Haladras

by Michael M. Farnsworth

Then the idea struck him. “That’s it! We’ll position the cannon facing toward the sky and away from the battlefield. Then we’ll tie it up. The hydraulic arms that adjust the barrel’s angle are only powerful when lifting—applying an outward force. They must rely on the decreased hydraulic pressure and the weight of the barrel to lower it.”

  Endrick looked at him doubtfully.

  “So, we tie one end of our cord to the barrel and the other to...the sleeping guard’s neck?”

  “There has to be something we can use.”

  The pair searched the walls and low ceiling of the tower. All they needed was a hook or loop of some kind. They found nothing. On a whim, Skylar poked his head out of the tower’s window and looked up. A few seconds later he pulled his head back in with a jerk.

  “Do you have one of those grappling hooks like Krom’s?”

  “Of course,” replied Endrick, “you never know when one might need to scale a wall or lower himself into a smelly sewer.”

  “Good. I think we can make this work. Here, help me point the cannon away from where our troops will attack.”

  With considerable effort, the pair managed to turn the cannon so that it pointed just a few degrees shy of entirely facing east. Then they lifted the heavy barrel so that it pointed skyward.

  “Now, hold it there,” instructed Skylar as he let go and began preparing the cord and grappling hook.

  “No problem,” said Endrick between clenched teeth. “Take all the time you need.”

  Nimbly, Skylar shimmied out onto the casement’s ledge, leaned out with one hand grasping the inner lip of the casement, and began swinging the grappling hook on the cord in his other. Taking aim, he let the hook fly and allowed the cord to glide through his palm.

  The hook landed with a muffled clank upon the tower roof. It hit short of its mark and bounced off. A groan from Endrick within told Skylar to hurry. With his free hand, Skylar reeled in the cord. There was a metal rod protruding from the roof’s apex. He needed to hit the roof just beyond that point and then quickly tug the rope so that the hook latched onto the rod.

  He swung the hook around again. This time he needed more power. But his restricted position made it difficult. If only he could stand up. With a final swing, he heaved the hook into the air, letting his arm stretch as far as he dared. As he did, he instinctively pushed up with his legs to add momentum to the throw. Quickly, he checked himself. Too late. His fingers slipped free of the inner casement. In vain, he reached for cannon’s barrel. No use. He was falling, with nothing to grab hold of but the loose cord.

  “Skylar!” came the shocked cry from Endrick.

  Still gripping the rope with white-knuckled fingers, Skylar continued to fall backward.

  The casement rushed past and was gone. A brief flash of Endrick’s horror-stricken face, then gone.

  Falling.

  A fleeting thought of his jetwing entered his mind. That device which might have saved him was shattered in the battle on Haladras.

  He thought of his father. I failed you.

  Suddenly, the cord tightened like a rod and Skylar felt his palms burn as his hands slid down it before coming to a halt. He looked up. Had the grappling hook hit its mark? Little time did he have to wonder, for no sooner had he stopped falling than the rope swung him around the side of the tower in a wide pendulum motion. He wrapped his legs around the rope and held on tight.

  When it slowed, he laboriously began ascending the rope, his bloodied hands aching with pain. If he could just climb high enough, he could shimmy around to the casement and finish the job he had started. He was almost there when he heard a shout from below that made his heart freeze.

  “Intruder! Intruder!”

  The voice rang out like a siren in the still night air. Skylar craned his neck around. The guard—the one they had let escape—was running toward the tower.

  “Come down from there,” he ordered.

  Not a chance.

  Swiftly, Skylar swung himself around to the tower’s casement. Two blaster fires struck the stone near his head. Not hesitating, he scurried into the tower, Endrick helping to pull him in.

  “The guard,” gasped Skylar, motioning below. “He’s—”

  “I know. Come on.”

  Endrick drew out his sword, bolted for the tower door and charged down the stairs. It was all Skylar could do to keep up with him. Such a fire he’d never seen in Endrick’s eyes before.

  The guard never knew what hit him. No sooner had the guard reached the bottom of the tower stairs, than Endrick fell upon him with a single stroke of his sword. The guard fell dead without so much as a moan. Skylar’s heart cringed. He had no time to grieve, however, for Endrick was already dashing across the curtain wall toward the castle’s main keep.

  They were midway to the spot where they had deposited the sleeping guard when three guards emerged from the flanking tower, blasters in hand. Endrick raised his sword and charged ahead, striking down the first soldier before he could level his blaster. The second fired, but Endrick dodged and bludgeoned the soldier’s face with the pummel of his sword. Instantly, he was after the third, who retreated in fear. Endrick leapt upon him like a panther hunting its prey. He raised his sword above his head to strike.

  A shriek of blaster fire suddenly blared past Skylar’s ear, striking Endrick between the shoulders. The sword fell from Endrick’s hands and clattered onto the stone walk. Endrick’s body collapsed next to it.

  “No!” cried Skylar, scarcely able to comprehend what had happened.

  Whirling around, Skylar’s gaze met a guard standing a few meter away, his blaster leveled at him. Anger surged within him, then almost instantly died away. Endrick. He turned his back on the guard. Could Endrick still be alive? Putting his hands on Endrick’s shoulders, he started to turn him over.

  Rough hands seized his arms in that instant and hauled him to his feet.

  “It’s too late for him,” said a pitiless voice.

  “No, let go of me!” protested Skylar. “He might still be alive.”

  The guards did not relinquish their iron grasp.

  “Take them to the minister,” commanded one of the officers. “He’ll want to know about this.”

  “Even this one?” asked one of the guards, pointing to Endrick.

  “Check his vitals. If there’s still life in him, take him to the infirmary. He’ll be wanted for questioning.”

  Having received their orders, two guards forcibly escorted Skylar from the wall. He tried to turn and see the guard who was ordered to check Endrick for signs of life. A glimpse of him was all he caught. Nothing in the man’s face, however, told him what he longed and trembled with fear to know.

  Morvath looked pleased to see Skylar, extremely pleased. Like a jealous sibling looks when he finally catches the favorite child committing a blackmail-worthy offense. He didn’t smile. He merely leered at Skylar with those pale blue eyes. Eyes filled with triumph.

  “You’re quite welcome, Prince Korbyn,” he said amiably. “Your friends should be arriving shortly, as well.”

  Skylar started. Did Morvath know about the others? Had they been captured, too? He forced himself to relax, to look ignorant. But it was too late. Morvath’s keen eyes had not missed his flicker of fear.

  “Sergeant,” said Morvath with an unmistakable edge in his voice, “see that you find the young prince’s friends. I trust you’ll find them attempting to sabotage our cannons and our castle gates.”

  Skylar bit his lip. What he wouldn’t give to break Morvath’s nose with his fist.

  “You needn’t look so sour, Prince. There’s still a way out of all this—”

  “Never,” replied Skylar curtly.

  “No need to be rude. It’s unbecoming the future adopted heir of his majesty.”

  Skylar did not respond.

  “I admit that I did not expect you to be as brazen as this. Sneaking into the castle, and all. Brave...and foolish. I suspect you have your pathetic army awaiting a signal
of some sort to let it know the castle’s guard is down. Now, what might that signal be? Your friends use such primitive methods, running about with their little swords as they do.”

  Morvath paused and pondered over his own question for several moments. Skylar took inconspicuous stock of his surroundings. There might be an opportunity to escape.

  An expansive bedchamber—likely Morvath’s own—was all the room appeared to be. A four-poster with ivory curtains occupied the far left of the room. Beside it, a few items of furniture: two high-backed arm chairs, a sofa, a mahogany wardrobe, and two end tables of the same. All simple and elegant. The room, like Morvath’s appearance contradicted everything Skylar knew about this murderous traitor.

  Morvath himself sat behind a desk. He wore a leisurely robe. Two guards stood at attention just inside the double doors through which Skylar had been escorted into the room. Behind Morvath’s desk, a short platform led to a steel door flanked by casement windows.

  Morvath finally broke off his meditation, stating confidently that the matter of the signal would be revealed to him presently. He then proceeded to lure Skylar in with his hypnotic speech. This time, they achieved no effect on Skylar.

  A quarter of an hour later, five guards hauled in Rasbus and Grüny. Both wore shackles about their wrists and ankles. Rasbus’ face had a look of pure fury. Skylar briefly wondered how many guards had lost their lives before they managed to capture this bear of a man. How had they done it without killing him? Shortly after, two more guards shoved Krom into the room. He was likewise shackled.

  Krom’s face betrayed no emotion. He cast a brief glance at Skylar. His dark eyes asked the question Skylar feared to answer, “and Endrick?” In reply, Skylar only bowed his head in shame.

  “Welcome, Sir Krometheus,” said Morvath. “You pay me a great honor by your presence.”

  Krom did not respond.

  “Guards,” he went on, unperturbed, “did you search the captives?”

  “Yes, m’Lord.”

  “What did you find? Bring it here.”

  Several guards came forward. On Morvath’s desk they laid the companions’ swords, rope, grappling hooks, daggers, and a tiny black cube that made Skylar catch his breath. He prayed with all his might that Morvath would overlook it, ignore it. His heart sank. For Morvath immediately fixed his eyes on the box and seized it with relish.

  “Ah,” he said triumphantly, “here is what I needed.” He examined the tiny box for several moments. “More sophisticated than I gave you credit for, Krometheus. It certainly simplifies matters for me. Shall we invite your little warriors to the castle?”

  “No!” blurted our Skylar. “There’s no need to do that.”

  “Oh, but there is, there is,” replied Morvath.

  It was no use imploring. Morvath would not be dissuaded—not until Skylar gave him what he wanted. And that he could not do. So Skylar could only watch in horror as Morvath opened the little box, activated the transmitter that sent the all-clear to Arturo, and then ordered his general to prepare their troops for an attack on the castle.

  “I’m afraid I cannot permit you to participate in the fighting,” said Morvath, sounding unapologetic. “You shall, however, be permitted watch from my balcony. I’m sure you’ll not want to miss it.”

  Skylar clenched his fists, but remained silent.

  Two hours later, they stood on Morvath’s balcony, overlooking the whole grim scene. Ten thousand lightly armed soldiers against a heavily armed stone fortress. Somehow Krom had succeeded in disarming the high tower’s cannons. The others—Skylar chided himself—were fully operational, causing destruction wherever they struck. Before the battle had commenced, Skylar had hoped Arturo or Rowvan would recognize the trap and call off their troops. Even now, as they fought in vain against their enemies, he prayed they would retreat. Skylar knew his hope was for naught. Arturo would not back down.

  “You can make the killing stop, you know?” said Morvath quietly beside him. “All you have to do is pledge your allegiance to Tarus, and you can make it stop, you can save what lives remain, save your friends who stand behind you.”

  Skylar gripped the stone parapet so hard his eyes began to water. It was over. They had lost. He had failed his father. Would it not be right to make the pledge and save innocent blood? Why must everyone die fighting for what they’ll never gain? Why must it be up to him?”

  For a long agonizing moment, his brain and heart waged a war fiercer than the one before his eyes. His reply, when it finally came, took all his strength to give.

  “I will never join you,” he said haltingly.

  “Then you sentence them all to death.”

  Skylar made no reply. He felt numb. He wished death would relieve him of his weighty burden.

  “Let us be done with this, then,” replied Morvath, as if he spoke of quitting a game of cards. “The empire cannot have peace with these rebels running about.”

  Vaguely, Skylar noticed Morvath signal to one of his servants. A minute later, the servant returned and handed an object to his master. Morvath took it, held it above his head and let it go.

  “You see that, Skylar?” said the chief minister, pointing in the air just in front of him. Skylar looked. He saw a metal sphere the size of a human head, with four handles attached to its horizontal circumference. It was suspended in the air by the aid of four mechanical creatures, with clamp-like claws, four independent propellers and large black eyes. “That is a percussion bomb. My little automatons are going to drop it in the midst of your army. Not a soul of them will survive it.”

  He gave a signal with the node of his head, and the bomb slowly hovered forward, the propellers whirring rhythmically.

  “You can stop it, Skylar,” coaxed Morvath. “You have the power to call it back. Just swear your allegiance—”

  Before Morvath could finish, Skylar had made his decision. He saw no other option. Without a second thought, he sprang onto the parapet, leapt into the air and caught hold of the floating bomb just before it flew out of reach.

  The sudden additional weight of his body pulled the bomb and the automatons swiftly downward. With surprising power, the automatons counteracted his weight and stopped their descent. His legs still swinging, Skylar struggled with one hand to unclench the claws of one of the automatons. It came free with a jerk that sent the whole thing falling again. He repositioned his hands and worked on the second. The enraged curses of Morvath rained down on him, but he scarcely heard them.

  The third came free. It was falling now, slowly, but falling. Straining, he grasped at the last claw.

  Almost...there...

  With a jolt, the claw snapped open.

  Skylar’s hands broke free.

  Instantly, gravity seized Skylar and the bomb.

  Both plummeted toward the earth.

  There was absolutely nothing to save him. No jetwing. No rope. Nothing. Yet he felt as calm as a star-filled sky. The bomb would land just within the castle walls, destroying half the enemy’s forces. The walls would be destroyed, as well. Arturo’s troops would storm the castle. Another—his grandfather, perhaps—would become king.Victory and peace at last.

  He closed his eyes and smiled at the thought.

  A flash of thought, a voice, suddenly interrupted his blissful moment. “Use the limbreath,” it said. It was not his own thought or voice. The instructions of his dying father returned to him. “...in your hour of greatest need.” Obediently, he worked to get at the limbreath. With the air rushing past him, he fought to remove the leather pouch from around his neck. A sudden sense of urgency now consumed him. Yanking hard, he wrested the pouch free, reached his fingers inside, and brought out the dried petals. Assailed by the wind, half of it broke off and vanished into powder. Quickly, Skylar jammed the bit that remained into the side of his mouth and swallowed hard.

  He looked down. The bailey was just below, swarming with imperial soldiers, all oblivious to their danger. The bomb, he saw, would impact before he did. Any
second...

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Impact.

  A violent ripple, a shock wave, burst from the spot, rushing outward, surging toward him. Within the ripple, a dark gray mass, a void grew like a storm cloud erupting to life out of nothing. Stone walls shattered into dust. Men dissolved into ashes. Skylar was next. He did not fear it.

  A sudden blinding white light struck his eyes, enveloped him. Weightlessness, a feeling of utter freedom, surged through his body. No longer did he feel the sense of falling.

  The winds abated. A perfect calmness prevailed.

  So, this is what death feels like, he thought. Why do so many fear it?

  Then the brightness began to dim, or his eyes to grow used to it, and the whole battle reappeared before him. He was still in the air, moving, but not falling. Yet he sensed movement, his body was speeding through the air, past the crumpled castle walls, out over the battlefield. Below him, the battled raged. But there was something more than soldiers on the field. Everywhere he looked, he saw flashes of light darting about amid the fray. They moved like lightning. He gazed in wonder. For an ephemeral moment he thought he saw the form of a man in one of the lights, but then it was gone.

  He became aware that he was nearing the ground. He sensed his feet touching the ground. The din of the battle assaulted his ears. The weight of his limbs returned. The calm and the light dispersed. Haladrian soldiers rushed by him. Their battle cries rang in his ears. A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. And he found himself looking into the eyes of Lord Rowvan, his grandfather.

  THIRTY-ONE

  THE HALADRIAN AND Allegan armies swept over what remained of Tarus’ forces. Those who didn’t surrender or flee in terror fell before their swords like wheat to a scythe. Within minutes, they had stormed the castle, pouring in through the huge gap where the walls had stood, and seized control of that mighty fortress. Skylar had joined the fighting, once his grandfather finished marveling over his sudden appearance on the battlefield. Skylar could not explain it. He did not try to.

  Once they gained control of the castle, Captain Arturo and Lord Rowvan urged Skylar to seek out Tarus and force him to give up the crown.