This was also the room in which Jaimin’s father had died. It was unlikely that his body was still there, but just in case the king still lay dead on the bed, Jaimin avoided looking in that direction.
The centuries-old royal furniture had been pushed aside and racks of communications equipment were set up against the south wall. From the racks, arm-thick cables led up through a hole punched in the ceiling. Nastasha approached the equipment with a curious grin on her face. She had no doubt the cables powered the array of antennae the Arrans had spotted on the roof of the west wing.
“Step back,” she warned Jaimin. She couldn’t resist this opportunity to disrupt the enemy’s communications.
“Is my father on the bed?” he asked.
“What?”
“Is he on the bed, behind me?”
“Nobody’s on the bed,” she said, realizing what he was asking and why.
Jaimin turned and saw the made-up bed, and then carefully stepped backward over a severed Destaurian arm to give Nastasha some room. She dragged a chair against the communications console, and got up onto it.
“I…um…need something made of fabric,” she said. One of the guards opened Alethea’s wardrobe and tossed Nastasha a few nightgowns.
Wrapping the gowns around her hand for insulation, she unsheathed her sword and swung it through the fat cables that led up through the roof. Sparks jumped from the cut with sizzles and loud pops. Electricity leapt onto Nastasha’s armor, desperate to find ground, but she shook off the pain, and the sparking soon stopped. She sliced further up, and a whole section of cabling fell to the floor.
The communications console itself did not lose power, but at least it wouldn’t be able to transmit or receive. “Well, General Lazlo is not here,” she said, sheathing Ivinar and tossing aside the nightgowns. “Jaimin, do you have any idea where he might be? You know, any feelings?”
Jaimin’s memory of his recent vision of Lazlo was becoming clearer by the minute now. In it, he had delivered a final blow to the general. But where had that confrontation occurred? All his intuition was telling him was that it was in a dark and miserable place.
The attic? No. Despite its dreariness, the attic didn’t signify misery for Jaimin—he’d had many happy adventures up there with Nastasha. The basements? No. They may have been dark in spots, but they were often bustling with servants cheerfully going about their errands. Even the funeral hall, the Hall of Kings, and the catacombs, with their focus on death, had an air of triumph and hope: the energy of brave deeds and the pride of those who had given their lives for the kingdom.
There was only one place in the castle that Jaimin saw as both dark and miserable. “Let’s try my father’s study,” he said.
So that’s where they headed.
“Are you ready?” Captain Rosner asked Kotaret. They had just reached the end of their assigned route. Now it was just the two of them, about to emerge into a castle where the enemies were certainly alerted to their plot.
“I’ll move on to the next door,” Kotaret said.
“Look, kid, you’re a civilian. I can’t leave you on your own.”
But Kotaret ran ahead down the dark passage anyway. Captain Rosner had to make a quick decision—chase this young man down, or fight the enemy. It should have been an easy choice: protect the civilian. But something at that moment made Rosner choose a different path. He swore at Kotaret under his breath, and stepped out through the closet to fight the enemy.
Kotaret unlatched the next secret door, but didn’t go through. Instead, he sank down to the floor, suddenly terrified by the prospect of confronting the enemy alone. He clutched his knees. I could just wait it out in here, he thought.
What was he thinking? What was he trying to prove by leaving Rosner? I’m just afraid, he told himself. Not thinking clearly. He looked back down the passage toward where he’d left Rosner. You dumb-ass, he told himself, get back there.
Shaking, he picked himself up and stumbled back to the previous door. Through the empty closet of the Royal Academy’s faculty sitting room, he could see that the room’s lamps were lit, but nobody was there. Rosner had already moved on.
Kotaret could hear shouting and the blasts of Destaurian crossbows from somewhere farther out in the academy. And then he heard heavy footsteps out in the hall, coming nearer. He stepped into the closet and pulled the closet door shut, leaving a small space to see out.
A Destaurian soldier entered the sitting room.
Kotaret bit his lower lip, raised his crossbow, and set his finger upon the trigger. This is real, he told himself. And you’re a part of it. Shoot him.
The soldier appeared to be looking around for something. Kotaret tracked the young man in his scope. It wasn’t going to be an easy shot, and if he missed, he had to assume his foe had three bolts ready in his weapon. But he found the strength to tug on the trigger.
He didn’t want to be the guy who hid. It was as simple as that.
Fthoom! Kotaret’s surprise bolt flew from the closet and struck the soldier’s upper arm, penetrating his light armor and lodging in his bone. The soldier winced and cried out in pain. Kotaret briefly took his eyes off the man to reload his crossbow. He slammed another bolt in the bow and yanked the cocking device. It latched.
He aimed in and fired again. Fthoom! This time his bolt hit the man’s thigh, again piercing his poor armor. The enemy soldier fell to his knees in pain, and, throwing down his bow, he fell forward onto one hand.
Kotaret ran from his hiding place and picked up the Destaurian’s bow, tossing his own onto a couch. He aimed the strange weapon at the soldier’s head and started to apply pressure to the trigger. “Please,” begged the soldier. “Please don’t kill me. I didn’t ask to be here.”
Just then Kotaret felt a cool, intelligent presence from within his core reach out through his arm and gently remove his finger from the trigger. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t weakness. It was compassion.
He saw himself in this bleeding soldier before him: a young man who had better things to do with his life than to run around ending the lives of others.
“I…I don’t want to be here either,” Kotaret said. “And I don’t want to kill you.”
“Peace?” said the Destaurian, and Kotaret immediately trusted him. Kotaret barricaded the door and spent the next few minutes tying up the wounds of the Destaurian soldier, whose name, he learned, was Bron.
Meanwhile, the allies, led by General Valeriy and Queen Alethea, had neutralized the Destaurian defenses atop the walls, moved in toward the moat, and blasted a tremendous hole in the north wall of the castle. As the Celmareans held in place a bridge made from moat water, allies streamed through the breach into the castle’s main dining hall. From there, they spread out in all directions to engage the enemy. The castle became a cacophony of shouts, shots, and explosions. Many Destaurians simply threw their hands up and surrendered.
On the other side of the castle—the city side—some of the Destaurians had dropped the drawbridge in an attempt to escape. Scampering out onto the bridge, they found themselves facing a militia of loyal Arran subjects: butchers, jewelers, farmers, miners, and peeved military spouses, heavily armed and armored. The Destaurians turned back to lift the bridge once again, but the civilians clobbered them, ran to the gatehouse, and locked open the bridge. Even Masha Ferrell, the dressmaker, put a few arrows in Destaurian faces with a borrowed longbow.
Just then, several allied squads arrived and begged the civilians to return to their homes. When this didn’t work, they persuaded them to at least back off into the city’s main square.
On the coast, the Arran and Audician navies had battered the Destaurian positions enough that the admirals felt they could bring their ships in. A fierce street battle raged at the port, where some well-trained Destaurian units had dug in.
Jaimin’s group stopped at the open door to the antechamber to the king’s study. Across the antechamber, the double doors to the study itself were also wide open.
> “If Lazlo is in the study,” Nastasha whispered, “wouldn’t we have run into more resistance outside?”
“He is in there. I know it. And I must face him,” Jaimin whispered back, drawing his sword.
“Hang on. Let us go in first,” Nastasha replied. “Don’t worry. We shall indulge your intuition and save the last blow for you.”
Nastasha and the three soldiers tactically entered the antechamber, and then the study. Jaimin stayed out in the main corridor with his guards.
He didn’t sense danger when Nastasha entered the king’s study, when she knelt to peer under his humongous cherry wood desk, or when she took it upon herself to examine the lofty wardrobe in the corner. But he knew instantly when she found something—or rather someone—lurking inside the wardrobe.
“No!” Jaimin yelled. He tore through the anteroom and through the open doors to the study. His guards followed.
Elaina had specifically told him to stay with Nastasha. He had not. And he looked in horror upon the consequences.
The three Arran soldiers who had gone into the room with Nastasha were frozen like statues. Behind the king’s desk, tall and confident, stood General Lazlo, and at Lazlo’s side stood Nastasha, leering angrily at Jaimin, her blade aglow. Jaimin had encountered Lazlo’s kind before, and he now knew exactly what he was dealing with.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
J aimin raised his hand to signal his guards to stop and back out of the study doors. Three did, but Xander stayed put. “Don’t look at Lazlo!” Jaimin shouted to them. “He’s a mind turner like Devon.”
“My cousin was a disgrace,” Lazlo said. “Even so, Devon’s death at the hand of Nastasha here was undeserved. It’s such a pleasant surprise that you would deliver me his murderer.” The three Arran troops seized by Lazlo’s mind removed their helmets and knelt down in a row, bowing down and baring their necks, as if submitting themselves for execution.
“Let her go,” Jaimin said to Lazlo. “Let all of them go. You’ve lost.”
“Lost? Hardly. Oh, yes, it’s just me here in the dreary office of your pathetic father. But unlike you, my little prince, I don’t need a gaggle of chaperones everywhere I go. I create my own guard.”
Nastasha took a few steps, clearly under Lazlo’s psychic command. She removed her helmet and cast it aside. Snaking her free hand behind her neck, she lifted her entire mass of golden hair from beneath her uniform. Behind her brown eyes Jaimin could feel her soul fighting furiously for freedom. Her angry scowl slowly turned into an unsettling grin.
Jaimin could not afford a misstep. His best friend could easily be coerced into attacking the Arrans, or even falling onto her own sword.
He knew he shouldn’t be looking directly at Lazlo, but he was anyway. Was it pride? Anger?
“Bold move, boy—facing me.” Trying to read my thoughts as I’m reading yours? Lazlo spoke directly to Jaimin’s mind. Can you play with water, too? Don’t try. Your girl here is under orders to take her own life should anything happen to me. You really should have tended to her fears and desires better. So easy she is to command. Some friend you are!
“You’re not reading my thoughts,” Jaimin said. “You can’t. You’d love to, but you can’t.”
“Don’t be so confident of that,” Lazlo said.
“I know you want free passage out of Arra,” Jaimin said, slowly rounding the desk, approaching the kneeling soldiers. “Your king has abandoned you, and you want only to survive. I can make that happen. I can give you a new life. Only let Nastasha go.”
“I’ll survive on my own terms,” Lazlo replied.
Nastasha stepped toward the kneeling soldiers, assumed a solid stance, and brought her sword down into the back of the first one. The man’s upper body split, and his whole body fell messily to the side. She flipped her sword and moved to strike the second soldier, but before the blade Ivinar could pierce the man, it met Jaimin’s sword. Brilliant white sparks leapt off the point of contact between the two altered blades, illuminating the room. The swords refused to slice each other.
“Ha!” Lazlo shouted. “Now there’s a grand idea!”
Jaimin maintained the upward force on his sword, fighting to keep Ivinar from descending on the helpless soldier beside him. The friction between the blades made a loud hum, mixed with crackles, and more white sparks erupted where the blades met.
Just then, a third blade knocked Ivinar upward. It was Xander’s. “Step back, Your Highness,” Xander said. Jaimin hopped backward.
Nastasha diverted her gaze to Xander and sized him up.
Jaimin knew a duel between Xander and Nastasha could have no good outcome, but at least Lazlo would have to concentrate on Nastasha’s moves, giving Jaimin time to consider a way out of this whole mess.
Jaimin noticed that his three guards, just outside the doorway, were aiming their crossbows at Lazlo. Jaimin shook his head as a signal for them not to shoot.
Xander and Nastasha would normally have been evenly matched with the sword. But this match was hardly fair: Xander’s aim was not to harm her. She came at him swiping and stabbing, looking for an opening. They clashed swords over and over, pressing the fight to one end of the room and back, hopping up on the desk, and then back to the floor. Brilliant sparks lit the room as their blades scraped against each other time and again. Xander applied all his muscle, trying to tire her out so he could knock the sword from her hands. But Nastasha was clever, favoring speed over strength, dodging, ducking, and outmaneuvering Xander. Soon her cheeks glistened with sweat. Her smile seemed to grow broader every time Xander missed her.
“Careful! Don’t strike Lazlo!” Jaimin had to yell when the fight took Xander within slashing distance of the general. “She’ll turn on herself.”
Jaimin stepped in a few times, trying to get a small hit on Nastasha to distract her, but she was quick to hop out of his range.
Jaimin knew that he and Xander had to somehow disarm Nastasha. That way, she couldn’t use her blade against herself, and then the two of them could go after Lazlo. Her sword couldn’t be cut, but if they lopped off her fingers or hand she couldn’t wield it… But could Jaimin bring himself to do this?
Despite Xander’s efforts to tire Nastasha, it was Xander who tired first. Nastasha landed a brilliant slash, cutting off his sword arm, and sinking her blade deep into his torso. As Jaimin looked on in horror, Xander, his arm, and his sword fell separately to the floor. To finish Xander off, Nastasha picked up his sword and skewered him in the torso with her blade and his blade at the same time.
Before Jaimin could do anything to stop her, she ran up to the two remaining prostrate troops and stabbed one sword into each of them.
Nastasha removed her swords from their bodies and stood up tall once again. With a wicked smile, she turned her attention to Jaimin.
Jaimin knew he was no match against two swords.
“How true, lad,” Lazlo said. “Two swords against one is hardly a fair fight. We may as well make this interesting.” Nastasha cast away Xander’s sword. It clattered as it hit the stone floor.
Just then, one of the guards in the doorway fired a shot at Nastasha. The bolt struck her side, pierced her armor, and went in deep. She flinched, but didn’t fall.
Instead, she immediately turned and ran to the doors, slammed them shut, and threw down the locking bar. Jaimin used her moments of distraction to close some distance.
With the doors barred, Nastasha whirled back around to face Jaimin. She didn’t seem fazed by the pain of the bolt sticking halfway through her middle. Jaimin took a step back.
“At least try to survive, you coward,” said General Lazlo. “Just like your pitiful father. Let’s see some action.”
Nastasha ran at Jaimin, thrusting Ivinar at his face. He deflected it at the last moment with his sword’s tip. She came back across with a backhand cut, which he parried and ducked under just in time. She came down from the top. Again, he stopped the blow with his own sword. Jaimin could feel the charge of the whi
te plasma sparks and pricks of pain as the sparks popped onto his face—the deadly edge of her blade was so close.
Gathering all his strength, Jaimin pushed Nastasha off of him. She staggered back a few steps and they both squared off once again.
Lazlo is holding back, thought Jaimin, toying with me. Nastasha could have killed me by now! Jaimin heard something going on at the door. Were his guards cutting through?
“Actually, this is tiresome,” Lazlo said. And he commanded Nastasha to hold Ivinar to her own neck.
Jaimin sensed that this was a bluff. Lazlo wasn’t going to let this end without seeing at least some blood from Jaimin. If Jaimin rushed Nastasha, he thought, he might have a chance to slash her hands as she switched from suicide back to offence. And so Jaimin charged in at her.
But Nastasha, again, was too quick. When he rushed in, she brought her blade around and swung at him. He parried. She swung again. He ducked. She lunged, and he dodged—but not quite enough, because Ivinar pierced his nanofabric armor just under his sword arm, slitting open a deep, wide wound that immediately burned hot.
“Ha!” Nastasha shouted, with a look of absolute joy on her face. She lunged at Jaimin again. He raised his sword and blocked her blade, but this opened up his wound and he fell to his knees in agony.
His muscles shaking, he managed to keep her blade just off his face. Blinding sparks from the colliding blades peppered his cheeks and eyes. Damn you, Lazlo! Jaimin would have given his life if it meant saving Nastasha, but he had no reason to believe she’d be spared.
With all his strength, he shoved upward against her sword with his, and at the same time he hopped to his feet. This put her off balance. She teetered and stepped back, steadying her sword with both hands directly in front of her. That’s it, he thought. Aim for her hands…
Jaimin circled his sword around to jab Nastasha’s hands.
But when he went in for the jab, she surprised him by throwing open her hands and jumping forward, right onto his blade.
The Captive Twin (Principality Book 2) Page 19