Chapter 34 #2
Even at such a swift clip, the descent seems to last forever. Time enough for panic to swell, recede, and swell again. Time enough for the dragon boy to start whimpering something that sounds like prayers in a language I do not know. Some Khylmirian dialect, I suppose.
Finally, the box stops. It’s so abrupt, it makes me stagger and knocks the boy flat on his face. I brace myself, tossing hair out of my eyes. Reassuming position, I turn my body sideways to make a smaller target, angle my blade out, and draw a steadying breath.
The door slides open.
Taigan stands before me, his face illuminated in brilliant scintil light. For a moment, I see the vicious prince of earlier today, a man of action and blood and violence. Then his gaze fastens on me, startled. Like he wasn’t expecting to see me at all.
“Roselle?” he says, his brow puckering.
The boy shifts on the ground behind me. Taigan’s gaze snaps to him, and that flare of bloodlust ignites once more in his eyes.
It’s like he comes alive at the sight of a dragon, alive with the singular consuming need of his existence—the need of the dragon slayer to spill dragon blood.
It is his whole reason for being, like the instinct of the hunting wolf.
He draws back his sword arm, takes a lunging step toward the boy.
I move in a quick pattern of steps. Not quite as natural or instinctual as his, for I don’t have years of training to fall back on.
But those hours of practice have given my muscles some confidence, and pure desperation does the rest of the work.
I step sideways into Taigan’s path, between him and the boy.
As his blow descends, I lash out with my knife, and neatly slice open his forearm, cutting the tendons.
Taigan screams.
Even as his voice echoes up and down the passage, I move into the counterblow.
While his shocked arm is down, while the sword is still falling from his fingers, I slash again, slicing the muscles of his triceps.
Taigan’s head whips up. His eyes find mine, staring in utter shock.
For the space of a heartbeat, that shock dominates his pain.
I don’t give him a chance to recover. I strike him in the head with the hilt of my dagger as hard as I can. His eyes roll back in his head, and he goes down like a sack of stones, halfway inside the pulley lift.
“So,” I growl, “you’re coming with us, I guess.”
Gripping him under the shoulders, I heave.
Oh gods, he weighs a ton! I can barely budge him.
“Help me!” I bark, and though I really try not to put any command into my tone, the dragon boy immediately leaps into action.
Between the two of us, we manage to haul the prince into the box, where he takes up most of the already too-cramped space.
But I can’t leave him in the hall for someone else to discover.
I yank the lever. The lift groans but begins its rise once more, painfully slow.
I stand pressed against the wall, one foot propped on Taigan’s back, breathing hard.
Then, hastily I wipe the blood from my knife and, crouching, proceed to cut strips off the hem of my petticoats.
“Quick, help me bind him,” I say, tossing the boy the first of the strips.
We are neither of us experts but somehow manage to secure the prince’s hands and feet behind him. I hope he stays unconscious, for I wouldn’t put it past him to rip those bonds to shreds, even with a wounded arm. But I feel better to have at least made the effort.
When the job is done, I sit back, gazing down at the prince’s slack features. The final champion, winner of the trials. My intended husband.
“So much for romance,” I mutter.
The dragon boy stares at me. His fear thrums in my head, accompanied by something else, something like…awe. He’s impressed by my little maneuvers. A grin pulls at my lips. For the first time in my life, I feel positively ferocious. Valtar would be proud, I think.
But I can’t think about Valtar. Not yet.
He’s gone, and he isn’t who I thought he was, and…
and…No, I must stay focused. We haven’t escaped yet, and I still don’t know how I’m going to get the boy to transform even if we reach the upper platform in one piece.
Any moment I expect another jolt to drop my stomach, followed by a swift descent into the waiting arms of Captain Norlan and his men.
But the lift continues to rise and rise.
Boredom begins to set in, bringing with it all the anxiety which adrenaline had kept at bay until now.
I’m not ready for this escape. And it’s all been too easy!
Perhaps Taigan wasn’t prepared for the blows I dealt him, but other than that, surely they must have known about me clambering about in the air shafts.
They must have known about my meetings with Valtar.
There will be a whole company of guards waiting in the tunnel the moment the lift door opens.
At last the box creaks to a stop. The scintil overhead swings gently, casting our shadows against the walls.
“Get behind me,” I say, motioning to the dragon boy.
He scrambles to step over and around Taigan and huddle at my back.
All that adrenaline which had died down in my veins leaps back to full power as I stand in defensive position once more, ready to strike my blow.
The door opens. An empty tunnel yawns before me.
I stare out, unbelieving. I was so convinced Alderin would have men positioned here, ready to block my way to that starry sky, which even now beckons me.
I reach out with my dragon senses, searching for some sign of threat.
No subtle vibration in my bones, no nearly imperceptible chill up my spine. The way is clear.
My nerves are jumpy as I step from the box.
I motion for the boy to follow, and he practically hugs my shadow.
His voice in my head is like the nervous whimper of a puppy, but he makes no audible sound, which is a relief.
Gleaming moonlight shines on the paving stones up ahead.
I long to run to it, to spread my arms and fly out into that open sky, but I force myself to creep cautiously down the passage until finally we reach the tunnel mouth.
Cold wind whips across the paving stones. Stars twinkle overhead, and below lies the sweep of that seemingly endless forest. We’re free, I think. Adjusting the angle of my knife, I step out into open air.
A figure moves on my right.
I lash out, trying to go into the defensive maneuver Valtar taught me.
I’m not quick enough, and the angle is too unfamiliar.
A solid blow strikes my forearm—not a cut, but a hard bone rattling.
I scream even as my fingers uncurl, and the knife drops.
I try to retrieve it, but a swift kick sends it skittering across the paving stones.
When I lunge to chase after it, a hand closes around my arm, wrenching me back, whirling me to stare up into the moonlit face of King Alderin.