chapter TWENTY-SIX
Surprise at seeing Kellen fouled Corin’s strike. He’d tried at the last moment to bring the sword to bear, but it glanced off the prince’s shoulder. As the two went spilling across the cellar floor, the sword was torn from Corin’s hand.
Still, he was no stranger to infighting. He kicked and jabbed, aiming blows at any soft target, but there was nothing soft about the lord protector. Though Ephitel wore no armor, Corin bruised his knee trying for a kidney shot and split his knuckles on the elf’s hard jaw. The man seemed made of iron.
Corin grabbed for the belt on Ephitel’s waist, still hoping to get the sword, but Ephitel twisted under Corin, squirming like a snake, and closed one hand like a manacle around Corin’s left shoulder. He closed the other on Corin’s right hip, and as they slid to a stop, Ephitel heaved without apparent effort and slung Corin across the room. The pirate crashed against the stone wall at the feet of a pair of guards.
Ephitel roared in offended anger. “You little piece of trash! You dare invade my home?”
Corin didn’t try to trade banter. He rolled out of the reach of the stooping guards and sprang toward the sword he’d dropped. Ephitel came to meet him, but at a walk. Corin beat him to the blade, snatched it up, and leaped to his feet. Ephitel didn’t draw; he sneered. “Who do you think—”
Corin didn’t let him finish. He lunged. He likely could have cut the sword belt then. He could have caught the sword and run. The door wasn’t locked, and there were enough distractions. But the sight of noble Kellen, bruised and battered and tied up here for questioning, was enough to stop him. So was the thought of all that powder underneath the city. He remembered what he’d asked Avery before: Do you want Maurelle to die? Because that is what comes next.
He didn’t. He wanted Ephitel to die. So he forgot the fancy sword he’d come to steal and aimed his blade at Ephitel’s heart. He lunged and drove the sword with all his strength, hoping to end the tyrant god with one fell strike.
The prince slapped the blade aside with a casual backhand. “Guards! This grows tiresome.”
Corin darted left and slashed back to the right, a vicious strike toward the prince’s unprotected neck. Ephitel caught the blade in his bare hand. He held it for a moment, immobilizing the blade no matter how Corin wrenched at it.
Then with a casual pressure from his thumb, Ephitel snapped the blade in two. He tore its ruined grip from Corin’s hand, flung it across the room in a show of rage, then knocked Corin to the ground with a crushing backhand.
“I am Ephitel of the High Moor!” he shouted, enraged. “I am a lord of war and prince of all Hurope. You cannot hurt me, but you are making me most annoyed.”
Sprawled on his back, Corin aimed a kick at the elf’s right knee. Ephitel didn’t even try to dodge. He took the blow with no reaction, but Corin felt the shock of it all the way to his hip. He tried to roll away, but Ephitel caught his ankle so he was brought up short, facing back toward the dwarves’ cavern.
Every eye was fixed on Corin. Three guards by the left wall, standing over a terrified Kellen. Three guards by the right wall, just now stepping away from the table where they’d been waiting. In the bright light of the guards’ lantern, Corin saw what he had not when he first passed through this room: that the table held the hand cannon that Avery had mentioned before.
It was a flintlock pistol fit for a prince. Gorgeous dwarven craftsmanship, with a stock of polished bone, its grip and barrels plated gold. And at a glance, it looked to be loaded, half-cocked and primed. Corin felt a flash of hope.
And another when he saw a wash of motion. Every eye was on Corin, so only Corin saw Avery now creeping into the room. Still hanging half-suspended, Corin met Avery’s eyes, then shot a glance at his broken sword, and then turned to Kellen.
“Kellen!” Corin shouted. “Kellen! Help me!”
The poor yeoman could not have answered, but the ruse shifted the guards’ attention from Corin to Kellen.
Behind him, Ephitel barked a condescending laugh. “The coward can do nothing for you, manling.” Then he took Corin’s captured foot in both hands and twisted.
If not for the druid’s strange boot, Corin’s ankle would have shattered for the second time in as many days. Instead the whole boot spun, tearing painfully at Corin’s knee for a moment before he hurled himself up and over, twisting with the motion. He folded his knees and bent at the waist, grabbing for Ephitel’s wrists, but the prince was already turning, half a spin, and he released Corin to fly across the room.
This time Corin’s head bounced off the stone wall and nauseating lights flashed behind his eyes. He rolled when he landed, out of instinct more than any clear intention, but he fetched up short against some piece of furniture.
The table! Ephitel had clearly thrown him away from the ally he’d tried to call upon, but in the process, he’d thrown Corin within reach of the pistol. Surging on a thrill of victory, Corin leaped up—and instantly collapsed again. His right knee throbbed, and whether from the pain or the blow to his head, Corin’s vision swam. He grabbed the table leg to stay upright and blinked against the sickening blur.
Avery was in the room now, silent as a cat. Corin only saw him as a splash of black, and perhaps the guards saw little more because he moved so fast. The gentleman thief dove toward the broken sword, reaching with his left hand even as his right lashed out. He must have found some bit of stone within the excavation, because it smashed into the soldier’s lantern with a crash of breaking glass, and most of the light fled from the room.
The guards cried in surprise—then one of them in pain—then Corin heard the sound of ropes snapping under strain. He saw the new blur of motion, too, in the colors of the Royal Guard’s uniform. Kellen was free! Another scream, this one cut short with a thud, and Corin knew the yeoman had joined the battle.
Ephitel had turned at the disturbance. “Age of reason!” he shouted, furious. “Is that a Violet? Will you let yourselves be beaten by a Kellen and a Violet? Kill them! Kill them all!”
Corin’s vision cleared at last, and even in the darkness he saw Kellen on his feet, the broken leg of his chair in one hand and his empty scabbard in the other—both heavily battered. Avery stood back-to-back with him, armed with the broken sword and Kellen’s heavy work knife. Both blades dripped black with the soldiers’ blood. Two of the guards were on the ground, and another three were limping from blows already taken. None looked anxious to approach the pair at bay.
None but Ephitel. The prince went like an avalanche, a living doom approaching with a roar. He had the legendary sword of Aeraculanon raised, noble Godslayer ready to slay two base knaves, but Corin seized the chance. He heaved himself upright, leaning hard against the table, and grabbed the heavy gun. It was indeed a flintlock pistol, but unlike any he had seen before. Six separate barrels extended from its stock, the topmost evenly aligned with the gold-plated lock.
Strange though the contraption was, its operation was obvious enough. He leveled it at Ephitel, fighting down a surge of panic. He hated guns, but he hated Ephitel even more. He aimed it center mass, at Ephitel’s black heart, and squeezed the trigger.
The pistol jerked within his grasp like a thing alive, wrenching at his shoulder even as it let off a deafening boom within the confines of the stone-walled room. A dragon could not have outdone its roar, nor the pace-long lick of flame that stabbed toward the prince. That flash lit the room red for one terrible instant.
The shot from the dwarves’ hand cannon ended Ephitel’s charge. It pierced the prince’s back just left of his spine and exploded out his chest, ripping a fist-sized hole out of his fancy-dress uniform. The flash burned out as quickly as it had come, then time and darkness rushed back in to fill the gap.
Ephitel fell. Corin saw it in vague silhouette, shadows against gloom. The prince fell to his knees, Godslayer limp within his grasp. The four guards still on their feet took flight, throwing down their swords and dashing from the room. Avery and Kellen stood ashen faced and motionless, every bit as frightened as the departed guards. They had never seen a firearm in use before. Corin hadn’t seen it often, and never from this close.
But he felt no sympathy for Ephitel. The beast had still not fallen. Even with a hole clean through him. He sat upon his heels with his chin drooped down against his chest. Remembering the powder barrels in the cavern, Ephitel’s dark plans for the city, Corin aimed the gun and squeezed the trigger one more time. Corin had half suspected this strange gun, with all its extra barrels, might fire other shots, but nothing happened. The pirate shrugged, almost glad, and went to fetch Godslayer.
Before he’d gone one step, Ephitel’s corpse shook with a violent tremor. Avery and Kellen shrank away, and even Corin hesitated. When nothing happened, Corin took another step. This time Ephitel fell forward, bowing prostrate to the other two. His frame began to shake, and through the ringing in his ears, Corin heard what he took at first to be a death rattle. And then a cough. And then he cursed.
“The sword!” He threw aside the gun and sprinted forward. “Get the sword! Gods’ blood, get the sword!”
The others didn’t move, too baffled or afraid. Corin dove forward, scraping over the rough stone floor beside the fallen elf. He reached with both hands, grabbing for the legendary blade.
But Ephitel wrenched it away. Corin leaped on top of him, grabbing at his wrist with both hands, and beneath him Ephitel shook and shook with laughter.
“It didn’t work!” he boomed. “Even guns cannot defeat me!”
Corin wrapped arms and legs around Ephitel’s arm. He planted one foot against the prince’s jaw and the other against his rib cage. He grabbed the crosspiece on Godslayer’s guard in both hands. He strained his legs and heaved with all his might, and for one crushing heartbeat he feared it still wouldn’t be enough.
Then the godling gave a groan and the sword slipped from his grasp. As hard as he’d been pulling, Corin flung the sword away. It rang out when it struck the stone floor, throwing sparks, then skipped off into the darkness of the cavern.
Corin tried to scramble after it, terrified. Nothing he had done had stopped this monster, but his every hope lay in capturing that sword. He made it to his feet as Ephitel roared. “Nevertheless!” Then the lord protector curled his hand into a fist and bowled Corin across the room with one blow.
As Corin sprawled, Ephitel climbed unsteadily back to his feet. His shirt and pants clung to his frame, slick with blood, but beneath the gap torn in his tabard, he had only pale flesh, smooth and perfect as new-quarried marble. There was no wound at all. “I am Ephitel of the High Moor! I am a lord of war and prince of all Hurope! You cannot hurt me!”