Oberon's Dreams - By Aaron Pogue Page 0,63
for a treasure like this sword, somewhere wide and tall. A library or some inner den.
He caught up with Avery at the threshold of a sitting room. The elven thief hid in the shadows of the doorway, but Corin could see what had given him pause. The room beyond offered stairways up and down—to the private chambers up above and the sturdy cellars down below. Corin whispered, “Down.”
Avery’s mouth tightened in a grim smile. “I was just thinking up.”
“It could be either,” Corin said. “But downstairs we are less likely to get caught. We might have time to search, and even if we come up empty, we’ll still be able to make another attempt.”
Avery shook his head. “That’s well considered, but it costs too much in time. We can’t afford it. We should split up.”
“Absolutely not,” Corin said. “We risk too much as it is.”
“But less without the lumbering ox around,” Avery said, rolling his eyes back down the hall behind them. “I swear, if Kellen keeps that up—”
“Keeps what up?” Kellen asked, from right behind them.
Corin was as surprised as Avery. He’d heard the same heavy, clomping boots just down the hall behind them.
“Guards,” Corin whispered.
Kellen’s eyes shot wide. “What do we do?”
Before Corin could find an answer, a pair of Ephitel’s house guards came around the corner behind them. They spotted Kellen instantly and froze in a moment’s uncertainty. Another pair appeared down the hall opposite, across the sitting room, and they were not as hesitant. They drew their swords and broke into a sprint.
Kellen bounced on his toes, almost whimpering. “What do we do?”
Corin and Avery answered as one. “We run!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Corin had no desire to split up now, so he darted for the stairs leading up. Apparently pursuing the same line of reasoning, Avery dashed the other way. Corin tried to correct his route, but Kellen was too close behind him. The yeoman’s legs tangled with Corin’s, and both went crashing to the floor. Corin caught one glimpse of Avery, head still above the landing, looking back in worry. The gentleman hesitated, for just a moment, then he disappeared.
Corin couldn’t blame him. Four guards were charging after them, and as Corin looked up, he spotted another hurrying down from the upstairs landing. Corin scrambled to his feet, hauling Kellen after him, then he leaped toward the cellar stairs.
But Kellen couldn’t follow quickly. The soldier limped, clearly favoring his hip, and before he’d made it halfway to the stairs, all five guards were in the sitting room. Steel rasped as they drew their blades, and Corin saw understanding in Kellen’s eyes.
The yeoman drew his sword. Corin shook his head frantically. “Don’t be a fool. Get over here!”
Kellen turned in place, still backing slowly toward Corin, but he spent most of his attention on the guards. “I’ll hold them off.”
“You’ll get yourself killed,” Corin said. “Drop that thing and try to run!”
Kellen looked back over his shoulder, holding Corin’s gaze. “Find the sword,” he said. “Protect the king. And remember me a hero.”
Corin wanted to pummel Kellen then, to drag him bodily down the stairs, but there was no time. With that limp, the soldier likely wouldn’t have made it if he tried. He might buy Corin time to get away, though. Furious, the pirate captain tore himself away and threw himself down the narrow stairs and into the cellar’s gloom. A moment later, steel clashed on steel overhead, and someone cried in pain.
Corin forced himself to run on. He could not have fought five men. Not without some trick, and he was out of tricks. His only choice had been to run. Anything else would have only gotten two men killed or captured instead of one. It was Kellen’s noble right to sacrifice himself. And for the greater good.
Not a word of that made running easier. Corin fought himself for every step until the narrow passages and the heavy stone walls cut off the sounds of fighting behind him and above. Then for the first time, he took some stock of his surroundings. This was not the wide, airy wine cellar he had expected of such a mansion. These were catacombs, close and cold, walled with ancient stone. The corridor was not more than a pace across, and every dozen paces it branched off to the right and left, or else it opened on a room filled with old crates or moldering documents or bones.
Every crossing corridor looked just the same, every storeroom identical. This might be