Troll-y Yours (19 page)

When she could blink past the wild stars spinning out of control, the feminine face of an angry Wood Nymph glared down at her.

“A Troll.” By way of a shove, the female released her.

Ella flung her hand to the wall to stop from sliding down to the floor.

“She’s not loyal.”

A Satyr male who guarded the Nymph’s back flicked his gaze toward the hallway behind him. Satisfied they were safe for the moment, he traced over Ella’s shaking figure. “What’s she doing here?”

Punching the tender hallow in front of Ella’s shoulder, the Nymph didn’t even blink. “Answer him, Troll.”

“I’m trying to get out.” The jab hurt, but it pissed Ella off more.

“That doesn’t answer—”

“Come on,” the Satyr tapped the Wood Nymph’s arm. “Guards are coming.”

After glancing to the left, down the corridor where Eli had disappeared, they turned right and bolted away.

After the fact, she wished she had thought to ask what in the hell was going on. Ella leaned against the wall, afraid to close her eyes, uncaring of the rock’s dagger points digging into her skin. If soldiers captured Eli while breaking into a room, there’s no telling what would happen. She hated her brother, but that didn’t mean she wanted him thrown into the lower grotto either.

Shouts and curses filled the air. A mob attacked the Centaur soldiers from behind, buying her a little time.

Ella grabbed the moment. Her toes dug into the soil and she streaked for Eli, who opened a door and disappeared inside.

Skidding to a stop next to where the door stood ajar, her body grew shaky and cold.

It was Kempor Aleksander’s room.

Twenty-Four

“B
omani, take two companies and go in through the main entrance. Petros, take your men through the military entrance. I’ll go in with the remaining company through the southern tunnel. Any questions?” Aleksander expected none, and none came.

“No, sir,” they answered.

He looked from one Centaur to the other and clasped their shoulders. “For the Crown and Queen Savella. Move out.”

Bomani jogged to the group of waiting lieutenants, chose two, and led his platoons directly west.

Colonel Petros held back a moment and spoke quietly. “Good to go?” Years of experience highlighted the concern in the colonel’s eyes.

Security of the palace hung in jeopardy, and all Alek could focus on was the wellbeing of two particular mythic females. Petros was right, time to get his head back in the game.

He nodded. “I’m squared away.”

“See you on the inside, then.” Petros motioned to one of the lieutenants and led the warriors due north.

The remaining lieutenant trotted over and awaited his orders.

Alek read the determination etched in the officer’s battle-scarred face. “We have fifteen minutes to reach the southern wall. Let’s hit it.”

After the three platoons received their orders, they moved out in double-time, headed south. Utilized extensively during the Great War, Centaur military forces rarely used the single file tunnel these days. Mythological people thought it more of a myth, as few knew of its location or existence.

Onward, they poured through the forest, encouraged along the way by Wood Nymph soldiers. Those with four legs galloped ahead to scout, while Centaurs in human form protected the rear. Synchronized in movement, they appeared to civilians as a daily patrol, rather than a killing machine of one hundred strong.

The sheer cliff rose up out of the dark. Black contour images of hardy plants grew from the sparse soil found in pockets of rock. High above, Centaurs in lookout posts called down, giving rebel positioning inside the palace.

While the soldiers jostled to queue themselves for a rushing entry, Aleksander took a deep breath and ran his fingers along a fissure in the granite wall. The last time he’d galloped through this entrance was near the end of the Great War.

Back then, the enemy chased behind him.

His fingers touched the tab, and he depressed it. Smooth hydraulics opened the Centaur’s secret passage. Born after the war, there were many warriors who’d never before used the tunnel.
Let this be the only time they’ll have need of it.

Narrow and tall, the door opened to reveal an interior darker than a moonless night. A few seasoned warriors stepped forward, familiar with the tunnel and eager to be on their way.

“Let’s do this,” Aleksander said in a low voice. In the still of the dark, his voice carried far. He counted twenty soldiers on both hoof and foot to pass before entering the first chamber.

Dirt muffled their steps, but as they entered the winding tunnel, it gave way to a solid rock floor. Sharp clatter of galloping hooves and fast running boots filled the underground passage, bouncing in repercussion off the walls and ceiling.

The decibel level rose, along with his heart rate and anxiety over what they would find at the other end. Alek didn’t need his eyes to navigate the twists and turns in near pitch black. Memory was an odd thing; it stirred emotions and directed his hooves.

Moist air temperature built the further in they went, minerals lights glowed brighter. Flying over the sharp rocks, he drew his sword at the last bitter turn that spewed the Centaur warriors into the large atrium.

Aleksander’s lip curled as he galloped across the bluegrass carpet, his eyes skimming occupants of the ground floor.
Minotaurs in the palace!

Bodies on the floor lay like broken dolls. Thankfully, none were Centaur. Civilians who lived and worked in the palace had vacated the park-like setting. On the far side, near the corridor to the mall, the fountain bubbled eerily in merry delight. Carved from stone, the marble Centaur blew his war horn, from which the water poured.

Above him, on the second level, hand-to-hand combat ensued. In front of the colossal jade arches that preceded the marble staircase, sprawled the first casualty. Crumpled in true form, the young guard Takis lay splayed out. Feathered arrows pierced his protective armor and embedded deep in his equine chest. A savage slash had nearly severed his front legs. Even in death, Takis kept a tight grip on his long, blood-tipped pike.

Aleksander slowed his gallop and visually identified the penetrating arrows’ top silver band. Symbols of the twin scythes indicated it belonged to the palace armory. It appeared the insurgents had raided the munitions room.

Pounding of a hundred hooves caused the green stone arches to tremble. Bits of dirt and the dead guard’s pike vibrated on the floor. Centaur warriors flowed past him like a warm-blooded stream, splitting into two groups at the landing to divide and conquer the invading enemy.

Alek took a last look at the young guard cut down in his prime, and then continued up the stairs, three at a time. With every leap forward, he propelled himself with hindquarter muscles that burst with adrenaline-laced energy.

At the wide, flat landing where the staircase split into two, he veered to climb the flight of steps on the right. Rebels resembled enraged ants, their weapons lowered, bodies rushing.

No sooner had he topped the stairs than a Minotaur, who had squeezed into Centaur body armor, barreled toward him with a crossbow posed to shoot.

Alek pulled a shuriken from his vest pocket and threw it across the distance.

The deadly star hit its mark and embedded in the bull’s shoulder. Blanching, the mud-grey Minotaur staggered back a step and looked confused. Only mildly hindered by the steel pentagram, the male rebel swung his weapon in fire-ready position—but it was too late.

Alek grabbed the muzzle of the cross bow and used it to drag the male closer. The rebel loosened his hold, stumbled forward, and fell onto the point of Aleksander’s outstretched sword.

Alek shoved the guy off his blade with a sharp hoof kick to the Minotaur’s chest, picked up the discarded crossbow and fired it one-handed into the back of a Satyr with a knife.

If fear was a great motivator, then his men were in peak form. One after another, mutinous traitors staggered and fell. He’d been in tight situations before—he hoped he’d come out of this alive.

A smashing karate chop, then a shove. One, two, three. Rebels piled up like the autumn leaves of Boronda, strewn facedown and motionless on the grassy floor.

Alek sheathed his sword and notched another crossbow arrow into place. He kicked a Wood Nymph out of his way, then raced down the hall to Ella’s room.

After the last turn in the wild palace maze, he glanced down the hallway. Heart lodged in his throat, as it had been since he realized his tactical error, Aleksander slowed to a trot. Every hoofstep of the way he’d heard gunshots and saw the battle rage. Over all of it, the pounding of his heart and the clatter of his hooves thrummed a mad rhythm.

More than anything, he trusted his instincts—sight, hearing, and listening to his gut.

Ella’s corridor had seen battle, gauging by the newly formed strike marks sliced into the rock walls. At the other end of the passageway, the hind end of a Centaur laid half in and half out of a room.

Sonofabitch…Ella’s stallroom.

Aleksander reached the fallen guard in a matter of seconds. The acrid air hung redolent with the thick scents of blood, sulfur, and ever present moistness of an underground cave.

The Centaur in true form lay on his side, a bloody towel pushed against his horrific stomach wound. With his bushy beard and smashed beaker of a nose, Alek knew this to be Gerard, a seasoned warrior.

“Gerard.” Aleksander went down on a front foreleg and gripped the man’s shoulder. When he gained no reaction, he slid two fingers to the artery at the neck. Slight and weak, a beat pulsed beneath the surface. He shook him gently. “Gerard.”

This time a moan escaped the soldier, and he opened pain-filled eyes.

“Did you see the female in this stallroom?” Alek asked.

Gerard nodded, then swallowed. “She tried to help me—pull me inside. Too heavy.”

That sounded like Ella, and despite the fear trumpeting through his equine body, pride for his brave little Troll filled his heart.

He glanced inside the room, but knew she wasn’t there. A medium-sized brown canvas bag lay on the floor near the bathroom. Next to it, sat her purple purse and tote bag, and he wondered where she’d planned to go.

“Gerard.” He called the male’s name when his eyes started to close. “Where is she now?”

“Went to get help.” The Centaur’s lids became too heavy, and he shuttered them completely. 

Alek felt for his pulse and found it growing fainter.

Two soldiers turned the corner and came barreling toward them, both splattered with blood.

“One of you. Get a medic, quick,” Alek commanded. “I want the other to guard Gerard.”

“Yes, sir.” The four-hoofed soldier galloped off to find medical aid, his black tail streaming out behind.

The other infantryman squatted down and used the towel to apply direct pressure to Gerard’s gaping wound. “I’ll stand guard until the medics arrive.”

Sweat trickled from Aleksander’s temple, running into his goatee. With no more to be done for Gerard, he gazed down both directions of the hall. Ella’s stallroom was compromised, so where would she go that would make her feel safe?

A couple Troll youths, looking the worse for battle, dragged their bare feet past the hallway.

The way they glanced and balked after spotting him, flashed a thought in Alek’s mind. “If a female Troll named Ella shows up, allow her entry to this room and guard her,” he said.

An incredulous expression flashed across the crouched guard’s face.

“Do it,” he added. “She’s a guest of the palace and to be protected.” Without waiting for a regulation salute or reply, Aleksander loped to the end of the corridor. Crossbow gripped tight in one fist, he glanced both directions before swiveling around the corner.

About then, a tingle started at the base of his spine and raced to lodge squarely between his shoulder blades.

Shitfuckdamn.
Transition time.

Down a few halls and around some corners, he made for his stallroom at a gallop. Prepared for a short-term battle, he hadn’t carried his hit-and-run bag with extra clothing and boots.

Truly, morphing into human form while fending off rebels would not be helpful.

Ignoring the youthful, beat-up Trolls who cowered from his powerful equine body, Alek raced along the hall. He cornered as if he were running a slalom while jumping the dead and dying like a steeplechase.

With his instincts screaming, he slammed on the brakes and slid to a halt at the crossway. Not from his transition that was moments away, but because a torrential flood of non-Centaur mythics who gathered at the stairs to storm their way to the third floor—the level of Her Majesty’s rooms and offices.

His thumb flipped the crossbow’s safety button to the
off
position.

Defending soldiers fought arduously hand to hand, but were easily outnumbered and pushed back. Aleksander gathered his strength and lunged toward the melee, ingrained to protect Savella at all costs.

An opening presented itself, and he pulled the crossbow’s trigger.
One down
.

He reloaded and fired.
Two down
.

Moving along the edges to stay semi protected, sharp granite rocks ripped the material at his shoulder as he slid along the wall.

Armed with a metal pike, a Troll noticed his advance and thrust the sharp pole toward his chest.

In an offensive move, Aleksander leapt across the passageway, four hooves tucked high, with the last arrow in his purloined weapon drawn back.

Airborne, he felt it.

Before crashing to the ground, he knew it.

A tickle bloomed and streaked up his spine. When he tumbled to opposite side of the corridor, his legs failed him. If it weren’t for the padded carpet of soft grass lining this end of the hall, he would’ve broken a limb. Turned into four wobbly sticks of useless rubber, he collapsed in a heap on his side.

Not daring to release the crossbow, his shoulder and head struck the wall. Sharp spires of pain flared at impact, jarring his aim on the advancing rebels. The arrow shot high, sailing over their heads. No need to even duck. Adrenaline bandaged the rest of his stabbing discomfort, not that he’d live long enough to see the bruises of tomorrow.

Regret washed over in an icy wave. There’d be no future with Ella. The one time he finally found a female of worth, and the gods deemed him unworthy. Stolen away before love had no more than sprouted—only to wither and die from the conditions of fate.

Nobody said life was fair.

To avoid tripping over his pathetic, prone form, an engaged soldier in true form, cast a brief glance at him while fighting a skilled Satyr swordsman. By the male’s stricken expression, the worst Centaur fear came true.