine hairs on the back of his neck lift up.
“I would not think it possible,” Lightborn said firmly.
Cassandra shrugged. “He has changed sides once already,” she pointed out.
“Many have done so, since the Great War—time you have spent safely in the Shadowlands, Warden.”
Cassandra’s only answer was a nod that Lightborn couldn’t see.
Before they had gone more than halfway toward the corner of the passage, they were struck by a blast of cold air. Lightborn put a hand to the wall as another wave struck them. Caught in midstep, Max overbalanced, and only Cassandra’s arm kept him upright. As they clung to each other, yet another wave came, bringing with it a sound so low it seemed to resonate in his bones. He smelled a fleeting but familiar whiff of old blood and rot. His stomach twisted, and he felt a sudden sharp pain low on his left side, where a scar marked his encounter with the Hound.
He looked at Cassandra once the sound wave had passed them, but she shook her head, eyes wide.
“It is the Horn that calls the Hunt,” Lightborn said, dragging in air like a diver coming up out of the depths. “Some favorite of the Basilisk’s is here to use it.”
“Run.” Cassandra pointed forward with her sword, and drew the long dagger she had used against the Hound out of the top of her left boot.
Running now, they followed Lightborn the short distance down the rest of the passage, around the corner and down another, identical except for the arched window openings on the left side. Max caught a glimpse of a night sky, a moon, half full, near the horizon, and the sky almost devoid of stars. Surely there had been sunlight coming in the window of their room only moments ago? Max skidded on the smooth tile floor as Lightborn slowed, and lifted his finger to his lips. They were nearing the end of the windowed passage, where it joined another, wider hallway. Lightborn turned toward them, jerked his head up, and pointed to the right. Max nodded, took a firmer grip on his sword, and followed Lightborn around the corner.
They found themselves at one end of an open gallery from which they could see the top of what must be the main staircase of the fortress. The stairs themselves, wide and shallow, were made of some green-gold stone like marble; the staircase was wide enough for five people to stand abreast, and in that space Honor of Souls stood with two guards, all three with swords out. Moon stood behind them, a dagger in each hand. A quick glance told Max that at least nine purple-clad Riders were trying to come at them up the stairs. Honor and her people were helped by the height the stairs gave them, Max saw, and by the fact that their opponents were too crowded together to rush them. But even as Lightborn ran forward, the man to Honor’s right, already bleeding from a wound in his right leg, went down, and Lightborn leaped into the space beside his mother before the successful enemy could flank her.
Max and Cassandra took up positions one to each side of Moon. Pale to the point of fainting, the young Rider gave her sister a stiff smile. Max moved around to Moon’s left, and returned Cassandra’s nod with the best grin he could manage. He hefted the sword in his hand, trying to regain that feeling of oneness he’d had when he’d first picked it up.
He had a moment to feel his skin get cold as his blood retreated from the surface, preparing for injury. He wished he’d had time to put on more than his mail shirt, as he glanced at Cassandra, a blade in each hand, her bag swinging off her left shoulder. Max remembered using that bag as a flail against the Hound, and shrugged off his own saddlebags, but found that without a strap there was no way he could conveniently use them as a bludgeon. He let them drop and pushed them behind him with his foot. As well-packed as they were, they were bulky, and he needed complete range of movement. And if he had to run, well, the stuff in the bags was no use to him unless he lived.
How much time did they have before the Hunt arrived?
Honor of Souls took a step back onto the landing at the top of the staircase, and Cassandra called to her to step out, that she would take over. Before the woman could answer, the sound of running feet made them look toward the left. The Basilisk’s soldiers had found a way around the main stairs after all and were coming at them from the far end of the gallery.
A shadow flickered at the periphery of his vision, and Max was moving even as Cassandra cried out a warning. His quickness meant the blow landed on his
gra’if
-protected shoulder and not on his head as his assailant intended. Max’s numb right hand almost dropped the sword, but he remembered Cassandra’s instruction just in time and brought up his left hand, instinctively continuing the movement into a sweep that sank his blade into his attacker’s neck, knocking the man to his knees.
gra’if
-protected shoulder and not on his head as his assailant intended. Max’s numb right hand almost dropped the sword, but he remembered Cassandra’s instruction just in time and brought up his left hand, instinctively continuing the movement into a sweep that sank his blade into his attacker’s neck, knocking the man to his knees.
Max was staring openmouthed as the man’s life spilled out onto the floor when he was shoved from behind. He flinched, turning to bring his sword to bear, but instead of striking at him, Max’s new assailant grabbed him by his upper arms, dragging him backward away from the fighting. Max fought to dislodge the hands, desperate to prevent his attacker from getting a good hold, while he tried to maintain a grip on his own sword.
Max heard Cassandra call out behind him, but her shout ended in a grunt. Max set his teeth and clung harder to his sword as more gloved hands tried to wrest it from him. Feeling was just tingling back into his right hand, and Max tried not to think of what would have happened if he hadn’t been wearing armor. The hands holding him shifted their bruising grip yet again, and Max, remembering that the edges were sharp as well as the points, planted his feet, shrugged his shoulders and twisted his wrists, thrusting out firmly with his sword. The man trying to take the sword from him sprang back with a cry, holding bleeding fingers. Max immediately threw himself backward, pushing off the floor as hard as he could with his legs. He knocked the unprepared man holding him to the floor, landing on his chest, pushing the air out of him, and rolled himself free.
He looked down, dragging air into his own lungs, and while he hesitated, the man on the floor kicked out and swept Max’s feet out from under him. Max crashed against the stone balustrade of the gallery, banging his abused right arm again and numbing his shoulder. The man on the floor was just rolling to his feet, triumphantly grinning, when Cassandra dashed up and, twisting her double-handed grip sideways, swept off his head with one blow.
Must like that headless look,
Max thought.
Max thought.
A slap as an arrow bounced off the stone floor and Cassandra ducked as another whistled past her head. Lightborn killed the man in front of him, kicked the feet out from under the man in front of his mother so that she could cut his throat, and stepped back toward Cassandra and Max.
“Kill as many as you can, and then back the way we came,” he yelled over his shoulder as another of the Basilisk’s Riders swung at him.
Max scrambled to his feet. Now that the first rush of excitement had passed, he found that he settled automatically into a routine of thrust and parry. He relaxed, letting his sword hand move, and he felt an unexpected detachment settle over him, at once distancing him from the fighting and narrowing his focus to the Rider in front of him. He was aware of Cassandra, behind him to his left, and how she moved like a dancer; he saw the flicker of Moon’s dagger. Then he realized that the woman he fought now was no more trying to kill him than the guy who had grabbed him from behind, and that realization made him falter.
Before he could recover from his hesitation, Moon stumbled, falling with almost her full weight against Max’s lowered sword arm. He took a step backward, but trod heavily onto his own saddlebags. In the moment it took him to lose his balance completely and fall, he had time to feel really stupid.
Max hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him. A weight, someone heavier than Moon he thought, as he fought to inhale, fell on top of him, and hands once more clutched at his arms. Max heard Cassandra’s voice and struggled to turn toward the sound when—
SLAM!
Chapter Nine
MAX DREAMS THAT a dog licks his face. It’s more than a little unpleasant, the tongue is rougher, and much hotter than he would have expected. And talk about dog breath! Gagh! This dog must have been eating rotten meat.
How can I be dreaming,
he thinks,
when I’m not asleep.
Passed out, maybe. Too many Moves, beating him with images—a stone-walled room, the stones covered with moss and dripping water; the middle of a snowstorm, sleet cutting at his face; a wooded hillside, leaves just on the point of turning; a dripping rain forest unbearably hot, smelling of dying vegetation; a sun-drenched beach at low tide, and three times a grassy lawn circled with huge standing stones—like sitting too close to the screen in an action movie. Too many CRACKS! and SLAMS! taking his breath away as he passed from place to place, until his lungs and his brain just shut off. Do you dream when you’re passed out? The dog goes on licking his face. Max wonders why he couldn’t dream of Cassandra instead of this Hound—
How can I be dreaming,
he thinks,
when I’m not asleep.
Passed out, maybe. Too many Moves, beating him with images—a stone-walled room, the stones covered with moss and dripping water; the middle of a snowstorm, sleet cutting at his face; a wooded hillside, leaves just on the point of turning; a dripping rain forest unbearably hot, smelling of dying vegetation; a sun-drenched beach at low tide, and three times a grassy lawn circled with huge standing stones—like sitting too close to the screen in an action movie. Too many CRACKS! and SLAMS! taking his breath away as he passed from place to place, until his lungs and his brain just shut off. Do you dream when you’re passed out? The dog goes on licking his face. Max wonders why he couldn’t dream of Cassandra instead of this Hound—
“Rest, there is nothing for you to fear now.” The voice was musical, soothing; the hand that had been stroking his face withdrew.
Max blinked and looked around him. He was lying on a long chaise piled with cushions in a large, circular, wood-paneled room. The linen-fold paneling was warmly golden, reflecting the light from the room’s round windows. What he could see of the floor was covered with a scattering of small rugs, each complexly patterned. From the slant of the sunlight, it was late afternoon. He felt an unfamiliar ache in his right wrist and forearm and the stiffening of muscles that undoubtedly was the result of using a sword. He wondered how long he’d been asleep.
“Dawntreader.”
Max turned toward the beautiful voice.
There was no doubt in his mind that this was the Basilisk Prince. Once, as a young man, he’d met Trudeau, when he’d been Prime Minister for several years, and this man had that same quality of power and arrogance. He moved with the awareness that he was the most important person in the room, and he would always move that way, no matter what room he was in. The Basilisk was a Sunward Rider, Max had been told, and this man had the same red-gold, sun-touched look that Windwatcher had. A long face, too thin, with a prominent nose slightly hooked, wide mouth, full lips. But, like all of the Riders Max had seen, beautiful.
Other books
Orbelon's World (Book 3) by Martin Ash
Just Want Somebody to Love (Bella Warren Book 1) by Keri Ford
Defending Jacob by Landay, William
Melody Burning by Whitley Strieber
More Deaths Than One by Pat Bertram
Blue Moon Bay by Lisa Wingate
A Highlander Never Surrenders by Paula Quinn
The Best of Kay Jaybee by Kay Jaybee
The Illusion of Separateness by Simon van Booy
Brie Learns Restraint (After Graduation, #5) by Red Phoenix