The Wrath of the King (17 page)

Leander was there, swinging his weapon left and right. Smoke not of the fire nature was just then clearing.

“Anything?” Leander asked.

“No. She's either been taken away somewhere else or is down in the dungeon.”

“We've only got minutes left. No time to search the entire basement,” Leander said. “I already covered the big rooms on the main floor.”

“I'm not leaving without her.”

“She's probably not here. Better to stay alive and fight another day than to succumb to the horde about to come through the doors. I only have enough gas to get us out of here,” Leander said, referring to the grenades they'd thrown to knock out security.

Sander cursed a blue streak. She could be anywhere. There were hundreds upon hundreds of rooms to check on all floors, not to mention the expansive dungeon.

“I bet they moved her. No one has seen Paavo, either, so it's likely he took her with him,” Leander said.

Gunnar bolted down the stairs, shaking his head. No Chey.

“Let's go,” Leander said. Without waiting for Sander's affirmation, he pulled out several grenades and lobbed them through the open door.

“She's not here, let's go!” Gunnar shouted.

With little choice but to comply, Sander rushed the doorway with the other two, covering their back as they streamed into the courtyard. Leander and Gunnar opened fire, shooting to maim instead of kill. The guards nearest were all sprawled, victims of the gas.

Piling into the Hummer, Gunnar leaned out the front window while Sander leaned out the other, clearing a path back through the front gates on their way off the property. It was a messy job, aided by the chaos of the fire and disorganization on the hastily arranged 'military'. No one knew where they were supposed to be in this kind of crisis, which helped Sander and the other two get in and out unscathed.

Once free of the castle, Sander and Gunnar sank into the seats. Sander put the safety on his weapon and thrust it onto the seat beside him, tugging the mask off with impatient hands.

“She's out there somewhere,” Leander said, driving onto a dirt road leading away
from the encampments and troops.

“She better be, and she'd better be safe,” Sander snarled.

“Let's get somewhere off their radar and we'll decide what our next step is. Or,” Leander said with a glance in the rear view. “You can drop me off here, and I'll go back and immerse myself into the ranks. If she's there, I'll find her.”

“That should be me going back,” Sander said, unhappy with his choices. Unhappy that they'd been forced to leave empty handed.

“They don't know me like they know you. My face isn't a dead giveaway. Yours is.” Leander brought the Hummer to a stop beneath the boughs of a tall tree and twisted around in the seat. He met Sander's eyes.

Sander considered it. Leander was right, and it was part of the beauty of being unknown. A person could slip in and out of places so much easier when they blended in with the rest of humanity. It was one of Leander's specialties.

“You can get back out again, you're sure?” Sander asked.

“Absolutely. I'll look for Wynn, too, although I didn't see her anywhere in there, either.”

“All right. In and out in twenty-four hours. Call when you're ready to know our location and we'll meet up,” Sander said, making a snap decision. He wanted to make sure that Chey wasn't being held somewhere else in the castle. The only way to do that was to let Leander slip back in and clear every room on every floor.

“Will do.” Leander put the Hummer in park, stripped some of his weaponry off, replaced it with other, less noticeable gear, and exited the vehicle.

Sander watched him jog toward the castle, confident in Leander's abilities. The opening and closing of another door alerted him to Gunnar's switch from passenger to driver.

“Where are we headed?” Gunnar asked.

Sander glimpsed his brother's solemn, stern expression via the rear view mirror. One mission down, a wealth of experience gained. Despite the fact they came up empty handed with their target.

“Head East. Stay close to the river and if we're stopped, follow Leander's lead in dealing with the troops.”

“If they press the issue?”

“Then prepare for things to get ugly.”

. . .

Chey walked until yet another cramp forced her to stop. Bracing a palm against a boulder, she pushed at a particular spot on her stomach, willing the ache to go away. She told herself it was from the miles she'd put between herself and the castle, the rough terrain, and the stress of knowing there were unfriendly troops in the vicinity.

Glancing through the trees, she could just make out the vague outline of Paavo's holding in the distance. The twinkle of lights lining the drive and those from high windows made it easy to spot in the darkness. Pleased with how far she'd gotten in her condition, Chey took a moment to rest and take stock of her situation.

She needed water above all else. Her mouth felt like a wad of cotton and it had recently become painful to swallow. Thus far, she hadn't trusted the water in the tiny creek weaving through the forest, but at some point, she would need to set
aside her concern to slake her thirst. Shelter was also an issue; her clothing wasn't nearly thick or protective enough to ward off the chill pervading the evening, and if her nose was working properly, rain was in the immediate forecast. Danger lurked out in the open areas, where scouts might be patrolling the pastures and meadows. Remaining hidden was critical to a successful escape.

That meant she needed to begin searching for an isolated farm or home, where the people would hopefully be loyal to Sander and not to Paavo. She didn't think she was far enough away from Paavo's holding yet to come across individual dwellers, which meant another hour or two traversing the woods at her painfully slow pace. Or, perhaps if she cut sideways across the countryside, she could decrease her travel by half. Maybe that would get her off Paavo's property faster.

Pushing off the boulder, picking her way carefully over exposed root systems and rocks, Chey angled away from the pasture to her left. Finding what she thought was a deer trail, she followed it overland for an hour or more, pausing often to give her body a rest.

When a clearing broke open to her right, she made her way to a thick trunk and peered around, choosing to remain hidden and undercover while she assessed things. At the far end of the clearing, the outline of a farmhouse rose against the backdrop of more forest. Part of the land had been tilled for a garden, the rows of green plants sprouting as high as her knee. A dilapidated barn sat farther to her right, near the edge of the clearing, with the vague sounds of horses coming from inside.

It
looked
peaceful enough, but that gave her no insight to the loyalty of the tenants. Regardless, she couldn't walk much longer. Not only was her body demanding surcease, the second the sun came up, she would be much easier to spot from both land and air.

Remaining in the trees, Chey circled toward the front of the farmhouse, exiting the foliage only when she found a road leading in and out of the property. Taking it, she approached the homestead, spying a light flash in an upstairs window when dogs inside started barking.

A stair creaked as she ascended to the porch, noting a few rocking chairs of good quality taking up space further down. When the door opened some minutes later, Chey didn't attempt to hide or disguise herself. A weathered man stood there with a shotgun angled across his chest, the hounds at his heels growling and barking through the screen. Appearing hastily dressed in overalls and boots with the tongues hanging open, the farmer snapped on the porch light.

“It's dangerous coming to a house—
your Highness?”
The farmer, upon realizing who he was looking at, blustered in surprise.

“Yes, it's me. I'm seeking refuge and shelter and means of communication. May I find that here?” Chey asked, using English instead of the native tongue. She didn't want any confusion and knew the farmer would be able to converse with her this way. Most citizens learned the second language as children. These next few seconds should tell her whether this man happened to be loyal to Paavo or Sander, or at the very least, if he supported the break up of the country.

“What—yes, of course. By all means. Please, please come inside.” He ordered his hounds to silence, sending the dogs scurrying toward some other spot away from the door when he opened it for her.

Chey exhaled with relief. The man's allegiance appeared to be with Sander. She stepped inside out of the cold, pleased to find the interior of the farmhouse well cared for, clean and filled with polished antiques. Before she got too comfortable,
however, Chey knew she needed to make sure that the farmer was willing to shield her and protect her. She met his eyes across the quaint living room as he closed the door.

“I must ask your word that you will tell no one I am sheltering here. Also, it is imperative that I know with which man your loyalty lies.” Chey assessed the farmer's expression while he leaned his weapon in the corner by the door. He stood perhaps five-ten, with broad shoulders, thick arms and a robust stature. The farmer drew himself up, salt and pepper whiskers bristling on his chin.

“You have my word, your Highness. It's only me and my wife here. We're loyal to the King, your Highness, as it has always been.”

“Not the sitting King, Paavo?” Chey wanted to be clear. She detected something like disapproval when she mentioned Paavo's name.

“He is no King, announcement or no announcement,” the farmer said. “We give our allegiance to King Sander, no other.”

Chey didn't allow her relief to show through. Bitter experience taught her that only time and action would prove the truth of his words. “Good. Now, may I have access to your phone?”

“Of course, of course. This way.” The farmer motioned toward an archway that led to a broad kitchen. He entered first and went straight to a phone perched on the tile counter.

“Thank you. Can I ask you to keep watch out the front? If you see movement, alert me.” Chey didn't think she had it in her to flee again. Her legs ached, her back hurt, and she suffered twinges every so often through her belly. The last thing she wanted to do was throw herself into labor out here. Notice that they were about to have company would help, however.

“Yes, your Highness. My wife will be down shortly, if you'd like something to eat or drink,” the farmer said.

“Water, please.” Chey picked up the handset, wondering who to call. If Sander
was still unconscious, dialing his phone wouldn't do any good. Besides that, even if he was awake, he might not have it on him. Who then? Krislin could possibly be captured as she was. A call to her might lead Paavo's people right to the farmhouse. As the farmer sat down a tall glass of water next to her elbow, Chey mouthed
thank you
and started dialing.

There was one person who Chey thought might have gone unscathed in this whole mess. Someone not monitored by security with the current situation unraveling in the family seat.

“Hello?” Hanna said.

“Have a care not to react to my voice, where ever you are,” Chey cautioned her personal assistant. “It's critical that you don't let on who you're talking to.”

“...Yes, Miss Olsen, you've got the order correct.
Five
pillow cases in baby blue,” Hanna said. The sound of muffled voices in the background faded as Hanna moved away.

Thankful that Hanna thought quick on her feet, Chey continued. “I need you to contact Gunnar. Call him yourself. Tell him I've escaped Paavo's holding and am holed up at a farmhouse a handful of miles away. And I need news of Sander. I need to know if he's all right.--Hello?”

Belatedly, Chey realized she was talking to dead air. Pulling the phone away from her ear, she realized the lights behind the numbers were out. After hanging up and attempting to get a dial tone, Chey put the handset back in the holder. A glance at the archway put a woman into view, a woman as weathered and wrinkled as the farmer. A silvery bun had come askew, probably when the woman went to bed,
leaving straggling pieces of hair falling to her shoulders. The white nightgown,
modestly high on the throat and long in the sleeve, served to obscure all but the woman's head and hands. In her fingers, she held the unplugged line to the phone.

This,
this
was why Chey could not put her full trust in anyone. Unsure how much Hanna heard before the premature end of the call, Chey faced the farmer's wife.

“I guess I misunderstood when your husband said you were both loyal to the King,” Chey said.

“Fredrik is of the old ways, slow to see the good change sometimes brings,” the woman said in heavy, accented English. “If you please, take a seat.”

Chey crossed the kitchen, glass in hand, and sat down in one of six chairs surrounding a sturdy, square table. She noticed the ache in her legs and feet much more when she took pressure off them.

Now what,
Chey thought. She sized the farmer's wife up, debating how far the woman would go to prevent Chey from leaving. Probably pretty far. While she assessed, she drank, desperate to quench her thirst. The water was clear, cold and delicious.

“Olga!” The farmer barged into the kitchen, gun in hand. He scowled when he took in the details of the unplugged phone and Chey sitting at the table. A sudden burst of Latvala spewed forth, a rant that the farmer's wife returned.

Clearly, the couple were at odds with the division and change in leadership. Chey decided this could be a boon—or a disaster. Picking out choice sentences during the argument, she ascertained that the woman had bought into Paavo's propaganda hook, line and sinker. She fully seemed to believe that dividing the country up was the best option, one that would benefit her and her husband.

Fredrik, red faced and not shy about making wild gestures when he spoke, adamantly repeated that to be loyal to a usurper was tantamount to treason. Long minutes later, chest rising and falling with the effort the argument took from him, the farmer glanced at Chey.