Chapter Forty-Nine
The harbor was in chaos, a battle stretching from the water to the shore.
Moira’s ships had engaged Everett’s, cannons firing and sailors fighting on all decks.
At the docks, uniformed soldiers clashed against Varro’s men.
Dead and injured warriors scattered around the beach, and Silas was thankful to see very few blue or green uniforms among them.
He scanned the docks, searching for Emmaline, but there were too many people, too much noise and movement, for him to find her among the crowd. “Em!” he shouted, his voice barely rising above the cannon fire and clash of steel.
“Sir,” Langley panted as he caught up. “There are a lot of places you shouldn’t be right now, but this is probably the worst.” He tried to grab Silas’ arm, to physically pull him back to safety.
Silas wrenched out of his grip, using what he’d learned from Langley’s own general to naturally pinpoint the weak point of the fist. “I have to find Emmaline!”
“One of us can search for her!” Langley insisted.
What am I supposed to say? That a witch is magically compelling me to protect her daughter? Silas simply ignored Langley and continued scanning the beach and waters. A shrill scream of distress rose above the other noise, and Silas whipped his head toward the sound.
There, a flash of auburn hair, firelight illuminating her pale dress. She was high above the crowd, hefted onto an enormous man’s broad shoulders. She struggled and kicked, but she was no match for her opponent.
“Emmaline!” Silas shouted, slipping into the crowd. A sword flashed to his right, and he raised his hand instinctively to uselessly block, only for another sword to intercept it.
Langley snarled and kicked his opponent away before attacking with a series of quick jabs and slashes Silas could barely follow. “At least—”t—slash—“grab”—clang—“a fucking weapon!”
I don’t have time to—Silas almost tripped right over a prone body. The outstretched arm still had a shield strapped to it. “Sorry,” he muttered as he yanked it off. It was better than nothing and would hopefully keep him alive long enough to save Em.
He gripped the shield in one hand as he pushed through the crowd, using it to shove people out of his way.
Emmaline continued yelling the whole time, her voice guiding Silas through the chaos. Her shouting was as much anger as fear as she hurled abuse at her captor. None of it stopped the man from reaching the ramp and carrying her onto a ship.
The beat of Silas’ racing heart drowned out the rest of the noise. If Em gets on that ship, I’ll never see her again. I’ll have failed Adelaide.
Hardly paying attention to the fight, he bashed his shield against someone’s head, knocking them away from him, and tore through the crowd. He could no longer see Emmaline, but the ship itself hadn’t left the dock yet.
Silas charged up the ramp, shoving a sailor out of his way. There was a loud splash as they fell into the water.
“Emmaline!” he shouted, his throat raw from desperation. As he ran onto the deck, he almost plowed straight into the huge figure who had carried Emmaline away.
The man was as tall as Archer with even broader shoulders and bulging muscles. A sword hung at his side, but he ignored it as he reached out for Silas, his massive hands weapon enough.
Silas backed up until his foot hit the ramp again.
It rattled underneath him, not a steady enough support for a fight.
“Listen,” he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.
“Emmaline is the Witch’s daughter. If you try to take her, you’ll have to deal with the Witch next. I’m trying to save you that trouble.”
The man cracked his neck and said, “Captain’s looking for the Witch too.” Then he lunged at Silas.
Silas tried to ward him off with his shield, but the man grabbed it with both hands.
Knowing it was his only defense, Silas clutched tighter, trying to hold onto it.
When the man yanked it away, pain shot up Silas’ arm and his fingers fell open, releasing the shield.
The man stumbled backwards from the sudden release, the shield still clutched in his meaty hands.
“Braz, stop playing with him. Either kill him or dump him overboard,” someone called across the deck.
Braz chucked the shield into the water and lunged for Silas again.
He dove to the side, making sure to stay on the ship.
Braz’s momentum carried him forward onto the already unsteady ramp.
Knocked around one too many times, the simple board slid away from the ship, and both ramp and man dropped straight down into the water.
Silas blinked at the empty space where his opponent had been. That actually worked? Then he pushed himself to his feet and scrambled across the deck, searching for Emmaline. He finally spotted her about to be dragged below deck by another pirate.
Bronze and silver hair framed a cruel face, angry lines sculpting every feature. This could only be one man: Everett Shaw, Emmaline’s father. She struggled against him, but no matter how she fought, she couldn’t break free of his hold. “Enough,” he snarled before backhanding her.
Emmaline went limp in his arms, her head lolling to the side.
Her dazed hazel eyes found Silas’ and her expression hardened with resolve.
The air crackled around her. For a second, she looked exactly like her mother calling forth a storm.
The shadows of thorny vines coalesced in the air, surrounding her in intangible briars.
One of the vines lashed out at Everett, quick as a whip.
Dozens of tiny, bloody cuts opened along his face and arms. He shouted in pain and dropped Emmaline, revealing the bloody mess her shield had made of his hands.
The thorns had chewed him up, but they hadn’t quite spit him out yet, their shadows still writhing around him, drawing more blood.
Emmaline pushed herself to her feet. Her voice lashed out at her father, as sharp as her thorns. “I won’t let you hurt anyone else.”
“What she said,” Echo added. They were bloodied and bruised, their underclothes filthy and hanging off their shoulders. They held their sword loosely at their side, its blade coated in blood. They grabbed Emmaline’s hand and tugged her back toward the ship’s rail.
“The ramp fell off,” Silas explained when they reached him.
“So jump!” Echo yelled before tossing themselves and Emmaline over the edge.
“Emmaline!” Everett shouted, his voice full of rage and anguish. But she and Echo had already jumped. He looked around wildly for a moment before his attention landed on Silas. “You won’t take her from me,” he growled. “Not this time.” He stomped toward Silas, his gait unsteady and uneven.
Since Emmaline was already safe, Silas didn’t want to engage in another fight. He turned to escape but stumbled to a stop at the edge. In his distraction, he hadn’t realized that the ship had pulled away from shore, and he now faced the water instead of the dock.
The churning water below was better than the angry captain at his back. Just as Silas jumped off, fingertips brushed his shirt. The captain’s hand closed on empty air, and the water closed over Silas’ head.
The water pushed on him from all sides until he couldn’t determine which way was up or down.
Worse than when he’d knocked Echo off the dock.
Worse than when the ice creature had dragged him under.
Another memory flashed in his mind—drowning in blood rather than water.
Back then, the only thing that had helped him resurface was the thought of the people he cared about, of Archer. I refuse to die here without him.
Silas kicked upward and broke the water’s surface, dragging in a desperate breath. He stayed in place for a moment, treading water as the waves bobbed him up and down, then swam toward the dock. He gripped the pillar tight to hold himself up even as his muscles ached in protest.
“Everett, you spineless bastard!”
Silas froze, slowly tilting his head to look up at the dock.
Varro stood above him, jowls trembling as he bellowed in rage.
Silas turned to look out to sea, where various ships were departing with their captain, withdrawing from the fight.
When he turned back around, Varro glared down at him. “You!”
Silas pushed away from the dock, hoping to swim out of Varro’s reach, but the man’s hand closed on the edge of his shirt and tugged him up, out of the water.
“At least he brought you to me,” Varro sneered, shifting his grip to wrap around Silas’ neck. “So I can kill you with my own two hands.”
The bloody trail of footsteps led Penn on a merry chase.
First back to his own home, where he’d hoped to corner Val with no luck.
Then all the way back to the wall. The gate stood open, no guards in sight.
Did Alistair kill them? Pain throbbed in the back of his head, stitches over a wound straining tight.
He pushed the pain aside and hoped they were all right.
The trail tapered off just outside the gate, which meant Valerian had stopped actively bleeding, but also made following him more difficult.
“Where are you,” Penn muttered, searching the dark streets. Most people had already gone to sleep, but a few lights remained on, leaking through the curtains to brighten the night.
Penn turned left, heading deeper into the city.
Only a few feet from the gate, an invisible hand wrapped around his neck and squeezed tight.
He gagged and jerked to a halt, clawing at his own neck, trying to loosen the chokehold.
At first, his fingers found nothing, until he hooked his thumb through the golden chain—the collar Alistair had given him.
“If you try to leave me, you won’t make it far.”
Penn turned on his heel and tentatively stepped forward. The pressure around his neck eased. Relief poured through him, and he silently thanked Alistair for giving Penn a leash that would lead right back to him.