“I’ll go get them,” he said loudly. “They’re late, as usual.”
“Stay right there,” the stocky rebel snarled.
Arcturus heard footsteps approaching. He was obscured from sight, but within seconds the man would be upon him.
He tried to think, but Sacharissa’s desperation to be released overtook all other thought. With no other cards to play, Arcturus obliged her.
His hands shook as he unraveled the leather mat, and the flash of light as she materialized was near-blinding in the gloom. The demon immediately pressed herself against the door.
“Damned torch won’t light,” Arcturus called out unconvincingly.
“What the bloody hell was that?” the approaching rebel bellowed.
His voice echoed down the passageway, and Arcturus winced with each reverberation.
“To hell with it,” Arcturus muttered, lifting the crossbow.
Heart pounding, he stepped out of the shadow of the doorway, and the stocky rebel squared up to him, a broad silhouette against the torchlit corridor beyond.
“Who—” the rebel began.
Arcturus pulled the trigger, shooting from the hip. It was too close to miss, but too dark to see. He only felt the jar of the recoil against his bicep, and heard the man grunt in pain, words dying unformed in his mouth. Then the axe was pulled over Arcturus’s head and he was slicing down and to the side.
Arcturus heard the gasp, tasted the spray of blood across his face, felt the sick tug and release on his axe as the man collapsed to the ground. His stomach roiled with nausea, and then he was standing alone in the darkness once more.
He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want any of this.
“Roger, what’s happening?” the swordsman called out.
Arcturus knelt and tried to reload, fumbling in the gloom. Bolts clattered to the ground as he tugged one from the quiver, but in the dim light he could not find the slot.
“Get ’im,” the tall rebel yelled, charging.
Arcturus let the crossbow fall to the ground and lifted the axe once more. The approaching rebel was out of the light now, and would be on him in seconds.
“Sacha,” Arcturus breathed. “Now!”
He felt the brush of fur beside him, and winced as the pain of the Canid’s broken ribs flared in his mind. The scratch of claws skittered on the floor, then the outline of the thin man was gone, replaced by a twisting knot of limbs and fur, accompanied by muffled screams of agony.
But there was no time for triumph—beyond, the swordsman was running to help, his sword extended like a spearhead. No time to etch a spell. No time to load a bow.
Arcturus sprinted to meet his charge. Sacharissa was in danger now, and the thought of it turned his blood to fire. He let the anger take over, replacing the guilt and fear and lending strength to his tired limbs.
“I’ll kill you,” Arcturus yelled, enough to turn the swordsman from the tumbling bodies between them. The sword swept high, and Arcturus heard the air thrum with the force of it. It passed inches from his face.
Arcturus riposted with a clumsy swing of his axe, but the blow was parried easily, slapped aside with the flat of the rebel’s blade. Before he could recover the swordsman jabbed, and now Arcturus felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder.
“Hah!” the swordsman laughed.
Arcturus could feel the warm wetness seeping into the cloth of his shoulder, and the arm fell uselessly to his side. The sword whirled, and Arcturus could do little more than jump back, leaving Sacharissa vulnerable, still struggling with the other rebel in the small space between them.
The demon was oblivious, but now Arcturus saw the glint of his opponent’s sword as it was raised above Sacharissa.
“No,” he yelled.
Mana roiled within him, and he blasted wyrdlight in a solid beam of blue light. He winced as the sudden glare blinded him, but in his seared vision, he saw the rebel reeling, clutching his eyes.
He swung his axe again, but the man had fallen toward him, tripping over the struggling combatants beneath them. The wooden haft thudded harmlessly into the swordsman’s shoulder as the blow passed above his head, and then Arcturus was in his own wrestling bout on the floor, the axe clattering free as he grasped at the hilt of the enemy blade.
But the rebel was too strong. Arcturus was forced onto his back, and the man straddled his chest, the weight of him driving the breath in a great gust from Arcturus’s lungs.
“I’m gonna gut you slow-like,” the man rasped, and Arcturus could smell the fetid waft of the man’s breath as he heaved at the sword clutched between them.
It was all Arcturus could do to ease the blade as it pressed vertically against his chest, the tip slicing into the soft underside of his chin.
Spittle sprayed from the man’s lips as he heaved once more. Arcturus craned his neck in desperation, and his arms seized in effort, yet still the blade sank deeper. Fresh blood spurted from the wound, and Arcturus knew he was going to die.
Then the man stiffened. Arcturus moaned with effort and suddenly the sword was his, and he pushed it up toward the man. His effort did little more than graze the rebel’s face, but in that moment the rebel coughed, and Arcturus’s face was sprayed with crimson. It was only then that he saw a second blade glittering above, and he could finally breathe again as the man’s body keeled over.
For a moment he lay there, gulping great gasps of air, ignoring his rescuer. Beside him, he sensed Sacharissa’s triumph as she finished her opponent off with a final, savage bite, and the sudden concern as she processed the terror and desperation from her master. She had been oblivious, too focused on the man beneath her, but now she came, her rough tongue bathing his face as he choked his way back to breathing easy once more.
“You’re a fool,” said a gruff voice.
Ulfr. The dwarf stood above Arcturus, his legs akimbo, hands on his hips. He clutched a long knife, the blade red with blood.
“I had … to try,” Arcturus managed.
“You should have killed them with a lightning spell,” Ulfr grunted, grasping Arcturus’s hand and lifting him to his feet.
Arcturus steadied himself on Sacharissa, his legs wavering like jelly, and Ulfr kneeled, wiping his blade on the dead swordsman’s cloak. He had been too low on mana for more than a few, weak spells, but Arcturus didn’t have the energy to tell him that.
“Thank you,” Arcturus said instead, “for helping me. You didn’t have to do that.”
Ulfr didn’t respond. He simply shook his head and began to drag the swordsman’s corpse down the corridor.
“What do we do now?” Arcturus asked.
“Grab hold of a body, get that mutt to do the same, and follow me,” Ulfr snapped, stopping to blow out the torches on the walls. “If we’re lucky they won’t see the blood.”
The dwarf stopped to grab his tray and balanced it on the man’s crimson-soaked belly. Then he continued on, grunting with effort.
Arcturus sent Sacharissa back to the stocky man he had killed with the crossbow, and tried not to look at the bloodied remains of the rebel beneath him. He could see now that the man had worn chain mail beneath his cloak. It was not a pretty sight.
He looked up the corridor, where Ulfr had already disappeared into impenetrable darkness.
“Hellfire,” Arcturus breathed. “That was close.”
And followed him.
CHAPTER
45
IT FELT LIKE AN age dragging the body through pitch black, and as Arcturus focused, he could still hear the conversations of the men on the floors beneath them. They swirled around him like the whispers of dead men, but he heard no alarm in them, even if the sound itself sent shivers up his spine.
Then there was a stark voice among the crowd, chiming as an off-key note in the conversation’s melody. A bellow of pain, like a boar being speared on a hunt. Arcturus stopped, but it was gone as soon as it came, and he was forced to shuffle on once more.
He had never felt in more dang
er. It was only the thin light of the moon in the near distance that drove him on, for without it he might have stopped and buried his face in Sacharissa’s fur.
With every heartbeat, the wound in his neck throbbed with pain, and he could feel the blood that had pooled on his chest congealing. He only wished he had enough mana to heal it, but he had used the last of it in that final blast of wyrdlight.
Finally, he reached a small pool of light, where Ulfr had already levered open a dust-covered window.
“Help me lift him,” Ulfr said, taking the swordsman’s corpse under the arms and heaving its back onto the window. Arcturus took the legs, then the body was gone. It took a long time for Arcturus to hear the distant splash.
The food tray and other bodies followed, and Arcturus felt the blood, sticky on his hands. He felt sick once more—he had no stomach for this kind of killing.
“I took the keys from the big one,” Ulfr said, peering into the gloom they had come from. He held them out and shook them impatiently.
Arcturus took the keys, unsure what Ulfr expected of him. They had likely passed several doors in the darkness, but there was no way of telling which one held his friends.
“Why are you helping me?” Arcturus asked, delaying the task at hand. “Surely you hate the nobles as much as anyone.”
“Rich humans, poor humans, you’re all the same,” Ulfr muttered, avoiding Arcturus’s eyes.
Sacharissa whined, sensing Arcturus’s fear, and he comforted her with a ruffle of her mane.
“So what’s in it for you?” Arcturus pressed.
“If the rebels take power, they won’t treat the dwarves any better.” Ulfr sighed, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. “We refused to help them.”
“Why?” Arcturus asked.
“We’ve tried to overthrow the nobles many times, and never won,” Ulfr replied. “We didn’t think they had a chance. Of course, we didn’t know the rebels would capture their children. They have a slim hope now, but it’s too late for us to join them.”
He stopped for a moment, and the dwarf’s brow furrowed, as if he were working something out.
“But if a dwarf saves King Alfric’s son, the rebels lose,” he whispered, so quietly that Arcturus had to strain to hear it. “Then he would owe us. Give us more rights. Make us equals.”
Ulfr opened his eyes and Arcturus thought he saw the briefest hint of a smile through the dwarf’s beard.
“Can you help me get them out of here?” Arcturus asked.
“I can try,” Ulfr said. “But it’s not going to be easy. Come on.”
The dwarf hurried back down the passageway, and Arcturus followed. Within moments they were in darkness once more, but soon Arcturus grunted with pain as he ran into Ulfr’s back.
“Here,” the dwarf said, guiding Arcturus’s hand to the keyhole. “This is where I brought their food yesterday.”
Arcturus struggled with the keys. There were three of them on a loop, and he blindly fumbled one into the slot. It rattled in the lock but would not turn.
“Try the next,” Ulfr whispered.
On the other side, Arcturus heard the low murmur of voices, and his heart leaped at the thought of rescuing his friends. The next key turned, and suddenly the world was bright again as he fell into the room.
He looked up, a grin on his face, but it was wiped away as swiftly as it appeared. Because in front of him, spread in a row, a trio of crossbowmen stared at him down the shafts of their quarrels.
“I’m here to relieve you,” Arcturus said weakly, even as he lifted his bloodied hands, and Sacharissa growled from behind him.
“Don’t. Move,” one of the rebels growled through gritted teeth.
“If his fingers so much as twitch … shoot him,” another snapped. He appeared to be the leader, for his voice commanded some authority, and he wore finer clothes than the others.
Beyond the guards, Arcturus could see the trussed-up bodies of his friends, and hear their muffled moans as they tried to speak through tight gags. Arcturus only glanced at them, for he could not tear his eyes away from the sharp points aimed at his chest.
He heard the shuffle of footsteps behind him, though he dared not turn his head to look. Ulfr had entered the room, but the dwarf did not have his hands up. Instead, he stumbled to the side and fell.
“Thank you,” Ulfr said, getting to his knees and shuffling away. “The bastard forced me to bring him here.”
The men ignored him, their crossbows firmly pointed at Arcturus. He was the threat—a single spell from him could take the three of them out. Little did they know, Arcturus had no mana left to use.
“Listen, I can explain,” Arcturus began.
“Save it,” the leader said. “We know who you are. You’re the common summoner. The bastard.”
“We should kill him where he stands,” hissed one of his companions. “He’s a traitor to the cause.”
“Not before Crawley gives the go-ahead,” the leader said.
“To hell with Crawley,” the other rebel snarled. “I’m not hanging around here to get blasted into ash while we wait for permission.”
The leader remained silent, but Arcturus knew the man was calculating the odds. He could almost hear the strings creaking on the crossbows, ready to whip steel-tipped death into his body.
Behind, Sacharissa’s growling intensified, and Arcturus sensed that she was crouched in shadow beyond the door. Even an order from Arcturus would not quell the noise. Her message was clear. Kill Arcturus and she would tear the rebels apart.
The throbbing of his neck wound grew with the quickening of his pulse. In the corner of his eye, he could see Ulfr had reached the cart where Edmund remained unconscious. Gelert lay prone beside the boy, and a slim shred of hope fluttered as Arcturus watched the dwarf draw his knife and begin sawing silently at the demon’s bonds, all out of sight of the three guards.
Still, the crossbowmen would fill him full of bolts before either Sacharissa or Gelert got to them, especially now that both were injured. Ulfr might have the chance to help his friends escape, but either way, Arcturus would be dead. He did not see an outcome that had a happy ending.
His only chance was that they missed, but that was not likely at such close range. So he would have to dive aside at the right moment and hope for the best.
“I’ll take the boy; you take the demon,” the leader growled.
And fired.
Arcturus tumbled backward. Saw the wooden shaft halfway protruding from his stomach, felt the numbness of shock in his mind and the sudden piercing pain in his center.
Sacharissa. He held her still, though it took every ounce of control he could muster, as his body straddled hers in the confusion of the sudden attack.
The crossbows thrummed, one clattering against the wall, another thudding through his shoulder and pinning him to his beloved demon’s side. She whimpered, but obeyed his command not to attack, even as he lay dying in the shadow of the doorway, the blood pooling in his lap while he grasped the shaft with his hands.
The rebels stared at Arcturus, as if they could not believe what they had done. To his left, Arcturus could make out Gelert, scrambling across the floor, but Ulfr had not had time to free the Canid of his bonds.
“Run,” Arcturus choked, and his consciousness wrenched as Sacharissa was forced to turn tail and disappear into the gloom of the corridors. With any luck, he would die soon and she would give in to the ether’s call, fading back into her world before the rebels could hunt her down and kill her.
He sensed her anguish, but he felt a calm fall over him that stiffened his resolve. They could do no more to him now. He had done his duty.
“Load!” screamed the leader, his hands scrabbling to place another crossbow bolt in its firing slot. The remaining rebels had drawn their swords and advanced on Gelert as the demon snapped and snarled, wriggling as his bonds restricted him to dragging himself forward with a single claw. Within moments they would chop him to pieces.
Blue, bright as a flash of lightning, streaked across Arcturus’s vision. The leader, his crossbow half-raised, seemed to shudder, then erupted in a sizzling wreath of flashing, jagged energy. Beside him, the other two rebels twitched and jerked on the floor, consumed by the same brilliant light. Their bodies smoked, and the room filled with the acrid stench of cooking hair and flesh.
Even as the edges of his vision darkened, Arcturus could see the source of the spell, sitting up in his cart, face twisted in a snarl of anger.
Edmund had awakened.
CHAPTER
46
HE HEARD THE WEEPING first. Deep, sniffling sobs and wails, and the sound of hushed shushing from the others.
“He’s dead,” Zacharias’s voice said. “Just leave him—we need to bar the doors.”
“We’re not giving up on him,” Elaine cried, and Arcturus could feel the cool, dainty hands that clasped his own, and the cold of the cobblestones against the bare skin of his back.
He opened his eyes. Elaine’s and Alice’s faces hovered above him, creased with concern.
“He’s alive!” Elaine gasped, her pale face streaked with tears.
She hugged him close, and Arcturus braced himself for the pain from his stomach. But there was none, nor any from the wounds on his neck.
“What happened?” Arcturus asked. His voice came out in no more than a whisper. Elaine released him, and he half sat up. Even that effort was a struggle, so Alice helped him with a gentle arm. He felt as weak as a newborn lamb.
“Ulfr cut Edmund’s hands free,” Alice answered, smiling through glistening eyes. “He was faking unconsciousness, waiting for his moment.”
“Lucky,” Arcturus managed.
The room was bright from the light of a half-dozen torches. Josephine was sitting in the corner of the room, her knees clutched to her chest, and Zacharias was pacing in front of her, his eyes wild with panic.
Prince Harold and Edmund stood beside Arcturus, though Edmund looked as weak as Arcturus felt; his face was even paler than usual and his eyes were deeply ringed with dark circles.
“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you,” Alice said, her voice cracking with emotion. “You almost died for us. I’ll never doubt you again.”