Текст книги "The Sun Dwellers"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

“The year of the Uprising?” I say.

“No. The year the Uprising was squashed,” Roc says, pulling open the door.

“Same thing.”

“Not to the President.”

The garage is pitch-black so Roc flicks on a flashlight. The inside is an empty shell, clearly built for utility rather than beauty. At one end is the automatic door and the other end a large platform with four sets of smaller steel doors, presumably for bringing deliveries into the palace. To the far right is an even smaller door, used for entering and exiting. Roc heads straight for the smallest door.

Standing in front of it, Roc says, “This is it. This door will take us inside the government side of the palace. Tristan, Trevor, and Tawni should be working their way from the opposite end. We’ll meet in the approximate center, where the president’s meeting room is located.”

“The throne room?”

“That’s what we like to call it. There will undoubtedly be guards in this area tonight, it’s only a question of how many and where we’ll run into them, so be alert.”

“Be careful,” I say unnecessarily.

Roc nods and pushes open the door.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tristan

The guards—giant men, with heads that, standing upright, would nearly touch the ceiling—are hunched over, looking down, reading something. A memo, or orders, or something else urgent; whatever it is, it has their undivided attention, so they don’t see us yet, which gives us half a chance. But only if we act quickly.

I risk a quick glance back to get Trevor, but he’s already aware of the danger, already by my side, with Tawni ushered behind him. Slowly, we slip our swords from their scabbards, pressing our backs against the walls on either side of the upstairs hallway. I notice Trevor’s movements are very similar to mine—fluid, designed to blend in and not attract the attention of the distracted guards. It’s good to have a partner as well-trained as he is.

The guards continue toward us, lost in whatever message is on the paper. When they’re less than three feet from us, the one on Trevor’s side glances up, probably sensing the staircase is near, but looks straight between us, flinches, perhaps realizing something is wrong in his peripheral vision.

Trevor and I move as if we’re arms controlled by the same creature, simultaneously and with force.

But these aren’t inexperienced or helpless guardsmen. These are professional warriors, men I probably have scars from training with in my youth. And did I mention they’re big? Like the size of some of the smaller trees in the palace gardens.

The men transition from reading to fighting in an instant, dropping the papers and raising their swords before my blade has arced halfway toward them.

Clang! Our swords meet theirs in unison, and we’re both thrown back by the sheer power behind their blocks. I hazard a glance at Trevor, our eyes meeting for a second as we both realize: we’re overmatched. Don’t take that as me being pessimistic, just realistic, and that doesn’t mean I think we’re going to lose, because I don’t. It just means we’re going to have to be a little more creative with our approach to the fight, especially if we want to end it quickly, which we do, for fear that more guards will arrive.

When I charge, I count on the fact that Trevor is an experienced fighter, that he’ll read my mind, that his brain has calculated the odds of various strategies and come up with the same idea as mine.

Not exactly.

Just before my slashing sword connects with the guard’s sword on my side, I cut to the right, planning on switching enemies, hoping Trevor does the same. I collide with Trevor, who’s thrown his sword and launched himself like a torpedo at his original opponent. Crunching him into the wall, I feel a tremor as my bones rattle from the impact. As we land, his elbow accidentally (at least I think it’s accidental) cracks me in the chin, snapping my top and bottom teeth against each other.

Luckily, both of our minds continue to work overtime, still plotting and planning and trying to predict our opponent’s next move. In this case, it’s obvious. I mean, what would I do if the two people I was fighting crashed into each other and fell to the ground? Attack hard and fast while they’re in a weak position.

Before we’ve come to a complete stop I raise my sword above us. Just in time, too, because my original enemy is slashing down with his sword. Clang! The blow is so powerful that it sends shivers through my hand and wrist and I almost drop my sword. But somehow I manage to hang on, barely keeping the guard’s blade from piercing my chest.

Trevor, now sword-less, is not idle. As soon as I block the attempted kill stroke, he uses my shoulder as a wedge to launch himself off of, catapulting himself onto the back of the behemoth guardsman. Using every ounce of my strength, I push back with my sword, forcing my attacker away from me. It works, and the guy stumbles back, tripping on the fallen form of his comrade, who has Trevor’s sword sticking out of his chest. Perhaps Trevor’s plan was better than mine after all.

I leap to my feet in one swift kicking motion, move in on the final enemy, who’s on his back, bucking and writhing as if trying to escape some invisible enemy. Where’s Trevor? Other than the two downed guards—one dead, the other twitching as if in mortal pain—the hallway is empty.

Then I see them: two hands wrapped around the guard’s neck from behind, splotched red and white, squeezing. The guard is still squirming, his hands pulling at the fingers, but less forcefully now. His white face is tinged with blue, his eyes bugging out.

I’m half in awe, half disgusted by the scene, as the guy flops two or three more times before going still. I stand frozen, expecting the dead body to rear up, possessed supernaturally for a final battle, but it remains as motionless as one of the Nailin statues in the gardens.

“Get ’im offa me,” Trevor grunts beneath two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and flesh.

I’m tempted to leave him underneath, but he did just singlehandedly take out two impressively large men in a most creative fashion, so I bend down and push the body off him, as requested.

He’s smiling, an unusual—and if I’m being honest, sort of freaky—reaction to having just killed. “Oh, hi,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were still here. It felt like I had to do all the work myself. And it was almost as if I was fighting three people.” Maybe having Trevor on my team isn’t so good after all.

“He would have taken both our heads when we were on the ground if I didn’t block his sword,” I say.

“He was your responsibility. And we wouldn’t have been on the ground if you hadn’t decided to tackle me.” Trevor’s still smiling.

“Never mind,” I mutter, determined not to let him get under my skin. “Good work,” I add grudgingly.

“What do we do with them?” Tawni asks, rejoining us.

“Leave ’em,” Trevor says. “We don’t have time to be hiding bodies.”

“Bad idea,” I say. “We don’t know how long finding my father will take. If the alarm is raised we’re screwed.”

“Fine,” Trevor grunts, grabbing one of the guy’s feet, the one with half a sword sticking out of his chest, and starts dragging him down the hall. “You get the other one.”

I clutch the choked guard’s legs and start pulling. Ugh. It’s like pulling a truck full of raw iron ore. Tawni brings the discarded swords and follows us through the first door we come to—one of the hundred or so visitor apartments that are used for important guests. Luckily, it’s unlocked, but I’m pretty sure Trevor wouldn’t have hesitated to kick it in if required.

It’s also recently been occupied, probably one of the many guests attending tonight’s party, with clothes strewn haphazardly on the bed—here a shimmering green gown, there a tiny black dress; a handful of white lacy things that I can only guess as to the purpose. The aftermath of a very picky woman trying to decide what to wear to the ball.

We dump the bodies at the foot of the bed, hide their swords in the bathtub behind the curtain: a big surprise for the woman when she comes back to her room. Tawni’s reading the guards’ papers when we ready ourselves to leave. She’s frowning.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s a trap,” she says, her face awash with terror. “He knows we’re coming.”

Adele

The long employees’ corridor in front of us is empty. As Roc expected, no one is using the loading dock tonight. We’re more likely to run into action as we approach the throne room.

For just a moment I wonder about how Tristan and Tawni and Trevor are doing—there’s a twinge of fear in my stomach—but then I shake it off, refocus on the task at hand.

We pass through a set of double doors, moving out of the sterile white of the maintenance hallway and into the plush luxury of the government offices. The floor is shiny, black marble, likely recently hand-polished by one of the many servants. The walls are stone, but not like the stone walls I’m used to. Into these walls are chiseled ornate designs, almost mystical. There’s a ball of fire—the real sun maybe?—raining down chariots of fire on the earth below. The chariots are driven by men with horns, wielding multi-pronged whips. Clearly it’s a war scene, but a war against whom? On the earth, directly in the path of the falling chariots, are people with spears and knives, looking wholly inadequate to face off against the fire chariots and whip-wielding, horned invaders. In fact, many of the people are fleeing, their weapons dropped during their hasty retreat.

The entire scene is a blur as we stride past, and I’m left wondering as to the significance and purpose—if any—of the artist’s stonework.

We also pass a number of beautiful, dark brown wooden doors. Behind some of them there are voices, heavy discussions that likely involve power, money, and the pursuit of both. As we rush on my heart beats faster and faster in my chest as my expectation of being discovered rises with each step.

When we turn the next corner, I gasp, as the hall appears to go on forever, cut straight and true—there’s no way we’ll make it to the end of this corridor unseen. Yet Roc starts down it, seemingly unconcerned, and I have no choice but to follow my guide. As it turns out, the hall is so long it cannot be isolated to only one building. No, this passageway connects five or six buildings. At each intersection, the ceiling of the hall rises to a glassed-in atrium with a one-hundred-eighty-degree unobstructed view of the man-made night sky.

After going through the first atrium, I assume we’ll take this corridor all the way to the throne room, but Roc has other plans. Upon reaching the second glassy connection point, he pushes through a door and into an outside patio, which is surrounded on all sides by buildings, each with similar glassed-in alcoves. We skirt around a lone statue of the current President Nailin—his foot is propped up arrogantly on a large stone, as if he’s just conquered it (another inanimate object defeated, yeah!)—and then into another door that leads into one of the adjacent buildings. Given the maze-like quality of the place, I’m hoping Roc doesn’t faint from exhaustion or dehydration. Without him, I may not reach my twentieth birthday before I locate the throne room.

Into another luxurious hallway, turn right, turn left, down a half flight of white marble stairs, up a half flight of the same type of stairs, out and across another patio, and into another building: we cut a seemingly random path through the collection of buildings that I can only assume is the safest—if not fastest—route.

The entire way, we don’t see a single soul.

I’m still trying to decide whether that’s a good or a bad thing, when I hear familiar voices.

Tristan

“What do you mean, ‘a trap’?” I ask, grabbing the paper and skimming through the text.

Tawni waits patiently for me to find the spot. When I do, I read it aloud, my heart skipping a beat or two before I finish: “I fully expect a convoy of five or six intruders, including my son, to attempt to assault me before, during, or after the Sun Festival event. Your orders are to draw them to me, allow them safe passage—I want them all, especially my son, taken alive.” My heart is in my chest. He knows. He’s waiting.

“So we weren’t as stealthy as we thought,” Trevor says. “The right move is to pull out, try again when he least expects an attack.”

“We can’t,” I say, closing my eyes.

“Why not?”

“Because Adele and Roc don’t know,” I say. “We have to get to them first, try to warn them so we can all escape together.”

Trevor’s eyes narrow. “But the only place we’ll be sure to meet up with them is…”

“Yeah, that’s where we’re going,” I say. “The throne room.”

Trevor opens his mouth to say something, but then stops himself. We all know what he was going to say: that’s suicide. He’s right, of course, but he stopped because he knows, like me, that we have no choice. None of us will abandon Adele and Roc, nor would they leave us if the roles were reversed.

“But if they were supposed to let us through, why did those guys try to kill you?” Tawni asks.

“You couldn’t see very well because you were behind us, but the guys were reading the paper as they approached,” I explain. “They were probably given their orders late, were trying to catch up to the situation, perhaps hadn’t read far enough yet, or maybe were just so surprised to see us that they overreacted.”

“Unlucky for them,” Trevor says, resting a foot on one of the dead guards.

“Can you not do that?” Tawni says, motioning toward his foot, her nose crinkled with disgust.

Grinning, Trevor moves his foot from the guard.

I say, “Adele and Roc might already be closing in on the throne room. We’ve got to go.”

“Hopefully all the other guards got the memo and they just let us through,” Trevor says.

“Don’t count on it,” I say.

Although we now know that the guards have been ordered to let us make it all the way through to my father, I still check both ends of the hall before slipping out of the room. You never know who might not be in the loop, like the two dead behemoths we just left in our wake. I go left, determined to make up as much time as possible, running soft-footed down the corridor. Reaching the end, I go left again, followed by a right at the end of the next line of guest rooms. Three quarters of the way to the end of the next hall is the opening to a wide staircase that descends directly beside my father’s favorite room in all of the buildings: the throne room.

I gaze over the balcony, try to see past the curving edge of the spiral staircase, listen intently. I don’t see or hear anything. In fact, it’s so quiet you could hear a pebble drop from the treads of one’s boot. A trap. It would have felt like one even if we didn’t have the paper to prove it.

Could Adele and Roc already have fallen into my father’s well-laid web? The plan is for the first team to arrive at the throne room to wait only five minutes and then go in, in case the other team has already been captured. But maybe they arrived only a few minutes earlier and are still hiding below, waiting for us before breaching the final obstacle on our quest to change the future history of the Tri-Realms. If so, will we be able to sneak back into the night and save the conclusion of our mission for another day?

A lot of questions. A lot of doubt. I descend the stairs quietly.

One curve, two; the third—and last—curve. The foyer outside the throne room is empty. Waiting for Trevor and Tawni to catch up, I quickly check behind the base of the staircase, hoping against hope that they’re waiting for us there. Empty. I stare at the splinters of light radiating out from the seven-layered crystal chandelier above me, welcoming the spark of head pain that results from looking directly into the bright light.

“Either they’re not here yet, or they’ve gone in,” I say.

“Do you want to wait?” Trevor says, surprising me. Typically he’s more of the shoot-now-consider-alternatives-later type of person. His cautiousness shows his different-but-equal concern for our friends.

“But what if they’re already in there?” Tawni says. “They’ll need backup.”

Both pairs of eyes are on me, leaving me to make the decision. If they’re in there, my father may kill them immediately, either to enrage me or simply because he has no use for them. Waiting could mean their deaths. Too risky.

“We’re going in,” I say, breaking the wait-five-minutes plan, and potentially making the biggest mistake of my life.

Trevor says, “We’re with you.” Tawni just nods, biting her bottom lip.

I open the door, which doesn’t lead straight into the throne room; no, that would be way too ordinary for my father. Instead, it opens to an outer ring that surrounds my father’s sanctuary. Every twenty or so feet there’s a break in the raw-cut stone wall, giving multiple entrances (and multiple exits) to the place my father spends much of his time.

Voices echo through the chamber. My father’s voice: loud and firm and relentless.

“Kill them all,” he barks.

“Sir, if we do that there will be no one left to pay your taxes and support our way of life.” One of his advisors. By the sound of his screechy voice it’s a guy who I’ve only ever known as Sanders.

“To hell with taxes!” the President roars. “I want the blood of all those who oppose me!”

“This time we’ll get all the rebels,” Sanders promises. “We’ll round everyone up, interrogate them, pit them against each other by threatening their friends and family, make them talk. Anyone who is even remotely a threat to you will be shot.”

“Hmm, I like the way you think, Sanders. That must be why I keep you around. It’s certainly not because of the timbre of your voice.” My father’s laugh is gruff and out of place. Continuing to listen, I lead Trevor and Tawni along the wall to the first entranceway.

“I suppose we can do it your way, so long as we kill enough of the lesser dwellers to ensure their future cooperation.”

We reach the gap and I peek around the corner. A single light is illuminated, highlighting my father’s plush oak chair in the center of the room. Near him stands Sanders, a pitifully skinny man with a heart that’s equally shriveled. He gestures with his hands, like he’s giving a speech to an audience much larger than one.

“Yes, yes, of course. We’ll send a message in the strongest of terms that treachery will not be tolerated in the Tri-Realms.”

My father leans back in his chair, rubs his hands thoughtfully against the red velvet armrests. Sighs. “Yes, that should do just fine. Give the orders to carry out the plan as you suggested.”

“Thank you, my President,” Sanders says reverently, his voice grating my eardrum like cheese. He turns to go, making directly for our gap.

“Send in the generals on your way out,” my father orders behind him.

He stops for just a moment to say, “As you wish,” before continuing his path toward us. I frantically scan the space outside of the lighted area, looking and listening for any signs that this truly is a trap. Hidden guards, unable to stay still for long periods of time, perhaps scraping a toe on the floor, breathing heavily, letting a cough slip from the back of the throat. I see nothing. I hear nothing.

Surrounding the heart of the throne room are black pillars, not required to hold up the ceiling, but instead intended to give the room a solid beauty. Naturally, my father’s idea. The pillars also make great places to hide. Sanders passes between the pillars on his way to the gap, looking more at his feet than up, probably still reliving and relishing my father’s acceptance of his plan.

I pull back behind the wall, wait for the moment Sanders rounds the bend, his skeleton-like face diminishing further as it falls under shadow. I grab him by the throat, crush his voice box so he can’t make a sound, hiss in his ear, “One noise and you die, understand?”

His already buggy eyes protrude even further from his head, and he nods. His silence saves his life, but not his consciousness. I release him, punch him so hard in the head he’ll feel it for days, catch him lightly in my arms, and then set him down in the outer passage. At least he won’t be inviting the generals in anytime soon.

To Tawni, I say, “We’ll enter first. You come in behind us and duck behind one of the pillars. Stay there.” She nods vigorously.

To Trevor, I raise a fist. He raises his own and bumps it firmly against mine. Game time. Adele and Roc don’t appear to be here, but they may have been captured and taken away already. Either way, I have to find out, question my father. And if it turns out not to be a trap, hopefully kill him, too.

I enter the throne room, not trying to hide my presence, striding toward my father as if I belong there, as if I never left, as if he’s expecting me, which he might be. Trevor’s with me every step of the way and I sense when Tawni moves in behind us, ducks off to one side.

My father, who’s looking at his lap, suddenly looks up, as if sensing our presence. His face lights up with a smile that’s as big as it is fake. “Ahh, Tristan, you made it after all!” he booms.

I eye him warily. “How did you know?”

He laughs. “Are you really so arrogant to think you could enter my kingdom without me knowing? When you killed some of my soldiers you should have killed all of them.”

The men who killed Ram. The ones knocked out but not dead. Although it’s cost us the element of surprise, I know we did the right thing letting them live.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t have the guts to show,” my father says.

“It was never guts that I lacked,” I say, trying to control my sudden desire to launch myself at the man who created me, jam my sword into his heart; that is, assuming the space within his left breast contains an organ and isn’t just a black and empty cavity.

“Mmm, really?” he says, running a hand through his short blond hair. The last time I saw him there were salt-and-pepper flecks of gray on his scalp, and deep lines on his face. I took it as a sign that even the most powerful man in the Tri-Realms can’t fight against time. But now the gray is gone and his face is as smooth as a twenty-year-old’s, tan and chiseled. Hair coloring, wrinkle treatments, tanning beds: my father can even thwart the signs of time. “Last I checked, you would run and hide when I put your mother in her place.”

I immediately feel my blood pressure rise, my head go hot, not from embarrassment but from pure anger, rising to a boil. Through my teeth, I say, “Don’t speak of my mother. She is everything you’re not. Good, pure, gentle, caring. You were never worthy of her.”

“Ha ha ha ha!” my father bellows. “You are so much like her it’s scary. But you misspoke. You said ‘She is everything you’re not.’ I believe you meant was.”

I freeze, my anger falling away like a warm coat, leaving me naked and cold. I shiver. There’s a pit in my stomach. “What the hell do you mean?”

“Surely you noticed your mother’s not around anymore,” my father mocks. A sudden awareness floods through me, causing my muscles to ache, my bones to feel bruised. It’s as if I’ve swallowed shards of glass, which are now cutting me apart from the inside.

“What did you do to her?!” I roar, the anger returning, white-hot and hungry. I take a step toward him.

“Temper, temper, Tristan. What did I teach you about controlling your anger?” He readjusts his sitting position, leans back more casually, one leg crossed over the other. “Where were we? Ah, yes, your mother. She did something very naughty, so I had to punish her—that’s all there is to it.”

I stand there seething, unable to move, my body wracked with a blind fury the likes of which I’ve never experienced before. My father takes my silence and stillness for weakness.

“Cat got your tongue?” he says. “Let me spell it out for you. I killed her with my bare hands! And I loved watching the life drain out of her face; loved kissing her lips as I held her down and she took her last breath; loved feeling her body go cold as we lay in bed together one last time.” He’s almost licking his lips with delight.

A profound sadness wraps around my anger, but I thrust it off. There will be time for grief later. For now, all I desire is revenge.

Adele

Tristan’s voice! We did it! We’ve both arrived at the throne room at the same time, so there’s no need to wait. I’m shaking with excitement as I run the last few feet to where a door stands wide open. Is this it? I mouth to Roc.

Yes, he silently communicates.

We creep into a rounded corridor, hearing the voices loud and clear now. Not just Tristan; someone else, too. Another familiar voice, but one that I’ve mostly heard in my nightmares: President Nailin. The Devil. My father’s executioner. My target.

“What did you do to her?!” Tristan screams, his voice echoing off the walls in the outer hallway. Whatever’s happening, he’s losing his cool. We need to be there for him. I creep another few steps.

“Temper, temper, Tristan. What did I teach you about controlling your anger?” Nailin says, as Roc and I close in on a gap in the wall, off to our left. “Where were we? Ah, yes, your mother. She did something very naughty, so I had to punish her—that’s all there is to it.” Even out of sight, his words are as cold as darts of ice—aimed at Tristan’s heart.

I move closer to the gap, waiting for Tristan’s response, but silence rules. Something clips my foot and I trip, nearly fall, barely manage to catch myself with a hand on the floor.

“You okay?” Roc whispers in my ear.

“I’m fine. I just tripped on something.” I feel around beside me, the tips of my fingers finding a soft lump wrapped in some kind of cloth. I work my way up it, trying to locate something that will identify the object. More cloth, sort of bumpy, and then—

–human flesh. I pull back sharply, barely able to clamp a hand over my mouth before letting out a high-pitched squeal which only makes it as far as the inside of my mouth. “It’s a body,” I say, dreading looking at the face of another dead friend, Trevor or Tawni this time.

Roc flicks on a light, careful to keep the beam focused toward the wall.

A stranger, mousy and thin. “An advisor,” Roc whispers. “Tristan probably knocked him out. His chest is moving, still breathing.” He extinguishes the light.

We hear: “Cat got your tongue?” The president’s voice, full of sarcasm. “Let me spell it out for you. I killed her with my bare hands! And I loved watching the life drain out of her face; loved kissing her lips as I held her down and she took her last breath; loved feeling her body go cold as we lay in bed together one last time.”

Although neither Tristan nor his father have mentioned the name of the woman they speak of, I know who it is. His mother, a woman he loves. Once I promised to help him look for her after this was all over. Now I know that won’t be possible.

Something bad is about to happen—I can feel it. The President wouldn’t be egging his son on if he wasn’t well-protected. And Tristan won’t back off now that he knows the truth. We need to move.

I jog the last few steps to the gap, peek around the corner, see the back of Tristan—Trevor next to him. Tristan’s just standing there, his knuckles curled at his side, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. Between them I can just make out the relaxed figure of the President, sitting on his throne, not a care in the world.

Something bad is about to happen.

My mother’s necklace is heavy around my neck, as if the spirit of my father has entered it upon reaching the location of his murderer.

Tristan charges, ripping his sword from his side, holding it high above his head and letting out a fury-induced cry that would surely raise the dead. Trevor rushes after him, pulling his gun from its holster, and I’m about to spring from our hiding spot when I sense movement from above. Glancing up, I see them:

Dozens of red-clothed guardsmen leap from their perches on platforms near the top of the pillars spread evenly throughout the room. One lands directly in front of Tristan, blocking his path to the President. Another lands behind him, raises his sword…

I start running, already knowing I’m too late. Too late again. Just like with my father. There’s a familiar voice behind me—not Roc, more high-pitched—but I don’t stop—can’t stop—my eyes fixed on the gleaming metal that will kill the only person I’ve ever really—

A flash bursts from the muzzle of Trevor’s gun, accompanied simultaneously by an ear-shattering BOOM! Before his sword falls on Tristan, the guardsman cries out in pain, arches his back, slumps to the floor. As I enter the circle of light, there is red everywhere, more foes than I’ve ever faced, but if I can just get to Tristan and Trevor, maybe…

Three guardsmen pounce on Trevor, slash his gun with their swords, sending it clattering to the marble floor. He’s barely able to rip his sword from his scabbard and sweep aside their probing weapons. Tristan’s got his hands full with three others, probably unaware that he would be dead if not for Trevor. He goes for the gun at his calf but his opponents are attacking too fast and he has to remain standing to fight them off. I’m flanked by two men who finally notice my entrance into the battle. They’re smiling slightly, as if they foresee getting some twisted pleasure out of fighting a girl.

My bow is out before they have the chance to even think about taking a step toward me. I notch an arrow, send one through the first guy’s heart, and, fitting a second, let it fly into his partner’s gut, who collapses on top of him, blood dribbling from his mouth. Time to help Tristan and Trevor.

I shift my attention to Trevor, who’s the closer of the two. One of his opponents is writhing on the marble floor, a shadow of blood spreading under him. The other two are still putting up a fight, but are clearly losing, as Trevor’s superior sword skill starts to overwhelm them. Then I see it: a red form rise up, on its knees, blade held high. The guy who tried to kill Tristan from behind earlier, cut down by Trevor, injured but not dead. I level an arrow at the would-be killer, trying to get a bead on him, but Trevor’s body keeps moving in the way as he tries to fight off his opponents.