Mickey Reichert: The beasts of Barakhai

Quinton seized his hand. "I do want you to stay, too. I want to sleep with you every night. I want to bear your babies. I want to be… a real mother."

My babies. This was too much for twenty-three-year-old Benton Collins. From one session of sex to this? Terror ground through him, and the urge to put some physical distance between them became nearly unbearable. He suspected her swift bond with him had something to do with those she'd lacked as a child, yet the understanding did him little good. He found himself hyperventilating. He needed air. Too much too fast. Worried about upsetting her, he reached for the crystal again. "Please, Carrie. Just let me have the stone. I'll only go to settle some things. To gather some comforts. Then I'll come back."

Water glazed Quinton's blue-white eyes.

"I will. I promise." The words came out without conscious thought. Collins could not even convince himself he would keep that vow. Spitting on his hand and sugar on top would not work for Carrie Quinton.

She spoke softly, her voice strained and hesitant. "Once we've established a life here. A baby. Things I know you won't abandon. Then, then, you can go back."

"Carrie." Collins cupped the crystal in one hand. "I can't wait that long."

Quinton jerked backward, then hissed in pain. Clearly the gold chain cut into the back of her neck.

Now that he had a hold on it, Collins closed his hand, unable to let go. "I don't want to hurt you. Just let me have it."

"No," Carrie said, then shouted. "No! Help! Help! I need help!"

Collins knew he had to escape and fast, but he would not leave without the crystal. He wrapped both hands around it and pulled.

Carrie screamed.

The door that led to the other chambers burst open. Three men with swords charged into the room, directly at Collins.

"Shit!" Collins gave one last desperate heave that snapped the links. Momentum hurled him to the floor, the stone clamped in his hands, the broken ends of the chain whipping his fingers.

His buttocks struck stone, and agony howled through his spine. Blood splashed his face, and Carrie shrieked again.

Two swords jabbed toward Collins. He recognized their wielders as men who'd been seated at the head table on his first visit to the dining hall. Now, he noticed only that they looked well-muscled and competent with their weapons.

Collins scuttled into retreat as the blades jabbed forward. His back jarred suddenly against cold stone, and he scrambled to a stand, smacking his head on something affixed to the wall. A wash of black-and-white spots swam down on him, stealing his vision. He bulled through it, only to find himself pinned to the wall by two swords at his chest.

"Be still," said a silk-clad blond who could have been, and probably was, the king's brother. "We don't want to kill you."

Menaced by swords, Collins was not sure he believed the man. The one beside him remained quiet. He stood half a head taller, skin and hair a shade darker than his companion's. He wore a beard while the other was clean-shaven, and his hairline was receding.

Collins tightened his hold on the crystal. He had come too far to give it up now, yet he saw no way out of this situation. His only advantage came if he believed Carrie Quinton's claim that the king wanted him alive. He glanced at the geneticist, who returned his look with hate-filled eyes. Her hands clutched at the back of her neck. It surprised Collins to find himself thinking clearly in a life-or-death situation after his utter panic at the gallows. If nothing else had come out of his trip to Barakhai, he had gained composure. Fat lot of good that'll do me dead.

Sweat dripped down Collins' forehead, out of proportion to the rest of his body. His scalp felt uncomfortably hot. "Carrie and I were just-" He flushed, finishing lamely. "-talking and… and… stuff." Stuff. The new popular euphemism for sex. Abruptly, Collins realized what he must have crashed against that now heated his head. Torch bracket. He needed a distraction. "Tell 'em, Carrie."

"He stole my necklace," Quinton hissed. "A traitor."

The men's heads swiveled toward her. Seizing the moment, Collins lunged for the torch with his free hand. The bracket tore a line of skin from his thumb, sending pain howling through his hand, but he managed to complete the movement. His fingers wrapped around the warmed wood, and he swung wildly for his captors.

The two men leaped backward, sparing themselves a burning but opening the way for Collins' escape. The fire flickered dangerously low, then steadied. Collins raced for the door to the stairwell.

"Guards! Guards!" the shorter man shouted.

Collins jerked the panel open, only to find the way down blocked by a seething mass of warriors. "Shit!" Clearly, the king had anticipated that Collins' allegiances might have shifted. Quinton had known from the start that she had formidable backup. "Shit!" he repeated, louder. He needed a distraction, anything to delay the mob below him. "Storm!" he shrieked the code word to any rebel in earshot. "Storm! Storm!"

When no one responded, Collins hurled his only weapon, the torch, at the horde, then thundered up the stairs. Up is wrong. Up is wrong! It made no sense to corner himself on a rooftop, yet he saw no other way. At least, it might delay the inevitable and place the choice of death or capture back into his own hands. The crystal bit into his palm, and another realization struck him. At least, he might get the object of contention into the right hands. Surely, he would find someone from the rebel forces in the courtyard. At least, my death might not be completely in vain. Though a scant comfort, it proved better than none at all.

Collins charged upward, pausing only to collect another torch from its bracket in the stairwell. A moment later, he reached the next landing, anticipating a flurry of guardsmen from the parapets. None came through the door, and Collins dimly realized that the rebels must have managed to handle those men for him. He continued to run, breaths coming in wild pants, legs pounding upward as if under their own control. Suddenly, he found a square ceiling over his head, and the steps ended at a trapdoor. Praying it would not prove too heavy, he bashed against it with his head and right shoulder.

The panel jolted upward, but the seconds of delay proved his undoing. A hand closed around his ankle, jerking him abruptly backward. Balance and momentum lost, he felt himself falling into someone's arms. Twisting, he thrust blindly with the torch. The taller royal retreated, beard aflame. He let go of Collins' leg. Collins threw the torch and launched himself through the trapdoor. He heard Quintan's scream, high-pitched and fiercely terrified, caught a momentary glimpse of her, flames leaping from her hair, before the trapdoor crashed shut behind him. Guiltily, he hoped her distress would keep the guards busy long enough for him to find a way down. He darted to a crenel and glanced into the courtyard below. Seven stories down, the goats, sheep, pigs, and chickens looked very small. "Shit!" he yelled. "Shit! Shit! SHIT!"

The expletive caught the attention of some of the animals, who looked up at him. Something buzzed in his ear, and he whirled to face a tiny bird, its wings fluttering so fast they seemed invisible. Collins could never have imagined himself so glad to see Ialin. "Here." He thrust out the crystal. "Take it."

Dutifully, the hummingbird zipped to Collins and seized the offering in a beak that seemed too small and slender to hold it. Ialin sank almost to the ground, then ponderously, inch by inch, managed to regain altitude. He sailed away.

The trapdoor thumped back open.

Collins dumped the bit of broken gold chain over the parapets, watching it twist through the air. It seemed to take forever to reach the ground. Below him, two goats struggled with a small hay cart. It was over. The rebels had won, but Benton Collins had lost. If he surrendered now, maybe they would not kill him. He thought of what he had done: double-crossed the king, burned royals, including Carrie Quinton, and delivered an artifact into the hands of a gang of thugs who planned to use it to destroy the king. Oh, yeah. He'll let me live all right.