Collins' skin seemed to turn to ice. His head throbbed, and he tasted blood. He retreated, raising his hands to indicate surrender. Wood pressed into the backs of his calves, and he stopped, forced into a sitting position on the bench. "I won't fight. Don't hurt me." His vision cleared enough to reveal faces familiar from the dining hall, including the goldenrod hair and beard of Barakhai's king.
Chapter 15
COLLINS froze, pressed against the garderobe, with three swords hovering in front of him. His mind raced. He braced himself for the rush of panic that had assailed him just before his near-hanging, but his thoughts remained strikingly clear. The world seemed to move in slow motion, while he mulled the situation. If I go with them, they'll execute me. If I fight, they'll kill me. There appeared no choice at all, but memory assisted him. Falima had claimed only the king's guards could use weapons, which meant, in most situations, they only had to raise them in a threatening manner. Since they had come through the door, these three had to be royalty, even less likely to possess true combat knowledge.
Based on this train of thought, Collins took a chance. Hands up, features displaying honest terror, he begged. "Please, don't hurt me."
The men edged closer. As they did, Collins dove beneath the raised swords. His shoulder crashed against the king's legs, staggering the Barakhain and sending pain screaming through Collins' arm.
"Are you all right?" The men instinctively went to the aid of their king.
Collins rolled to his feet, then made a crouched sprint back into the king's bedchamber.
Terrin bellowed. "Get him!"
Collins cleared the room in three running strides, then wrenched the stairwell door open and hurled himself through it. Only then he realized he had just tossed himself into a mass of armed palace guards. "Shit!"
"Get him!"
Collins flailed wildly, arms connecting with flesh in several directions. His vision filled with a chaotic forest of arms, legs, and swords. A fist slammed his cheek, and cold steel sliced his hip. Pain clipped through the site, and he howled, balance lost. He felt himself falling, control utterly beyond his grasp. He tumbled, stone steps slamming bruises across his back, his face, his limbs. He grabbed for support, fingers opening and closing like fish mouths, capturing nothing.
"The portcullis!" someone yelled, the sound a dull echo amid the shouts of the guards.
A clanking reverberation joined the other crisscrossing sounds in the tubular stairwell. Collins caught his fingers in cloth. He jerked to a stop, clinging desperately to this anchor, chest and belly splayed across several stairs. Then, the stabilizing object whipped suddenly upward, breaking his grip. Before Collins' dizzy mind could register that he had been clasped to someone's leg, it swung back. A heel struck him in the eye, stealing vision and sending bolts of white light flashing through his brain. He tumbled, fully out of control again.
Collins had so many wounds, it all numbed to a single overwhelming agony that encompassed his entire frame and made coherent thought impossible. He registered only the savage plunge and the rumble of voices dulled by a steady ringing. He forced both eyes opened. Ahead, he saw the falling portcullis, with barely a body length remaining between it and the floor. I'm a Musketeer. On all fours, he launched himself for the opening.
It disappeared as he arrived. His face found delicious freedom an instant before the heavy wooden portal slammed into his skull. Vision shattered, hearing crushed by buzzing, limbs too heavy to lift, he lay in place fighting a losing battle with unconsciousness. His neuroanatomy professor's words cycled through his mind: The difference between causing a brain bruise and a deadly hemorrhage is incalculable. Guy goes out longer than a minute or two, it's a murder charge for hero. A murder charge for hero… a murder charge for hero…
Hands seized Collins' britches and tunic, hauling him back to the landing. Got to stay conscious. The movement proved too much. He closed his eyes, and darkness descended upon him.
Collins awakened to a limbo that dissolved in a fierce rush of pain. His breath emerged in agonized grunts, and he dared not move for fear of worsening any of them. Tears dribbled from his eyes. His mind seemed to work, though hopelessly overwhelmed by a throbbing headache and distracted by his myriad other wounds. "Oh, God," he managed to huff out. "Oh, God." Collins opened his eyes, but they refused to focus. He blinked several times, catching a blurry impression of metal bars, a stone floor, someone standing nearby. The presence of another human might mean imminent danger, but Collins found himself unable to care. At the moment, they could slowly dismember him and he would consider it a favor. The cold of the stone floor seeped through his clothes, offering some relief from the bruises on his chest, arms, legs, and abdomen. His lids became heavy, and he let them drift closed. Once he did, sleep overtook him again.
Collins did not know how long he drifted in and out of consciousness, but he knew he had awakened on several brief occasions. His dreams had seemed more surreal than usual, taking him from home to school to Barakhai in moments that defied logic or consistency. He thought he remembered someone sewing the gash in his hip, the pain flowing into the mass that had come to define his current existence. Now, when he opened his eyes, the world came into instant focus. Prone on the damp, stone floor, he felt stiff as well as physically anguished. Enclosed by three stone block walls and one barred gate, he saw no other cells. Shackles and collars hung from chains, apparently the usual method of separating, controlling, or punishing prisoners. Collins shivered, certain he could not tolerate that kind of treatment in his current condition. As opposed to what? Hanging?
Having visually explored his quarters, Collins glanced beyond them. Two guards sat in the space between his cell and the door to the stairwell, watching him. Both men, they wore matching uniforms that differed from the ones of the tower guards. They had mail but no helmets, and the white portion of their tunics carried no design. A slight blond with swarthy skin and dark brown eyes, the one on the left followed Collins' every motion. The other, a dark brunet kept his sword drawn and in his lap. Though he had no reason to know, Collins guessed them to be dog-guards. A station below, they likely would wear simpler uniforms.
"Hello," Collins tried.
The guards studied him blankly, without replying.
Collins attempted to move. He hurt in every part, but he bulled through the pain to gather his limbs beneath him. They all seemed to function, at least, and he did not believe he had broken anything. A small miracle. He ran his fingers over his hip, through the tear in his britches, and touched a line of knots that confirmed his waking realization. Someone had tended the sword cut, stitching it in whatever clumsy, dirty fashion they did those things here. If it did not fester, it would scar badly.
The irony raised a grimace. So my executed corpse has a boo-boo. He shook his head at his own stupidity. Like it realty matters.
Only then did it occur to Collins to worry about Falima. He drew some solace from his solitude. Zylas' floor plan did not include two dungeons, so they should have brought her here if they'd captured her. Unless they executed her. He shoved that thought aside. They'd have far more reason to execute me, and I'm still here. He wished he could leave things at that, believing Falima safe and well; but reality intruded. He could imagine that treason might carry a stronger and swifter sentence even than murder. Or, as a trained warrior, she might have fought in a more directed and lethal manner than he had managed.