Rygar gripped the top of the stone shaft and pulled himself up over the ledge. It was just like Thunderblade had said—most Glaevor fortresses built wide chimneys, big enough to climb through. He was a ghastly sight—grubby after his long journey—and if bracing against the walls had not covered him in charcoal, hauling himself onto the ledge and shifting silently over the loose wood in the fireplace certainly did. Stepping out under the mantle and into the room, he took a brief glance around. Everything was slightly askew, clothes and papers littered the edges of the floor, and the bed in the center of the room had tousled sheets, hunched together in one place. It was hard to see much else—the only light came from under the locked door to the right.
Still, Rygar was certain that this was prince Aleksander's room.
Carefully, he reached down to his side and pulled out his long dagger. The metal scraped against the sheath, quietly but not as quiet as he would have preferred. Hands shaking with trepidation, he took one step, then another and another, until he was standing over the bedside. He paused, drew his arm up over the sleeping figure, and brought the dagger down hard.
A thrill struck through him—finally he had accomplished his goal—and then it was gone. The dagger had passed too easy. He drew it up and plunged it down again—then threw back the bedclothes. Three feather pillows were lined up underneath. The one he had been stabbing looked particularly forlorn.
"Well that was incredibly rude," someone said behind him.
Rygar knew immediately who it was. Even if he had not recognized the voice, there was no one else in the world who had such perfectly obnoxious timing. He spun on his heel to face his tormentor.
"Thunderblade," he hissed, "What have you done with prince Aleksander?"
"You know usually when somebody won't wake up, you pour water on their head, or push them to the floor," Thunderblade responded, resting a hand on the panel above the fireplace. Judging by the state of his clothes, he had entered the room the same way.
"Don't play games with me!" Rygar spat. He respected the man, but this was a delicate situation, and Thunderblade's quips were barely tolerable when he was an ally.
"That's only the start of it," Thunderblade continued, striding across the room towards the head of the bed. "You also came in through the chimney. That's my dramatic entrance."
Rygar drew back his dagger. He could throw it—end his opponent right now. He would not. Thunderblade was too valuable for the Elkarin resistance to lose, and he seemed to know it. Why else would he turn his back on an expert and armed assassin in order to rummage around in the space behind the headboard?
"Since you're here already, I have something for you," Thunderblade murmured, climbing onto the bed in order to reach farther down beside the wall. "It's really important to the resistance, which is why I hid it so carefully."
"In the crown prince's bedroom?"
"No one would think to look for it here!" Thunderblade said, drawing his arm up quickly and swinging it over his head.
Rygar heard the crack too slowly, saw the flash too late. Everything pulsed, the bright light in the dark room left echoes behind his eyelids, and his bones ached with a familiar pain. He rolled over, tried to push himself upwards from the floor where the magic from that cursed sword had knocked him, trying to still the jittering in his teeth. They tasted of metal.
"The barrels outside the kitchen are going to be taken down to town in an hour. Go hide in one, and break out in transit. It's the easiest way to get past the guards on the wall."
Rygar moaned, staggering to his feet. "How do you always get here first?"
"Or I could kill you now," Thunderblade continued, "It would certainly be easier for everyone."
"You are an Elkarin!" Rygar whispered, placing all of his seething into the consonants, "Why will you not fight for your people!"
Thunderblade stood up a little straighter, tossing his bangs back to level a glare up at Rygar. With the energy that he brought into the room, it was easy to forget that Thunderblade was shorter than average. "My mother is Elkarin, yes. But my father is Glaevor. I won't let you kill my king."
Rygar sighed. The man was insufferable—but he was also unbeatable. He would not have survived so long otherwise. Ryger knew he would not be able to subdue him. Making his way back to the fireplace, he ducked under the mantle again. He had not considered how he would get down the chimney, but with the way his limbs were still trembling, he had a feeling it would be by falling.
"Oh, take the door," Thunderblade said from behind him, "I have the key."
Rygar stood up and hit his head on the mantle. Rubbing the sore spot, he stumbled across the room. The open door let the blinding sunlight spill in, but after a few blinks his eyes adjusted. Thunderblade stood in the doorway, gesturing as if he were seeing off an honored guest. "Until the next super secret resistance meeting?"
"It won't stay secret if you talk about it like that!" Rygar whispered forcefully, staggering out of the dark room.
Thunderblade smiled. "Please Ryger—I'm a pathological liar. Nobody in their right mind believes a word I say."
The shut door shut solidly and the lock turned—all the way and then back. The door opened again. "I forgot," Thunderblade muttered, biting his lip sheepishly, "the kitchen is down the stairs on the right."
"Will I meet anyone?" Ryger asked. He had a feeling the guards would not take lightly to encountering a strange armed Elkarin man in the early hours of the morning.
Thunderblade sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "If somebody stops you, tell them that I—that the prince sent you to fetch Mrs. Marrow. And do not kill anybody or I will kill you at the next council."
Ryger nodded. "Until our next meeting."
"Try not to die before then," Thunderblade murmured. He closed the door to the prince's room, leaving Ryger alone in the empty hall.