Chapter 3
Brooks
The sound of leather boots on stone and the clank of a keyring against a belt buckle had Brooks’ eyes jerking open.
The shift change.
It was time.
Heaving himself to his feet, he stumbled to the cell door. “Hey!” He pounded his fist on the latch. “Hey!”
The guard picked up one of the rocks Brooks had kicked at them earlier and chucked it at him. “Quiet! Use your time to sober up, or I’ll give you something to scream about.”
Brooks guffawed. “You mean like I gave your wife something to scream about last night?” He grabbed his crotch and thrust it toward the imbecile.
The jailer’s cheeks flushed, his knuckles whitening around the handle of his club. The man stepped closer.
Brooks bit back a grin. He’d struck a nerve. Good.
Almost within reach.
Lifting his head, he fixed the man with his milk-white eyes.
The guard blanched, his jaw going slack. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “What’s wrong with your face?”
Snapping his arm out, Brooks caught the other man’s belt, yanking him close to the door as his hood fell back, revealing the gemstone welded into his forehead.
He didn’t need his eyes to see, as long as the stone retained power.
The jail keys slammed against the bars with a loud clank.
Unhooking them from the guard’s waist, he pulled them into his cell. “I’ll take these, thank you.”
Threading the fingers of his spare hand through the guard's hair, Brooks jerked, slamming his jailer’s skull into the iron poles hard enough to stun him.
The man crumpled to the floor.
A sliver of disappointment uncurled in Brooks’ stomach. That had been too easy to be remotely satisfying. Reaching around to the front of the latch, he slid the key into the lock and turned it.
The pin sprung free with a gratifying click. Hooking the keys on his belt, he stepped through the open door and stared down at the pitiful figure at his feet. “You could have at least put up a little bit of a fight, to keep things interesting.”
Grabbing the guard’s club, he shoved it handle-first through the idiot’s chest. Ribs cracked, then the blunt edge ruptured the moron's heart.
Brooks left the jailer where he lay, the man’s tunic darkening to crimson around the improvised stake.
One less scumbag polluting the world.
“Hey! Stop!”
Two guards ran into view, their sabers clenched in their hands. Their attention focused on him, apparently oblivious to their compatriot’s corpse.
“Get back in your cell!”
Brooks rolled his eyes. Seriously? They were even more stupid than the one bleeding out at his feet. Keeping his eyes on the newcomers, Brooks fumbled at the dead man’s waist until his sword came free.
The new guard’s eyes grew wide as they tracked his action, finally realizing the fate of their colleague. “What kind of monster are you?” the closest one asked.
Brooks sucked on his lower lip, contemplating using the power stored in his jewel to fry the two men where they stood. It would save time and avoid a commotion that might alert any others at the front gate.
No. Without King Malkov to drain mages and refill the stone, Brooks had no guarantee he’d be able to replenish that well anytime soon. The magic was too precious—best to only use it in a true emergency and deal with these two wretches the more traditional, albeit more tedious way.
Adjusting his stance, he brought the steel to bear as the two newcomers reached him.
Idiot number one lunged forward in a simple attack, aiming for his gut.
Clenching his jaw, Brooks batted the sword away, swinging the curved blade to block the second assailant’s lunge for his unprotected flank.
With a flick of his wrist, Brooks curled the blunt edge of his sword around the other’s weapon.
Using the torque, he ripped the saber out of his opponent’s grasp with more force than necessary.
But burning off a little extra energy helped dull his rage at the events of the past week, and he needed a clear head if he wanted his vengeance.
The steel flashed in the torchlight as it spun to the far side of the room.
Moron number two held both hands up and scrambled backward, hiding behind his friend.
“One down, one to go,” Brooks muttered, unable to keep the singsong tone from the taunt. The corner of his mouth quirked up in a cruel smile. He twirled the blade, warming up his wrist. Based on the skill of the first contender, the remaining one should be no challenge.
He turned his solid-white eyes on the guard he’d disarmed. If only they’d stayed at the gate where they belonged. “Unfortunately, I can’t risk you alerting anyone.” Raising his sword over his shoulder, he flicked it as though it were a throwing knife.
The weapon flew end over end, embedding itself blade first in the man’s neck.
With wide eyes and a wet gurgle, he grasped at his throat as he collapsed to his knees. His face went pale as he tumbled to the side, cracking his head on the stone with a gut-wrenching splat.
The remaining guard, blinking like the imbecile he was, stared at his companion and then back at Brooks. Pointing his saber at Brooks, he said, “Back into your cell, prisoner.” The tremble in his voice betrayed his fear.
Brooks snorted, barely holding back the eyeroll as he considered the corpse’s blade.
That was the problem with throwing weapons…
it left him unarmed. He needed some sort of magical dagger that would manifest in his hands after every time he threw it.
Now that would be worth spending the power in his gem on.
He met the remaining jailer’s gaze. “You don’t seriously expect me to obey, do you? ”
The guard’s face scrunched as he growled, “Then you’ll die!”
Brooks dropped to the ground as the other man’s sword whooshed overhead, close enough to give him a haircut—just a little off the top. Swinging his leg around, he caught his opponent’s ankles and kicked his legs out from under him.
The guard collapsed onto the other with an “Oof!”
Hopping back to his feet, Brooks slammed his heel down on the man’s wrist, forcing him to release his grip on the blade.
The man screamed as his steel clattered against the stone.
Brooks glanced at the front gate. This had taken too long, been too loud. There was a decent chance someone would come to check on the commotion before he was ready.
Snatching the fallen weapon off the ground, he rammed it through the final guard’s chest and into his heart with a satisfying pop.
Brushing his palms on his trousers, Brooks marched down the hallway toward the man that called to his magestone. Coming to a halt outside a much smaller cell, he crossed his arms.
Narrow eyes squinted up through circular glasses. The unruly gray hair that normally stuck out in all directions was matted and plastered to the man’s head by a mixture of dirt, sweat and blood.
Garrik, King Malkov’s master artificer.
“You ready to get out of here yet?” Brooks asked, wrinkling his nose at the stench.
Rheumy eyes stared up at him, blinking as they centered on his gemstone. Garrik scrambled to his feet. “Inquisitor!”
Brooks raised the key ring, jingling it until it caught Garrik’s attention. “I’ll break you out, but I need something from you in return.”