9. Saige #2
“The Black Flame,” I splutter, unable to get my feet back underneath me, unable to stand as waves of shock wash over me.
A war hero. That’s who he is. The legend from the Reckoning.
The Azkari general who fought the Silver-Tongued Deceiver in the final battle, the warrior who ended the fucking war—and right now, his power is threatening to swallow the world—
“Archer.” I shout his name through the fiery vortex. “Archer!”
But he doesn’t hear me. From the rage etched across his face and the force of the fire encircling us, he’s lost to the magic coursing through his veins.
I don’t know what comes over me, but my feet are moving beneath me, the fire somehow dancing around me without burning.
I reach for him, my hand closing around his wrist—
An image bursts to life before me, shimmering as its focus sharpens, like a road beneath too much heat, transforming into another time, another place—
I watch from the sidelines of a fighting pit, a sunken mud-soaked floor in the center of a foul dungeon. Prisoners are forced to their knees, shackled together, some of them clutching raw skin at their necks. There are more than I can count, all in various stages of consciousness… all but one.
Chained and freshly lashed, hair matted with blood, a wild animal brawls among monsters and men. Thick manacles bind his wrists and ankles, and yet he fights against all those who hold him, brutal, efficient and ferocious.
“You will see my mark upon you before the day is done,” a voice booms from the mirrors surrounding the arena.
With a warrior’s cry, Archer throws his head back, breaking the nose of one of the guards behind him, blood spurting between muffled cries.
He dives away from the slicing sword of another, rolling across the dirt and springing to his feet, looping the link of his manacles around a monster’s throat and squeezing, choking the life from its windpipe.
“Bring him to heel!” someone shouts, the sound echoing through the cavernous dungeons.
Guards and monsters lunge for him, piling on top, clubbing him with the hilts of their swords, unsheathing their blades to spill more blood.
The Azkari struggles beneath their blows, while the prisoners conscious enough to look on, flinch with every strike, tears carving through the grime on their faces.
Metal scraping against metal sounds, and I look to see a large iron poker being drawn from a pit of flames. The end is red-hot, and in the glow of heat, I see the shape of the branding head.
An eye.
Malevron’s mark.
A monster carries the sizzling iron towards the Azkari, who has been forced to his knees, covered in blood. It takes six creatures to hold him down, another to angle his head to the side, baring his tanned neck corded with sinew.
Still, he fights; thrashing against their vise-like grips, with no heed for the blades pressed at his throat. He fights until the very last moment, when the blazing metal is pressed to his skin, where the mark is forever seared—
I’m thrown back. Swearing under my breath, I scramble across the forest floor, staggering as I find my bearings.
I was in his head. In his memories. And it was a horrific place.
If that’s where his mind went, then I need to pull him out.
I’m no warrior, but I grab the first thing I lay my hands on and with all the strength I can muster and I fling it right into the surging fire.
Through the roar of blaze, I hear a grunt.
The flames vanish.
Faint ribbons of smoke drift in their wake as Archer looks from me to my satchel and the tome that escaped it on the ground. “Did you just throw a book at my head?”
I stare unblinking at the warrior before me, my chest rising and falling as I pant, trying to force the air down into my lungs.
The absurdity of it all hits me and suddenly I’m laughing, I’m laughing so hard there are tears streaming down my face.
Clearly, the events from the last few days have gotten to me.
“That’s both times I’ve met you my instinct has been to launch something at that scowl of yours,” I wheeze as I stagger to my feet. “That might be saying something about you, General. You make quite the impression.”
An emotion I can’t pinpoint flickers across his face before that very scowl slides back into place. “So I’ve been told,” he grunts, beating the layer of ash from his clothes.
Another wave of guilt hits me. Here I am laughing and unharmed, while who knows what is happening to my friends.
All at once, my skin crawls with the need to save them—like insects beneath the surface that I can’t scratch away.
It feels as though there’s a hook lodged in my sternum, pulling tighter with every breath, and the only thing that will release it is seeing Raven and Yevna’s faces.
I need to keep it together. For them. As the air clears, I inhale the earthy scent of the forest and scan the area, noting the incline of the forest and the cool temperature. We’re at the foot of a mountain.
Archer digs through the nearby underbrush, fastening a sword belt around his waist as though he was here yesterday.
“How did you know that was there?”
“I put it here.”
I frown. “When?”
He sighs heavily. “During the war. I stashed coin and weapons all over the realm in case I was captured.” The general hits me with a hard, challenging stare. “Anything else?”
“I’m so glad you asked.” I beam at him. “What did you say to Rook and Cahir before we escaped? I didn’t recognize the language.”
“I’m not telling you that.”
“Fine. How about… How did you get us out of the prison?”
Archer does not look amused. “Weavewalking.”
“Which is?” I press.
He clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Some of the more powerful Azkari can travel along the threads of the Weave that lead back to their house of origin. We can use it to cross great distances.”
“You couldn’t use it to break free before though? And what so-called house is this?” I scan the forest, frowning.
“This ordeal is going to take ten times as long if you ask this many questions,” he growls.
I wait and am met with more cold silence. If he wants to assume I’m some naive mortal girl peppering him with unnecessary questions, I’ll let him. It’s always better to be underestimated.
“Do you think he can trace you? Through the…” I forge on, motioning to the brand on his neck. The last thing I want is to rescue Raven and Yevna only to lead a Azkari warlord right to them.
“No.”
“Glad we cleared that up...” I say with faux cheerfulness, and I’m rewarded with a muscle flickering in his jaw.
Archer holds my stare for a moment, considering me. I feel strangely self-conscious beneath his gaze. “Do you know where your friends are being held?”
Willing myself not to flush, I nod. “Thorne—the man who has taken them—has a compound in Hanniel. He’ll be holding them there. But if we’re on the outskirts of some unknown Azkari territory and we have no horses, no—”
“We don’t need horses.” He strides across the forest floor, motioning to a massive twin sycamore tree, its twisting trunks creating an empty archway beneath. “Ready?”
“You want us to walk from here to Hanniel?”
His jaw flexes again, impatience lacing his one-word answer as he motions to something I cannot see. “Portals.”