The Wrath of the King (12 page)

“I want your word no harm will come to Sander,” she said.

The General hesitated, then bowed his head. “You have my word no one will touch the King.” He used a hand to gesture toward the open door.

Chey glanced at Krislin. The woman looked nervous and as wary as Chey felt. The General reached out to cup his hand at Chey's elbow, coaxing her into motion.

Like a mule looking up hill, Chey didn't budge. Not at first. She resisted, panic over riding common sense. A niggling fear that she wouldn't ever see Sander alive again kept her feet rooted to the floor.

The General applied a bit more pressure to his hold. Chey twisted her arm, giving it a sharp yank to remove his hand.

He pressed his lips tight, then slung an arm low around her back, preparing to propel her forward.

That was all it took for the war to start. Chey struggled against him, pushing at his shoulder, swiveling her hips out of his arm.

“No! I'm not leaving him. Let go!” she shouted, catching a glimpse of Sander during the scuffle. Lying so still, breathing in, breathing out. Unaware of everything and everyone. Defenseless.

The General moved her bodily toward the door, using sheer strength and agility against her futile attempts to get free.

Chey didn't stop twisting and writhing in his grip until she was at the door, about to pass into the hallway. She shot a desperate look at Krislin, who was blocked in by a guard. This was it, there was nothing else they could do. Shaking off the General's hold, Chey stood alone and untouched in the corridor, where bodies littered the floor from the fighting. Two guards held the doctors and several nurses at bay.

It was the hardest thing she'd ever done, walking away from Sander's room. Leaving him without protection, not knowing what fate lay in wait. The tears that stung the back of her eyes were tears of fury and outrage. Why hadn't they prepared sooner for something like this? All those days of sitting at Sander's side could have been better spent planning for emergencies of this nature. In the world of Royalty, the idea of being 'too paranoid' didn't exist. Paranoia kept a person on their toes, kept them alive. She should have known to expect trouble from
any
angle, even from Sander's own family.

Especially
his family, given the recent history with Aksel and Helina.

Feeling like a prisoner on the last walk to the executioner's chair, Chey followed several guards who stepped in front of her to lead the way. The General came behind. Into the elevator, up to the rooftop.

Chey's last glimpse of the hospital was from a helicopter seat as the aircraft lifted off and swung away, destination unknown.

. . .

The sound of arguing voices drifted in and out of his hearing. Jumbled words, fast sentences, too confusing to keep up with. In those first seconds of his return to awareness, Sander couldn't figure out why it was taking him so long to wake up, or why people were arguing in the first place. His bedroom was typically a quiet place, undisturbed by this kind of ruckus and upheaval.

You're not in your bedroom.
The thought slithered to the fore and receded. He tried to lift his head. Open his eyes. Although he couldn't make out explicit details through the blurry view he had of the world, Sander knew one thing: he really
wasn't
in his bedroom. The melting colors on the walls were too monochrome and plain. Yet he was prone, on a bed, which served to confuse him further.

Blinking against the blurriness, he tried to sit up. Dizziness swelled up from the black abyss he'd so recently left behind, threatening to pull him back under. Fighting it off, wondering at the sense of urgent alarm beginning to buzz through his head, he groaned and succeeded in getting the top half of his body upright.

“Dare! Thank God you're awake,” a female voice said.

Someone touched his arm.

“Quit shouting,” he mumbled. If he didn't know better, he thought he might have had the worst hangover of his life. A hangover that included unusual pain in his mid-section, along his left side, and down one arm. He ran a hand over his chest,
tugging at the strange robe-like thing covering his torso. A few wires and sticky discs came with it.

“Sander, it's Krislin. Here, let me take these things off you and remove the IV.”

Krislin? What the hell was she doing here?

“I'll get it. Watch the door,” a woman said.

Sander pegged the second voice at last.
Natalia.

“What's going on?” he asked, bracing his weight with one hand while Natalia ripped more of the sticky discs from his skin and slid a needle out of his vein. A machine
beep-beep-beeped
somewhere behind him.

“You've been in a coma for almost a week and you need to wake up
right now,”
Natalia said. “I'll get your clothes. How does your head feel?”

“Woozy. A what?” Coma? Sander only knew he'd been asleep. Vaguely, he recalled hearing Chey cry, a man's voice he didn't recognize. A few times, he'd felt almost on the verge of waking from a long dream. Unable to fully rise from the mist, he'd succumbed to the lure of slumber.

He rubbed at his eyelids, which made the blurriness worse before it got better. Finally, he was able to take in the hospital room, the bed he sat on, and Natalia yanking clothes out of the closet against the wall. Krislin hovered near a window, peering out through a crack. Once more, a shiver of alarm coursed through his system. He made a more concentrated effort to get his bearings.

“Coma. You were in an accident. Do you remember the accident?” Natalia asked as she brought jeans and a tee-shirt to the bed along with socks and boots. “Put these on. We don't have a lot of time.”

Mention of the accident brought images to the surface of his memory.
Charred flesh. Black metal. The crack of fire. Pain.

“Yes. What happened?” He shucked the gown and fumbled into jeans with Natalia's help. Feeling too dizzy to stand up, he tugged them up over his boxers and left them unbuttoned for now. On went the tee-shirt while Natalia crouched in front of him and put on his socks. He wondered why Chey wasn't doing it.

“Someone attacked the caravan. Almost everyone died. You've been unconscious ever since.” Natalia jammed the boots on and laced them up the front with deft motions.

“Where's Chey?”

Natalia stood up, holding his eyes. “Several guards took her. I'm not sure where. Krislin said--”

“
Took Chey?”
That seared through some of his haze in a hurry. He stood up, tilting to the right. Natalia was there, letting him lean on her until he got his balance back.

“Yes. I got here with reinforcements just a few minutes too late. We have to get you out of here before more of
his
men show up.”

Sander snarled. Clarity returned at a faster clip. “What the hell is going on, here?”

“Krislin, is it safe to poke your head out and ask the doctor for some smelling salts?” Natalia turned a look up at Sander. “It's Paavo. He's been planning a coup for months. And he's been busy the last week, signing decrees to divide Latvala into regions.”

“I'll get them,” Krislin said. She slipped out the door into the hallway, where Natalia's guards stood watch.

“That bastard. I should have known he wouldn't leave it alone.”

Krislin returned shortly, walking a few small packets over to Natalia. Ripping one open, Natalia gave Sander no warning before waving the stick under his nose.

“I hope this doesn't do more harm than good,” Natalia said.

Sander reared his head back as the potent sting hit his nose. Sucking in a breath, he pushed at Natalia's hand. She waved it around a few more times anyway.

“Get that out of here,” he groused.

“Is it working?”

He had to admit it was. Although he still felt woozy, at least he could see and hear without it sounding like he was underwater. “It's good enough. Let's go.”

“I have just enough guards to get you out of here, I think. I hope. There's no telling how many more are on the way, or that might be waiting downstairs,” she said.

“Do you have a phone?” he asked, heading to the door. His legs kept wanting to give out.

“Yes,” Natalia said.

Krislin opened the door and stepped into the hall.

“We're not going down the usual way,” Sander said. He veered into the hallway, one arm around Natalia's shoulders for extra stability.

“Your Majesty, you shouldn't be up and walking. Let me check--”

Sander cut the doctor off. “No time. Pop the latch for the other door.”

The doctor retreated into his office.

Sander grouped the guards ahead and behind, directing them along with Krislin and Natalia down another intersecting corridor. Right away he opened a different door on their left with a
Supplies
sign on the front. A distant buzzing noise indicated the doctor had activated some sort of release function.

“Move that rack out of the way,” Sander ordered two of the guards, who did so immediately. The rack swung away from the wall, revealing another door and a keypad. He had to concentrate to recall the code. Once entered, the latch clicked. Pushing instead of pulling, Sander stepped onto a broad landing with stairs leading down.

“Help him,” Natalia said to the guards when she saw the stairs.

“I got it,” Sander argued, starting down. He suffered bouts of vertigo, forcing him to hang onto the railing or pitch head first down the whole flight. Replacing Natalia, two guards got on either side and hurried the process along. Sander didn't fight it. His mind was on Chey and their child—and on Paavo. He seethed with anger both at his brother and at himself. Although he'd tracked Paavo's movements through the summer, apparently he hadn't done enough.

Halfway down, he said, “Natalia, have your driver meet us a half block down at the eastern edge of the hospital after he loses any possible trail first. Have him park in front of the fire hydrant.”

Hearing Natalia get on the call, Sander guided the group down the flights until they came to a landing with two doors. He went right, entered another code into the keypad, and walked them through a series of tunnels that led to a flight of stairs leading to street level.

“Go through first and make sure no one is on the other side of the door,” Sander told one of the guards. The man disappeared after Sander entered yet another code, allowing a slice of waning sunlight to pierce the dim tunnel.

“All clear,” the guard called.

Sander led the group onto the street, squinting at the harsh glare that made his eyes water. A limousine waited at the curb. Without hesitation, he crossed the pavement and got in, followed by Natalia, Krislin and the guards.

“Where to, Dare?” Natalia asked.

He cited an address in the city. It was an unknown stronghold for emergencies just like this, a place only he and a choice few knew of. “Where's Mattias? Why didn't he stop Paavo before things got this far?”

“No one can find Mattias, and he's not answering his phone,” Natalia said.

Resting his head against the seat, Sander let talk of Mattias go. He knew what it meant when his brother went off the grid following Mattias's last known location. They would be lucky to hear from Mattias for another three to four days.

What poor timing for them all.

Chapter Twelve

The helicopter ride proved to be helpful in ways Chey hadn't expected; passing over the landscape of Latvala late afternoon of the previous day, she'd witnessed firsthand the scope of Paavo's meddling. Troops on the ground defined themselves with long lines of military vehicles and roadblocks, easily seen from the air. She had counted no less than five large encampments in open areas, away from big and small cities. She knew without being told that they were beholden to Paavo's cause, the men and women devoted to making his vision of a divided Latvala become a reality. Sick at heart, Chey had filed away the information for later use.

It was no surprise when Paavo's holding came into view, nor her transfer to the castle. She'd gone quietly, without a fight, taking personal notes along the way. There were more guards in place than were there on her prior visit, both inside and out, as if Paavo expected backlash.

Led up to a room on the third floor, she'd paced the entire night, unable to rest. The room itself was as lavish and well decorated as any at the family seat, with gilded furniture, large oil paintings and a king sized bed covered in a pretty duvet of creams and pinks. A room fit for a Queen.

The pale glow of early morning had given way to the brighter yellow-orange of mid-afternoon and still Chey paced. Her back hurt, her stomach felt tight, and her eyelids burned with the need for sleep. Bracing her hands at the base of her spine for extra support, she paused next to a window, again, and stared out at the terrain. From this vantage, she could see part of the surrounding wall and miles of countryside. Rows upon rows of tents lined uncountable acres on Paavo's property, stretching into the distance. She'd seen them from air, knew they were military encampments. It had been one more sign of Paavo's planning and organization. Here in the back country, with the nearest town miles and miles away, the Prince had the time, space and funds to expand the empire he meant to steal. She imagined this was the first place those loyal to Paavo came, and the place they left after training, spreading out through the regions to do his bidding.

She scanned the sky, hoping to see an incoming helicopter.

Nothing. No one was coming.

Not yet.

She wondered what happened to Sander. Wondered if he was still alive.
Yes, of course he's still alive,
she argued with herself. Going down a melancholy road would not help her now. She needed to stay strong and optimistic. Paavo wouldn't dare kill Sander in his sleep.

If she had a television, she might have some idea what else the new sitting King was up to. Of course there was none, not even a radio to play music by.

After another thirty minutes, legs aching from standing for so many hours, she relented and sat down in a plush chair. A twinge through her belly jerked her upright just as she started to relax. Panic surfaced at the thought of going into labor here, of all places.