Chapter 22 #2
“And oranges. Look at this—they’re the size of grapefruits.” He removed a couple from the bag, weighing them in his hands. “I wonder if these are from the farmer’s market.”
“Probably. Only the best producers are allowed to have stalls in our designated market.” Theora nodded when he held up an orange. “Can you slice it into quarters for me?”
He couldn’t place why that made him grin.
Argos waited until Theora was napping to secure the rest of the wing. There was no mechanism to fully secure the outer door, but he rigged the door of their suite so it couldn’t be unlocked from the outside.
And then he sat down on the couch and picked up the phone.
It was a risk, calling Boada—if he couldn’t trust the people closest to Theora, he certainly couldn’t trust the phone operator. He would just have to watch what he said. Boada already knew to do the same.
“This is a bad time,” Boada said hurriedly after three rings, “call back later—”
“Boada, it’s me,” he blurted. He felt like a confused child in that moment, but at least she didn’t hang up.
“Argos.” His handler’s tone settled into something a bit more casual than usual. Warmer. Aware. “Where’s Theora?”
“Napping. She’s fine, though.”
“How goes newlywed life?”
Of course, she’d avoid the peace talks. If anyone suspicious was on the line, that’s the first thing they would listen for. “Terrible. I wish we could leave early. This environment isn’t good for a fresh relationship.”
“Well, what you’re there for is too important to leave early.”
“But they…” He paused for only a second, weighing whether he should tell at least a bit of the truth. “They’ve postponed the talks; Theora is sleeping off her distress.”
He tried his best to emphasize the word distress without sounding obvious.
There was a pause. “I can imagine, poor thing. But delays aren’t unheard of in these situations. Call me tomorrow night if it’s not rescheduled by then.”
“Will do.”
“I really do have to go—I have some things to get together. But…take care of your wife until I see you again.”
He wasn’t sure if Boada had understood that Theora’s life was in danger, that they needed to find some way home sooner than the end of the week. Still, he said, “You know I will,” and hung up the phone.
He sighed and went back into the bedroom. Seeing Theora, he felt himself grin. She was hugging her pillow, her face pressed against it. He didn’t dare touch her and disturb that sweet sleep, even if his hand was burning with a desire to comfort her.
But he was a Warrior. There were better ways to show his devotion. He donned his armored tunic and weapon, once again heading out to the tunnels.
Diplomacy had clearly failed them. Now he would protect Theora his way.
Finding Pyre’s wing was much easier the second time around. The chain on the door was still intact. And this time, there was no sign of voices.
He pulled the chain taut so it wouldn’t rattle when it snapped, sticking his blade into the thick loop. It broke with a quick twist. Carefully, he laid the chain down and opened the door, dropping quietly into the Vespulan queen’s dark closet.
He could smell four people in this room, and none of them was Pyre. But he’d handle them quickly, if need be.
He took a breath and entered. The room was dark as a moonless night, and everyone seemed to be sleeping. No sense in whetting his blade before it was necessary—after all, he held nothing against the citizens of Vespula, simply their government.
It was never the citizens’ fault.
The living room was a different story. Two of Pyre’s maids sat on the couch, leaping to their feet as soon as he stepped into the room.
He dispatched the first maid before she even had time to draw her weapons, but that gave the next maid enough time to extend her stingers from her wrists.
They had both clearly broken the shackles around their wrists that were supposed to keep their weapons safely away, only wearing them to keep up appearances.
Honeyfluffs didn’t fight in a way he’d ever seen in a Warrior.
This maid was fast, with a light, flighty grace Argos lacked, allowing her to bounce off surfaces after only the barest contact.
She moved with a more circular method. It was an evasive way of fighting, one that avoided getting caught at all costs—a style that made sense for a smaller fighter. But Argos always caught his prey.
And he really didn’t have time for this dancing around.
Argos grabbed her arm mid-attack and dragged the woman over to him, quickly slamming her onto the ground. A Warrior would’ve known better than to fight alone when she was the size of a gnat.
So, Pyre had come up with the same idea as Theora. Well, he couldn’t fault her for that, even if it did inconvenience him a bit. How many of the dozen handmaidens the queen had brought along were actually guards in disguise?
But that slam had clearly alerted others, because when he exited into the open area of the wing, four more were waiting for him. Stingers bared. They’d all broken free of their shackles, too.
He rushed out of the room, attacking the next person he saw—but was met by Pyre herself, her stingers crossed against his small spear, preventing the weapon from hitting its mark.
Shit. This just became complicated.
But it was too late to turn back now.
He launched into his next attack without pause. Pyre blocked that, too, shouting something Argos couldn’t understand to her maids, who scattered—and now he could see that the remaining half-dozen might have been regular maids, the rest clearly fighters in disguise, stingers drawn.
Luckily, Pyre had been a soldier before she became a queen, and it seemed she had no intention of letting others fight her battles for her.
“I don’t want any more bloodshed,” she said. “We’re here for peace.”
“Then why did you kill my wife?”
Her brows lowered, as if in confusion. And with that, he charged forward.
He knew from firsthand experience that a long fight was a losing one.
The best way to kill was to dispatch the enemy as soon as possible.
He had seconds, twenty seconds at the most, and he knew he needed to cut that down to far less if he wanted to get out alive.
So, right from the start the fight was desperate, and it only became more so each time their weapons connected, when a fighter collided with a wall or the ground.
The air was full of the sharp scent of adrenaline and the sound of echoing war cries and growls.
The first real spray of blood speckled the wall as Argos slashed the short spear across Pyre’s white shirt in a streak of red, the weapon knocked off its course to her heart only by her stinger. The smell of blood did nothing but electrify his prey drive.
He would finish this. Now.
When he blocked her next attack, he charged forward, too, shoving her to the ground. If he was cut in that exchange he didn’t notice, stabbing his blade downward, coming inches from slicing open her face before her stingers blocked the knife’s path.
Pyre yelled something at her maids and guards, but it must not have been for help, because the few of them who had begun to move forward backed away.
For a moment they struggled, but Argos had Pyre’s stingers pinned in a way that could only mean checkmate.
They were crossed in an X over her face, pressing ever closer.
If Argos won the battle of strength, her own stingers would gouge her face.
And if she retracted them, his blade would finish her.
Her only choice was to shove him back, gain some leverage, and his blade would break before Argos would let that happen.
“I know what you believe,” Pyre growled. “But this isn’t the way to get what you want.”
“How do you know what I want?” Argos growled back. Damn, this woman was strong. He had to get to it quickly if he didn’t want to run out of strength.
“Justice.” She glanced at his blade, moving ever closer.
She let out a desperate yell and pushed against the knife, gaining a few more inches of safety.
“Peace between our people. I’m sure Boada would tell you, this is not the way to get it.
And Theora would not appreciate being thrown back into war. ”
“Good thing they’re not here.”
Argos settled his weight into the weapon, and Pyre’s own stinger pressed a bloody diagonal path from her brow to her opposite cheek, tearing into her jaw as she turned her face away.
Even so, Pyre managed to hook her foot around his leg, slapping Argos onto his back.
By then they were both spent, panting as Pyre shifted away and guards took her place. Argos felt bruising pain in his side like a metal rod being jabbed into him, but he knew the feel of a blade attempting to penetrate his armor.
He was surrounded, stingers all around. They shifted in formation, drawing closer. Argos didn’t try to escape. The guards didn’t attack, only held him captive. Any attempt to attack or get away right now was pointless.
Pyre crouched down to get closer, letting out a heavy sigh as she shook her head. “I suppose I can’t blame Theora for trying.”
Argos wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he said nothing. He wasn’t escaping this alive, he knew that much. And if it had been him alone, he would go down with a fight, take his loss honorably.
But all he could think about was Theora.
“My wife had nothing to do with it,” he said.
“Your wife?” she asked with a raise of her brow. “Or your assignment?”
Argos almost laughed, as irrational as it felt. Of course, Pyre would understand how obvious it looked—a queen suddenly having affection for a massive, skilled fighter just before meeting with the enemy wasn’t the most common occurrence in modern society.
But then, neither was a decorated general becoming queen. She’d clearly come prepared, with her own guards disguised as maids. She didn’t trust Theora, either. Perhaps they were alike, in that way.
But then, Pyre was the one who’d started the war in the first place, wasn’t she?