Rachel Andric and Final Death

Chapter 22: A Fatal Mistake

Alan, Lancelot and Gawain had over one hundred recruits after the duet. They remained in the dining hall, closing all doors to prevent eavesdroppers. Dale, Icarus, Edmund and Briar had remained. They held a quick meeting in the corner. "Somebody should be our leader," Alan said. "They won't accept all of us as their leaders, that just wouldn't make sense."

"Lancelot," Dale said. "He's level-headed, shrewd, clever, and a known leader."

"Unless it comes to Guinevere," Gawain said, grinning.

"No, I agree," Alan said, heading off any arguments between the two. "We should come up with a plan for these people."

"If we're going to rescue Rachel," Lancelot said, "we'll need to take care of the Editor's cronies."

They split up the responsibility among themselves. Each one, even Icarus, would be in charge of one of the groups. They would take the respective floors of Final Death and find Rachel while removing anyone who got in their way. Alan wasn't overly fond of violence, but it was war, and he was pulled along by Lancelot's plan.

It was done in a matter of minutes. The plan was made, their army split into six parts—Edmund and Briar insisted on going together—and Alan was left with about seventeen solemn people. He grinned. "What a solemn lot you are!" he said. "War's such a grim affair, why should we make it any more so? The others are going to attack to kill. I chose all of you because in your Stories, you were stealthy and didn't kill." Well, Cinderella wasn't stealthy, but she hadn't killed anyone. Alan might not have minded when he'd fought with Rachel to defeat Carson, but he had known she would reverse all but Carson's Final Death. That had been different. Death here was complete and irreversible. There was no chance of it being reversed. He didn't want to be the cause of that.

One of them, Hansel, raised his hand like a naughty schoolboy. In truth, he was still just a boy, probably about ten or eleven years old. "What if we're attacked?" he asked. "Do we defend ourselves?"

"There'll be no need," Alan assured him. "You'll be traveling with a first-class thief. I know everything about sneaking in and out of places. You shall be completely safe with me."

That was met by a low murmur of approval from Alan's army. He had picked the children and people who disliked violence for exactly that reason. Those who wanted to fight the Editor but didn't want to kill anyone, like him. It was a perfect group.

Alan took them to the top floor. Final Death was utterly quiet, an unnerving fact to him. He gave a reassuring grin to Cinderella, who held a frying pan in her hands. She looked thoroughly un-reassured. Alan motioned for his group to stay where they were and tiptoed to one of the doors. Pulling a pin from his pocket he picked the lock and swung it open.

He saw nothing but a shoe fly at him and narrowly avoided it. He closed the door quickly, turning back to the others with a sheepish grin. "She didn't want me opening the door," he explained. They chuckled, the tension easing a little.

Unfortunately, Alan's relaxing was detrimental to him moments later. One of the doors slammed open, and a man charged out, wielding a heavy battle axe and lunging at Alan. "Back!" Alan yelled at his group. "Retreat!"

They fled, just as the man crashed into Alan and sent him flying against the wall. The blue-haired man leveled the blade of the axe towards Alan's throat. "You won't be able to sing with a hole in your neck," he sneered.

"It could make it uncomfortable, yes," Alan agreed. "So perhaps we could skip it for now?"

"You're lucky," the man spat, grabbing Alan's throat and sliding the axe into a cradle on his back. "She wants you alive." He clamped a chain down on Alan's wrist before going back into the room, dragging Alan with him. Rachel looked up in surprise. The man cut her chains from behind her back and clamped the other side of Alan's on her wrist.

"Hullo, Rachel!" Alan said blithely. "Good to see you again!"

Rachel rolled her eyes, unable to speak because of the gag around her mouth. Alan pointed to it with his free hand. "Couldn't you take that off of her?" he said. "It's not like anyone's going to hear her scream. My army ran off like... like..." He couldn't find a metaphor to suit his needs. "Like a frightened army. I'm sure it's very uncomfortable."

"If you don't close your mouth," the man threatened, "I'll gag you."

"How frightening," Alan replied, unimpressed. "Tell me, how did you get your hair and beard so blue? It's quite astonishing. I'm sure some people would find it disquieting, though personally I think it makes you look rather dashing. And unusual! You'll never be mistaken for another with a beard like that. Do you brush it?"

The man, true to his word, sliced off the sleeve of Alan's shirt and stuffed it in the bard's mouth. Alan made a face, his bloodied bandage revealed. Rachel frowned at it, obviously wondering where it had come from. Alan made a motion that he hoped she would interpret as "I'll tell you later." Her frown of confusion didn't let up at all.

They went on in silence until they were brought back to the dining hall. Still chained to Rachel, Alan was tossed to the floor with her. Looking up, he felt his heart sink when he saw Dale and Icarus, Gawain and Lancelot, and Briar and Edmund chained together. Their entire war, over before it had even started.

The Editor stood over her conquered foes, and Alan's disappointed mind started composing a song about it. She approached him, then trod on his fingers to kneel in front of Rachel. She lifted the Guardian's chin, smiling at the hatred smoldering in her blue eyes. "You can't blame this on anyone but yourself, my dear," she whispered. "Your effort to fight me was doomed to fail."

Rachel's eyes narrowed. The Editor moved on to Alan. "Your song was well sung, but it's over now," she said. "A traitor proved to be your undoing. Both his and his compatriot's armies have been killed. But it must burn that you could lose in your first day."

She went to Lancelot, kicking him in the throat. His breath caught and he gagged. "How the mighty have fallen!" she jeered. "You thought you could defeat me with the aid of a bard? How foolish are you?"

"I—it is better to die in hope than—than to live in despair," he replied.

"I'd rather live," Gawain put in.

"Cheeky to the end. You have lost, knight," she told him. She moved past Icarus and Dale without a word. She stopped above Briar and Edmund, drawing a sword from her skirts. She raised it over them.

Rachel tore off her gag with her free hand, wresting it from the blue-haired man's grasp. "NO!" she screamed. "Take my life instead!"

"I think... not," the Editor replied, and she brought the sword down.

Briar shrieked as the sword pierced Edmund's back, killing him instantly. Rachel dragged Alan with her, but they were both tackled by the bulky man. Briar's body was racked with sobs, her arms around Edmund's body. "Nein! Nein!" she wept.

The Editor watched her without pity. "Let me put you out of your misery," she said.

Alan grabbed Rachel's arm, and she buried her face in his shoulder, unable to watch. Alan couldn't take his eyes from the sight as the sword descended, hitting Briar and continuing down.

Her sobs were silenced.

The Editor turned to her crony. "Take the girl. Leave the rest," she ordered. They cut Rachel free from the chains connecting her to Alan, but he wouldn't release her. He held her, unable to let her go, feeling her heartbroken sobs shaking his own body. It was only when Alan's life was threatened that she released him and allowed the man to drag her away.

Alan stared at the Editor as she swept past him. He pulled off his gag and threw it at her, feeling like he was moving in slow motion. "Curse you," he said. "Leaving me alive is a fatal mistake."

"Cross me again," she said, "and you won't be so lucky. I have eyes and ears everywhere."

"Spies," Alan spat.

"Consider yourself warned," she went on. Then she left the room and Alan bowed his head in defeat.