It was an effort to hide the flare of anger. He knew too well of the man’s expertise. Many Triotians had died, more had been maimed by this man and his favorite up-close weapon.
“Please,” he said, putting a quaver into his voice. “Just put it away.”
He felt Shaina staring at him. Had to hope she would stay quiet. That she would realize he had a plan, however feeble it was.
“Ready to talk?”
“I . . . you have to promise you won’t hurt us.”
The almost whimpering plea sickened him, but he could see from Mordred’s face it was no more than he’d expected. The flash of pleasure he saw in the man’s eyes sickened him even more.
Shaina moved. Hold, Shay. Please, just hold a bit longer.
He wished he could just send the thought to her unspoken. Now that would be a useful bit of magic.
She went still again, and for an instant he wondered.
“Tell me what I want, and I’ll put this away,” Mordred said, gesturing with the pistol whose light was now glowing a blue even deeper than the warning of the orb. The orb it now seemed more imperative to keep out of his hands than all the gold of the Graymist treasure.
The treasure that might save them yet.
“I . . . there was too much. To carry, I mean,” he said, with the air of someone stumbling hastily through a desperate explanation. “In one trip. We were just coming back for the coins we dropped when you arrived.”
That, he guessed, was the kind of greed a man like Mordred would understand. He knew he’d been right when a small, somehow evil-looking smile curved the man’s mouth as he lowered the weapon slightly. “That’s more like it. Now tell me where you put it.”
“I can’t.”
The laser pistol snapped up, trained on him again.
“No, no,” Lyon threw his hands up. “I just meant I can’t tell you. I’m not very good with directions. But I can show you.”
Again the man took the confusion and expressed cowardice and idiocy as only to be expected. No wonder the rebellion—and its success—had astonished the Coalition, if this is what they thought of everyone outside their own horde.
It had been their downfall.
And this time, it had gotten them out of the cave.
They walked into the sunlight, and Lyon drew in a deep breath. They had a chance now. They had room, cover, and there were two of them and only one of him. Together, they always had a chance. He glanced at Shay.
I love you, he thought fiercely, in the same way he had in the cave.
It was silly, it had been merely coincidence back there that she had stilled just as he had silently begged her to hold. But he did it anyway.
She winked at him.
Only when Mordred jabbed at him with the disrupter he’d thankfully switched to shock level, did he realize he’d stopped dead.
It was worth a try, he thought.
Run. Get away.
This time, he got an answer. It formed in his mind as if he were thinking it himself, only he knew he was not.
Not a chance.
In a split second, he simply accepted that it was all part of the whole, the destiny, amplified by the power of their mating, the establishment of the unbreakable bond. He had no time now to marvel at this new connection between them.
Right now he had to focus on keeping Shay alive. Mordred wanted him alive, but he had no reason to wish her so.
For now he had to stop wondering what else was going on, what it was that made it so imperative for Mordred to be back in Galatin, the scene of one of the greatest battles of the rebellion, by tonight.
Somehow he didn’t think it was for tomorrow’s celebration.
Chapter 38
THE KING’S SPAWN was supercilious and impudent, just as he had expected, unable to comprehend the full depth of his current situation. He would see that that changed soon, Mordred thought as they emerged into the meadow below.
It occurred to him that perhaps this was some kind of trick, to lure him outside in an effort to escape, or perhaps even turn on him despite his weapons and the fact that he had disarmed them. He doubted either of them had courage enough for that, however. Certainly not the woman.
It was she who was most annoying him, however. Not simply because of her insolence, her outrageous remarks, but because something about her continued to niggle at him. Before now, he’d shrugged it off, had assumed he had seen her in the brothel that catered to all tastes, including his own. He paid little attention to grown women, but he was naturally observant and thought he had probably noticed her without realizing.
But now that he was closer, it began to tug at him anew, as if there was something about her he was missing. Something important. It was not a feeling he enjoyed.
In fact, he was enjoying nothing about this except the fact that he had accomplished his goal and captured the son of Trios. He hated everything else about this world, almost as much as he hated Trios itself. The two places were so closely allied as to be one now, with their ridiculous Mutual Interest Pact, and the fact that the two most powerful men on Trios mated with Arellian women. He snorted. That absurd bonding ritual, as if there was something different, something more about their pairing than the simple, physical act.
He realized suddenly they were nearing that fiendish barrier, whatever it was that guarded this meadow. Had he not been so certain this was the way they had come, he never would have found this place. They had been there one moment, vanished the next, even their footprints. But he was certain. Slowly, he had moved forward, watching only his own feet as if he half expected them to disappear as well.
The sizzle of that unseen barrier had knocked him flat. He’d used his disrupter on it, set on low for fear of rebound. It had failed to break down the barrier, but the invisible force had scattered the weapon’s energy along the curve, illuminating a sort of bubble over the entire place. That had inspired the idea of using the laser pistol to carve a hole. It had worked, although the hole closed back up quickly, so quickly that it had singed his hair and his left hand as he dashed through. He had wondered for a brief moment how his quarry had gotten through, but didn’t let it stop him. He had been so close he couldn’t bear to wait any longer.
And now, he had his prize. The key to everything was in his possession.
He should just kill the woman, he thought. She was a nuisance. Even though she had settled into silence at last, something about her mere presence irritated him. He glanced at her, although he kept his disrupter trained on the boy prince. It niggled at him again, that feeling he’d missed something.
He suddenly realized they were almost to that blasted barrier. “Stop!”
The two obeyed. At least they realized who was in charge, Mordred thought.
“Enough of this. Where is it?”
“It’s right over there,” the prince said, gesturing rather vaguely toward the trees.
Mordred eyed him suspiciously. “How did you get past the barrier?”
“Same way you did.”
Fury spiked in him. Did this Triotian take him for a fool? “You dare lie to me? You have no laser pistol.”
The prince met his gaze. Odd, he’d thought Triotians all had green eyes, but this one’s were blue. A legacy from his mixed parentage, he supposed.
At last, it struck him. The niggling became a full-blown explosion in his mind. He whirled to look at the woman. The structure of her face, her impudent grin, her arrogance . . . her eyes.
Eyes the color of jade. Eyes he had seen before.
The eyes of the man who had orchestrated their defeat, their ouster from this wretched planet.
Dax.
“You’re his,” he breathed in shock. “You’re the spawn of that devil with the flashbow!”
She met his gaze with
an infuriating ease, not a trace of fear or even trepidation in her face. It was so clear now, he cursed himself for not having realized before who she was. He had faced her father in the last battle for Galatin. The damned man had blasted Corling’s own ship out of the sky with that rattletrap converted cargo ship of his. He and the general had fortunately been on the ground at the time. He had never seen Corling so enraged, and he had thought ever after that that had caused his downfall. The rebellion on Arellia had been Corling’s last chance at redemption, and his fury at the loss of his ship to a former skypirate had clouded his judgment.
Mordred had spotted Dax later, on the ground, and had nearly taken the man out himself. Would have, had Corling not insisted they continue the siege of the Council Building. A fruitless effort, Mordred could have told him. Whoever was inside, coordinating the defenses, was clearly a pure fighter. A tactician of no small talent. And fearless. Only later had he learned the man was one Captain Tarkson, a young Arellian, amazingly. And clearly a much better warrior than Corling himself.
That had been his real mistake. He should have relieved Corling of his command. The troops would have followed him, he was sure of it.
“Reminiscing?” the woman asked, her tone so sweet as to be sickly.
He gave a sharp shake of his head. He had no time to give to shock. And it was dawning upon him that his triumph had just been magnified. Bringing the Sovereign the Prince of Trios was one thing, but add the daughter of the man who had driven them from their stronghold on Arellia? He would sit at the leader’s right hand, become his closest confidant, with more stature than he had ever dared hope!
“My father drove you off this planet once, don’t think he won’t do it again.”
The woman’s snide tone sliced through his pleasant vision like a laser pistol through cinefilm. He snarled a vicious curse at her.
“Or maybe,” she said easily, as if merely discussing the weather, “I shall do it for him.”
His fury broke loose. He raised the disrupter to her. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Something hit him. Hard, fierce, square in the back. He staggered. Went down. The prince, on top of him. How had he worked up the nerve?
He twisted, trying to raise the disrupter. His foe pressed him back with shocking power, so hard he could barely breathe. Where had such strength come from? He fired his weapon, even knowing it would go wild, hoping the shock of a disrupter fired so close would terrify this princeling. And yet he never lessened his grip, never even flinched as the weapon went off bare inches from his head. The blast hit the screen, sizzling along the curve, lighting it up.
The prince struck him in the face. His ears rang. He was as much stunned by the power of it as by the actual effects of the blow. And another blow, even stronger. He clawed back, flailing, uncertain if he was doing any damage. For the first time he thought he might have underestimated things. He might have to settle for bringing in the man’s body. Again he tried to maneuver the disrupter.
Something hit him in the gut, hard. The woman. She had kicked him. Fury raged through him. Why couldn’t he simply shake off this vermin? He struck out with one hand, hoping to draw his prey into releasing his weapon hand. The man didn’t even wince. He absorbed the blow as if it were no more than a tap.
This was impossible. Next to himself, Mordred, this princeling was nothing, a foolish relic of a more foolish tradition. These rebels had merely been lucky, and aided by the assignment of fools like Corling to crush them. And yet this one had him down. Rolling in the dirt like a common foot soldier.
The woman, the spawn of that piece of galactic trash, kicked him again, a fierce, solid blow to the belly.
Rage swept him. Enabled him to land a sold blow this time. And a second. And he took great pleasure in the blood that now flowed from his adversary’s lip and nose. It had been a long time since he’d fought on such personal terms. He preferred the distance and scale of large bombs and torpedoes. But there was a certain satisfaction in this. Especially now that he had freed the hand that held his weapon.
And then the woman struck again. She kicked the disrupter out of his hand with even more force. The weapon went flying. It hit that invisible barrier, sizzled and popped. It fell back, blackened and useless.
In the moment when he himself would have gone in for the kill, the prince released him. He grabbed the woman, and pushed her through the barrier, despite her protest. The surprise of seeing her go through it without even a spark immobilized Mordred for an instant. And in that instant the prince followed, just as unscathed.
Mordred scrambled to his feet, bellowing his wrath. He ran at the barrier. Screamed as it seared him. He drew back, reaching for the laser pistol at his waist, ready to cut a hole in that infernal screen. In that instant an arm shot back through the barrier, yanked the weapon clear of his belt, then pushed hard against his chest.
He fell back. Stumbled. Realized what had happened. That he was unarmed and trapped.
On his knees, he howled. It seemed to echo back at him from the barrier, and his own rage filled his ears.
“THAT WAS MORDRED, and you left him alive.”
Lyon looked at her, and his voice held that same deceptive calm it had in the cave. He seemed oblivious to the blood trickling from his nose and lip, and she used her own sleeve to mop at it.
“Did I?” he asked mildly.
She stopped. Her gaze narrowed. “Didn’t you?”
In answer, he merely held up one hand.
She stared at what he held. The laser pistol Mordred had threatened them with.
“That’s what you reached back to grab?”
He nodded.
“But why—” She cut herself off as the memory of Mordred’s words came to her. “That’s how he got through.”
He nodded again. And the true brilliance of what Lyon had done struck her.
“Did you know he couldn’t get back out either, without it?”
“I wasn’t sure until the disrupter hit it and bounced back.”
“And that quickly you decided on this course?”
He shrugged. “He will singe himself to pieces, bit by bit, trying. He will die slowly, painfully. And a short distance from the treasure he sought, without ever knowing. A more fitting end than a clean death for such as he, is it not?”
She flung her arms around him. She was prouder of him in this moment than she had ever been. He held her, grinning. She looked up at him. Opened her mouth to speak the words she hadn’t gotten to finish when Mordred had interrupted them.
An explosion echoed up the mountain. For the second time in this day, the ground shook beneath them.
They both turned. A pillar of smoke arose from below.
Another explosion. More smoke. And then more of each.
Galatin. Under attack.
Neither hesitated. They ran toward the battle.
Chapter 39
“YOU HAVE TO go back.”
It nearly ripped her heart out to say the words. Rina wanted nothing more than for him to stay with her, to stay safe, away from the chaos that had erupted below. They could not see from here; their view was blocked by trees and the rock of the mountain itself, but she knew the sounds too well. Soon clouds of smoke would rise, and likely already citizens had fallen. Galatin was, once more, under attack.
Tark had given, given, and then given more to this world, near unto his life, and they despised him for it. To ask him to give again, when he was battered and scorned, was beyond the pale.
And yet she knew she must. She had spent enough time now around the palace, had been on the edges of discussions of the council, and most of all had heard the king and queen’s impassioned discussions with Dax and Califa, and she knew that Trios would fight, just as they had when Arellia had first followed them in rebellion against the yoke of tyranny.
> And if her world fought, she must fight. And since she could not, not until she completed her true mission, she must do the only thing she could. Galatin must hold until assistance arrived. Tark was their best, perhaps only hope. She must release Arellia’s finest warrior to do what he had to. No matter that it left her bleeding inside.
“They will hold,” he said, then amended it. “For a while. We must find the prince. And Dax’s daughter.”
“I will find them.” Rina’s mouth tightened as she looked up the mountain. They were close now—they had to be, they were near the summit. “As I should have done before now.”
The sound of explosions continued. She could feel the ripple of them under her feet.
“You were . . . distracted. For my part in that, I am sorry.”
Her head snapped around. “Don’t you dare say that. I am not sorry. I could never be sorry.”
“I was speaking,” he said with deceptive mildness, “of getting you involved with the watchers.”
“Oh.” Abashed, her temper ebbed. “You still must go. The attack has begun.”
“This is more important just now.” She nearly gaped at him. Had Tark, the warrior down to his soul, truly just said that? “Did you really think I could regret what has happened between us? It may be foolish, it may be the wrong choice for you, but Eos, Rina, it—and you—are the most extraordinary thing that has ever happened to me.”
“And that is unforgiveable. On Trios you will find things are much different.”
He drew back slightly. In reaction to her assumption that he would be going to Trios?
Or to her assumption he would still be alive to go anywhere?
“You listen to me, Bright Tarkson, I mean what I said. You come back. If you get yourself killed I will make your ghost miserable for eternity.”
He blinked. Then, unexpectedly, he grinned. “So if I die, you’re going to haunt me? Backward, is it not?”
Rebel Prince (The Coalition Rebellion Novels Book 3) Page 28