Chapter 16 #2
“Easiest I’ve ever made.”
My people are rotting in cages ten feet away, and to these men it’s nothing more than easy money. I wonder if they’ll still think it was worth it when they’re choking on their own blood.
They pass the flask again, then one of them stands, stretches and says something about taking a piss.
He walks toward the edge of the firelight, his back to the cages, moving slowly, and whistling beneath his breath.
When he reaches the end of the row and turns the corner, moving out of sight of his partner and away from the protection of the ward surrounding the cages, that’s when I move.
He’s fumbling with the front of his pants when I reach him, and he doesn’t hear me coming over the sound of his own piss hitting the ground. My hand clamps over his mouth and my other arm wraps around his throat.
He tries to shout, but my pressure on his throat turns it into a gurgle. I shift my weight as he attempts to twist free, letting his struggles work against him, and use his own momentum to drive him further off balance.
He’s strong for a human. Well-fed, well-trained, but young by my standards. Strength means nothing without leverage, and I have all the leverage here. His pulse hammers beneath my fingers, his chest heaves under my arm, his body bucks and twists.
I count.
Five … Ten … Fifteen.
His struggles weaken, hands falling away from my arm. I hold the pressure for another ten heartbeats, until he’s limp. Then I lower him to the ground.
He’s still breathing … barely. His eyes are half-open, rolled back in his head. I crouch beside him and take his sword.
The weight of it feels right in my hand. It’s not anything like my blades. It’s plain, unadorned steel. A human weapon made for human hands, but it sits comfortably in my grip, and the balance is good enough for what I need.
I put the edge against the guard’s throat. My hand tightens on the hilt. The rage I’ve held leashed for so long strains against its bonds, hot and eager. I think of the cages, the collars, the bodies I saw through Alleria’s eyes.
I consider waking the guard up, allowing him to see my face and understand what’s about to happen to him. I want to watch the fear bloom in his eyes when he sees what stands over him.
But there’s no time for that. Not yet.
I draw the blade across his throat. The skin parts easily, blood welling dark and hot. His body jerks. I hold him down until all movement stops, his blood spilling over my fingers.
The rage doesn’t quiet with the kill. If anything, it burns hotter, fed by this first taste of what I’ve been denied.
I want more. I want all of them—every guard, every patron, every human who ever walked past those cages.
But discipline holds. There will be time for that. I need to focus on my people tonight.
I wipe the blade on his shirt, and take the knife from its sheath, tucking it into my belt. Then I move toward the brazier, keeping low. The other guard is humming to himself, his finger tapping against his thigh in time with the rhythm.
Stepping out of the darkness, I drive my fist into his throat. The impact bruises his windpipe, and he goes down, making wet, strangled sounds. His hands fly to his neck, clawing at the damage as he tries to drag air through a passage that is swelling shut.
While he’s still choking, I grab his arm and wrench it behind his back until the shoulder joint pops free of the socket.
His body convulses, his mouth opening and closing around the pain, but the only sound that escapes is a thin, whistling gasp.
I twist the arm higher, and the tendons tear.
He goes slack beneath me, all the fight draining out of him at once.
I use his hair to drag him up to his knees.
“The wardstone.” I keep my voice low. “Where is it?”
His eyes roll toward me, glassy with pain and fear, and for a moment I think he’s too far gone to understand. Then he lifts his uninjured arm and points toward the far corner of the cage yard.
I drag him across to it, ignoring the way he whimpers and begs to be released. At the edge of my attention, the fae in the cages stir, but they stay quiet. I’m not entirely certain they know what’s happening or if they even recognize me, and I don’t have time right now to make it clear to them.
The stone is waist-high, half-buried in the ground, and I waste no time once I reach it.
Shoving the guard to the ground, I drop down, pressing my knee against his throat, and draw the knife from my belt.
He tries to pull away when I take his wrist, but he doesn’t have the strength, and the blade slices across his palm.
My own palm opens just as easily, and I press our hands together, letting the blood mingle, before I press them both to the stone.
The magic resists, pushing back against the blood.
My eyes narrow, power surging through my fingertip and forcing our blood into the weave of the spell.
The humming rises in pitch, becoming a whine that starts in our joined hands and spreads outward, running through blood and bone and sinew.
The magic screams, a soundless cry that exists only in the place where power meets power.
I push harder still.
The hum of the ward stutters, falters … then dies.
The guard slumps against me. He doesn’t have long. The swelling will be cutting off his air supply and there’s nothing to be done about that. But his blood is still flowing, and until he draws his last breath, that’s all I need.
I look across the row of cages. The guard’s blood will only last so long, and every moment I spend here adds to the risk of being caught. I have to choose the one who will be the most useful right now.
I shove him forward, and drag him to Therin’s cage.
He’s already standing at the bars. The warding is still there, but weaker now. To break it completely, I’d need to find the other ward stone, but one will be enough for what I need to do.
“Come closer.” My words are little more than breath in the air, but Therin hears me.
He steps closer to the bars. I haul the guard to his feet, and press his hand to Therin’s collar.
“Brace.”
Therin throws his head back, squaring his shoulders. The iron groans, fighting against what I’m doing to it. Therin’s jaw clenches, his hands tightening on the bars. The tendons stand out in his neck as the magic heats the collar.
Then it cracks.
Pieces of iron fall away, clattering against the bars before dropping to the floor of the cage. Therin staggers back, eyes wide, hand flying to his throat. His fingers probe the skin around the wounds left there.
Then he looks at me. His eyes are wet.
I’ve seen Therin kill a thousand men without flinching. I’ve seen him laugh in the middle of battle, blood on his face, and a blade in each hand. I’ve seen him take wounds that would drop a lesser warrior and keep fighting until his enemies were nothing more than meat at his feet.
I’ve never seen him weep.
“Luchairn Vaedráfn.” His voice breaks on my name. He reaches through the bars and grips my forearm. “You came back for us.”
I grip his arm in return. His skin is thin over bone, wasted by years of captivity, but his grip is still strong.
“Did you doubt me?”
“Never.” He shakes his head, a rough laugh escaping him. “When they said the female was missing, I knew … I knew you would return.”
We were caged twenty feet apart. Close enough to see each other, far enough that we couldn’t speak without the guards hearing. Some nights I’d catch his eyes through the bars, and we’d hold each other’s gaze until dawn. Saying nothing while saying everything.
Therin was my second in command before the Sealing. My sword-brother. The one who stood at my back and fought beside me until we were both drenched in blood and surrounded by bodies.
“Can you fight?”
He releases my arm, and steps back. The tears are gone now, and what replaces them is something I recognize. That hot, eager thing that lives inside me, too. His smile is cold. “Try and stop me.”
I open the cage door, and he steps out. For a heartbeat, he stands there, swaying slightly. Then he breathes deep, his chest expanding, and closes his eyes, tipping his face up toward the moon.
When he opens them again, something has shifted. The warrior I remember glints in his eyes. Older, thinner, scarred in ways that won’t show on his skin. But still Therin. Still one of mine.
“Vel next. Then Serath.”
I nudge the crumpled guard with one booted foot. “He won’t last much longer. We may be able to free Vel using him, but we will need a replacement.”
Therin’s smile widens, showing teeth.
“Then let us do what we do best.”