Chapter 37 #2
I sink the crow, the wolf, and then Haldren’s rabbit. Arrows spit from the walls. “Okay, so maybe crow, wolf, stag?” Trying it, I’m surprised that it works. How could Danu be third when worshipping her in Avedor is outlawed now?
“Try the boar next!” Finnian suggests, bouncing on his heels in excitement.
I sink Rhea’s boar, then wait. No arrows. I push on Haldren’s rabbit and Aedros’ ram. Something clicks.
Styr’s statue sinks into the ground first, then the others follow. The back of Styr’s alcove slides with the grating sound of stone on stone, revealing a dark entrance. I’m the first to approach it and peer into the tunnel. It’s tight and curves downward, making us blind to whatever is ahead.
“This doesn’t bode well for an ambush,” I tell the others.
“Then let me lead,” Desmond says, already drawing his dagger.
I shake my head. “You don’t always have to throw yourself to the front. The rest of us can take care of ourselves. Except for Finnian, maybe. No offense.”
Finnian grins. He procures his sewing needle, the meager defense that it is. “None taken.”
“While I agree with your sentiment,” Auri says as she gathers the arrows, “let Desmond lead this time. He has advantages that we. . . don’t.”
No one adds what that advantage is. Not even Desmond himself. He lights a torch from his pack and steps into the tunnel, ducking a little to fit.
“Wait.” I dig into my enchanted pack for the rocks I tested it with. Then I make a line across the entrance. “To make sure we have a way out,” I explain. If the door tries to close behind us, the rocks will stop it.
Desmond nods in appreciation, then descends.
I take a deep breath as I follow. Stale air greets me, growing colder with every step. The familiar, earthy smell of ancient stone comforts me in a way I didn’t expect. This is the aroma of tomb raiding. This is how it all begins.
Spiderwebs drape from the stone steps, sticking to the soles of my boots. Tiny spiders skitter up our bodies with their spindly, hairless legs. Their black abdomens are sleek, each boasting a bright teal spot that betrays the danger we’re already facing: the spiders are venomous.
I swallow back a nervous cry. “If they’re on your bare skin, don’t smash them. At this size they aren’t strong enough to bite without outside pressure,” I warn the others.
Finnian shrieks. So much for the element of surprise with whoever awaits us below.
“Are they edible?” Min asks, watching one crawl across her palm like a cat entranced by prey.
“I wouldn’t try it.”
Desmond grabs a spider on my shoulder. He crushes it between his gloved fingers, then flicks a few off of himself with nothing more than an annoyed grimace. “Like Cyn said, they’re no threat to us if you act rationally.” He raises a pointed brow at Finnian.
“You try acting rational, trapped in a tiny corridor with one of your worst fears,” he argues.
Something tickles the back of my neck. Goosebumps pebble on my skin. I stiffen, my pulse quickening to a vicious drumbeat in my ears.
“Do not move,” Min says. Something sharp brushes against my skin, then she pulls away. The spider sits in the crook of her clawed thumb. She crushes it with another claw into a little clump of legs and black goop.
Gods, I’ve never felt so glad that I’m not doing this raid alone. “Thank you,” I tell her.
She nods in acknowledgement, and we continue our descent.
Desmond and I reach the forecourt. It’s larger than any I’ve been in before. His torchlight barely reaches the walls. There are signs of past visitors—footprints in the dust, abandoned supplies, and a shattered lantern.
He trades his dagger for his sword, eyeing the slabs of stone leaned against the walls. They were once tables for embalming bodies, but raiders must’ve moved them to make room for their camp. None of them made it past the chasm. A cold shiver slides down my spine.
“I feel more claustrophobic than the time I hid in a cupboard for twelve hours,” Finnian calls out. “The mice were the worst part. You don’t see any mice here, do you?”
Min licks her lips as she descends the last step. Auri and Finnian follow behind her, and Auri notches an arrow.
Then the slabs slam forward, and three armored fomorians step out from the clouds of dust.
Daggers fly. Arrows streak.
Desmond throws the torch aside and surges toward the closest fomorian. Their swords clash. I untether the torch before it hits the ground, but it’s not bright enough to illuminate the whole room. Any position leaves an ally shrouded in darkness.
A fomorian hefts his axe. I fling my knife into the eye slit of his helmet, then wince as he screams and falls to his knees.
I pull my knife back, then yank off his helmet. The deep gash in his right eye seeps glassy fluid and silver blood, incurable by all but the most powerful healers. He covers his face with his hand as he shudders from the agonizing pain.
It’s a gruesome sight that stuns me for one too many seconds.
The fomorian draws a double-bladed knife from his hip sheath.
In less than a blink, it’s an inch from my face, my magic fighting against his grip.
If Desmond hadn’t drilled quick reflexes into me during training, the fomorian would’ve carved a gash through my cheek.
I thrust the knife back at him. It lodges in his throat. Blood spurts around the blade, speckling my face. A metallic drop lands on my lips, hot and coppery. Revulsion ripples through me at the realization of what I’ve just done.
A man is dying by my hands. I’ve killed him.