David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“And the attack gave him reason,” Ceredon muttered.

“Indeed,” said Biden.

“When does he leave? Has he decided?”

“Three days.” The healer cocked his head, staring closely at Ceredon’s face. “My prince, do you wish for my help in returning to your room? You have grown pale.”

Ceredon shook his head. “I am sure my friend Boris can manage. You must have things to do.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“Very well,” Biden said. “I must check on your father. But I will be back to look in on you as well. Try to remain in your bed from now on. I will send two guards to keep watch over you until morning.”

Ceredon nodded to the healer, who then ambled away, heading for the main entrance to the palace. He shook his head, feeling his insides tense. Iolas could not be allowed to perish by any hand other than his, but he could not be allowed to return to Quellassar either. Ceredon would need to take care of him in the next two days…which, given his condition, would be a near impossible task.

“What was that about?” Boris asked.

Ceredon looked at the young soldier and shook his head. “You weren’t the only one delivering bad news this night,” he said, leaving it at that.

“Oh. I see. What will you do about this ‘bad news’?”

“Honestly, my new friend? I have not a clue.”

Two days later, Ceredon set his plan in motion. Lord and Lady Thyne had visited him briefly, and before they left, Orden had dropped a scrap of paper into Ceredon’s hand. Scrawled on it were five words:

Two days-light a fire.

Ceredon hoped he was strong enough to pull it off and that he understood what it meant. Luckily, Biden had come to him with a new concoction of wickroot, ground coffee, and ground poplar seeds to help ease his agony. The potion was strong, and the pain wracking his body subsided less than an hour after the bitter fluid had slipped down his gullet. In fact, it was as if his flesh had been made numb. Even the ache of his mending bones was reduced to a dull throb. That, combined with the jug of strong brandy he had requested earlier in the day, made him feel better than he had in ages.

He waited for the song of the whippoorwills to begin, the irksome whooping that signaled the witching hour, before slipping out of bed, a box of tindersticks clenched between his teeth. Dragging the jug of brandy behind him, he crawled across the floor. Once he reached the window, he rose up on his knees, ripped a piece of cloth from his nightshirt, and stuffed it inside the mouth of the bottle. When it was firmly in place, he struck one of the tindersticks against the flint, setting it alight. He held the flame to the cloth, and it caught quickly. It took a few moments for the fire to gain force, and then he threw the jug from the open window as hard as he could. He watched it soar through the air, unseen by the Ekreissar who paced below, until it struck the ground. The jug shattered, the fire igniting the brandy inside. Spigots of flame shot in all directions, and the guards began to shout. Then came the whoosh of arrow and the battle cry of the insurgents. Steel clashed and rangers bellowed out orders. Ceredon ducked from the window before any could see him, then crawled to the door.

He rose unsteadily and opened it.

The guards turned to him quizzically. “Prince Ceredon?” one said.

“Do you not hear that?”

The walls of the palace were thick and almost soundproof.

“No,” one of the guards said.

“The insurgency is attacking! Your brothers need you.”

“Huh?”

Ceredon hobbled to the side, opening the door wider. “Go, see for yourself,” he said.

The two guards rushed into the room and peered out the window, from which emanated a red glow and the unmistakable sounds of conflict. They turned to him and nodded, then rushed into the hall.

“The rebels are attacking!” they shouted to the other guards. A dozen booted feet thudded against the crystal floor as the Ekreissar raced down the stairwell and disappeared from view. Only one remained behind in Ceredon’s room.

“Should you not join them?” he asked.

“My duty is to watch over you, my prince,” the ranger replied. “You are injured. Should any insurgent climb the walls, you would be an easy target.”

The guard turned toward the door, readying his khandar. Ceredon had expected this turn of events, though he was surprised that only one of them had stayed.

With the guard’s back to him, Ceredon stealthily grabbed his walking rod and raised it above his head. He took a few hobbling steps forward and, just as the ranger began to swivel in his direction, brought it down as hard as he could. The wood thumped against the side of the guard’s head, and Ceredon heard a snap as the fragile bones of the elf’s temple broke. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he collapsed backward, thudding on the crystal floor.

Ceredon stood over the felled ranger, giving him another two violent whacks to make sure he stayed dead. The elf’s face was a bloodied mess when Ceredon painfully bent over and slipped the dagger from his belt. When the body was found, it would be plainly obvious what had happened, but Ceredon did nothing to cover his tracks. He no longer cared to hide his involvement, even though he knew what that might mean for him. Killing Iolas was all that mattered.

He took a deep breath and tucked the weapon into the rope around his waist, before hopping on one foot into the hallway and then dropping to his hands and knees. Luck seemed to be smiling down on him. Not only had Iolas moved to the seventh floor of the palace from the sixth-“to consolidate our protection,” he had said-but every other part of his cobbled together plan had come together perfectly. He just hoped the rebels could hold on for a little while longer.

The door to Iolas’s chambers swung open, and Ceredon flopped to the side in a panic. He groaned and held his side, hoping that the old elf hadn’t seen him crawling down the hall. Iolas was beside him a moment later, holding up his head with hands twisted from the weight of nearly five hundred years on Dezrel.

“Ceredon, my prince, what are you doing out of bed?” he asked. Ceredon glanced up at him, saw the way his eyes were flicking from one corner of the hall to the other. “What is that noise outside? Where are the guards?” Iolas asked, panic creeping into his voice. “There were supposed to be guards!”

“Insurgents…attacking…” Ceredon said, feigning injury. “Fires spreading…outside.”

Iolas’s face went even whiter than it normally was.

“Come, young prince,” he said, grabbing tight to Ceredon’s nightshirt and pulling him along the crystal floor. “Come into my room, and we will be safe there together.”

One of us will be, Ceredon thought.

Iolas might be old, but his strength was impressive. In no time at all, he had dragged Ceredon the thirty feet or so into his quarters and slammed the door shut. After barring it from the inside, he bolted for the opposite side of the room, cracking open the blinds to peer down at the courtyard. From his position on the floor, Ceredon could hear the guards still running and shouting below them and the clang of steel, but the sounds were less urgent than before. He didn’t have much time, though he allowed himself a moment to pray that Tantric hadn’t lost too many men.

“It seems quiet out there now,” said Iolas. He glanced at Ceredon and offered a nervous smile. “Perhaps the rebels have moved on.”

“Perhaps.”

Grinding his teeth, Ceredon dug his knuckles into the hard floor and pushed himself upright. This time pain did come, and he grunted against it. Iolas turned to him as Ceredon forced his body to stand.