The Lost Prince (60 page)

Gravity suddenly reasserted itself. She slid down several feet and landed hard on the corner balcony next to a metallic eagle gargoyle. For better or worse, this lay line was shutting down. She kicked her way into an office, and made for the stairs.

CHAPTER 52

IN THE END, THE HATE U MAKE IS
=
TO THE LOVE U TAKE

1

Cal and Malcolm arrived at the Chrysler Building whole and intact. It was a grueling slog, but as soon as they realized the golems would ignore them if not confronted, they made better time. This was very hard for Cal because of the beasts’ primary objective, to find and slaughter the prince, and he felt that each one they left alive might be the one that killed Daniel. Mal convinced him of the folly of fighting hundreds of monsters instead of the random few that charged them in a rage. They would never have made it to Forty-second Street. In the thirteen years since Cal last saw his sergeant, Mal had become adept at seeing the big picture.

For safety reasons, the Chrysler Building elevators had been shut down. Callum tried to use his pull as an NYPD officer to get them to start one car, but everyone was in a state of disarray. It wasn’t a matter of authority; this was a full-fledged panic. The Chrysler Building was ground zero for the rise of the golems, and most people had fled. A few tenants hunkered down in their offices and would not leave.

“I guess we take the stairs,” Cal told his sergeant.

A look of resigned acceptance came over Malcolm. Callum opened the stairwell door. They looked up the well and Malcolm sighed.

“I’m wasted on a marathon of this type,” Mal said. “Dwarvs are natural sprinters, very dangerous over short distances.”

Mal positioned his shield on his left arm and they climbed, soon running into people huddled for safety in the thick concrete well. These folks were scared, not sure of whether to leave the building or stay. The military force building up outside their building on Forty-second Street made staying in their offices just as dangerous. Down the street from them was the United Nations, and around the corner, embassies from all over the world. Pretty soon there’d be tanks, mobile infantry, and probably a few Apache attack copters hovering above them. Contingencies like this—well, maybe not exactly like this—were planned for among the top brass in the police, FBI, and Department of State.

A few of the stairwell huddlers were startled by Mal’s elaborate ax.

“NYPD,” Cal would assure them.

By the thirtieth floor, Mal was winded; he had to rest.

“Gone soft,” Cal teased, breathing a bit harder himself. “Billionaire’s life is good?”

“Those damn Washington dinners,” Mal said. “Generals and senators love to eat richly.”

“Can’t have you going into cardiac arrest soon as we get up there.”

“I’ll be fine,” Malcolm assured him, panting. “Though I’ve a bad feeling I’m going to end up fighting the giant.”

“I’m more worried about attacking a wizard without a mage of our own,” said Cal.

“Any luck getting that kid on the phone?”

“Stopped trying once we hit the stairwell,” Cal responded. “Too much concrete and steel for any reception.” Cal took a sip of water from a Poland Spring bottle and handed it to Malcolm. “He’s an idiot, anyway. Bringing him is almost as bad as having no wizard.”

“Okay—but maybe you can fight the giant? There aren’t any dwarv victory songs about fighting frost giants. Lots of victory songs against the quarterlings of Fhlee, though.”

“They’re two feet tall and avid pacifists.”

“Yeah … well … before my time.”

“Hesz is the easier battle for you,” Cal told his friend. “You can turn your short—uh, shorter stature to your advantage with the right tactics. I don’t need you to beat him, just keep him occupied while I take on the Verakhoon. Kraten would cut you up in less than two minutes. He sword trained in Farrenheil under Schweinaufklebera when he was a ward of the archduke’s.”

“That the guy from the Hodonin wars … the one who won the Red Tourney.”

“Yep. Anyway, Kraten’s a knight, or whatever passes for one in that mockery of a desert kingdom he hails from. You wouldn’t last two minutes against him.”

“Right. So I’m going after the eight-foot defensive lineman with tusks jutting out of his mouth instead.”

“You have a pretty big ax,” Cal assured him.

They heard a crash several floors above them, followed by howls and screams. Dozens of footsteps rattled the well as a stampede of civilians rushed past toward the lobby.

Golem?
mouthed Mal.

The beast rounded the landing with blood splattered on its fur and shreds of the last person it tore apart still in its teeth. Cal clicked the safety on his carbine and the stairwell exploded with gunfire. Cal poured a hailstorm of bullets into the golem. A few seconds in, the gun jammed. The beast was severely wounded, but not enough to stay down. It lunged at the cop, who got his shield up between it and him. Cal dropped the gun for his sword and thrust it into the creature’s gut. It wailed, then whimpered, and eventually died.

“She wasn’t kidding about the guns jamming around magic,” Mal said.

“Break’s over,” he told Malcolm. And they climbed.

Cal didn’t know what to expect when they reached the top, but it seemed more and more like there were no guards on duty—not heartless minions, golems, or goons from the fatherland … just a partly open door to the observatory deck, which he spied from half a landing down using a mirror.

The only internal light came from a single round lamp hanging from the ceiling with metal bands mimicking Saturn. The room was mostly dim with patches of darkness in corners where the light didn’t reach it, accented by soft light from the surrounding city coming through the windows. The ceiling was dark, except for areas of reflection where white paint or gold leaf was used in the pattern of the cosmic motif.

Cal really didn’t know how to proceed next. A sorcerer of Dorn’s caliber knew a dozen ways to neutralize people quickly. Symian probably knew a few as well.

Suddenly there were raised voices in the observatory, followed by the booming crash of windows. Flames and smoke flew by the open doorway.
Cat!
Cal thought. In a panic for his wife’s safety, Cal rushed up to the landing with Malcolm at his heels. Mal grabbed him by the back of his utility belt and shook his head
no
. It was too dangerous to just rush in. His sergeant was correct, of course … If Cat was dead, there was no sense in throwing his own life away revealing himself. And if she was unhurt, she deserved a better rescue than a husband half cocked with fear.

The observation deck was hazy with smoke—blackish tendrils wisped into the stairwell pushed by the cool Manhattan air blowing into the observatory. With the mirror, he spotted Cat’s feet bound on the floor near the southeast corner of the building. Coughing and nearby voices held Cal back from a blind rush at that moment.

Dorn was telling Symian to go to the Empire State Building with one of the Farrenheil soldiers to handle Lelani. Cal indicated to Mal that they wait until those two left. That would leave only one sorcerer and two men to fight.

One elevator still worked for Symian, and soon they were gone. Kraten and Hesz walked past the stairwell door to the other side of the deck to open more windows and get a cross breeze going. Using the mirror, Cal placed Dorn at the blasted-out southwest window. The sorcerer was ensconced in the act of hurling lightning bolts across town. He hoped Lelani survived the attack. He turned the mirror around to check on the other two, and two bright blue eyes in the mirror reflected right back at Cal.

2

Hesz smashed through the door with a huge studded mace. The force of it launched Callum into the air until the stairwell wall abruptly stopped him. Had he not been wearing his police armor and helmet, he would have been knocked out from the impact. Hesz filled the door frame, appearing too large to fit through, but fit he did, turning his shoulders to squeeze into the stairwell. Malcolm immediately charged with his ax, only to have it blocked by the mace. Hesz made a backhanded swipe at the dwarv with a large fist. Malcolm ducked; the giant’s fist landed on the iron guardrail where it wrenched metal.

Cal charged the giant, swiping with his sword, and drove Hesz back into the observatory, much to his preference. The stairwell was too confined for swordplay. A pang of fear that Dorn would notice him and cast some sort of sorcery ran through Callum, but the sorcerer was half mad with his battle against the Empire State Building. Kraten, however, noticed and ran toward them. Mal charged out of the well and got between Callum and Hesz, swinging at the giant’s legs and yelling, “GO!”

With his police shield in one hand, Cal and Kraten closed the space between them rapidly and greeted each other with clashing steel. The desert warrior’s form was good; vertical cut followed by a downward swing, and then a horizontal swipe. There were few thrusts to the midsection, and of those, none were sloppy or desperate. Cal parried blow after blow, alternating his blocks with his shield and sword defenses.

This type of fight was very different from the all-out carnage of a battlefield. In war, very few of your assailants actually knew what they were doing with any weapon. Cal usually cut through an enemy company like they were aged veal, sparing only seconds for each man he ran down. In a melee such as this, your opponent had more finesse than the average soldier.

Sword fights were not as graceful or elaborate as the ones in the movies. There’s an economy to your attack and defense—moves are measured and calculated. Real weapons and armor tired you out quickly, and there was no director waiting to yell, “cut” so that you could retire to your trailer for yogurt and a massage.

Malcolm seemed to be holding his own against Hesz. The giant had cuts on his hands and legs, and each time Hesz brought his mace to bear, Mal no longer stood where the giant had aimed. The Dwarv rolled and leaped with the agility of a gymnast, avoiding the lumbering giant who was determined to squash this annoying bug. Mal always had a reputation for being extremely hard to kill.

Cal’s reputation was that of the raging warrior—a berserker-killing machine finely tuned to the art of war. Such was his lot for daring to survive, for if he were not efficient at it, he would have come home in a cold box long ago. It bothered him slightly that this was how soldiers, maidens, shopkeepers, tradesmen, and children saw him. Everyone assumed he was a hyperaggressive warrior, weighing heavily toward violent motions like this bronze-skinned opponent employed against him now.

But Cal’s father had filled him with age-old wisdoms handed down through the generations, and James MacDonnell stressed the defensive moves over the offensive. There were seven primary zones a swordsman had to defend: the head, neck, shoulder, elbow, wrist, gut, and legs. Cal had developed his blocking and parrying expertise to a degree where he could afford to wait out his opponents in a melee with little danger to himself. It wasn’t so much that he’d wear out his adversary as he was studying the person’s style of attack.

Cal kept a corner of his eye out for Dorn, lest he deign to recognize enemies in his presence. Dorn was dancing in his burned-out corner of this metal aerie. He made the strangest motions, as though manipulating an invisible marionette. Kraten intensified his attack, trying to push Cal back to the center of the floor.

“I have waited for this duel for years,” Kraten said, as he sliced unsuccessfully at Cal. “Callum MacDonnell, captain of Aandor, defender of the House of Athelstan, defender of the realm. A bloated reputation if ever there was one.”

Either Schweinaufklebera’s reputation was overrated, or the training had been wasted on Kraten. To hear his opponent speak so boldly would mean he hadn’t a clue Cal had been taking his measure since they began their fight. Unless Kraten himself had a similar ploy, Cal thought the man would have been much better in a life and death struggle.

Kraten was aggressive on offense, showing creativity and speed on the attack, but exhibited only four defensive maneuvers so far. His arrogance and attitude stemmed from his overly aggressive offense, which, no doubt, along with his fierce appearance, has served him well in all the fights of his life. His boasting reminded Cal of Lelani’s own desert sorcerer in the meadow upstate. Cal let Kraten attack him thrice for every halfhearted cut he made. The captain learned much about the desert prince in the time they sparred and recognized openings and patterns that would not be obvious to the untrained eye.

Arrogance appeared to be a national trait of the Verakhoon. Its rulers would do well to bite their tongues and curb their boasts in future council meetings. Aandor had not fought Verakhoon directly in a war for hundreds of years, but if Kraten represented the cream of their military, it would be a rout. Perhaps that was why the archduke of Verakhoon behaved more like a vassal to the lord of Farrenheil than an heir to the empire in his own right.

“Your partner put up a better fight before I took her head,” Kraten said, with an oily grin. “I only wished I’d had more time to teach her a woman’s duties before I dispatched her.”

He lies.

Erin was killed in the most cowardly manner—she never knew what hit her. The mention of Erin’s decapitation ended Cal’s patience.
This is the bastard that took Erin’s life … that stole my wife in front of my daughter.

Cal dropped his shield and gripped his sword two-handed. He cut and sliced in unorthodox combinations Kraten was not prepared to defend against. Cal was like a car that had shifted from third gear to fifth; the new tactics threw Kraten off his balance and a worried look spread over the desert warrior’s face as cut after cut sliced and nipped at him. He tried but failed to predict Cal’s moves. The cop drove him back along the hallway toward the north side of the hall with a whizzing flurry of swipes—the gleam of the sword became a marriage of poetry, dance, and light. Kraten lost his footing on several parries and then also a big chunk of his long raven-hued hair.