Just when I think the tower goes even higher than they say, stretching all the way to the stars, I step onto a landing. My head’s down, between my knees, but I manage to tilt my chin enough to look up. And there aren’t any more stairs. Just a stone ceiling.
The top of the tower.
A door stands open. I walk toward it just as the screams fly out.
~~~
I’m in no shape to fight, too exhausted from my harried flight up the stairs, which is exactly why the king is probably hiding out here.
But I enter anyway, taking it all in with a single glance.
The horseless rider is surrounded by guards, slashing and blocking and hacking at their spears and axes and swords, killing one with a slice to the throat, stabbing another through the gut, fighting like someone who can’t be defeated.
Small windows are cut at intervals along the walls, barely letting in any light at all, and certainly no sun—nay, not one speck of sunlight; at the other end of a room that seems too big to be held up this high, Goff stands in front of a huge, stone throne on a raised platform like a god, eyes blazing, his arms around…his arms holding…
I choke when I try to speak, gasping for air and words, because he’s got her, he’s got...
“Jolie,” I say.
It’s not loud enough to reach anyone’s ears beyond my own, not against the battle cries in front of me.
Another guard dies with a scream, the rider vanquishing his enemies one by one.
“Jolie,” I say again, this time louder.
Both Goff and Jolie look across the room at me. “Dazz!” Jolie screams.
And King Goff smiles. He actually smiles. His whole world is crashing down around him and he doesn’t seem to care one bit, as if he’s entertained by it. Jolie strains against his arms, but he’s got her tight, so tight, and I start to run toward her, but then Goff reaches back and when his hand returns it’s gleaming and it’s holding a knife, jabbing it under Jolie’s throat, and he’s still smiling and his eyes are too, warning me to Stay away, stay away, back off, or, or…
…she dies.
There’s nothing I can do but stop. Rage is throbbing in my head and in my blood and in my heart, but I have to stop, because he’s got her and he’ll kill her—that much I can see in his eyes.
But Jolie’s pleading, pleading with her own eyes, giving me that hopeful look that she always has, like having a knife at her neck isn’t anything if I’m there. Her protector.
A body crashes to the floor behind me and I jerk my head to the side and down. Another guard, not yet dead, but on his way, blood gurgling from his lips as he tries to breathe through thick, red liquid.
I raise my head to see the rider standing alone amidst a circle of bodies. He’s killed them all—every last guard. A warrior, his strength far beyond my pathetic and useless bar-fighting talent that I once held such pride for.
He steps forward, his dark skin dripping with sweat, his black robe dragging at his feet, his sword held with both hands in front of him, the tip almost touching his chin.
I won’t let him get Jolie without going through me first.
“You’re here for the girl?” he asks, his voice a deep rumble. I step back, as if his words are far worse than his sword. He says it like it’s a normal question, the start of a normal conversation, as if he hasn’t just killed ten men on his own.
“She’s my sister,” I say. “He took her from me.”
He nods. “He’s a bad man,” he says. “I can’t let him live.” But what about Jolie?
“I’ll kill her if you come any closer,” the king says, and in his tone is a promise. I see him drawing his thumb across his neck, high atop the wall.
The rider steps toward him.
“I swear to the Mountain Heart, I’ll do it!” Goff screams, pushing his blade into Jolie’s flesh, drawing a trickle of blood.
“Ow! You’re hurting me!” Jolie cries.
“Don’t!” I shout, both to the rider and to the king.
The rider looks back, but there’s no uncertainty on his face. I see him slip a knife from his belt, using the width of his body to hide the motion from Goff.
I signal No! with my eyes, but he ignores it, turns, throws the knife toward the king and my sister.
The sound of the knife embedding in flesh and bone is sickening.
Blood flies.
The king slumps over, still clutching his knife.
Footsteps thump onto the landing outside the door.
With a whirl of his cape, the rider leaps past me, his sword raised. I spin around as he deflects an axe, a metal club, and a sword, each of which come flying through the entrance in short succession.
Past him, hordes of guards clamber up the stairs, pushing forward. The rider swings wildly, forcing them back, throwing them back, looking over his shoulder, looking right into my eyes. “Save her,” he says.