Oberon's Dreams - By Aaron Pogue Page 0,69
been waiting. In the bright light of the guards’ lantern, Corin saw what he had not when he first passed through this room: that the table held the hand cannon that Avery had mentioned before.
It was a flintlock pistol fit for a prince. Gorgeous dwarven craftsmanship, with a stock of polished bone, its grip and barrels plated gold. And at a glance, it looked to be loaded, half-cocked and primed. Corin felt a flash of hope.
And another when he saw a wash of motion. Every eye was on Corin, so only Corin saw Avery now creeping into the room. Still hanging half-suspended, Corin met Avery’s eyes, then shot a glance at his broken sword, and then turned to Kellen.
“Kellen!” Corin shouted. “Kellen! Help me!”
The poor yeoman could not have answered, but the ruse shifted the guards’ attention from Corin to Kellen.
Behind him, Ephitel barked a condescending laugh. “The coward can do nothing for you, manling.” Then he took Corin’s captured foot in both hands and twisted.
If not for the druid’s strange boot, Corin’s ankle would have shattered for the second time in as many days. Instead the whole boot spun, tearing painfully at Corin’s knee for a moment before he hurled himself up and over, twisting with the motion. He folded his knees and bent at the waist, grabbing for Ephitel’s wrists, but the prince was already turning, half a spin, and he released Corin to fly across the room.
This time Corin’s head bounced off the stone wall and nauseating lights flashed behind his eyes. He rolled when he landed, out of instinct more than any clear intention, but he fetched up short against some piece of furniture.
The table! Ephitel had clearly thrown him away from the ally he’d tried to call upon, but in the process, he’d thrown Corin within reach of the pistol. Surging on a thrill of victory, Corin leaped up—and instantly collapsed again. His right knee throbbed, and whether from the pain or the blow to his head, Corin’s vision swam. He grabbed the table leg to stay upright and blinked against the sickening blur.
Avery was in the room now, silent as a cat. Corin only saw him as a splash of black, and perhaps the guards saw little more because he moved so fast. The gentleman thief dove toward the broken sword, reaching with his left hand even as his right lashed out. He must have found some bit of stone within the excavation, because it smashed into the soldier’s lantern with a crash of breaking glass, and most of the light fled from the room.
The guards cried in surprise—then one of them in pain—then Corin heard the sound of ropes snapping under strain. He saw the new blur of motion, too, in the colors of the Royal Guard’s uniform. Kellen was free! Another scream, this one cut short with a thud, and Corin knew the yeoman had joined the battle.
Ephitel had turned at the disturbance. “Age of reason!” he shouted, furious. “Is that a Violet? Will you let yourselves be beaten by a Kellen and a Violet? Kill them! Kill them all!”
Corin’s vision cleared at last, and even in the darkness he saw Kellen on his feet, the broken leg of his chair in one hand and his empty scabbard in the other—both heavily battered. Avery stood back-to-back with him, armed with the broken sword and Kellen’s heavy work knife. Both blades dripped black with the soldiers’ blood. Two of the guards were on the ground, and another three were limping from blows already taken. None looked anxious to approach the pair at bay.
None but Ephitel. The prince went like an avalanche, a living doom approaching with a roar. He had the legendary sword of Aeraculanon raised, noble Godslayer ready to slay two base knaves, but Corin seized the chance. He heaved himself upright, leaning hard against the table, and grabbed the heavy gun. It was indeed a flintlock pistol, but unlike any he had seen before. Six separate barrels extended from its stock, the topmost evenly aligned with the gold-plated lock.
Strange though the contraption was, its operation was obvious enough. He leveled it at Ephitel, fighting down a surge of panic. He hated guns, but he hated Ephitel even more. He aimed it center mass, at Ephitel’s black heart, and squeezed the trigger.
The pistol jerked within his grasp like a thing alive, wrenching at his shoulder even as it let off a deafening boom within the confines of the stone-walled room. A dragon