First, he summoned Sacharissa, grateful that the guards had not bothered to take the summoning leather from his pocket. Then, after a moment of excited yelping, wet licks and a shout from the guard outside to keep it down, he settled in the corner with Sacharissa, drifting a wyrdlight around the room and considering his options.
He had managed to free his hands, for their wrapping had been interrupted when he had switched sides. Even so, he knew his mana levels were low, and even if he succeeded in overpowering the guard at the door and attempted to escape, there would still be hundreds of rebels to beat, scattered throughout Vocans.
In all honesty, he did not even know if he wanted to escape. The rebels had the king and his allies between a rock and a hard place. Barcroft had said that the nobles were too scared to fight back, for fear of hurting the hostages. If he were a gambler, he would bet on the rebels winning. They were the right choice.
But, in the moment the decision solidified in his mind, it instantly dissolved at the thought of his friends. The very idea of joining Crawley and his minions filled him with revulsion.
When he weighed the nobles against the commoners in his life, it was clear to him who had mattered most. He had been made a virtual slave by a common man, and had received little kindness from that tavern keeper and his family. In fact, the only people who had shown him kindness were noble: Edmund, Alice, Lieutenant Cavendish.
And of course Elaine. Twice she had saved his life, and wanted nothing but his friendship in return. He could not imagine the terror she was feeling right now, locked away by cruel men who hated her. All he could do was hope she had been able to keep Valens for company, or at least had Alice to comfort her.
No. He was not a rebel. But the only way he could help his friends was by pretending to be one.
“Hey,” Arcturus called, knocking on the door. “I need to speak to Crawley. I have important information that will help the rebellion.”
“He’s busy. Tell him in the morning,” the guard outside snapped.
“I need the toilet too,” Arcturus said.
“Piss in a bucket,” came the reply.
“And I’m hungry,” Arcturus argued. “I haven’t eaten in days.”
“Then another day won’t hurt you,” the guard replied. “Just be quiet. They pulled me out of bed to watch you, so don’t make my life any harder than it has to be.”
Arcturus sighed and slid down the door. He pulled his cloak closer around him, and tugged the hood over his head. The warmth was comforting, and Sacharissa rested her big head in his lap, looking up at him with her four blue eyes. He kissed her on the snout, and sensed that she was cold. Sadly, the room had no linens or towels inside for him to warm her, so instead he flapped the end of his cloak over her shoulders and pulled her in close.
“I wish I had another cloak for you, Sacha,” he said, rubbing the soft fur of her back.
His cloak … an idea struck him then, like a bolt of lightning. If he got past the guard outside, he would look like any other rebel, and he imagined that most of the men here didn’t know each other. He could hide in plain sight.
The problem was overpowering the guard without any signs of a struggle. Arcturus pushed Sacharissa’s head from his lap, earning himself a whine of annoyance. Then he peered through the keyhole.
On the other side of the door, a black-clothed rebel dozed against the wall, leaning on his spear as if it were a shepherd’s crook. Arcturus’s weapons were stacked beside him.
Arcturus considered his options. He could not pick the lock—there was a spell for that, but he had yet to learn the symbol for it. Nor could he blast the door open with the last of his mana; that would send every rebel nearby running. He might be able to shatter the lock with a controlled kinetic blast—but the sound of it would mean the guard would be ready for him on the other side when they barreled through.
Ideally, the rebel would come into the room to check on him, but with Sacharissa having made so much noise upon their reunion, the guard would know there was a demon waiting for him on the other side of the door.
A lightning spell was too erratic to aim through the keyhole, and the guard would scream blue murder before a fire spell killed him. A controlled thread of kinetic energy would be the best way to do it. But Arcturus had never tried to shape a spell before. Nor did he have sufficient mana to practice.
The keyhole. That was the solution. If he could get the guard close enough, an uncontrolled blast of mana might do the trick. The question was how.
“Sacha … let’s make some noise.” Arcturus grinned, still peering through the keyhole.
Arcturus brandished the broomstick and smashed it into a nearby bucket, whooping as he did so. Sacharissa howled like a wolf, though Arcturus kept the sound contained enough that it wouldn’t alert nearby rebels.
On the other side of the door, the guard jumped awake, his face twisting into a scowl. He was a mean-looking young man, with a potato-shaped nose and beady eyes.
“If you don’t shut that creature up, we won’t feed you for a week,” the guard growled. “No water either, and you and that bucket will become very familiar.”
“Help me,” Arcturus wailed. “My demon’s gone crazy.”
Arcturus sent an order to Sacharissa with a thought, and the howl turned into a snarl, low and threatening. She took the end of a mop and began to savage it, and Arcturus accompanied the noise with a choking, gurgling sound.
“Hey,” the guard said. “Stop that. I know what you’re up to.”
Arcturus drummed his feet against the ground, his choking more frantic now. For good measure he scraped his fingernails along the door. Then, with a swift mental order, both he and Sacharissa fell silent, and Arcturus pressed his cheek against the keyhole.
The guard stared at the door, his face a picture of confusion.
“Come on,” Arcturus whispered under his breath. “Come see.”
His finger swirled in the air, etching the spiral that powered the telekinesis spell. It fixed to his finger, and he held his hand ready beside the keyhole, waiting to strike.
Now the rebel looked up and down the corridor, as if looking for someone to help him. Seeing nobody, he crouched down and shuffled closer to the door. Arcturus held his breath, then grinned as the man lowered his face toward the keyhole. Curiosity had gotten the better of him.
Arcturus waited. Waited until the lumpy face had filled the small circle of light on the other side. Then he pushed his finger into the lock and unleashed a blast of kinetic energy.
There was a dull whump as the spell was funneled through the mechanism and out the other side, shattering the lock with a crackle of snapping metal. Arcturus threw the door open and burst through … only to find the guard crumpled against the wall, his neck snapped back at an odd angle, eyes glazed over in death. There was no blood—the very force of the blast had killed him.
Arcturus felt the gorge rise in his throat. He ran back into the room and emptied the contents of his stomach into a bucket.
He had not meant for the man to die. In truth, he had thought he would knock the man unconscious, or at worst blind him in one eye.
But there was no time to process his guilt. He pushed the body into a sitting position, pulled the man’s hood up so it appeared he was sleeping, and laid the spear across his lap.
Then Arcturus strapped on his weapons, infused Sacharissa and pulled his own hood over his head to obscure his face. For all any passerby would know, he was a rebel now. At most, he had until morning to save his friends. Or die trying.
CHAPTER
43
ARCTURUS STARED DOWN THE corridor, paralyzed by indecision. He needed to find where the nobles were being held hostage, but how would he navigate the maze of rooms and sleeping rebels?
For a moment he concentrated, trying to smell them using his newfound heightened senses. But the myriad of scents that filled his nostrils were confusing—with hundreds of rebels in the building, there were just too many people. Sacha
rissa might have been able to make sense of it, but she was infused, and would need to stay that way.
He considered cornering a rebel and interrogating him for information, threatening him with death by fireball. But what if the rebel called his bluff and shouted for help? And even if a rebel did give up information, was Arcturus supposed to somehow knock him unconscious, relying on him staying out cold until Arcturus had escaped? Or tie the rebel up and gag him with his rudimentary knowledge of knots and hope it worked? He didn’t want to think about killing one. It just … wasn’t an option. The image of the man he had murdered floated unbidden to his mind, and his stomach twisted with guilt and revulsion. No. He would not do it again.
The one thing he did know was that he could not stand there forever. If he walked purposefully, he could get away with a simple nod and greeting to any passing rebels, as if he had places to be. But if they found him standing like a plum in the middle of the corridor, they might stop and talk to him.
He needed a friend. For a moment he thought about Rotter, stuck with the Twenty-Fourth in the summoning room. As far as the rebels knew, he was just another soldier in their squad.
If anyone could help him, it was them. The Twenty-Fourth might be massively outnumbered, but with the element of surprise they might just be able to rescue the nobles and escape. The difficulty would be convincing them.
So he walked toward the atrium, his eyes fixed ahead, his face shrouded by the hood. On either side, he could hear conversations, or the clink of metal, but dared not glance into the open doorways. Twice, groups of rebels walked past, but both times they were too deep in conversation to give him a second look.
To his surprise, he reached the balconied floor that overlooked the atrium unnoticed. But that was where his luck ended, and he realized just how harebrained his plan truly was.
Crawley had taken him to the top floor of the eastern stairwell, and had locked him there too; he knew it best, for it was where the servants’ and teachers’ quarters were housed. To reach the summoning room, Arcturus would need to go down the stairs and cross the atrium. Only, there were a hundred or so men lined up against the walls of each floor, ready to step out of the shadows and ambush anyone who walked through the double doors.
That meant a hundred eyes watching him as he walked there, and a hundred crossbows ready to be pointed if the squad left without permission.
He was at a loss. For now, he unslung his crossbow and pressed his back against the wall, standing beside the other silent rebels. Now he looked like just another of them.
From his vantage point, he could see the summoning room door. There were two guards posted outside, their spears crossed in front of it. There was no way he was getting in there, not without being challenged. So he would need to think of another plan.
It was at that moment that he saw him. Ulfr the dwarf, stumbling out of the dining hall at the end of the atrium and heading toward the stairs. He clutched a large tray in his hands, and there were covered dishes piled so high that the dwarf could barely see over the top.
Arcturus waited, hoping against hope that the dwarf would come to his aid. He could smell the food without his new smelling abilities. Bacon and eggs.
The smell grew stronger, and finally he saw Ulfr stomp up the stairs onto his floor, and heard dwarvish curses muttered through his beard.
Arcturus waited until the dwarf walked past, then followed, casually breaking away from his post by the wall and walking after him. He could feel the eyes of the nearby crossbowmen on him then, and it was all he could do to keep going. He had somehow forgotten how to walk normally. How was he supposed to move his arms?
To his relief, he turned down the corridor unchallenged, back the way he had come. Again he walked the gauntlet of open doors, but luckily it was Ulfr who got the attention.
“Is that for me, pipsqueak?” called one rebel. “Let me take some of that load off.”
“It’s for the general, you daft git,” Ulfr growled back.
“Well, bring me another when you’re done with him,” the rebel replied.
But Ulfr had already moved on, his cursing only getting louder. More calls for food followed, but Ulfr ignored them all.
Arcturus blanched at the thought of returning to that area—Crawley and Dorcas might be prowling nearby, and Barcroft and his guards might recognize him too.
His stomach twisted as he stepped by the rebel he had killed, the man still propped up against the wall, his eyes closed, knees drawn up to his chest. Ulfr barely gave the dead rebel a second look, assuming the man was sleeping. It appeared that so had everyone else who had passed by, but Arcturus’s heart still pounded long after they had left the corpse behind.
As he watched Ulfr shuffle down the corridors, he considered how strange the dwarf was. He always treated Arcturus with disdain, and his hatred for humanity seemed to run deep. And yet, he had tried to warn Arcturus when the Twenty-Fourth had come through the door. He had told Crawley to stay away from Arcturus too, and of course he had run to get help when Arcturus was being attacked by the Wendigo.
He was sure Ulfr had a soft spot for him. Better still, he had overheard the dwarf refusing to join the rebels. Perhaps Arcturus could turn him to the right side.
Now they were nearing the provosts’s office, where Barcroft had set up camp. Arcturus stopped, sliding into an empty doorway and watching as Ulfr receded into the gloom. It was not long until he was just a hazy figure—the torches in sconces on the walls here were running on a low flame, and clearly the servants who usually refilled them had other concerns that night.
As Arcturus leaned out, Ulfr continued right past the office. For a moment Arcturus wondered if he had got it wrong—but no, he was sure of it. Groaning, Arcturus scurried after him, his heart pounding in his chest as he passed the ornate doors to Obadiah’s office.
Then Arcturus’s heart stilled. Three large rebels dressed in black cloaks lined the end of the corridor. Ulfr stopped in front of them, and Arcturus was forced to hide in a doorway once more. He concentrated, and the world became louder in his ears. He could hear an endless burble of voices, the opening and closing of doors, and the rasp and jingle of metal. But above all else, the conversation down the corridor won through.
“Stop, dwarf. This area is restricted,” one of the rebels said flatly.
“I’ve brought food,” Ulfr said, and Arcturus could hear the impatience in the dwarf’s voice. “Stand aside.”
“About time, we’re starving,” a second rebel said. “Just leave it here and piss off.”
Arcturus heard Ulfr let out a deep, long-suffering sigh.
“It’s not for you, you idiot,” Ulfr said. “It’s for the prisoners.”
CHAPTER
44
OF COURSE. THERE HAD been too many plates for the general—Ulfr had only said it was for him so the rebels he had been passing wouldn’t steal the food. Arcturus knew he should have felt happy to find out where his friends were being held, but instead he felt a lump of dread weighing down his stomach.
He was going to have to get past those guards somehow. The only good news was that along this part of the corridor, there were no open doors. They had moved from the many small rooms of the servants’ quarters to the larger chambers where the teachers lived. In fact, there were only two doorways between Arcturus and the three men. If he could act quietly enough, there would be no reinforcements.
Ahead, Ulfr had pushed past them, but they had prevented the dwarf from going farther. Lucky for Arcturus, the rebels now had their backs to him.
“Come on,” one of the guards said, grasping Ulfr’s shoulder. “They’re nobles. Let them starve. We’ll take a plate each; they can share the rest.”
It was going to have to be now. Arcturus’s breath came thick and fast as he unslung his crossbow. Sacharissa battered his consciousness, eager to help, but if Arcturus summoned her, the flash of light from the summoning would alert the guards to his presence.
“Let me go,”
Ulfr said.
Arcturus walked steadily toward the guards, doing his best to keep his footsteps silent. He was shrouded in darkness, but there were torches on either side of the rebels, and with every pace he knew he became easier to see.
“Three plates,” the central guard said, unperturbed by Ulfr’s silence.
“Barcroft said the hostages are to be well looked after,” Ulfr snapped. “Get your greasy paw off me before I cut it off.”
“Looks like the little half man has some balls,” the guard on the left laughed.
“We’re not asking anymore,” growled the central guard. “Leave it, or we’ll take it from—”
“Hey!” the guard on the right shouted, spinning around.
Arcturus cursed inwardly. He did not know what sound he had made to alert them, but now he stood a stone’s throw away, his crossbow dangling from his hand. Luckily, it had not been pointing at them, so he did not appear to be an immediate threat.
“Um … I’m here to relieve you,” Arcturus said, his voice weak with fear.
The rebels peered at him skeptically, the surrounding gloom making Arcturus no more than a shadowy figure.
“Just you?” the central man asked, and Arcturus’s mind went blank.
The speaker was the largest of the three, and he carried a sword, while the others carried long, black-wood cudgels. The man to his left was tall and slender, and the one on the right wide and stocky, but all were well-muscled men and carried themselves with authority. They were the kind of thugs that Arcturus would have avoided if he saw them on the street, for their faces were marred by broken noses and scars.
“He asked you a question,” snarled the thin rebel.
Arcturus took a step back, falling deeper into the shadows. The element of surprise was gone, and with every passing moment they became more and more alert. Ulfr stood behind them, forgotten.
“I … they’re coming,” Arcturus said, looking at a doorway on his right as if it might offer some escape route. “I think they’re in here.”
He stepped into the doorway and turned the handle, only to find it locked.