Death by Cliché (30 page)

The last guard dropped, and Damico shot past Omar. He slipped in the blood and pressed on. He scrambled to the door, and his hand passed straight through the ring. He collapsed, his breathing ragged, the insubstantiality bordering on pain.

And he had control again. He straightened and reached for the ring. The woman he loved was on the other side. He heaved and threw open the door. He raised his sword in triumph and shouted, “Hey, you! Get your damned hands off her!”

But there was no one there.

Not only was there no one there, but the room was disused, the bed cleaned even of the mattress. No one had used this place in years.

The guards hadn’t been guarding. They’d probably been on break.

This was the wrong room.

Chapter
Fifty-Six

“Now is the time for all good players to come to the aid of their party.”

—Bob Defendi

ie, you son of a bitch!”

Jurkand fought like a cat, meaning that he made himself appear as big as possible, scratched for the groin, and generally sprayed a lot of saliva.

The two guards attacked him, giant men wielding weapons that looked almost like toys in their hands… but they
weren’t
toys. Not unless you were the type of child that liked to play with entrails.

He ducked under a blade and stumbled backward. These weren’t the most talented fighters in the world, but neither was Jurkand, and what the guards lacked in skill, they made up for in sheer acreage, muscle mass, and applied leverage.

The guard’s sword smashed into the wall, spraying gravel across Jurkand. The little man smiled, feinted, and kicked the one on the left in the groin with all his might. The guard rattled like a bag of coins, but that was the only sign of damage.

The guard chuckled.

“Ah, hell,” Jurkand said then ran.

The guards didn’t run. They walked. He ran ahead of them and rounded the first corner. They clanked loudly behind, close as if they’d teleported right behind him. He turned to find the guards, still walking, rounding the corner ten feet back. That was odd.

When he made it to the next corner, they walked forty feet behind, but when he came around that corner, the sound of their clanking immediately became very loud and close. He glanced over his shoulder, and they rounded the corner not ten feet back.

“Freaking—”

Okay, so they were magical chase guards.

He twisted around another corner and another, and each time he lost sight of them, they miraculously appeared on his heels again. He played the floor plan of the palace through his head until he found a long stretch. Three more corners, and he was there.

The corridor was some hundred feet long, skirting down one side of the Heart of Light. It had no doors along its length, opening into the gong pits at the end. He didn’t know what he’d do when he got there, but it was better than running until he fell over dead.

By the end of the hallway, he had an eighty-foot lead on the guards. He found a door and threw it open, expecting to be hit by the stink of Human waste. Instead, he found a long shaft with rungs hammered into one wall, like God’s staples.

Jurkand glanced back at the guards. Seventy feet. He examined the shaft. Hraldolf had changed the plans. Where did it lead?

The facts fell into place now. Heavy. Unyielding. Facts made by a blacksmith with durability issues.

Gorthander hadn’t come back to rescue him.

That meant Gorthander was dead.

That meant Hraldolf was alive.

That meant they’d failed.

That meant they were all going to die.

If he had been an investment banker instead of a retired overlord, there would have been bullets next to those facts, but his fantasy-world status didn’t change the way they lined up. Besides having all the
that
s and all the
meant
s on top of one another, it was a pretty bit of logic. Inescapable. Like the guards. Or marriage. Or those criers that shouted in your window to sell you stuff while you’re eating dinner… and unlike the criers,
this
problem couldn’t be solved with a crossbow bolt, a shovel, and a discreet friend.

He stepped out into the darkness, catching a rung and pulling his weight out over the drop. He craned his neck so he could see the guards the entire time, and started down. When he finally lowered himself below the level of the floor, the clanking sound became much closer. He climbed as fast as he could, and one of the guards eclipsed the light from the doorway. The monster swung out onto the rungs after him.

The shaft was damp, the rungs slick as he descended. Above him the metal of the rungs strained audibly. Flecks of rust drifted down into his eyes, causing them to burn and itch. Faster and faster he climbed, though it was obviously too late.

The sound of snapping rungs announced the great rushing approach of the falling guard. He barely had time to step off into the air before the armored lout smashed into him, carrying him down, down, under the great weight.

He hit with a splash, sending a spray of water into the air even as the guard drove him deep, a wedge carving through the smothering water. He struggled and flailed and managed to get out from beneath the guard, to swim upward even as his lungs burned and complained.

His head burst through the surface. He splashed and gasped in the cold, wet pit. Who put a pool in a shaft in the middle of a castle? He didn’t understand.

He swam, searching for the ladder, but couldn’t find the rungs. That was good and bad. Bad because he couldn’t see a way to climb out. Good because he was pretty sure the sinking guard wore too much armor to swim to the surface.

The light down here shone thin and weak. He peered up at the door, four stories above him. The head of the second guard leaned over the edge. Jurkand relished a good obscene gesture, and he tried several now. Those that didn’t involve his legs and feet at any rate.

A strange, hard form brushed past his leg, massive in this deep, narrow pool. He jerked away with that same panic one feels when caught by a really wicked piece of seaweed. He scanned the surface of the placid water, but could see nothing except cold, inky fluid.

“What the hell?”

A dorsal fin sliced upward through the surface, and everything became clear.

Chapter
Fifty-Seven

“Still better look away.”

—Bob Defendi

he squirming, awful little man threw Lotianna to the
bed and then climbed on top of her. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she thrashed and fought. This wasn’t happening. Not to her. It wasn’t happening. It was someone else. Someone else.

He reached down, his hand moving along her body, rude, grasping, the nails catching and pulling on her shift. The fingers moved like a rasp, rough on her thigh, then fumbled at himself, loosening clothing, rearranging, getting ready.

She needed to get out of here, to leave her body. She could float out of herself, be another person. Just for the duration. She needed to be gone. She needed to be free. Free.

Lotianna stopped struggling. Her ineffectual slaps quieted. She became cold. Lifeless. This flesh wasn’t hers. This body wasn’t hers. This was merely a piece of meat. A thing. Not her at all. Someone else.

Finally, he stopped his fumbling and smiled down at her. It was time. He was going to do it now. Not to her. To someone else.

No. To
her
.

Not someone else. Not some stranger. To her. To her body. To her psyche. To her soul. She couldn’t avoid it,
wouldn’t
avoid it. This was the world she lived in. This was real. She could deny it, or she could face it. She could surrender, or she could fight. Fight.

She reached up with her weak, trembling left hand. The fingers still shook, but she forced them up.

Those fingers wrapped around his throat. She squeezed, but she had no strength, couldn’t so much as force the windpipe closed. The hand just hung there, on his throat, spasming. Not enough. Not enough.

He pulled back, supporting himself on his left arm as he looked down, first at her hand, then at her.

“Ah. I was really rooting for you there,” he said.

“Waid,” she slurred. “I’m nah dun.”

With that, she heaved her body sideways. She was weak, but she managed to hop six inches, catching his supporting elbow with her shoulder. With a twitch, it folded, and his weight came hurtling down at her.

But her hand was still on his throat, her forearm hanging below it. He drove her elbow into the bed, transferring all his weight onto the post of her arm, into her hand. He landed on his own voice box.

He fell off her limp arm and rolled onto his side, gasping. She threw herself up onto the edge of the bed, and swayed to her feet. She couldn’t run. She had to keep from falling. She stumbled one step and then another. The door loomed closer. A step. A step.

She reached out for the ring on the door. She pulled at it, but her fingers didn’t have the strength. She tried again, and again her fingers slipped off.

A gurgling came from the bed. She needed to get out. She couldn’t get this far and not get out. That wasn’t how this ended.

This time, she pushed her arm through the ring, used her weight to pull the arm as a lever. The metal bit painfully into the flesh of the forearm, but the door scraped open.

“Bitch!” he shouted behind her.

Lotianna stumbled out into the hall. Omar fought six guards on her right, his back to her.

“Ohma!” she screamed.

He shot a glance her way, then back at the guards. They had him pinned down, and he cursed as he renewed his fighting.

“Damico!” he yelled. “She’s down this way! I can’t get to her!”

Then Henchman smashed into her, knocking her into the wall across from the door. He pressed against her. The tears started again. At least she wasn’t in front of Damico. It was only Omar who would see.

“Thought you were going to get away,” Henchman rasped.

“Scru yu,” she said.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Omar bellowed, and Lotianna faced him. He stood there, his face a mask of fury, as Henchman fumbled with her shift from behind. He pulled his attention from the guards, and raced toward her, his back exposed.

She sensed Henchman craning to see, and heaved her head back, smashing it into his nose. He bellowed and fell into the doorway, but caught the frame and hurled himself at her again.