17. Only a Couple of Wrong Turns
Only a Couple of Wrong Turns
The next day felt like falling from a cliff. Not the moment your feet leave the ground, or even the deadly impact, but the dreadful in-between. Suspended in midair, caught between breaths, with nothing to do but watch the ground approach and brace for the inevitable.
Because contrary to what I believed, we were not sold as slaves that day.
Instead, we walked. From sunrise to sunset.
Step after step through the desert, keeping time with their humming.
Their haunting melody accompanied our footsteps like a funeral dirge.
The sun beat down mercilessly while the band of slave traders kept their eyes fixed on us, always just steps behind, pushing us along, while my anxiety spiraled.
Griffon was slowly improving. His color had returned somewhat, and his steps grew steadier with each passing hour.
We’d only had bread to eat, but at least they gave us plenty of water.
We were both deep in our own thoughts throughout the day, barely exchanging a word.
That night, Griffon still draped his arm around me to offer warmth, but he felt a million kilometers away.
By midmorning the next day, the sprawling city of Lucidus appeared on the horizon. Impending doom grew closer with each step.
Rising from the arid, sandy landscape as we approached, the weathered yellow sandstone walls of the city loomed above us.
Ruhks, massive birds of prey, perched on the corner bastions and gate towers with their sharp talons gripping the parapets.
Their metallic brown and gray plumage shimmered in the scorching sun.
With keen eyes, they watched every movement.
With their saddles secured to their mantles, they were ready for their riders to mount and defend the city at a moment’s notice.
Sentries stood on the parapets, their short recurved bows slung over their shoulders. Shiny metal helmets with pointed crowns gleamed in the sun as they scanned our approach.
Passing through the barbican under the raised metal gate, I cast a glance back at Griffon.
He walked with his shoulders slumped forward and his head ducked, causing his sweat-soaked blond curls to fall in front of his face.
With just that change in his posture, he was no longer the large, dangerous man I’d come to know.
He was hiding in plain sight and seemed far less threatening.
Even so, I got the sense that he still observed everything. Every structural detail. Every soldier.
The slave traders led us through the city, its air thick with cumin and saffron, down a wide thoroughfare crowded with people and colorful stalls.
The sandstone buildings were littered with balconies and carved wood latticework in interconnecting geometric shapes.
Ogee and horseshoe arches opened into adjacent alleys, and tall, narrow minaret towers stabbed the sky high above our heads.
The most imposing structures were the lapis blue domed roofs of what must be the palace, towering over the city.
They led us down a narrow alleyway to a set of stairs spiraling into the depths below ground.
Our captors dispersed, leaving only two to deliver us to our cell.
The low, curved ceilings required Griffon to duck through archways as we passed a handful of cramped cells, each containing huddled mounds of rags I assumed were people and the pungent smell of human excrement and sweat.
I looked down at myself and wondered if I smelled any better.
My ripped, blood and dirt covered clothing was unrecognizable as a dress.
And my tangled hair and grungy face…stars above, I fit right in.
With the rope still tied around our wrists, the men locked the cell door. The resounding click vibrated through me with finality. Dread swelled in my chest.
When the men disappeared, Griffon straightened to his full height and set about searching the cell and examining the metal of the grillwork bars. He pulled me along when his movements tugged at my bound hands.
“What are you looking for?” I whispered.
“Anything sharp. We need to get these ropes cut.”
“Here, let me see if I can untie yours and you can untie mine.”
“That won’t work. They used constrictor knots. The more you pull at them, the tighter they get. I don’t have my strength back yet. They have to be cut.”
The indistinct murmur of lowered voices grew closer to our cell. He pulled me down to sit next to him against the back wall, shaking his hair in front of his face and ducking his head. Two men stopped in from of our cell—one of our captors and a new man.
Unlike the two lines of dots on the slave trader’s face, the new man was unmarked. Short and stocky with a gut that stretched his white tunic tight across his torso, he held Griffon’s green dagger. His bushy gray brows lowered over his eyes as he studied Griffon.
“Do not hide your face, Vulture.”
Vulture? What a charming nickname. Really rolls off the tongue.
Griffon lifted his head slowly, as if he knew what he’d find. “Zaide.”
“I knew the Volanti girl would fetch quite a sum of gold, but the King Killer’s ransom makes her price pale in comparison.”
I tried not to feel insulted that I was the bargain-bin option.
“Glad I could be of service,” Griffon replied flatly.
Zaide held up the dagger. “The Viridis Dagger.”
Wait, that’s the Viridis dagger? The legendary Blade of Volantia? Knights and warriors have wielded it. To have that dagger, Griffon had to have won the Viridi Trials—the greatest trials in our kingdom.
And he left it with me in that little rented room. Just casually. Like it was a spare hair ribbon.
“Only one assassin in this age,” Zaire continued, “is famous for having won the Trials. And here, that assassin is a wanted man.”
Griffon glared at Zaide but said nothing.
Zaide turned to the slave trader. “Gather the bondservant. I will be sending an important message to the palace. Today I become rich.”
“What about the girl?” the other man asked.
“When you get back, put her in the single cell at the end of the west hall. I want the merchandise cleaned and clothed in something more appealing than rags.” Eyeing me up, Zaide smirked.
“Then spread the word of a young, pretty Volanti girl. We will have many… hungry bidders at tomorrow morning’s auction. ”
Twin stars above.
They walked away without a backward glance.
“We don’t have much time,” Griffon whispered once they were out of hearing range and resumed his searching. “They took every knife I had on me, even the one hidden in my boot.”
And then I remembered. “I have a blade.”
He whipped around to face me. “What? How?”
“In my hair,” I lowered my head. “The barrette. It’s a hidden blade.”
He pulled the barrette from my hair and fumbled with it.
“Here,” I offered, taking it from his bound hands. “It opens like this.” The blade flipped open with a snap.
“Where…” and then it must have occurred to him. “Gannet,” he murmured, answering his own question. He studied my face. “I’m glad she thought enough to give you something to defend yourself with. Even if it was from me.”
I gave him a small shrug, but said nothing. He knew well that Gannet had a low opinion of him. So low, she had him pegged somewhere on the scale between ‘moderately untrustworthy’ and ‘would sell his own grandmother for a decent pair of boots.’
He extended his bound hands. “Saw through the piece at the back of my wrists. We can make it look like nothing’s amiss until the right moment.”
I sawed through his rope, and then he cut through mine. As escape plans go, this was significantly less dramatic than the stories I’d read. No epic speeches. No clever ruses. Just…aggressive rope maintenance.
“Here,” he offered, “you’ll want to keep these safe. Just in case.”
Guilt washed over me as I gave him a stiff smile. For some reason, it bothered me that he might think I agreed with Gannet. Which was ridiculous. Why should I care what he thought about what I thought about him? That was at least three levels too deep into thinking about thinking.
He clipped the barrette back into my hair with surprising care, his soft breath whispering across my forehead.
I noticed the angle of his jaw when he tilted his head, the dark blonde stubble dusting his chin.
His gaze flickered to mine. For a moment, neither of us breathed.
Finally, my eyes dropped away when I realized I was staring and took a step back.
Before long, the trader returned to move me to another cell.
Sitting against the wall, the ropes rested over our wrists as if we remained bound.
The man unlocked the gate and stepped forward.
Almost faster than my eyes could follow, Griffon swept the man’s feet from under him, rolled, and shot his foot into the air, striking the man in the side of the head.
The man’s skull slammed into the metal bars behind him with a resounding bang before he slumped unconscious to the floor.
Bloody, darkened stars. All that, and Griffon hadn’t even stood up yet.
“Come on!” He grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the cell.
With my boots sliding on the dirt-covered floors, I followed him through the cramped corridors, desperately trying not to lag behind. He never slowed as we entered the main room and came upon two more of the slave traders.
Griffon used his momentum and their surprise to his advantage.
He catapulted over the table in the center of the room and slammed his feet into the larger man, knocking him to the ground.
As Griffon rose from his crouch, the other man swung his fist. Griffon blocked the swing, grabbed the man’s shoulder and slammed the man’s face down into his knee.
The first man attempted to rise when Griffon stepped onto the man’s bent knee, propelled himself up and slammed his knee into the man’s face.