Godfire

by Cara Witter

  Perchaya’s desperation to work the nail loose grew as Kenton fell backward onto the porch with a thud. She had to resist the urge to stand as far as she could to get a better look at him—normally Kenton was so agile, but while she’d been distracted digging slivers into her fingers trying to pry out the nail, he’d fallen over like a toppling tree.

  Perchaya didn’t know what was going on, only that something was very, very wrong. Kenton was out there, alone but for the archers on the roof, who rained arrows into the clearing. She hoped they had better aim than to hit her, though it appeared that several of the soldiers with crossbows were using the wagon as cover.

  By the gods, she had to get out of here.

  Shouts came from inside the house. “Sir!” a voice called. “There’s no one here!”

  “Search everywhere!” the general responded. “Be certain!”

  So Kenton hadn’t actually captured the lady Daniella. That was probably for the best all around. Gritting her teeth, she pulled again on the nail and barely managed to hold in a cry as her fingernail ripped off against the splintering wood. Warm blood trickled down her hand, and tears leaked unbidden from her eyes at the throbbing pain.

  Perchaya ducked as bolts flew through the air over her head. The general’s men returned fire at the archers, though their first attempts buried themselves in the thatch near the peak of the roof. Amidst all the chaos around the wagon and the sound of a tortured moan outside—not Kenton, please not Kenton—Perchaya forced her hands back to the nail again.

  It wiggled easily in her fingers now, and she pulled it free from the wood.

  Once she had the nail, she was able to make fairly quick work of the knot tying her wrists to her feet. She’d done this often enough on the farm, though never under circumstances such as this, arrows flying overhead, men dying around her, gag making it hard to breathe and her grip slick from blood and sweat.

  Gods, the blood. It was dripping on the wagon. Would a mage be able to harvest enough to—

  No. No, the ring would protect her, and for the first time, she thanked the gods for it.

  More shouts came from the direction of the house, and Perchaya allowed herself to strain her neck, mostly to check on Kenton. He lay on the ground, still covered by the fire of the archers, but behind him men hammered on the inside of the door to the house. Even from here, Perchaya could see the Vorgalian locking charms clamped on the outside of the door and shutters. A woman with a long braid raced away from the front of the house, also covered by the fire of the archers.

  Was that the bearer of Arkista? Regardless, Perchaya was grateful to her—the men locked in the house would be unable to work their way toward Kenton while he lay prostrate on the steps.

  One of the knots on her wrist fell away, then the other. A soldier stumbled into the side of the wagon, a long arrow lodged in his neck, blond head flopping back over the wagon wall briefly before he collapsed out of sight.

  Perchaya startled, and the wagon rocked. The nail slipped from her grasp, and this time she did cry out, fumbling for it as it pinged on the wooden floor and rolled through a small gap in the floorboards.

  Perchaya’s feet were still tied to each other and looped through the iron ring in the floor.

  The nail was gone, and search as she might, Perchaya didn’t see or feel another.

  Sayvil knew she’d gotten too close to the fighting even before the general ordered the soldiers after her. No way was she stopping to drag Kenton away from the front of the house. The archers were covering him well enough, and she didn’t want the soldier with the paralysis charm turning the gods-damned thing on her, though she did find it curious that a man who’d studied in Vorgale would devote himself to Diamis enough to rise to the rank of general.

  She’d done her part, locking the men in the house. Kenton would have to deal with the rest himself, because while some of the general’s contingent was trapped, he still had more than enough soldiers for three or four of them to chase after her.

  Fortunately, Sayvil was fast. A few strategic blasts of moonlight behind her, and she managed to outrun and outmaneuver the soldiers, dashing around an abandoned building and—if the stench was any indication—an operational slaughterhouse.

  All her instincts told her to keep running, go to the wagon where they’d left Daniella, get away from this bloody city. She should be ruthless, like Kenton. She should leave him to die.

  And yet she found herself turning her steps, doubling back to return to the fight, at least to get one last look. Sayvil was many things—foolish for one, if the last few weeks were any indication. But unlike Kenton, she wasn’t heartless.

  She approached the fighting from the north, slipping down the dark alley as silently as she could.

  That’s when she saw him. Hidden behind some crates, peering out toward the wagon, was a man in hooded Vorgalian robes. As she moved slowly up behind him, she could hear him muttering words—an incantation.

  Ah. That made more sense. The general himself was no practitioner of magic. This mage was powering the thing from afar. Beyond him, Sayvil could see where the general hid around the corner of the house, sheltered from the archers but for his hand, which he kept pointed at Kenton while the soldiers pounded on the inside of the doors and shutters—to no avail, due to the locking charm. No more arrows came from the roof—Sayvil could only assume that the general’s crossbowmen must have taken out the resistance archers, or else the men had seen Kenton lying prostrate on the front porch and fled.

  Here in the shelter of the alley, Sayvil could offer some help. She looked around for a weapon—something she could use to break the mage’s concentration, but she found nothing but an old broken board.

  Sayvil was no fighter. Unless she knocked him down on the first try, he’d turn his magics on her. She knew enough about paralysis to know only a very well-trained and powerful mage could fully incapacitate a man as large as Kenton. She wouldn’t have a chance against him.

  And yet.

  She slipped her hand into her pocket and brought out the resource she hadn’t told Kenton about, the one she’d taken with her into Castle Peldenar, the one she’d been saving, in case she had to use it against Kenton.

  Her sleeping powder.

  Sayvil moved quietly, holding the small leather pouch as low as she could, and poured the copper-red powder into her hand, rubbing it immediately across her palm. Even with her hands kept low, she held her breath to avoid inhaling even the smallest bit. She wouldn’t be the first apothecary to fall and hit her head administering the stuff, and while that would certainly distract the mage, it wasn’t the sort of distraction she wanted.

  Ahead, the soldiers encircled Kenton, one of them lifting him by the shoulders. The mage, only a few feet from her now, continued his chanting.

  Sayvil brought up her hand, careful to keep it away from her own face. The mage’s chanting covered the sound of her footfalls as she snuck up behind him.

  She clapped her hand over his nose and mouth. He elbowed backward instinctively, but Sayvil twisted her body, locking one arm around his shoulders to secure herself to his back and keeping the other tightened firmly over his face.

  The mage twisted with her, landing one solid blow to her gut, but already his muscles were weakening. He grasped for his pockets with clumsy hands, but his body swayed on his feet. Ahead, Sayvil could see Kenton steadying himself on his own feet, the soldier behind him still holding him around the shoulders.

  Another second passed, and then the mage collapsed, and she let him drop in a heap.

  Sayvil retreated down the alley, limping at the pain in her stomach, searching for a pump to wash her hands. She might not be a killer like Kenton, but the powder had done its job well enough.

  And that mage was going to have one hell of a headache in the morning.

  Twenty-nine

  Kenton didn’t know wha
t caused Erich’s charm to fail, but as the last archer fell on the roof above, he suddenly regained control over his limbs. The first thing he did was slam his head back into the face of the man holding him from behind. He twisted away, picking up his sword and advancing toward the corner of the house, toward Erich. To his right, the soldiers still pounded on the inside of the shutters, but the locking charms held fast. Kenton heard some shouting inside about tearing down the roof thatch.

  That ought to take them a while.

  As Kenton approached Erich, another flash of light beamed across his old friend’s eyes, and Kenton smiled. He might have lost his archers, but he wasn’t alone, and Sayvil had thankfully escaped from the soldiers who had chased her into the alley. Kenton advanced on Erich, sword ready to pierce straight into the man’s gut. Whether he knew about the blood magic or not, Erich was a tool in the Lord General’s hands, and if there was one thing Diamis was good at, it was recognizing a useful tool.

  Erich shielded his eyes momentarily and twisted away, avoiding Kenton’s blade, but sending himself stumbling backward off the stairs. The closest soldiers dropped their crossbows and drew their swords.

  Kenton planted a boot squarely in Erich’s face. He would have loved to put his sword through the man’s throat, but already Erich’s soldiers were advancing on him from behind, and Perchaya had to be his first priority.

  Kenton turned and brought his sword up, parrying a blow from one of the advancing soldiers and bringing his fist into the man’s unprotected side, sending him doubled over into the dirt beside Erich. Erich scrambled backward in the dirt patch at the corner of the house, while Kenton dodged a charge from a second soldier and planted his own blade into the man’s gut. Kenton withdrew his blade, dropping the bleeding man on top of Erich, and made a break for the wagon.

  Kenton exchanged blows with a soldier guarding the wagon before catching the man by the throat and sending him—sword drawn—into the soldier behind him, whose foot was caught in his crossbow stirrup as he struggled to draw it. The first man sputtered and coughed, while the man beneath him struggled to shove him off, and the other two guards on the wagon came barreling around the front of the cart, delayed somewhat by the stirring of the unsettled horses.

  Kenton used the opportunity to move around the side of the wagon to get a good look at Perchaya, who was still unharmed, thank the gods. She looked at him with wide eyes and had somehow managed to remove her gag in the chaos.

  He heard the approach of a guard from behind him. Kenton thrust backward with his sword and felt the satisfying squish of a blade sinking into the flesh of his attacker’s upper thigh. He shoved the screaming man away and whirled to find the other three wagon guards closing in on him. They took their time moving closer, no doubt thinking they had him cornered.

  Erich had finally disentangled himself from the dead man and had climbed to his feet. Kenton couldn’t allow him to move into position, which gave Kenton no time to deal with the men in front of him. Instead, he lifted himself onto the seat of the wagon by his palms, stepped up onto the edge of it, and ran along the railing to the rear above the guard’s heads. He reached the back of the wagon and catapulted himself off it, catching one of the guards in the face with a backswing of his sword.

  He didn’t pause to survey the damage, advancing instead on Erich, who at that moment took another blast of moonlight to the face. Kenton couldn’t quite pinpoint where the light was coming from, and he hoped the remaining soldiers couldn’t either.

  I take it back, Kenton thought at Arkista. You’re not so useless after all.

  With her hands no longer hobbled to her feet, Perchaya could at least stand up straight and verify that Kenton was still alive. She’d been afraid that his stunt along the side of the wagon would end in him falling right into the soldiers surrounding him, but he’d managed to get away from them all, landing behind the wagon closer to General Dektrian, who seemed to be suffering from a blast of bright light to the face.

  Perchaya’s breath caught.

  The bearer of Arkista.

  She didn’t have time to think further on the situation. The back of the wagon was now wide open, freedom just a few steps away among the bodies of the guards.

  And tied to that bloody iron ring, Perchaya could do absolutely nothing about it.

  She’d gotten the gag off soon after losing the nail, figuring she could think more clearly if she wasn’t struggling to breathe. So far it wasn’t helping, and she searched for anything she could use on these ropes, too low to the ground to use the bench edge to saw against, too tight to use her remaining fingernails to loosen.

  The horses danced back and forth. They were clearly nervous, but work horses needed slightly more incentive to bolt.

  Which would be a handy distraction—at least some of the soldiers would have to leave Kenton to chase the wagon—but even stretched to her full length she wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near the horses or their reins. And with the sounds of battle around them, merely yelling wouldn’t do any good.

  She blinked at the knots trying to calm her thundering heart, picture some way to pull them apart without the lost nail. The wagon shifted again with the horses’ movement, the light of the swinging lantern darting back and forth across the floor.

  The lantern. Fire. Perchaya reached for it, straining as far as the ropes would allow until her fingers brushed against the iron hook on which it hung.

  She might not be able to untie herself, but she was certain that the rope would burn.

  Kenton launched himself at Erich and knocked him onto his back in the dirt. As Erich scrambled to his feet again, one of the soldiers caught Kenton off balance and gripped him by the wrist, wrenching away his sword, while another punched Kenton squarely in the gut.

  Kenton gasped for air but found none. Another soldier landed a punch to the side of Kenton’s head which made his vision turn white at the edges. He twisted, managing to tear himself free, only to tumble over a dead guard’s legs and land in a heap at Erich’s feet.

  Erich lunged with his sword, but Kenton rolled toward the wagon. Sayvil’s moonlight caught Erich in the face again, but this time he turned away from it reflexively. “Get the mage!” he shouted.

  Boots hammered after Sayvil, pounding far enough away that Kenton hoped she’d made a successful break for it—again.

  Kenton’s vision was still blurred, but he was finally able to suck in a desperate breath. Erich closed on Kenton, standing over him with his blade at his throat. Kenton coughed, still trying to catch his breath.

  “Sorry, old friend,” Erich said. “I’d kill you here out of mercy, but the Lord General was very specific. His orders are to bring you in alive.”

  Perchaya didn’t have much time. Kenton had fallen by the side of the wagon, and General Dektrian stood over him, sounding entirely too smug.

  “Come quietly,” the general said, his voice still firm despite being winded, “and I might be persuaded to accidentally kill you. I could spare you a visit to Diamis, for old times’ sake.”

  Perchaya stretched with every bit of her frame, pleading for an extra inch, and her fingers caught the ring of the lantern. She relaxed her muscles back and lunged forward one more time. The ring slipped over the hook—

  —and right off the tip of her finger.

  The lantern glass shattered against the cobblestone and the fire caught on some weeds at the edge of the cobblestone.

  Out of reach.

  “Are you sure,” Kenton said, “that you don’t want to kill me because I know you’re fighting for the cause of a blood mage?”

  General Dektrian hesitated, as did a few of the other soldiers, and Kenton seized the opportunity, lunging forward at the general, clearly attempting to knock him off his feet. The general stepped aside, and Kenton threw his weight away from him, rolled toward the wagon, scrambled to his feet, and stumbled around the horses.


  Perchaya drew in a sharp breath and untied the cotton sash around her waist.

  General Dektrian followed after Kenton, his feet securely under him, clearly in the superior position. The horses stamped again as men jumped from the roof of the house, thatch filtering down after them. Kenton scrambled away from the pawing hoof, reaching the other side of the wagon, but still Erich advanced.

  “You’re the one who’s fallen from grace,” Erich said. “I feel sorry for you.”

  The soldiers stepped forward with swords outstretched, one of them with rope in his hands.

  Holding one end of the sash, Perchaya tossed the other out to the flame of the dying lantern candle.

  The sash caught in flames, which burned even faster than she’d imagined. She’d thought to use it like a kind of flaming whip, but the fire raced up to her hands, and she tossed it to the front of the wagon just as the heat scorched across her fingers.

  The flaming cloth hit the driver’s seat and one of the horses’ flanks. With a terrified whinny, the horse charged forward, spurring the other into a run beside it.

  The last thing Perchaya saw before the sudden movement flung her to the wagon floor were the general’s wide eyes as the horses charged directly into him.

  Despite himself, Kenton couldn’t help but stare for a moment at Erich lying bruised and bloodied on the ground. Erich tried to stand but fell again, clutching his ribs. The remains of Perchaya’s flaming sash burned next to him in the dirt as the wagon charged off down the street with Perchaya still tied inside of it.

  Kenton grinned and turned to locate Sayvil, seeing her racing down a side street in the direction that the wagon had gone.

  And much as he wanted to finish Erich off—from the look on Erich’s face when Kenton mentioned the blood magic, he was sure now that his old friend already knew—Kenton saw the wisdom in running. Several of the soldiers had already climbed out of the roof, and one was reaching now for the front door to release the rest.