“I love you, too. Now go.”
As soon as he’s down the stairs, I race into the main hall. Maybe I can move some furniture and block the door. Buy us more time. Maybe I can give us more information on the enemy.
Maybe the Commander will lead the charge, and I’ll get my chance to shoot him in the face.
I hurry into the room closest to the front door and glance out of the lone rectangle of glass beside me. The Carrington army is now pressed against the fence—a mass of red uniforms and sword hilts that flash beneath the sunlight in brilliant sparks of gold.
Four soldiers crank a chain on something that vaguely resembles an elongated catapult built to stand waist high on the average man. A thick log of metal, about the same diameter as a mature oak trunk, lies in the catapult’s cradle. The log inches back with every rotation of the chain, and beneath the log, a spring coils tightly. In seconds, the soldiers have the log pulled as far back as it can go. One of them yells, and the two closest to the spring pull a metal pin out of each side of the frame, releasing the tension. The log swings forward with terrible speed and slams into the solid iron fence surrounding the compound.
The fence bends, and the shriek of metal tearing asunder fills the air. Another two or three assaults with the battering ram, and that section of the fence will collapse.
The Commander is nowhere in sight.
Forget barricading the door or gaining information. Those soldiers will be inside the building in minutes.
I run down the length of the hallway until I come to the banquet hall. Only a handful of people remain. Willow is ushering them toward the basement stairs.
“Do we have everyone?” I ask.
“Quinn is doing one last check. I’ll find him before I go down.”
“Don’t take long,” I say as a tremendous thud shakes the walls.
The army is at the door. I draw my knife and back toward the basement stairs, keeping my eyes on the far end of the hall as the front door begins to splinter. The metal reinforcement rods bow inward as the battering ram slams into it again.
“Hurry!” I yell as I hear Quinn’s and Willow’s footsteps pounding toward me. Any second now, that door will give, and we need to be hidden inside the basement before that happens.
A door about halfway down the hall cracks open, and Jeremiah steps out. He clutches a sheaf of paper in his arthritic fingers.
He’s as good as dead.
“Run!” I scream as the main door flies off its hinges and careens down the hall.
Chapter Eleven
RACHEL
Jeremiah shuffles back, his eyes locked on the soldiers pouring through the entrance. I run toward him, holding my knife, blade out.
“Rachel!” someone yells behind me, but I don’t look back. I can’t.
Jeremiah presses his back to the wall and holds the papers against his chest like he can somehow protect them from the soldiers who race forward, swords drawn.
“Get back!” I lunge in front of Jeremiah and whip my arm up to block the first soldier as he swings his sword toward Jeremiah’s head. The blow slams into my arm, and my knife feels tiny and insignificant clutched in my desperate fingers.
Another soldier leaps forward. I plant my right foot, lean back slightly, and snap my left leg into the air, kicking his windpipe with my boot. He drops to the floor, and as I dodge another blow from the soldier to my right, I bend to scoop up the fallen soldier’s sword.
It’s too heavy for me. Too long. I’m overbalanced, and I won’t be able to fight with it for long without tiring, but it’s better than going up against trained soldiers with nothing but my knife.
More soldiers rush into the building. Some converge on us, some kick open doors and start searching the rooms that line the hallway. We have to get to the basement stairs before they do, or we’ll be cut off from the group. If that happens, Jeremiah and I are both dead.
“Move,” I say to Jeremiah, who huddles behind me. He slides along the wall while I hold my stolen sword in front of me and wait for the next attack.
It doesn’t take long.
One of the soldiers closest to me whistles, a sharp, piercing sound that hurts my eardrums, and every man within a five-yard radius instantly pivots toward me, swords drawn.
Not good.
“Jeremiah, get to the basement. Don’t worry about me, just go,” I say quietly. I can’t take my eyes off the soldiers in front of me to see if the old man is obeying. The soldier who whistled tenses slightly, and I crouch, weapons steady. Obeying some silent signal, the closest row of soldiers—five? six?—rushes me.
The shock of metal clanging against metal reverberates through me, and I block. Duck. Spin and parry only to find another three swords advancing. My vision narrows down to the wall of uniforms in front of me. I slash with my knife, slicing into a soldier’s neck. A line of brilliant red spills across his coat and splashes onto my hand.
The blood is warm and sticky, and for one awful second, it’s Melkin’s blood gushing over my palms to swallow me up in guilt.
That second is all the distraction the soldiers need.
They lunge at me from all sides. I don’t know where Jeremiah is. I don’t know where anyone is. I’m surrounded by soldiers, by the flashing teeth of swords, and it’s all I can do to stay alive.
An arrow zings past me and the soldier to my right falls. Another arrow, and a soldier to my left falls as well. I dive to the floor and roll backward as arrows fly over me, mowing down the first line of soldiers.
A second wave of soldiers leaps across the bodies of their fallen comrades, and suddenly Quinn is there. Lashing out with his feet, his hands—tearing through the barrier surrounding me with methodical precision.
As soon as he’s down the stairs, I race into the main hall. Maybe I can move some furniture and block the door. Buy us more time. Maybe I can give us more information on the enemy.
Maybe the Commander will lead the charge, and I’ll get my chance to shoot him in the face.
I hurry into the room closest to the front door and glance out of the lone rectangle of glass beside me. The Carrington army is now pressed against the fence—a mass of red uniforms and sword hilts that flash beneath the sunlight in brilliant sparks of gold.
Four soldiers crank a chain on something that vaguely resembles an elongated catapult built to stand waist high on the average man. A thick log of metal, about the same diameter as a mature oak trunk, lies in the catapult’s cradle. The log inches back with every rotation of the chain, and beneath the log, a spring coils tightly. In seconds, the soldiers have the log pulled as far back as it can go. One of them yells, and the two closest to the spring pull a metal pin out of each side of the frame, releasing the tension. The log swings forward with terrible speed and slams into the solid iron fence surrounding the compound.
The fence bends, and the shriek of metal tearing asunder fills the air. Another two or three assaults with the battering ram, and that section of the fence will collapse.
The Commander is nowhere in sight.
Forget barricading the door or gaining information. Those soldiers will be inside the building in minutes.
I run down the length of the hallway until I come to the banquet hall. Only a handful of people remain. Willow is ushering them toward the basement stairs.
“Do we have everyone?” I ask.
“Quinn is doing one last check. I’ll find him before I go down.”
“Don’t take long,” I say as a tremendous thud shakes the walls.
The army is at the door. I draw my knife and back toward the basement stairs, keeping my eyes on the far end of the hall as the front door begins to splinter. The metal reinforcement rods bow inward as the battering ram slams into it again.
“Hurry!” I yell as I hear Quinn’s and Willow’s footsteps pounding toward me. Any second now, that door will give, and we need to be hidden inside the basement before that happens.
A door about halfway down the hall cracks open, and Jeremiah steps out. He clutches a sheaf of paper in his arthritic fingers.
He’s as good as dead.
“Run!” I scream as the main door flies off its hinges and careens down the hall.
Chapter Eleven
RACHEL
Jeremiah shuffles back, his eyes locked on the soldiers pouring through the entrance. I run toward him, holding my knife, blade out.
“Rachel!” someone yells behind me, but I don’t look back. I can’t.
Jeremiah presses his back to the wall and holds the papers against his chest like he can somehow protect them from the soldiers who race forward, swords drawn.
“Get back!” I lunge in front of Jeremiah and whip my arm up to block the first soldier as he swings his sword toward Jeremiah’s head. The blow slams into my arm, and my knife feels tiny and insignificant clutched in my desperate fingers.
Another soldier leaps forward. I plant my right foot, lean back slightly, and snap my left leg into the air, kicking his windpipe with my boot. He drops to the floor, and as I dodge another blow from the soldier to my right, I bend to scoop up the fallen soldier’s sword.
It’s too heavy for me. Too long. I’m overbalanced, and I won’t be able to fight with it for long without tiring, but it’s better than going up against trained soldiers with nothing but my knife.
More soldiers rush into the building. Some converge on us, some kick open doors and start searching the rooms that line the hallway. We have to get to the basement stairs before they do, or we’ll be cut off from the group. If that happens, Jeremiah and I are both dead.
“Move,” I say to Jeremiah, who huddles behind me. He slides along the wall while I hold my stolen sword in front of me and wait for the next attack.
It doesn’t take long.
One of the soldiers closest to me whistles, a sharp, piercing sound that hurts my eardrums, and every man within a five-yard radius instantly pivots toward me, swords drawn.
Not good.
“Jeremiah, get to the basement. Don’t worry about me, just go,” I say quietly. I can’t take my eyes off the soldiers in front of me to see if the old man is obeying. The soldier who whistled tenses slightly, and I crouch, weapons steady. Obeying some silent signal, the closest row of soldiers—five? six?—rushes me.
The shock of metal clanging against metal reverberates through me, and I block. Duck. Spin and parry only to find another three swords advancing. My vision narrows down to the wall of uniforms in front of me. I slash with my knife, slicing into a soldier’s neck. A line of brilliant red spills across his coat and splashes onto my hand.
The blood is warm and sticky, and for one awful second, it’s Melkin’s blood gushing over my palms to swallow me up in guilt.
That second is all the distraction the soldiers need.
They lunge at me from all sides. I don’t know where Jeremiah is. I don’t know where anyone is. I’m surrounded by soldiers, by the flashing teeth of swords, and it’s all I can do to stay alive.
An arrow zings past me and the soldier to my right falls. Another arrow, and a soldier to my left falls as well. I dive to the floor and roll backward as arrows fly over me, mowing down the first line of soldiers.
A second wave of soldiers leaps across the bodies of their fallen comrades, and suddenly Quinn is there. Lashing out with his feet, his hands—tearing through the barrier surrounding me with methodical precision.
