Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

The horse he was hearing was a new arrival. Reinforcements? That didn’t take long.

“Over here!” Tom shouted, a note of desperation in his voice.

Smart. Old Tom, you’re not as dumb as I thought. You got your wish, Hadrian … They’ll be fine, and it was a great fight. How did you manage to beat all of them while wounded? Arcadius was right about you. Too bad I didn’t see it earlier. But you were a fool. You should have left me on the tower. You’d be kicking back in some tavern by now, not dying in a mud puddle.

Royce groaned as he felt himself lifted by strong hands. He was placed in a wagon.

They really are taking me to trial! Joke’s on them. I’m going to die before then.

Hadrian was moved and laid beside him and a tarp thrown over both. The pelting rain disappeared and was replaced by the loud patter on canvas two feet above his face. It mingled with the ringing and the pounding, and finally darkness closed in and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Not that Royce was fighting anymore-he was ready to die.

He felt around and found Hadrian’s arm, patting it. “Old lunatic was right … We did make a good team.”

The halting of the cart woke Royce, and he wished it hadn’t. He was in agony, feeling like a horse had fallen on him.

Oh, right.

Royce opened his eye-only one responded; the other was swollen shut. Everything was dark and silent. Hadrian was still beside him and the canvas still over their heads. He reached up and pulled, but the tarp was tied. He felt around and discovered Alverstone had made the trip with him. The handle was crusted with dry mud.

How long have we been traveling?

With little effort, Royce cut a long slice through the canvas. Cold fresh air spilled in and overhead he saw stars. The rain and clouds were gone. Royce inched up and peered over the sides.

Buildings. Dirty wooden shacks with mud splattered halfway up the sides. They were on a narrow dirt road, deep with ruts and still decorated in puddles. Royce turned his head, which made him woozy. More buildings. They were in a city. A crappy, miserable-looking town. A place he didn’t recognize. The buildings to either side were dark, the street deserted. Looking forward, he saw the driver of the cart was gone. No soldiers either.

They were alone.

Maybe it wasn’t soldiers at all. The wagon was small. It looked like a peasant’s cart.

Royce heard him then. Hadrian was still breathing.

Weak and wheezing, his breath struggled like he had a garrote tied around his throat. If they had lived this long, they might yet have a chance.

Using the sides of the wagon, Royce drew himself upright. The pain in his midsection screamed again. He ignored it. His arms were all that held him up and they were shaking so badly they made the wagon quiver. He could think of no other way out of the wagon. He couldn’t climb.

How long have we been in that wagon? How long does he have left?

Hadrian sounded like he was choking, or close to it.

For perhaps the first time in decades, Royce acted without a plan. Merrick had taught him never to make a move without a goal and a means of getting there. At that moment he had neither, just a vague sense that Hadrian was dying, and he needed to do something to stop that-and there was only one thing to do. He pulled himself up on the side guard and let himself fall over.

He couldn’t help crying out as he hit the ground. The jolt was almost enough to send him back into unconsciousness, but this time he couldn’t let that happen. He sucked in a breath and pushed up with his good leg. On palms and one knee, dragging one leg, he crawled to the closest door and hammered the foot of it with his fist. No sound, no light. He moved back out into the street. The agony was becoming too much. He couldn’t think. His clothes had dried stiff, but there was a new wetness to his shirt. He was bleeding again.

In desperation he cried out, “Help!” It didn’t sound like his voice. He couldn’t recall having used that word since boyhood. He hated the sound, hated the taste it left. “Help us!”

He heard the slap of shutters against the upper-story windows. Whatever doors may have been open were now bolted. No one wanted anything to do with them.

Royce lay in the street, his palms slapping the dirt, and he whispered, “At least save him … He didn’t do anything wrong. He just tried to help.” Tears formed in his eyes as he said it. “He doesn’t deserve to die with me.”

In one last effort, Royce threw his head back and cried, “Help us!”

He felt a hand on his arm, gentle and soft. “I’ve got you. You’ll be all right now-you’re safe.”

Royce opened his eyes. The darkness was back again, closing in. The sea of pain was swallowing him once more, but in the haze at the center of the dark tunnel he saw a woman. Long dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, a kind face. She pulled him to her.

“Hadrian … in the wagon. You have to-”

“Dixon, hurry. Get the other one out of the cart.”

Boots splashed through mud. Royce heard Hadrian cry out in pain.

“How is he? Is he okay?” she called.

“Alive-took an arrow,” said a man’s voice, deep and husky. “I think he’ll live.”

“Get them both inside, then fetch the doctor-Linderman, from the Merchant Quarter, not Basil.”

“On it.”

The rain continued to fall, though Royce hardly felt it anymore. He was passing out again.

“Save Hadrian,” Royce begged. “He…”

“I know,” the woman said. “I know everything, and I’m going to save both of you. You’ll see. I’ve been waiting for you-I’ve been waiting for so very long.”

Rehn watched as Professor Arcadius broke the wax seal on the dispatch and, pushing his glasses high up the bridge of his nose, began to read. The old man appeared visibly upset. Arcadius could never be described as neat and tidy, but the professor of lore had appeared more frazzled than ever before. His hair a wild storm of white, his robes even more wrinkled than normal-Rehn was certain that was the same jelly stain that had been on his chest before he left. As he watched, the professor’s shoulders drooped, the muscles in his neck relaxed, and his breathing went from short gasps to longer, deeper draws.

Not knowing how long the document was, Rehn looked for a place to sit. As always, the lore master’s office was a disaster, and Rehn found a seat wedged in tight between a caged pigeon and a barrel of vinegar. He shivered. He’d paused the moment he’d entered the school to shake off most of the snow, but enough had melted to leave his clothes damp. He rubbed his arms for warmth, tapped his feet together to knock off the remaining flakes, and listened to the chatter of the caged animals.

“Good news?” he asked, growing impatient. He had at least a little stake in this too.

The professor only held up a finger, his eyes never leaving the page.

Rehn slumped a bit and looked over at the pigeon. All white, with black eyes, maybe it wasn’t a pigeon after all. Might be a dove or some more exotic bird the professor had obtained from parts unknown.

Where did all of this stuff come from?

Rehn looked out the window at the still-falling snow that gathered on the sill and muntins-the first real snow of the year. It had been a long time since he’d seen snow.

“They’re safe,” Arcadius said at last. Lowering the dispatch and pulling off his glasses, he leaned back with a great sigh. “At least there has been no report of them being killed or captured, so I have to assume they made it out alive.”