Deception (11 page)
“Someone needs to know what’s happening outside the basement while you get our people far enough into the tunnel to safely detonate the explosives,” I say.
“I’m not leaving anyone outside the basement door. It would be a death sentence.” Logan glares at me.
“Just until Quinn and Willow get back. And I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you where I’ll be.”
He grabs me and pulls me against him. “The second you see them, get to the tunnel.” His kiss is rough and a little desperate. “I love you.”
“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.
RACHEL
J
eremiah 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.
“Run!” he yells.
I shove myself to my feet. At the end of the hall, Willow is half-carrying Jeremiah, and they’re almost to safety. If we sprint, we can make it before the soldiers cut us off. The heavy, too-long sword slows me down, so I fling it behind me and say, “Let’s go.”
Quinn grunts, a strange animal-like sound of pain. I whirl around to find a line of blood blossoming from a cut to his leg. The soldier who wounded him raises his sword for another blow, and I lunge forward, my knife braced for impact.
I slam into him, and my knife slides uselessly off his stomach. I forgot about the Dragonskin. I’ve knocked him off-balance, so his sword misses Quinn, but we’re running out of time. Several more soldiers are pressing close behind this one. If any of them get past us, we’ll be cut off from our only avenue of escape.
I can’t wound his vital organs, but there’s more than one way to stop a man. Quinn’s foot lashes out and blocks another soldier’s sword as it arcs toward me. The blade bites into his boots, and Quinn has to grab onto the wall behind him for balance.
Time to end this.
The soldier in front of me raises his sword arm, and I drop into a crouch seconds before he can impale me on the weapon. Diving forward, I flip in midair and slash at the back of his knees. Before his scream leaves his throat, I spin around and slice into the legs of the two soldiers behind him. Inner thigh. Major artery. Just like Dad taught me.
Quinn shoves the first soldier into the other two, and they fall. We have a few seconds before the next line of soldiers can climb over the bodies of their comrades, and I don’t plan to waste them.
“Need help?” I ask, but Quinn is already half-limping, half-running for the open doorway at the end of the hall. I shove my knife into its sheath and follow him at a dead run.
“Get in, get in, get in,” I say as I skid around the doorframe and launch myself onto the stairs. Willow slams the door behind us and bolts it. We race past Jeremiah just as Logan reaches the bottom of the steps.
“Carrington?” Logan asks.
“At our backs. We have seconds before they’re through the door,” I say.
“Thank you,” Jeremiah says as he reaches me. His voice shakes. “I was working on the map. I didn’t realize they could break down the door so fast, so—”
“You aren’t safe, yet. None of us are,” I say. “Get in the tunnel.”
Above us, booted feet slam into the door and the hinges whine in protest.
“Get in the tunnel!” Logan yells, his voice rolling across the fifty yards that separate us from the mouth of the tunnel. The thirty or so people who still huddle uncertainly in front of the tunnel’s mouth flinch. “I can protect you from the Cursed One, but I can’t save you from Carrington if you’re still in the basement when they come down those stairs.”
The people start moving. Grabbing torches. Grabbing each other’s hands. But they still aren’t going fast enough. We race across the basement, herding stragglers and feeling the weight of Carrington’s blades coming closer to our necks with every second that passes. Quinn helps Jeremiah into the tunnel, though with his limp I’m not sure he doesn’t need some help himself. The rest of the people still refuse to go underground.
“You have to lead them,” I say, and Logan shakes his head.
“I have to detonate the explosives.” He gestures toward the string of black metal boxes he attached to the ceiling beams last week.
“We’ll do that,” Willow says. “Rachel’s right. Those people are too afraid to go underground without you.”
The door cracks, a loud pop of sound that echoes across the cavernous basement. Logan looks between the door and the tunnel and makes up his mind.
“Here.” He thrusts a small copper oval into my hand. A raised lever rests in its center. “You need to be at least ten yards inside the tunnel before you detonate, or you could be buried.” His voice is calm, but his face is white, and I understand. I wouldn’t want to leave him behind to face an army with nothing but a battery-operated fuse box and a collection of the Commander’s explosives for protection.
“We’ll be inside the tunnel. Don’t worry.” I clutch the trigger with clammy hands, and he pulls me against him for a second. I breathe in the scent of him, holding it inside of me with the memory of Oliver’s maple-raisin baking and Dad’s leather cloak. Then he’s gone. Disappearing into the tunnel, torch in hand. Calling out instructions and reassurances in his calm, logical, I’ve-always-got-a-plan voice.
The door at the opposite end of the room comes off its hinges, and soldiers run toward us.
“Ready?” Willow asks as the last Baalboden survivor hurries into the damp, cool darkness of the tunnel.
“Ready.”
She grabs a torch, and we step off the stone floor and onto the dirt. Behind us, the chilling war cry of Carrington fills the air as the army rushes toward us. We run the ten yards Logan said would give us a margin of safety, and then I turn, lock eyes with a soldier who is mere steps away from entering the tunnel on our heels, and flip the lever.
For three excruciating seconds, nothing happens. The soldier reaches the entrance and lunges through. More are closing in. Willow drops to one knee and whips an arrow out of her quiver.
Then the ceiling explodes. Pillars of stone sway and grind against their moorings. Chunks of the floor above slam into the ground. The soldier inside the tunnel looks over his shoulder as the pillars tumble down and the compound collapses in a deafening roar. A cloud of gritty gray dust billows into the tunnel, coating his red uniform as Willow buries an arrow into his neck, and then the mouth of the tunnel crumbles and seals us off from what’s left of the basement.
RACHEL
T
hunder rumbles, low and ominous, as Willow and I climb out of the tunnel and find Quinn waiting for us, his face calm, but his fists clenched. When he sees us, his hands slowly uncurl and he takes a deep breath. Another crack of thunder rolls across the sky, and the air presses against us as if determined to hold us back. Thick swells of purple-gray clouds seem to touch the tips of the trees as we walk into the northern Wasteland and join the rest of the group.
“You made it,” Quinn says, and those three words carry the weight of his fear with shaky fingers.
“Of course we made it,” Willow says, her tone sharp, though she slides an arm around her brother’s waist and leans against him briefly.
“I was about to go back for you.”
“One injury isn’t enough for you today?” She shoves her words at him.
“Willow, don’t be mean,” I say, and she glares at me.
“Please tell me you realize it isn’t always up to you to rescue others,” she says to Quinn, though she’s looking at me.
