King Terrin sprang to his feet. "Seize them!"
The scrape of shifting chair legs filled the room.
Zylas took slow backward steps, voice strained. "Easy now, friends. I can explain everything."
The room surged toward them like a tide. Past reasoning, Collins whirled and ran. He slammed into a burly man. His head snapped backward, and pain shot through his tongue. He staggered into a sea of arms. Callused hands grasped his wrists, scratching and pinching flesh. His first instinct, to surrender to them, passed swiftly. The whole situation overwhelmed him. He had seen his own face, yet Zylas assured him the disguise remained intact. And, somehow, the king had seen through it all.
Zylas' acting voice sputtered over the shouts. "Stop, you fools. It's me! Narladin. What are you doing?" His sword rasped from its sheath, and Collins suddenly remembered his own.
If they catch us, they'll kill us. Energized by the realization, Collins clamped his teeth onto one of the restraining hands. The man jerked back with a curse, releasing Collins' right wrist. He swung wildly into the crowd, connecting with a meaty thud that sent pain searing through his fist and down his arm. "Let go of me!" he howled, lashing a kick toward one's face. The guard retreated, sparing his mouth, but several others moved in to take his place. Collins twisted, making a bold leap for the door.
Hands gripped his left wrist and ankle jarring him up short, kindling a fire through his knee. He crashed to the ground. Fists pounded into the back of his head, smashing his chin against the floor, and someone relieved him of his sword. My fault, he realized. All my fault He caught a dizzy, sideways view of a now-silent, disarmed Zylas being carried through the door by three guards. "No. Nooo!" He lunged again but, this time, gained no ground at all. A half-dozen guards held his limbs or pinned him to the floor. "I didn't do anything-"
The hands slammed into the back of his head again, this time driving his face to the tiled floor. Pain exploded through his head. His entire body went limp, beyond his control. Urine warmed his thighs, then merciful oblivion descended upon him.
Benton Collins groaned awake, the agony in his head momentarily overwhelming all other pain. Nausea roiled through his gut, but he managed to keep from vomiting with an effort that hardly seemed worth the result. Acid burned his throat, and as he became more aware of his body, pain screamed through his left knee, his nose, and his arm. He tasted blood. He scraped his tongue against his teeth, discovering a sharp bite on the right underside toward the front. I don't believe it. I don't frickin' believe it. He clearly had passed out for longer than a minute or two, which meant he had suffered a concussion, at the very least, perhaps even a brain hemorrhage. He knew he might die in this accursed place, but it seemed unfair. Somehow, he had expected his brave words to carry him, for poetic justice to see his mission safely done. He opened his eyes.
Light flooded in, accentuating Collins' splitting headache. He groaned again, narrowing his gaze to a slit that admitted only a pair of curious dark eyes looking back at him. Startled by the sight, he wrenched his eyes fully open again. A man crouched in front of him, on the opposite side of heavy, iron bars. He held his head tipped sideways to meet Collins' gaze, his expression quizzical. A huge nose disrupted an otherwise softly contoured face, and wispy brown hair scarcely covered his jutting ears. He wore a sword at his left hip, a key ring at his right. "Who are you?" the other man asked.
For a moment, Collins did not understand the question. Panic crowded his thoughts. Do I have amnesia? He dismissed the thought at once. He knew his identity. It was not a question of who, but of where. Afraid to move his head, he rolled his eyes, trying to see around his prison, which consisted of three windowless stone walls, a granite floor, and the barred gate. Dangling collars and shackles, and a dented dingy chamber pot, completed the image. "I'm in hell," he whispered.
"Opernes Castle," the stranger corrected, looking perfectly comfortable low to the ground. "Now, who are you?"
Collins shook his head. The charade was clearly over.
"And don't say Orna," the guard cautioned. "We know you're a man."
Collins' hand went instinctively to his privates; if they had looked, they might have meddled. A quick touch revealed no pain. Everything seemed intact, even his underwear; though they had confiscated his sword, its belt, the cloak, and the objects he had carried in his pockets. "I'm not telling you anything." He tried to keep his tone defiant, though fear shuddered through him. Zylas might have trained to withstand torture, but Collins would probably fold like a warm candle.
The guard only shrugged, rising. His position had made him seem small; but, now, Collins could see the man stood probably no more than an inch to either side of his own five feet eleven inches. "Your choice. We'll just wait for your switch, if you wish."
That'll be a long wait.
The guard lowered his head. "But you should know, the king prefers cooperation."
Doesn't everyone? Collins kept the snide observation to himself. The less he said, the better. Or is it? Terror fluttered through his chest as he realized delay and time were not on his side. When he did not change within twelve hours, they would know he did not belong in Barakhai. If anyone had recognized him at the portal, before Prinivere had rescued him, they would know his identity as surely as if he had switched. More importantly, Zylas would switch, and they would know the white rat instantly. Collins could only hope the king's guards had not already discovered the Loner Aisa had applied to hide the pallor of Zylas' albino skin. "Where's… my companion?"
"Who's your companion?" the guard asked, his attempt to speak casually an obvious sham.
What am I, a moron? Realizing Zylas had called him just that before the charade fell apart, Collins tried to play the game safely. "My companion. The man who came with me."
"In another room." The guard straightened his silks, aqua and white, without the stretched clover pattern of the elite force. This man, at other times, was a dog. "You didn't think we'd keep you together to conspire, did you?"
Clearly rhetorical, the question did not warrant an answer, so Collins did not give one.
"King promised to go easy on the one who talks first, gives up the other."
Having seen his share of cop shows, Collins wasn't about to fall for that ploy, especially since he knew Zylas would never let the burden of punishment fall on an innocent companion. On the other hand, he could not see silence working to their advantage. Time would reveal Zylas and, ultimately, himself. His thoughts raced in myriad directions, every one a dead end. With his heart pounding an aching drumbeat in his head, he found it nearly impossible to think clearly. Maybe Falima and the others will rescue us. Collins knew he could not pin all of his hopes on such a thing. The renegades would first have to get word that the mission had failed, then find a way to break into the king's dungeon, all before Zylas' midnight change. He could not count on that happening any more than he could that Zylas would escape and rescue him, too. He had to find his own way out. "All right," he started carefully, "I'll talk. But only to Carrie Quinton."
The dog guard crooked an eyebrow, clearly trying to figure out Collins' angle. The request had to seem stunningly bizarre. "Why?"
Collins stared back. "Carrie Quinton," he insisted, keeping any hint of insolence from his voice. Antagonism would not get him what he wanted. "I'll talk to her and no one else."
The guard bobbed his head, rubbing his chin with his fingers. "Very well. I'll see if she's willing." He headed toward the door Collins knew led to the upper staircase, jabbed one of the keys into the lock, and twisted. It gave with an echoing click. The guard eased open the door and slipped through, then the bolt rang home behind him.
Collins sagged, letting the coldness of the floor numb his wounds. He worried about the blow to his head; nothing else seemed worse than a bruise or strain, a nagging background cacophony with the sole purpose of slurring his thoughts. Still incapable of finding a good solution to his dilemma, he focused his hopes on the desperate gambit he had taken. Ca
rrie Quinton hated him. Of all the people in this strange world, she would most like to watch him slowly tortured to death. Yet she alone could fully understand the position in which fate had placed him. The best and the worst of his hopes lay with her.
An eternity seemed to pass while Collins waited, alternately concerned about and glad of the delay. It gave him time to think and to brood, to nurse his wounds and to suffer them, to hope and to worry. He dozed a bit, his anxieties peppering his dreams. Then, when all seemed lost, two new guards appeared, with Quinton in tow. She wore a simple dress that hid her deliciously proportioned curves, and a veil covered features Collins had once found singularly beautiful.
"Alone," Collins said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
They all knew what he meant. The guards looked askance at Carrie Quinton, who hesitated before returning a decisive nod. "Stay just outside. I'll call you if I need you."
The guards gave her a look of fierce concern, then pinned Collins with a pair of savage glares. Without a word, they left the room, closing the door behind them.
Quinton did not waste a second. "Who arc you?"
Collins swallowed hard, and all of his rehearsed words left his mind in an instant. He would have to play this carefully and by ear. "Someone… " he started, his voice maddeningly unsteady. "… from your world."
"Yes," she said, her stance revealing the sternness her hidden features could not. "The flashlight was a dead giveaway."
My mag light. Collins closed his eyes. Gone already, along with my multitool and matches. It was the second multitool he had had confiscated by Barakhains, and he darkly wondered if he could supply the entire royal family.
Quinton's tone gained spite. "It's you, isn't it?"
Many humorous replies came to Collins' mind, but he forced himself to discard them. No matter how self-deprecating, jokes would only antagonize Quinton. He knew exactly what she meant. "I'm sorry." He lowered his head, his tone sincere. "I am so very sorry, Carrie. Please believe me; it was an accident. I never would… I never could… I… I never… meant to hurt you."
Quinton's entire body stiffened. For an instant, Collins thought she would leap on him in a mindless frenzy of hatred. Instead, she wound her hands in the fabric of the veil and yanked it from her face.
Scar tissue marred the once classically beautiful features, leaving lines, ridges, and swirls of odd-looking, hairless flesh. Her sculpted nose listed to the right between keen blue eyes with their irregular lashes and gleam of deep anger. Her ridged brow reminded him of a Star Trek Klingon, and her silken blonde tresses started farther back on her head, leaving a jagged and receded hairline. Though sickened by the sight, Collins would not allow himself to look away. He sank to the floor in a gesture of abject apology. "I'm so sorry." I caused all that. Moisture blurred his vision, wholly unfeigned. "I am so, so very sorry."
"Why?" Quinton asked, emotion choking her words. Whether she suffered from a rage too intense to speak clearly or anger mixed with deep sorrow, Collins could not tell. But he did understand that she wanted to know the reason he had caused her such agony, not why he now chose to beg her forgiveness.
"You were talking marriage. Kids." Tears glided onto Collins' cheeks. They had slept together one time, and she had used it as the basis of an entire future. "I was twenty-three. A boy. I… got scared."
"Of me?"
Collins shook his head. "Of commitment, not you. You're smart, beautiful. Perfect."
Quinton turned away. "Not anymore."
"You are," Collins forced out, "to me."
Quinton whirled, scarred features bunched, a raw primal rage flashing in her eyes. "I'm ugly, Benton Collins. Ugly." She stepped menacingly toward him. "And it's because of you."
"Yes," Collins admitted. "It is because of me. And I want to make it right."
Quinton crouched in front of the bars, lowering herself nearly to Collins' level. All trace of humanity disappeared from her eyes, leaving a depthless madness that scared him more than anything in his life. "I've thought about this for a long time, and I know exactly what to do."
Collins froze, allowing her to speak her piece.
"We'll start with a leisurely castration. No anesthesia, dull dirty knife, and you get to watch."
Collins shivered.
"We'll slather you with dung and let you suffer the slow festering of your wounds."
Not allowing himself to focus on the image, Collins fell into the nervous humor he had managed to previously avoid. "Sounds like you've got this whole thing planned out pretty well."
Quinton rose, towering over him. "I had plenty of time to work on it while they cleansed my wounds and changed oozing bandages."
An apology now seemed totally inadequate. "You've got me, and you can do what you want with me. But it doesn't cost you anything to hear me out."
Quinton said nothing, which Collins took as an invitation for him to continue. "Korfius and I came back to check on you."
"Korfius?" she repeated thoughtfully, and Collins hoped that meant she believed the dog was his captured companion. The Barakhains had far less reason to harm him than Zylas.
"You have to believe me. If I'd known how badly I hurt you, we would have come back sooner."
Quinton stared.
"I had a long recovery myself. I fell off a castle tower, broke a bunch of stuff, had some internal injuries. So, it couldn't have been a lot sooner, but-"
Collins waited for Quinton to say something, anything. When she did not, he continued, "I couldn't get you off my mind. I realized… I… love you." It was a lie, and Collins felt as if the words were sticking to his tongue. lie had always had difficulty saying things he did not mean.
"You did?" Quinton finally managed.
"I do," Collins said, for some reason finding those words much easier to speak. "I still do."
Quinton turned away. "No one could ever love this face."
"Someone who loves you only for your appearance is not worth having. Looks fade over time." Though true, Collins could not help feeling hypocritically shallow. He had pursued Quinton as much for her flawless features and figure as the many things he had believed they had in common: a science background, their time in Barakhai.
And Quinton was not buying it. "What a trite and easy thing to say."
Collins walked a fine line and knew it. He needed her to trust him, but if he insisted too much, his insincerity would become transparent. She had seemed a bit crazy to him before their confrontation, and the destruction of her most powerful attribute could only have further unbalanced her. "Look, I came here because I missed you. Then, the king's men attacked me, and I found out how bad off I had left you. I didn't know how to handle that. I thought if Korfius and I could sneak in here, I could find out the truth. My mistake was trying to let you know who I am without alerting anyone else."
"The veil thing?" she guessed with clear puzzlement. "That was supposed to-"
Collins tried to look embarrassed. "Okay. Not my best work. But I knew the kingdom wouldn't forgive me, and I thought you might."
Quinton frowned, shaking her head.
"I mean I hoped you would, stupid as that sounds. I still love you."
"Do you?" She sounded more cynical than hopeful.
"And I know how to fix the damage I did."
That got Quinton's attention. "You're not talking about skin grafts, are you? Because they can't-"
"No. I'm talking about magic." Collins made a gesture that outlined his own face. "Like this. A real fix. Complete and total."
Quinton gritted her teeth, her face puckering into fierce lines. "Don't toy with me, Ben. I'd sooner see you suffer an excruciating, drawn-out death than look at you."
Collins believed it. "Look at me, Carrie. Look at my face. This isn't clown makeup." He rubbed his cheeks until they blanched, then turned scarlet from friction. "If they can do this for me, imagine how much easier to just restore what was already there. Or even better." Catching his mistake a moment too late, he added quickly,
"As if that was possible-how do you improve on perfection?"
Quinton dropped to her haunches, her movements still hauntingly graceful. She had maintained the figure of a Hollywood dancer, pure beauty if one could overlook the twisted, furrowed scars of a once-handsome face. And her clingy, intense, and desperate personality. Collins could scarcely believe he had once found Carrie Quinton so stunningly attractive, and that thought made him feel even more small-minded. He had seen her as the permanent answer to an otherwise lonely existence: pretty, smart, with the shared experience of Barakhai from a vantage point no one else could understand. Was I really seeing all of that, or just a pretty face, a pair of large breasts, and gorgeous curves? He had discovered the volcanic flaws seething just below her superficial beauty, yet that had not stopped him from wanting to sleep with her again. Sleep with, not marry. Collins realized that, until she got some serious mental counseling, Quinton's looks were all she had, now melted into a puddle of fleshy scars. Poor Carrie.
Several moments passed in silence while Quinton considered the situation and Collins waited for an answer. Finally, she said, "I assume there's a price for this fix?"
Collins had no problem bartering away Prinivere's abilities. The renegades owed him this much. "Only freedom for me and my companion."
"Oh, is that all?" Quinton spoke with clear and evident sarcasm. "I'm sure the king won't mind letting his prisoners go just to help me."
Quinton could not bluff Collins, who already knew how seriously King Terrin took the counsel of his adviser from a high-tech world. "He'll listen to you."
"Maybe."
"He'll listen to you," Collins insisted. "Especially if you tell him you're going to personally meet the one with the power to change people's faces." He worried about revealing Prinivere, especially since he had once promised he never would; yet he saw no real harm in it. The renegades would see to it that no one followed him and Quinton. The dragon had already shown herself to the king's troops once, and he knew she would accept risk to rescue Zylas and, he hoped, himself.
The lost Dragons of Barakhai bob-2 Page 11