Ardor's Leveche (11 page)

He slapped his hands against her temples, squeezing his eyes shut as he absorbed much of her pain into his own body. Though he couldn’t stop her agony, at least he could diminish it to some extent.

That was the way Breva found them as he came to tell his overlord they could not open a com channel to the medical center to the south.

“Order a heavy doze of
olvido
. Put her out, now!”

Breva ran to the Vid-Com and did as he was ordered. Almost instantly a hissing sound came from the vents overhead and he grabbed his brother’s arms, pulling him away from the woman.

Stumbling out into the corridor as the door slid shut behind them, sealing in the gas that would render the Riezell Guardian unconscious, Lord Savidos sagged against the wall, breathing heavily.

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“Gods-damned fool!” he named himself, slamming his fist into his thigh as he bent forward.

“What did you do?” Breva asked, because he was looking into a face he didn’t recognize.

The wrinkled, puffy face of General Alphon Morrison shifted until Breva was looking at his brother’s unmasked face.

“She wanted to see me and fool that I am, I showed her!” the Reaper growled.

“Well, you aren’t such a bad-looking man, Gabe,” Breva said.

“
They
saw me, too, you idiot!”

Breva groaned. “I thought you wanted to wait.”

“I did!”

Pushing away from the wall, the Reaper started down the hall, his fists doubled at his sides.

Running to catch up, Breva reached out to stop him. “You can’t go out there,
chanto
.

It’s too dangerous.”

Shaking off his brother’s restraining hand, Lord Savidos continued on. He took the corridor leading to the underground hangers where several Fiach model runabouts were docked.

“Gabriel, please. Don’t do this!”

Neither man was aware of the stillness among the workers in the hangar as they saw their overlord stalking toward a jet-black Fiach, Lord Savidos’ personal craft.

Neither realized that the ever-present skeletal mask was not in place and that the workers were staring wide-eyed at the face of a man they thought long dead.

There was fear in Breva’s eyes for he knew there would be no way he could stop his brother from going after the healer. The lightning outside had increased in its destructive power and had weakened sections of The Web so that the deadly spears were slamming into the planet’s surface.

The Reaper pushed Breva aside and slammed his palm against the security pad on the outside of the Fiach. Instantly, the gull-wing hatch slid up.

“All right, then I’m going with you,” Breva snapped.

Stopping in the craft’s opening, Prince Gabriel Leveche spun around and shoved his brother backward. “No, hell, you aren’t! You take care of my woman!”

The workers gasped in unison.

Breva landed on his tailbone on the floor, staring up as the gull-wing doors slid down and the engine of the runabout engaged. He scrambled up—fearing the hot exhaust—and walked backward, still unable to believe what was happening.

“Where is he going, Major?” one of the braver workers asked.

“To the Med Cen,” Breva said as the Fiach lifted out of its docking harness.

“In this storm?” the worker inquired. “Why?”

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Ardor’s Leveche

“To bring back one of the healers,” Breva replied listlessly.

“What if the healer won’t go with him?”

Breva snorted. “Trust me—that won’t be an option.”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Healer Talil sat as far away from the Reaper as the interior of the Fiach would allow. He had a black eye, a broken nose, a swollen lip and a chipped tooth that would need dental care, but he had learned a very valuable lesson—never—under any circumstances—do you argue with a Reaper.

At first Talil had simply gawked at the man striding resolutely toward him. He could not believe anyone would have had the balls to venture out in this weather.

Having been informed that the overlord himself had taken a runabout out in the savage storm snapping overhead, no one—least of all Talil—would have laid bets on the craft getting to the Med Cen in one piece.

As soon as word spread that it was Prince Gabriel who had jockeyed the runabout into the docking bay, every available guard, healer, orderly and recuperating trooper had found his or her way to the docking station. No one believed it could possibly be the heir to the Storian throne, but one look at the determined visage of the man who had exited the Fiach and all doubts were removed.

Men moved aside, plastering themselves against the wall as he passed. Women curtseyed deeply, their heads lowered but quickly raised as he moved on so they could get a good look at his broad shoulders and long, powerfully striding legs. His name was on every tongue.

“Your Grace,” Talil—bowing as gracefully as his bulk and thundering heart would allow—had time to say as the Reaper advanced on him.

“Where is your equipment?” that imperious voice demanded. At the sound of that deep, authoritative voice, any listener who had doubted the true identity of their overlord no longer questioned how he had survived the death sentence imposed upon him fifteen years earlier.

“Your Grace, I cannot—”

Those were the only words Talil got out before a wicked right cross slammed into his face, knocking him a good five feet back across the loading dock.

“Where is his equipment?”

It was a bellow of rage that set feet to running in all directions and in less time than it took to resuscitate Talil, the things needed to remove the Riezell Guardian’s implant were stowed on the runabout and Talil was strapped into the jump seat, barely conscious and babbling apologies left and right to the stone-faced man who was now seated in the pilot’s chair and turning the craft around to venture out into the lashing strikes of lightning.

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“Are you a religious man, Healer?” the Reaper asked as he readied the ship to run the gantlet of deadly bolts.

“No, Your Grace,” Talil whimpered.

“Well, I suggest you fake it.”

Talil’s head snapped back as the Fiach shot out of the docking station. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as the powerful machine cleared the barely opened iris, banking sharply to starboard as soon as the first wave of coppery dust splayed across the windshield.

From a Vid-Com screen deep in the bowels of Mount Anthus, Breva watched his brother expertly dodging the bolts of lightning streaking toward the runabout he piloted. It was almost as though Noruego, the ancient god of bad weather, was hurling missiles at the Reaper’s ship.

Skimming along the horizon, the Fiach seemed to dip and bob like a cork on the heaving waves of an ocean during a gale. The X-shaped wings rolled from side to side as the craft swept up then rapidly down to avoid the lances of fire thrown at it from the heavens then the ship did a three-sixty roll, another one-eighty until it was flying upside down, its belly exposed to the wrath of the skies.

“Damn it, Gabriel!” Breva swore and armed away the sweat, which had gathered on his forehead.

If anyone at the base camp doubted the identity of the man flying the Fiach runabout, those three words dispelled the uncertainty.

“It
is
Prince Gabriel,” one of the techs whispered to the man sitting beside him.

“But he was executed,” said the other man.

“Stow that talk!” Breva shouted and every eye jerked from the Vid-Com screens on which they were watching the spectacular display of precision flying to the angry eyes of the 2-I-C. “It’s him, all right? He’s alive and you’d damned well better not repeat it to another living soul if you all want to keep your hearts inside your chests and out of his hands!”

Eyes snapped back to Vid-Com screens and lips were compressed tightly. No one would dare report what they all now knew, and if anyone on Med Cen was foolish enough to do so, that one would get what he or she deserved.

So engrossed with watching the bobbing and weaving of the Fiach, the tech who should have been supervising the vital stats on the Riezell Guardian was not looking at the monitor. As a result, he had allowed the woman to regain consciousness and was completely unaware of her leaving the queen’s chambers.

A lethal streak of lightning glanced off the tail of the Fiach and sent the powerful runabout into a skipping dive over the dunes, the belly of the craft bumping along like a stone across still water. The ship was headed straight for a tall monolith that squatted on the desert floor.

“Pull it up,” Breva shouted. “Pull it up, Gabriel. Pull it up!”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Everyone held their breaths as the ship continued weaving its way from side to side toward the bulk of the ginger-colored monolith.

Having wandered into the command center, Ardor wasn’t surprised no one was paying attention to her. Everyone was staring at the Vid-Com screens lined against the walls. The one closest to her showed a runabout careening at a high speed toward a stone wall. She didn’t need to guess who was piloting the craft for no one other than a man like Lord Savidos would dare to be out in such violent weather, daring the gods to strike him down.

“Pull it up,” Ardor whispered. “Reaper, pull it up.”

Almost at the last moment, the nose of the Fiach jerked upward and the craft sailed over the monolith with a scant few inches to spare. Breaths exhaled loudly in the room then cheers went up until everyone realized the ship was off the screen.

“Where’d he go?” someone asked.

Before Breva could answer, the Fiach streaked back over the monolith—barely higher than it had crossed it before—and came straight toward whatever Vid-Com was tracking its progress.

“He doesn’t have any control of the braking pods,” Ardor said. When no paid her any notice, she repeated her words.

Turning toward the woman, Breva stared at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The strike hit his control array and he doesn’t have the ability to power it down,”

she said, picking up thoughts that were coming at her like lead weights. “He’s going to make three more passes over Mount Anthus so you’ll have time to get his coordinates.

Lock in on him, his passenger and a crate of instruments in the cargo hatch as he flies by. When he starts his last pass then he wants you to shut down The Web just long enough to beam them and the instruments inside.”

“What about the ship?” one of the techs asked.

“It’s toast,” Ardor said, wincing at her own description.

Breva pointed at one of the techs. “Lock in on him and do as she says.”

“But, Sir, if we shut down The Web—”

“Do it!”

Ardor’s head was throbbing so painfully she could barely walk but she made her way over to Breva, reaching out a hand for him. He could see the strain on her face and knew she was in agony. Without a second thought, he pulled her to his side, put his hand on her head and held her to his shoulder.

“He’s hell on wings, isn’t he?” she asked.

“He’s hell on his younger brother, I know that,” Breva answered.

Somehow she’d known they were kin, but finding out they were that close made Ardor feel more comfortable in Breva’s arms.

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As soon as the Fiach climbed out of range of the Vid-Com tracking it, the entire mountain shook over their heads so neither one let go of the other.

“I’ve got Lord Savidos locked in,” the tech told Breva. “I’ll get the passenger on his way back over. Don’t think I can get the crate, though.”

“Don’t think I’d like to be you if you can’t,” Breva replied.

“Understood,” the tech said, swallowing so loudly everyone in the room heard him.

Roaring past the Vid-Com camera, the exhaust of the Fiach sent shockwaves through the instrument but it tracked the runabout as its wings dipped from side to side to avoid the lightning bolts then banked around for another run over Mount Anthus.

Ardor kept her eyes on the ship although she knew everything she saw was being transmitted back to Command. She was careful not to look at anyone’s mouth for fear those watching on Riezell could read the moving lips. Why she felt compelled to protect the Storian traitors didn’t equate with her but nevertheless she acted on her impulse.

When she was court-martialed would be the time to explain her own treasonous acts.

As the Fiach roared past overhead, the tech very quietly informed everyone he had the coordinates on the two crates in the cargo hatch.

“Bring them in on the next pass,” Breva instructed, his arms tightening around Ardor who could barely hear him although she knew he had shouted.

It seemed an eternity before the runabout shot into view again, smoke roiling from the larboard engine. The entire craft was shuddering as though it was sitting atop a giant agitator.

“He’s breaking apart!” Ardor cried out. “Bring him in. Bring him in now!”

Parts of the precision-made Gearmánach machine began flying off, spiraling away in chunks, smoke pouring from the lost pieces. One X-wing sheared off and went cartwheeling across the desert, coming apart as it spun.

“Bring him in!” Breva screamed.

“We’re locked on, Sir,” the tech said in a conversational tone. “They’re safe.”

The Fiach nosed down into the red dust of Riezell Nine and came apart in an explosion that sent heat waves folding back toward the Vid-Com screen. Instinctively, everyone in the room threw a hand up to block out the bright burst as the ship disintegrated in a wash of fire.

“Where is he?” Breva demanded, turning toward the docking station nearly a quarter of a mile from where they were standing.

“They are safe, Sir,” the tech repeated. He was gasping for breath, sweat drenching his pale blue uniform tunic under the arms and along the chest. The expression in his eyes said he’d live to see another day.

Ardor was being pulled along in Breva’s wake and she doubted he was even aware her wrist was shackled in his powerful grip. She could barely keep up with him for the 65