The Hero Strikes Back (35 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

Colors streaked before my eyes as the pressure cut into my throat. Panic flared as I tried to draw a breath and couldn't. I grabbed at the cord wrapped around my throat, forcing my fingers between my skin and the abrasive material. I couldn't pull it away. All it did was bite into my fingers. It hurt. The colors were swirling into black. I couldn't think at all.

And then the cord was gone, the lack of it almost stung, and I could breathe again. I slumped over the table, my hand landing in a plate of meat and gravy, and I pulled in huge gasps of air. I shrank away from the cacophony roaring in my ears, the blood pounding in my head and air scraping through my larynx. Movement, movement, too much to feel.

People were screaming.

Did they
have
to do that?

Still panting, rubbing the stinging skin on my throat, I opened my eyes. It took a few moments for my vision to slide back into focus, and even once it did it was hard to understand what I was seeing.

It was chaos. People were running around. Tables were being knocked over. Not two long tables after all, but sectionals, and people were falling into them and pushing them over, spilling dishes and food and wine over the floor. And then someone would run through the mess on the floor and slip and fall.

Some of them were wearing ridiculously high heels. I hadn't noticed before. My shoes were nice and flat. I could run if I had to. The advantages of having no sense of style.

No one made it to the doors.

The guards were attacking the guests. Some had come up behind with cords, like they had with me. But they weren't throttling them to death. High above a seated, choking victim, the guard would hold a stake, an actual pointed wooden stake, and in a hard quick arc would bring it down and thrust it into the victim's heart.

At least, that was the plan. Only the victims were squirming around too much, some managing to slip out of their chairs and away from the cords. Or the guards, who were not professional guards at all, didn't have the strength to bring the stake down hard enough, to force it deeply enough into the chest. Or they didn't know precisely where the heart was. And guests with quicker wits than I were grabbing up utensils from the tables, knives and forks or anything handy, and shoving them into the faces of their attackers, knocking them unconscious with heavy platters or the center pieces decorating the tables.

I heard the triumphant shout as one of the guards found his target. With one hard thrust he plunged into the chest of an older man. My whole body spasmed in shock as I envisioned the brutal wood piercing soft flesh, shredding the delicate organ. Blood spurted out. The guard laughed ecstatically, eyes gleaming. Words were chanted, a short phrase I couldn't decipher over the din.

I felt sick. What a way to die.

I tried to stand and found I couldn't move my chair back. I looked down and saw the body of the guard who had been standing behind me, now crumpled on the floor by my chair, a cord loosely tangled in one of his hands. Meat, gravy, and the shattered remains of a plate littered the area about his head. I shoved harder, panic surging back. I couldn't move the damn chair. I had to get out. I couldn't move like this. I was an easy target.

Karish was still seated, struggling awkwardly with a guard who was crouching over him and trying to stick a stake in him. I imagined Karish had spared a moment dispatching the guard who'd attacked me and left himself vulnerable. This second guard hadn't used a cord on him but had gone straight for the stake. Karish had grabbed the guard's wrist and was holding the stake away—he was stronger than he looked—but trapped against the table there wasn't anything more he could do to defend himself.

It appeared that the guards had really been relying on their victims being pliant. Few of them were having much success. But they didn't need to worry. The servants started to lend a hand, dropping their trays and jugs and rushing in to hold people still.

Who the hell was behind all this?

I grabbed a knife from the table. It wasn't sharp but it would have to do.

The guard struggling with Karish was wearing armor. I didn't know anything about fighting. I couldn't think where . . . Oh.

I took a deep breath and shoved the knife into the side of the guard's exposed neck, forcing it through the layers of resistance, swallowing down the revulsion that welled up in my own throat. I heard something snap, and an awful gurgling sound, and blood started pouring out over the knife and my hand and into Karish's face.

I blinked away sudden tears.

The guard jerked away from Karish, grabbing at the knife protruding from his throat. He stumbled over a body on the floor behind him, falling. He arched and writhed as he choked on his blood. I couldn't bear to watch him die.

Karish put his hands under the table and deliberately shoved it away. It skidded a few feet over the stone floor before tipping over. Why hadn't I thought of that? Karish jumped to his feet, blood spattered all over his clothes and the side of his face. His skin was pale, his eyes wide with shock. But he was alive.

Doran was fighting with a footman. Seriously fighting, with real brutal bare-knuckle competence. It looked like he'd already dispatched one of the guards and he had taken the stake from him.

Lydia was lying on the floor, curled up in pain, a stake protruding from just below her right breast. I grimaced in sympathy and took a step towards her, but I would have to get too close to Doran to get to her and I knew nothing about medicine anyway. I looked to Karish, but he was staring at the head of the table, mouth dropping open.

Lord Yellows was struggling with Prince Gifford. It was hard to tell who was trying to kill who. Their tables had been shoved away, and two guards lay unmoving on floor. So did Princess Jane. The two men were engaged in a knife fight, dancing around each other, thrusting and parrying, a bizarre example of art in the graceless chaos erupting around them.

After a moment I realized Lord Yellows was bearing a stake, not a knife. That answered that.

Lord Yellows was behind all this? But he was an aristocrat. It didn't make sense.

Act now, think later, Lee.

But act how. They appeared incompetent, but I was beginning to think they'd done something to the food to make us weak and slow, and we were hampered by our finery. All they needed was time, and eventually they'd get us all.

I had no idea what to do.

Then I was flying off my feet and landing on my face on the stone floor with a bone-crunching thud. Smacked my head good and hard, too. It was the serving girl, the one who'd noticed we weren't eating. She'd tackled me. Presumptuous little bitch.

Fear tasted sour in the mouth, but anger . . . ah, anger was fun.

I was able to turn over a little on the floor as the servant crawled up onto me, a stake in one hand. The floor was hard and bruising against my hip. I couldn't get free, couldn't crawl away.

She was holding the stake wrong, surely. Clutched in her fist, which meant she had to raise it fairly high to get any kind of momentum and power behind it. This gave me plenty of time to grab her wrist and hold the stake off. It was hard though. Most of my strength was in my legs, from the bar dancing.

If only I could get a chance to kick her. Then I'd do some damage.

The drape of her wimple was getting in my face. I took a moment to reach out with my spare hand and rip the whole thing off her head. And there was the sun tattoo on her temple. Damn it, but sometimes I hated being right. Were all these people, all the guards and the servants, Reanists? Where'd they all come from? Risa had been sure they'd all be arrested or forced out of High Scape.

Risa! Relief roared through me. The Runners. They were out there, watching the grounds! Or were they still? The party had started hours ago, with no apparent disturbances. And the Runners were no doubting thinking any danger would be from an external attack. They could be riding around out there thinking all was just dainty and delicate within. I had to get their attention.

What was I supposed to do with this woman?

I could use my legs after all, to flip us over. She shouted in outrage. I slapped her, which shut her up but otherwise served no useful purpose. Having spent years watching boys fight on the academy grounds, I curled my hand into a fist and punched her in the nose.

Zaire, that hurt, shoving bones in my fingers in directions they were never meant to go.

But it hurt her, too, so all right then. I grabbed her stake and stood up. I thought about kicking her, for knocking me over and being a part of all this, but it seemed so petty. She was curling up a little, blood seeping out from the fingers curved over her nose. She screamed insults at me, but they weren't particularly creative, and they were easily ignored. She was out of the game. That was all that mattered right then.

I looked around, not knowing what to do next. Karish was still on his feet, fighting another guard. I guessed he'd endured his fair share of schoolyard tumbles, because he seemed to be managing all right. Not exactly the stereo-typical gentleman boxer, though. His style seemed to involve a lot of grabbing whatever came to hand and throwing it at his opponent, or using it as a club. But hey, whatever worked.

I heard shattering. A glass had been thrown against a window. That made me think. The ritual space. Maybe if we changed the space. Rendered it an inappropriate place to hold the ritual. Would they stop because, according to their rules, there was no point to killing anyone without a viable space, or would they continue fighting out of spite?

It couldn't hurt. But how to do it?

I couldn't begin to imagine how to stop the waterfall from flowing. I didn't even know how it worked. Maybe I could shove something into the passage where the water came through, but I couldn't reach the ceiling. Unless I stood on a chair. But it would be too easy to knock me down. And maybe it would alert the Reanists to my plan.

The fire was burning too hot and too large to dowse with whatever water might be available on the tables, or to smother with tablecloths. Besides, I'd have to cross the whole length of the room to reach it. I doubted I'd make it that far.

The pots for the plants were huge and appeared to be made of stone. They were too heavy for me to shift.

Smashing the windows would accomplish nothing. There would still be air out there.

But hey, it might attract the attention of the Runners. If they were still out there. A glass hadn't managed to break it a pane, but maybe a platter would? I grabbed up a platter and threw it at the nearest window. The platter shattered, the window didn't. Damn it.

And out of nowhere I felt those subtle shifts, tickling the back of my mind. I looked at Karish, and he'd clobbered his guard and for the moment was standing free. Apparently he'd decided it was time to whip out another earthquake. A handy weapon to have, I was beginning to think.

Much of the fighting stopped as people freaked over the experience of having the floor slanting beneath their feet. Not all of it, though. Some of the guards and servants lost their footing and clambered back up and tried again.

I wasn't sure how long Karish could keep the shaking up. I couldn't imagine the control it required, to maintain the movement without letting it get too strong. And more of the Reanists might have time to get over their shock and resume their assault. All that effort and all it did was buy us some time. Which was good. It was a good idea. It just needed some adjustments.

I wasn't exactly used to walking through an earthquake myself, though the way my life had been going I actually did have more experience at it than the average person. I was able to make my way back over to Karish. I had an idea. A really stupid one.

“Karish!” I grabbed the front of his doublet and yanked on it to get his attention. “Can you blow off the roof?” That would get everyone's attention.

He looked down at me. The shuddering of the floor died down quite a bit. “What?” he asked.

“A cyclone. Blow off the roof.” The ritual required an enclosed place of stone. With no roof the people's essence or whatever would escape. And the Runners couldn't possibly miss that level of destruction. They'd come running.

Karish started swearing. I didn't blame him.

“You expect me to spin up a cyclone inside of a room?” Karish demanded after a few moments.

It sounded so asinine when he said it like that, but it couldn't be that impossible, could it? “I expect you to try.”

Karish resumed swearing. I punched him in the arm. I didn't care how good he sounded when he did that, it was not the time.

The shaking stopped. For a moment nothing happened, and in the silence I could hear harsh breathing and pained moans. Then someone started crying, and the Reanists began waving their stakes around again.

And then I felt it, a wind curling about my feet. It was cold, icy, and I almost shivered. At first it played about the floor, tickling ankles and flowing over hems. In a few moments, though, it was stronger, moving faster, and creeping higher.

The wind spread out, weakening as it rose but strong enough to push the goblets off those tables that still stood. Serviettes flew into people's faces, hair escaped from pins and ties. And I did shiver as the chill climbed up my legs and wrapped around my torso.

Reanists and victims alike looked about, searching for the source of the unusual droughts. Someone started screaming. The wind seem to carry the sound about the room, twisting it and hollowing it out, until it was an eerie wail circling within the walls.

“They're coming!” One of the guards dropped his stake and pulled off his helmet. His eyes glittered, his face twisting into an expression of vacant ecstasy. He looked up at the ceiling and raised his hands. “The gods are coming! They're pleased with us!” He grinned, white and wide, and laughed. There were murmurs from the other guards and the servants. They all started pulling off their head gear and raising their hands to the ceiling, demonstrating the same delight.