Chapter Seventeen
I startle the hell out of a handful of guards ringing the dark pit.
At first they present swords, long knives, and spears, ready to attack, until they almost supernaturally recognize the prince.
Surely, there is a strong protection spell surrounding the heir apparent.
One that seemingly extends to me, hey, I’ll take it!
Fair warning, Samantha. All protection for the prince will disappear once we enter the pit.
Why?
The pit strips gravity and, apparently, magic. My own will be nullified, too, not that I’m using any of it at the moment.
Grr. I need water. These goons will probably jump in after us.
Almost certainly. There is a fountain through that far door. Please fly around the pit. The guards will not attack with the prince in tow.
And so I do, the rush of my wings creating an updraft of wind in the circular room.
The guards’ long hair and coattails flutter in the turbulence.
We are soon out of the space and flying down a short hallway, this one noticeably narrower and less grand, with only a smattering of smaller, mostly humanoid statues, along with a few side doors.
The guard’s quarters, Sam.
Directly ahead, I hear it. A bubbling fountain.
As I sweep over it, I reach out and summon some of the clear liquid, and soon I have my ice sword, which I tuck in a belt loop after setting down Azul briefly near the fountain.
The ice sword blade is always narrow and ultra sharp, as is this one.
Once done, I grab Azul again and bank around the fountain and shoot back through the narrow hallway and toward the pit.
“They will attack once we enter the pit.”
“Even with Pickles nearby?”
“They will try to separate him from you.”
“They can try. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” says Azul.
“You will fight?”
“Like a cornered beastie.”
“Even without magic?”
“I have my teeth and claws.”
“Spoken like a true beastie.”
I raise my eyebrows at that, surprised. I next command the prince to stick close to my side and to resist rescue. He is, after all, still my best shot of surviving this mission. I also command him not to take any undue risks. I don’t want him getting hurt. Warranted or not, I like the young man.
Next, we burst back into the pit’s circular chamber. More guards are there, spread out evenly around the pit, perhaps a dozen in all. They stare at the prince dangling from my arm, uncertain.
One steps forward. “Your Highness?”
The prince grins. Pretty sure he is having the time of his life. “You will stay back.”
“I cannot do that, your highness. I have orders from the king.”
“Stay back!”
I find myself hovering over the pit, out of the guards’ reach, though that comfort doesn’t last long especially after I notice they are carrying what look like silver-tipped spears. Uh oh.
“Well,” I say. “Here goes nothing.”
I ditch my wings and immediately begin a slow-motion freefall. The sensation is bizarre. One moment, gravity owns me. The next, gravity can’t make up its mind. It pulls, then stops, then pulls again. I fall, hover, then fall some more. Sometimes I drift as if on a cushion of marshmallows.
Mostly, I drift downward, slowly, weightlessly, like sinking through invisible syrup. My wings would be useless, but I keep them at the ready, just in case.
The prince laughs. “Weeeee! I love the pit!”
Then the guards jump in after us. All twelve of them. Boots first, weapons drawn. They seem to understand the mechanics of the pit and sort of sluice their way down toward me. Well, crap.
“Hold onto me,” I command my captives, relieved my mind control still works in this bizarre non-space.
My two prisoners wrap their arms around my neck, legs, and torso. Damn. That is going to make fighting a challenge.
The first guard drifts too close for comfort, silver-tipped spear pointing at my heart.
I twist sideways, slash awkwardly with my ice sword.
I shear that damn spearhead straight off with a single swipe.
The guard’s eyes widen, then cross when I kick him between his eyes with the heel of my sneakers.
Without gravity, he spins helplessly away, rotating slowly, now holding nothing more than a wooden shaft.
The second guard comes in hot with a gleaming sword.
Sebastian’s lessons return effortlessly, and I hear his voice again: “Don’t meet strength with strength; instead, redirect it.
” So I parry. Turn my body and slash. The ice blade hisses across his exposed forearm.
Not very deep. But enough that he yelps and drops his sword, which drifts aimlessly.
Next, I punch him in his metal helmet, denting it.
He drifts backward clutching his ringing ear.
“That was funny!” says the prince, laughing. “Again!”
I command Pickles to be silent as a third guard lunges.
He is smarter and aims for Azul, who squeaks.
As the little wizard, despite his bravado, scrabbles mid-air to avoid the spear point, I tuck the prince tighter under one arm, rotate in midair, and drive both boots into the guard’s chest. He careens upward, spinning, and rebounds off the pit’s rock wall.
Three more guards close in. I slash, slice, punch, and kick. No killing blows. No, never a killing blow, though I do cut a thigh, gash a cheek, and nick a hand. They’ll live.
Still, pain, shock, and confusion ensue, and soon the pit is filled with sounds of moaning and groaning. And the occasional giggle that escapes the bloodthirsty prince.
The shaft soon fills with disarmed guards spinning crazily, along with drifting blood droplets. Some guards bounce off walls. Most curse. One vomits. We all try to avoid the vomit.
As the bottom rapidly approaches, one thing becomes abundantly clear: more guards are waiting below. And these aren’t just guards, either. No. Judging by their horns, teeth, claws, and forked tails, I am pretty sure these are a horde of demons. I need that damn sword.
STAT.