Allasande kept her eye on the monster who had struck Minister Salbard. She’d been relocated to the grimy kitchen away from the main room and its fractured windows. She watched as the buttons she’d worn on her cuffs darted and flew around Rajief’s head. Occasionally, one would dart close to peck at his scalp and remove another memory; drain another thought. He sat, blissful smile on his face, drooling in the corner.
Her inclination was to let her hummingbirds do their work and leave the thug a brain-addled idiot for the rest of his days. But the magic in this world was weak and inconsistent.
The loud reports and bangs had faded to the occasional shot followed by an expletive. The rest of her captors had not come to check on her since assigning Rajief to guard duty.
With a whisper, she summoned the two hummingbirds back to her wrists. Each metallic bird lighted and resumed its immobile position on her clothing. The memories they stole began to swim before her eyes.
Such a brutal life this Rajief had led; so tortured. She loathed this part but it was crucial she see how her mortal cousins in this strange world lived. Adventure notwithstanding, she wanted to understand how her ancestors could have left so many centuries ago. It had been in her father’s court, in her youth, that she’d first heard the sorceress, Xian, recount the truth: the royals of Kellen were descended from the mortals of Tony’s home. Ever since that day she’d wanted to go there and experience it.
She rifled through the cloud of memories as Rajief lay slumped in a daze.
“I can’t see anything out there!” someone shouted.
“It’s totally black!”
A small child, an abusive uncle; the images turned her stomach. She prayed he was an exception to how people lived, here. The boy who would become one of her captors had grown up apart from tutors or elders to guide him. In their absence, he’d found others who gave him a life of brutal excitement. There was a crude allure in it coupled with a twisted code of honor. Their leader Arnau (lover to the small-minded girl who currently ordered these “Red Hoods” into action) kept the boy close and made sure he was indebted to him. It was not quite slavery but was close enough. Keeping a younger generation swearing loyalty based on a mutual set of crimes and fear of punishment was about as bad.
“The cops are dead! I think they’re all dead!”
“Where’s the big guy?”
Allasande ignored the distant commentary. As the stolen memories swam before her eyes, she wondered how different this world was from her monarchy. She’d known, for years, that Anthony had lived under a leader called a “President” but she had always imagined it to be just another name for “King”. Here, immersed the cacophonous world of alleged equals beneath elected representatives, she saw disturbing parallels. This was how the lower-classes were forced together. How different was the idea of someone like Arnau from her own experiences with gentrified aristocracy and royal houses?
She frowned at the stolen memories.
Being royal was, she realized, merely cleaner.
Limping, Anna came into the room. Her bandaged forehead was red with blood. She looked from where Allasande sat—untied—to Rajief. Her face fell into a fury as she aimed her gun at the queen.
“What the fuck did you do?”
Allasande arched an eyebrow. “Nothing he did not deserve.” She considered unleashing the hummingbirds again. It would probably draw the girl’s attention. The others, however, could start firing at her. The birds only sought a single victim at a time. Unless the gang’s numbers had been winnowed more than she thought, Allasande would still be overwhelmed. “It was a far kinder thing,” she said, “than what you will face should you not release me before my bodyguard arrives.” Heavy booms echoed through the room, coming from the floor, above.
Anna kept her gun trained on Allasande’s face. “No one’s comin’, bitch,” she snarled. “Andy: Get your skinny ass in here!”
That was when Castori crashed through the ceiling.
Trolls did not typically need weapons. Their nails were as strong as iron and their teeth as sharp as obsidian flint. Still, what preceded him was the heavy, stone blade of a troll’s axe. He landed in a half-crouch and arced the weapon towards Anna. She dodged aside, firing a shot in return. Castori was riddled with wounds that seeped a sludge-like blood the color of a mudslide. He’d taken at least a dozen gunshots. One more didn’t seem to matter.
Anna tried to take a second shot but Castori hurled his axe. She leapt aside, her shot missing and perforating the wall.
“Make peace with your gods,” he snarled and dove at the human woman.
“Everyone! In here: now!” she shouted.
Castori didn’t waste time. He dove forward and swept her up in his arms, positioning her like a shield as the others entered. They looked confused and more than a bit frightened. He advanced.
“Damn it: shoot the fucker!”
Anna’s shout seemed to have more to do with a short-sighted appreciation for her own well-being than an honest assessment of her gang-member’s accuracy with the guns.
The gang members fired.
That the majority of them hit Castori was, in Allasande’s view, impressive. That a non-zero number also hit Anna, Minister Salbard, and herself was less so.
The projectile that lanced through her right shoulder burned like the heat of a brand; her bones shook as if she’d been struck with a lance. It took all her self-control not to cry out.
Already riddled with holes, Castori staggered.
The troll dropped Anna and charged through the hail of bullets, claws extended. One of the gang members went down; his head a moment later. Another took a skewering slash to the abdomen. But that was as far as Castori went. He stumbled as bullet after bullet ripped into his body. Castori closed on the last two uninjured men in the room but didn’t make it, conscious.
With a sound like a falling boulder, Castori crumpled in his run, crashing into the two mortals like a charging horse. They were brought down by the sheer force of the impact. The final echoes of gunfire faded and the apartment and went silent.
Queen Allasande stared at the aftermath of the shoot-out. She’d been on fields of battle—faced dragons, evil sorcerers, and hordes of giants—but this fight had been different. It had been so short and brutal it was like an all-night thunderstorm compressed into a minute. Her bloody wound burned while, from outside the building, a voice—magnified and artificial—shouted demands that all weapons be tossed out the windows. The constables were demanding surrender.
She had little time.
She staggered to her feet. Rajief was still sitting, dazed, against the far wall. He’d been spared the rain of bullets. The small, pantry door next to the gang member opened. A blast of winter-cold air swept through as Karl and Wiste entered. The queen smiled.
“Ah, my dear Mister Callerbach,” she said to Wiste. “And my dear Mister Karl,” she added. “How good of you to come.” She pressed her hand against her wound but nodded at the fallen around her. “It appears that both Minister Salbard and Huntsman Phane are in need of our assistance. I have potions for this sort of thing but perhaps it would be best to apply them back in—”
One gunman remained.
Allasande wasn’t sure if she’d miscounted earlier or had been too distracted by the pain and commotion. It didn’t matter. Coming around the corner, he raised his gun.
Karl had a clear path, and dove to pull the Queen away as the gun went off.