Chapter Eleven
Warmund
There was smoke rising from the palace.
There wasn’t supposed to be smoke rising from the palace. Had he gotten the days wrong? Warmund flew as fast as he could, beating his wings hard. His fires leapt and roared, and smoke curled from his mouth. As he did a pass over the palace, he saw dozens of dragons in the courtyard, fighting with steel and flame against their attackers. Magic sparked in the air. Bolts of it knocked dragons over as they rushed to attack the assassins.
Warmund angled low, swooping toward the attackers and let out a lungful of fire. He dodged around the bolts of magic sent his way. One hit his wing and it went numb. Tingling and burning, it fell limp at his side. While he struggled to keep himself in the air with the other, he did a barrel roll and smashed into the wall of the palace.
The impact left him dazed and confused; he groaned as he shifted back to his human form. His right arm hung useless at his side, and he hissed through his teeth. He staggered to his feet. Several of the assassins started his way but the guards quickly formed a shield between him and them. Warmund grabbed his numb arm with this left hand and turned on his heel, leaving the guards to it.
He remembered this scene, looking from his room to see the assassins in the courtyard. Thinking that they couldn’t get in and rushing down here to help. Leaving Wildref vulnerable. He had to get to her now.
“Prince Warmund!” a guard rushed to help him. Warmund gratefully took the help, letting the man support him and carry him into the palace. “What do I need to do?”
“Give me your belt,” Warmund hissed. “I need to stop this arm from flopping around.
The guard pulled him around a wall to keep him well away from the attack and pulled off his belt. He fastened it around Warmund’s chest, wrist tucked up near his shoulder, to keep the arm in place. Then he glanced up at Warmund’s face and froze.
“You’re not the prince!” he yelled, eyes widening.
Warmund chuckled. “Too old?”
Even as the guard lifted his sword, Warmund grabbed the back of his neck and smashed his face into the wall. The guard went down, groaning in surprise. Warmund grabbed his sword and rushed down the corridor. He let his feet take him the familiar path to the nursery. When he got closer, he heard the crying of babies from the other side—multiple babies. His heart jumped to his throat as he rushed in.
It was empty, except for four children in the cradle. His gaze searched the room, but there was no sign of the nanny. His fires flared hotter as he realized that the nanny had lied. She said that the assassins overpowered her.
In truth, she had run away before they even arrived.
Warmund hissed between his teeth, then strode forward quickly. His heart sank to his toes when he saw who the other three children were.
If they were here, that meant that that Penny was, too. His stomach coiled around itself. Where was she? Was she out there, in the midst of the fighting? She might be tough as nails, or at least think she was, but in a real fight?
And if he left the children here, they’d no doubt be targets for the assassins. He couldn’t leave.
“It’s going to be okay.” His gaze swept over Lisa, teary-eyed, Mark, red-faced, Alex kicking and fussing, and lastly, Wildref. She likewise kicked and flailed. Her face was red, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Warmund’s heart lurched. He wanted to pull them all into his arms and comfort them.
But his one arm was still numb and the other lifted his sword as he turned and planted himself in the middle of the room, ready to cut down anybody who might attack.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Within a few minutes, footsteps sounded from the corridor. He braced himself as five people, all brandishing swords and sporting blood splashed over themselves, rushed into the nursery. They stopped in surprise when they saw him there. A couple of them glanced back to the corridor. One of them sneered.
“Didn’t we just leave you near your stepmother’s room?”
Warmund didn’t let himself think what that meant. Instead, he leapt forward, slicing at the speaker’s throat. He jumped back, hissing. As Warmund landed, he spun rapidly, striking out. His blade cut through one of the assassins’ neck. Blood spurted into the air. The other four yelled and attacked as one. Warmund vigorously defended. Strike after strike rained down on him, and he deflected them all. The assassins dodged forward and retreated in tandem. With his right arm useless, he soon grew tired.
His fires burned hot and he released a breath at the leader. Flames ate away at the space between them; the leader spat out a curse as his clothing caught fire. He dropped and rolled while two others came at him from either side. Warmund ducked and rolled to avoid both their blades. As he did so, another sword swung down at him. He was just able to roll from its path—or so he thought.
As he sprang to his feet again and stabbed through his attacker, a wave of light-headedness passed over him. He glanced down at his arm to find a deep gash in the numb flesh, blood pumping from his body.
Great. Just what he needed. He stumbled, as the three assassins left pressed their advantage. Though he couldn’t feel the wound, he could feel the blood leaving his body. It spurted from him as he rammed into the leader, using his weight to crush the man against the wall while slicing the third assassin across the chest. His blade skittered over ribs, but, in veering off, it slid neatly through the fourth assassin’s throat.
Warmund stepped back, dodged a shaky attack and killed the third one. The leader hissed through his teeth as he glowered at his dead companions.
“I will not fail!” The leader threw out a hand. A blast of magic leapt from his fingers and hit Warmund straight in the chest. It lifted him and threw him across the room.
His lungs wouldn’t work. His heart thumped wildly against his ribs. Warmund lay, gasping for breath while unable to get his lungs to expand. The assassin grunted in satisfaction and began to stalk over. Magic charged the room, dancing between the assassin’s fingertips like lightning. A triumphant sneer crossed over his face. Warmund tried to push himself up, but his body wasn’t responding to what he told it to do.
“We weren’t planning to kill you; you’re just the bastard son, no threat to our plans. But if you insist on being loyal to the child that replaced you, so be it. You can die for her.”
The assassin whipped around his sword. The sparking magic flowed down the shaft, surrounding the blade with crackling energy. Warmund sucked in a deep breath, bracing himself. The assassin jabbed the sword down; there was the noise of pottery breaking and the assassin let out a surprised yelp. The sword fell to one side, stabbing through the floor right beside Warmund’s chest.
Pottery sprayed over Warmund’s face. The assassin stumbled for a moment before he dropped. Penny stood in the space the assassin once occupied. Her face was pale, and her hands clutched the remnants of a precious vase. She dropped to her knees next to Warmund and checked his pulse.
He let out a groan, the first noise his body had decided it could make and jerked his head weakly toward the cradle.
“Don’t worry,” Penny gasped as she tore off a strip of her skirt to tie around his arm. “I know how we’re getting out of here.”
She sprang back to her feet and lifted both her hands. Her eyes closed and sweat dripped down her face. At first, Warmund wasn’t sure what she was doing. Then he heard the sound of rushing water and smelled that peculiar scent the had accompanied the portals before. He managed to twist his head to watch as she opened up a portal.
His eyes widened. Opening a portal on her own the first time she attempted it? Penny was a more powerful mage than he realized.
She panted with the effort by the time she was finished. She stumbled a little and Warmund’s leg twitched. He growled in frustration as the numbness and paralysis faded in and out, never long enough one way or the other to get used to it. Penny dashed to the cradle and pushed the whole thing, grunting with effort, until it passed through the portal. She then came back for him as the assassin started to groan again.
“Leave,” Warmund managed to grunt.
“Nope.” Penny grabbed him around the shoulders and hefted him up. She groaned with effort as she dragged him toward the portal. “Not leaving you here.”
His one hand still clung to his sword, but he was unable to lift it as the assassin pushed himself to his hands and knees. Blood dripped down his forehead. He looked up, eyes dazed, and when he saw Penny and Warmund, his gaze darkened.
Penny gave a mighty heave. A myriad of sight and sound washed over Warmund’s vision, erasing the assassin.
He didn’t recall passing out, but when he opened his eyes, he found himself in a dimly lit room. Blankets lay beneath and over him. A strange wind blew in his ears. Pain burned through his arm, replacing that infernal numbness. He was cold… too cold…
The wind stopped blowing, and he realized it wasn’t wind at all, but a car. His head jerked up. Penny jumped from where she was standing over the cradle. There was no crying; she must have gotten them all asleep. She turned to him, relief washing over her face.
“Good. You’re finally awake.”
Warmund swallowed dryly. “Where are we?”
“It’s an abandoned house near where I grew up. I guess I was thinking of this place when I opened the portal.”
He nodded slowly, then met her eyes again. “When?”
Tears filled Penny’s eyes. “1995. We’re over twenty years too early.”