The War of Six Crowns: The Vanished Knight

Callan's Fight

How was this possible? They'd been climbing for over an hour.

"What?"

Her captor cackled at her confusion.

"How?" she asked dumbly.

"Magic," he stated as if his answer was obvious.

He guided her to stand aside and four soldiers jumped down. One hit the ground wrong. His screams rose into the night air. Callan cringed.

"Idiot," her captor muttered, shaking his head.

She drew a deep breath, trying to ground herself again. No matter how she tried to tell herself this was just another of her many nightmares, she knew it wasn't. Her jaw screamed with enough pain that she would have woken up by now.

The three capable soldiers reappeared in the square of light, carrying a ladder. Callan recoiled at the sight, but the psycho trapped her at the door with his arms. His soldiers moved the ladder around, trying to hook its anchors onto the flagstone in the door. Her heart missed a few beats.

If she went down there, she might never be found.

Footsteps thundered in the hallway behind them and swords hissed on being drawn by the reds. The black-clad soldiers streamed in, blades at the ready, their breaths blowing in white clouds.

The psycho grabbed Callan and pushed the knife against her throat again. No more lovey-dovey bullshit. What a relief.

Where were the black archers? She couldn't see a single bow.

"That was fast," the psycho said, his arm tightening around Callan's waist.

"Yes, well," Darrion replied, casually letting his gaze travel over the red army. They outnumbered his rescue party three to one. "I don't wait around."

"I thought I made myself clear. We leave. You mind your own business."

Darrion's mouth tightened. His cold eyes took in his opponent. "She is my business."

"Ha. She wasn't before."

"She is now," he said.

Darrion's grim smile promised pain. Lots and lots of pain.

Good. Callan's heart rate ramped up in anticipation of an escape. One opening. She needed one measly little gap and she might make it out alive.

The ladder scraped into place somewhere behind her. One opening.

One opening...

"Attack!" Her captor pointed his knife at Darrion.

Perfect.

She slammed her elbow into his midsection with as much force as she could muster. He grunted with pain and his hold weakened. She broke free.

Blacks and reds threw themselves at each other.

The psycho grabbed her wrist and yanked her back. He jerked her to the door and pressed the knife to her stomach. Her school shoes' heels tilted down over the edge.

"Get...down," he ordered.

Callan glimpsed a raised sword behind him.

Yes!

The psycho spun and caught the soldier's raised hand.

Damn.

Pandemonium raged, cutting off any escape routes. The deafening clashes of shields and swords made it hard to think. She took a few deep breaths and looked about, stepping back onto firmer ground. She needed to get away from the door before one of the reds saw her.

But then...she could help the black soldiers by complicating her kidnapping. It wasn't as if the reds would risk breaking her neck—they put too much importance on her.

The ladder vibrated just as she sat down. She went onto all fours and looked over the doorway's edge. The three reds sped up the rails. She shoved against one of the ladder's hooks. It didn't budge. The first red was three rungs away. She sat down and kicked at the anchors. The ladder rattled, but didn't move.

The first soldier's hand wrapped around her ankle and yanked her toward him. Callan screamed and kicked at his face. Her attempt hit home and the man let go to hold his nose. She frantically shoved her feet against the ladder.

It came loose and wobbled in the air. Callan scooted forward and toed it over.

She turned back to the battle, gaze settling on the black-clad soldier who'd tried to rescue her. He lay on the floor, knife sticking from his stomach. He wasn't breathing.

Feet appeared in front of her and she followed the legs up to the psycho's livid face.

He grabbed her hair and pulled her to stand before smashing his free hand across her throbbing cheek.

Stars exploded behind her eyes. Callan fell to the floor. Her face drummed painfully.

She rolled onto her stomach in an attempt to escape. The psycho kicked her in the ribs. Fire licked her sides, dimming her vision. He'd kill her now if she didn't defend herself. The knife's glint caught her eye in the flickering light.

Another soldier in black attacked the psycho. She grabbed this opportunity and crawled to the knife as fast as she could. Excruciating pain radiated from her side, but she kept going.

Callan reached the fallen soldier, sweating from the exertion. Another kick to her ribs lifted her off the ground. She forced air into her lungs, her consciousness slipping.

"You bitch!" the psycho roared above her. His hand tangled with her hair before smashing her face into the floor.

Black edged her vision; it tunneled in on the knife.

He grasped her shoulder and forced her onto her back. Callan breathed through the pain and sat upright, fumbling behind her for the hilt.

"I'm starting to think you're too much trouble, love," the psycho commented, voice eerily calm.

Her fingers curled around the hilt. His free hand grasped her cloak and lifted her to her feet. The knife offered no resistance as it came out of the dead soldier's stomach.

The muscles in her arm tightened in anticipation.

Not yet...

Not yet...

His sword hand pulled back, leaving him defenseless.

She slashed the knife across his face. Blood sprayed into the air and he staggered back, releasing the sword to cover his eye with his hand. He wiped his face, smearing it crimson.

Callan did her best to pry herself loose, but his hand shot to her neck and he clasped her throat.

With a roar of pure hatred, the psycho lifted her off the ground and swung her around. She choked, her feet dangling like a rag doll's as he pushed her through the doorway.

Gawain and Darrion bolted to her aid. They'd come too late.

The psycho flexed his hand, cutting off more air and wringing tears from her eyes. His one surviving eye flashed with rage.

She convulsed, desperate for air.

Her free hand clawed against his arm. Her other started to let go of the thing in it.

No.

The knife. She had the knife.

Callan used all of her will to lift her arm. When she succeeded, she struck like a snake, planting the blade in her assailant's left shoulder.

She pushed it down to the hilt with the remainder of her waning strength. A falling sensation assailed her body. A hand closed around her wrist, ripping pain up her arm.

She lost consciousness.

Ouch. Poor Callan. Thoughts on what will happen next? Let me know in the comments. Also, please don't forget to vote if you like this section.