by Mason Thomas
No time left.
An earthenware jug tumbled through the air and shattered next to the man. Yvenne had heaved it from behind the cart. The man jolted, his grin evaporating. Hunter took advantage of the moment and lunged, closing the distance between them. The attacker brought up his sword in defense, but Hunter snatched the wrist of his sword arm, freezing it in place. Gripping the sword with only his right, he thrust it forward. This time, he grit his teeth and didn’t hold back.
He closed his eyes and winced as the tip impaled his midsection. He felt resistance for a moment, like when sinking a knife through the hard rind of a melon, then nothing. The sword sank deeper. The man’s sword arm spasmed in Hunter’s grip, and his other clasped the sleeve of Hunter’s tunic. Then he went limp and fell to the floor.
Hunter pulled out the blade and turned from the body, averting his eyes. Bile burned the back of his throat, and he fought to keep his stomach from emptying. He’d killed a man—didn’t matter that it was in self-defense. This would forever change him.
Well… if he survived this. At the moment it didn’t seem likely. Two more were rounding the closest vat. He caught dark glimpses of others circling around to come at them from another direction. And there was at least one crossbow sniper still on the stacks.
As the two sprang for him, an arrow struck the curved side of a vat, splintering it apart, and pieces of it ricocheted off. The man closest to it cried out and ducked, an arrow fragment narrowly missed his head. Zinnuvial was still providing Hunter some cover.
Hunter launched at the other one.
He stepped in hot, first making a low cut to the left. The man met it easily and pivoted sideways and tried to force the blade up to expose Hunter’s torso. A move he was ready for. Zinnuvial had run him through that drill a thousand times. He shifted and stepped in again, spun his sword around in a downward cut aimed at his neck before the attacker could take advantage of the opening. But the sword cut only air as the opponent pivoted beyond Hunter’s strike zone.
More shouts. Barking commands from somewhere deeper in the shop. Were more entering from the back?
Zinnuvial fired off more arrows in quick succession, forcing the farther attackers into cover behind vats. But it provided an opening for the second attacker to close the distance on Hunter. From the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of the sword.
He lunged back. The blade missed him by inches.
As he recovered and sprang back into his stance, ready to face the newer opponent as well, an arrow whistled through the air to his right. Hunter heard a soft gasp, almost a sigh, and turned to see the shaft protruding from the man’s throat. As his eyes rolled back and red bubbles gurgled out from the wound, his legs gave out and he sank to the floor.
A splintering crash came from above. Shards of glass showered down as the skylight blew apart. A large stone careened down in the center of it all. Rectangular, like a cinder block. As the glass splattered on the stone floor, the brick struck a vat. With a crack that sounded like a gunshot, the vat broke apart and viscous orange liquid exploded out the side.
Hunter’s opponent leapt backward, startled. That wasn’t part of their plan.
A second object plummeted from the hole in the ceiling.
It soared down like a meteor—a streaking ball of fire. It hit the wet ground where the vat had come apart. Yellow flames rolled out from the impact. Then, a moment later, the wet floor erupted in dancing blue fire. A wave of intense heat pressed against Hunter’s face.
Cries rang out, and black-garbed soldiers scattered in all directions.
Whatever chemicals were used in those dyes, it was flammable. And there were more than a dozen filled vats. The building was doomed.
Hunter took advantage of the sudden distraction and thrust the blade. The man’s attention snapped back to Hunter, and he stepped back and turned to avoid the point. But he wasn’t quite fast enough. The edge caught him under the unprotected sword arm. Blood jetted from a wide gash, and the man screamed. The sword tumbled from his grip. He recoiled from Hunter, grasping the wound with his free hand, blood oozing out from between his fingers.
Hunter hadn’t killed him, but he was out of the fight.
More heavy bricks hailed down from the hole in the ceiling. Some thumped harmlessly on the floor but one smashed into another vat, shattering it apart. Purple-black liquid gushed out, and as soon as it reached the line of blue fire, it, too, erupted into flames. Sacks underneath the lowest shelf caught fire, and flames lapped up to reach the rolls of fabric on the shelves.
Zinnuvial, bow gripped tight in her right hand, appeared at his side. Yvenne was pressed in close behind her.
Through the haze of gray smoke that rose up to escape through the shattered skylight, Hunter caught a glimpse of figures on the roof. Three, by the looks of it. One sidled right up to the edge of the jagged opening, crossbow in hand. He fired several bolts down at the men scattering about and looking for cover, then repositioned himself out of sight. Hunter almost laughed. He recognized the silhouette.
Dax. Saving his ass again.
“That’s our way out,” Zinnuvial said, pointing up to the shattered skylight with her bow. The edge of it was directly above the top of the stacks. Which were now on fire.
“We better be quick about it,” he said. It wouldn’t take long for all that fabric to catch fire. The building would be a full conflagration in minutes.
He circled the workshop, hunched low and hugging the wall. The other two were close to his heels. More smoke billowed into the workshop than could escape through the skylights. It swirled over their heads, a disorienting and toxic cloud that pressed down on them. It provided cover, but Hunter’s eyes stung, and each inhale burned down into his lungs.
Crossbow bolts flashed over their heads like mad starlings, impaling the wall behind him with sharp thuds. The archer on the high shelf was shooting blindly through the haze. Others across the workshop were shouting orders.
Another attacker sprang from the haze. Zinnuvial loosed an arrow and the shaft skewered his shoulder. The force of the impact threw him back with a splatter of blood. As Zinnuvial stepped over the body, she ripped the arrow free from the wound and renotched it.
Red and orange heaved to life on the first shelf. The fabric had caught fire, and the flames ate it greedily. It spread outward and climbed higher.
A river of blue flames ran between them and the shelves.
“Jump it,” Zinnuvial barked from behind.
Hunter didn’t hesitate. He took a short running start and heaved his bulk over the narrowest vein. Intense heat seared his exposed skin as he sailed over it. He landed hard on the far side, and as he staggered to keep his balance, an attacker leapt for him, sword high.
He ducked and threw up his sword in a desperate parry. Steel clashed and sparked as the new attacker’s blade ran the length of his to catch against the guard. The shockwave ran through Hunter’s forearm, and the force twisted his wrist and threatened to dislodge his own grip on the hilt.
He punched outward with his elbow, putting the full strength of his arm behind it. The blow clipped the man’s chin, and his head jolted back. The attacker stumbled sideways.
An arrow shaft sank deep into the man’s collarbone. He spun about from the impact and collapsed.
A moment later, Zinnuvial jumped the river of blue fire and appeared at his side. Yvenne hoisted her shift above her knees and leapt over the flames as well. The hem of the fabric caught as she landed, but Zinnuvial was quick to pluck the flames from her before they spread.
In the corner of the workshop, the shelves were now a tower of swirling flames. Eating away at the rolls of fabric, they quickly lapped up toward the ceiling. The crossbowman positioned near the top, clearly growing nervous, climbed to his feet and scurried to the far end, ready to climb down. But that option seemed fruitless now. A shocking mix of blue and orange flames had consumed most of the ground beneath him.
Hunter leapt and grabbed the lip of the f
irst shelf. He hoisted himself up, dropped to his belly, and offered his hand down to Zinnuvial and Yvenne. Heat pressed on his side like an open blast furnace. The flames drew closer with every second.
“Keep going,” he shouted over the roar of the flames as soon as Zinnuvial and Yvenne were hauled up. Smoke filled his throat like a hot rag, choking him. His eyes burned. He wove his fingers together in front of him. Zinnuvial stepped in the center, and Hunter hoisted her up to the next level. Yvenne followed, with Zinnuvial helping her.
Movement caught his eye. Across the sea of flames, a darkly clad figure emerged from a separate room off to the side. His pale skin reflected the firelight like porcelain, and the black hair caught the swirling eddies caused by the fire and flew outward like bat wings. Charcoal blue ram horns twisted out of his temples.
The Heneran strolled out into the workshop, heedless of the inferno around him, looking like a demon of hell. Flames rolled away from his feet as if terrified of him, and as he crossed the floor, he glared up at the three of them, his eyes piercing into Hunter’s soul like an arrow. Despite the heat pressing in around him, it sent a cold wave racing down his back.
He wondered, for no more than an instant, if this was a projection like before. But no—his form was solid, and he commanded the flames around him as if they were his children fawning for his attention.
The Heneran lifted his arms out to his sides. The crystal at his breast surged with light. Blue flames rose from the floor to meet his palms, then spun themselves into churning orbs. He extended his hands out toward the shelves, and the orbs shot through the air.
Hunter flung himself up. One hand grasped the edge of the shelf above him as the two balls of fire pounded into the shelf under his feet. Flames exploded underneath him, searing heat surrounding him. If not for the heavy boots he wore, his feet would have been charred. The shelf beneath him disintegrated, and rolls of burning fabric cascaded to the floor.
Zinnuvial lifted Yvenne up to the final shelf while Hunter pulled himself up. He scrambled to his feet, ready to jump again. The blast had weakened the shelving—Hunter could feel the entire structure shift under him. It was losing its integrity and would soon all crash down. He stole a glimpse of the Heneran. More flames were rising up into his hands.
Above him, a hand was reaching down from the broken skylight to pull Yvenne to safety. She at least would make it out of this alive.
Zinnuvial notched her last arrow and let it fly. Hunter froze a moment to watch it soar across the workshop. It impaled the shoulder of the Heneran, throwing him back. The blue orbs lost their structure.
She had bought them a little more time, but already the Heneran was attempting to recover, and the shelving groaned and started to list.
Hunter again hoisted Zinnuvial up. She threw down her bow and leapt for the skylight. Hands seized her and hauled her onto the roof.
He scrambled up, feeling like he was on a capsizing ship. Everything was twisting under him, wood groaning. He jumped—but the shelf gave way. He couldn’t push off hard enough. He flailed his arm upward in a desperate attempt to grab anything. Four fingers caught the lip of the skylight, but a shard of glass embedded in the edge stabbed into his palm. He cried out. Pain exploded throughout his hand, and as he dangled over the inferno, the shelving collapsed into a burning heap. Smoke swirled thick and gray around him, forcing his eyes closed, and he couldn’t pull any air into his lungs. Another blast hit near the skylight. The Heneran was back to throwing fireballs at him.
“Give me your other hand, idiot!” Dax shouted down at him.
Hunter knew that Dax would never have the strength to pull him up. Hunter was more likely to pull Dax down and they’d both plummet to their deaths. But he flung an arm up blindly anyway and felt a hand snatch his wrist. Then more hands were grasping any part of him they could reach, and his body was hauled upward. Slowly. Once his waist was at the edge, he threw his leg up and rolled onto the roof.
He lay on his side, coughing smoke from his lungs. He felt dizzy and nauseous and wanted to do nothing but remain curled up in a ball. But Dax was already pulling on him.
“We have to move,” Dax said. “Now.”
He forced himself to his feet again, choking down vomit that lifted into his throat. And they all started to jog across the rooftop.
23
“HOLD STILL,” Dax grumbled.
Hunter drew in a breath and tried to keep his arm steady while Dax prodded away at the gash in his hand with the tip of a knife. “You almost done in there?”
The two of them occupied a small store room. Hunter straddled a barrel, facing Dax, who sat on a low stool. Hunter’s arm lay across a wooden crate positioned between them, with a lantern burning next to his hand.
“There’s one more shard,” Dax replied as he tightened his grip on Hunter’s wrist. He leaned in, squinting at the angry red line across the center of his palm. “And every time you talk you move your hand. So, stop talking. If you don’t want the wound to fester, remain still so I can remove it.”
An infection was the last thing Hunter needed. Safe to assume antibiotics weren’t a thing here. He grunted, but then held the air in his lungs to keep his arm from moving. But with each heartbeat, he could feel his arm twitch. With Dax poking around inside his hand, it felt worse than when he got the wound in the first place. He squeezed his eyes closed, clenched the fist of his other hand, and tried to ignore the sharp bite of the knife point.
“I warned you not to take this mission,” Dax said.
“You did no such thing,” Hunter replied.
“I told you it was too risky. That should have been enough.”
“You’re the one that offered up the suggestion of me staying at one of the safe houses. You expected me to turn down that sweet deal?”
“I could already tell you were going to agree to the mission,” Dax replied with a huff. “So, I wanted to get you something out of it that would benefit both of us.”
Meaning Hunter would be out of his hair and no longer his problem.
Dax set the knife aside and reached into the gash with his thumb and forefinger and pinched. He slipped out a thin blood-covered shard. “There.” He wiped blood from his hands on a rag, grabbed the bottle of spirits from the floor and doused the wound in the amber liquid.
Hunter hissed through his teeth as his hand erupted in stinging pain.
They were silent for a time as Dax gathered up the strips of khaki-colored linen. He none too gently repositioned Hunter’s hand in the center of the crate, shook loose the first strip, and began wrapping it around the hand. A spot of red immediately appeared on the linen over the wound.
“You should have turned around at the first sign of the trap.”
“And left Yvenne in the hands of that Heneran?”
Dax tucked the end of the linen bandage under itself, and his finger poked at the wound. Hunter clenched his teeth. “You’d be dead if I hadn’t followed you to the warehouse. Yvenne and Zinnuvial too.”
“You think I like playing the role of damsel in distress all the time? I went into this knowing there’d be risks, Dax.”
“You did not understand what the risks were.” Dax started wrapping another bandage around his hand, but his bedside manner was getting rougher. Hunter breathed through his teeth while Dax squeezed his hand tighter and looped the straps around his palm like he was winding a crank.
“It was my choice to take them. You’re not the only one here taking risks.”
“But when you take risks, it means I have to rescue you. Which, as it turns out, is taking far too much of my time. You aren’t prepared for the dangers of this sort of thing.”
That stung more than the gash in his hand. “I actually think I held my own pretty well.”
Dax scoffed. “You were lucky.”
Hunter tugged his hand away from Dax’s grip. “This isn’t about me at all, is it? This is about your brother. You’re the only one allowed to assume any risk around here because you do
n’t need another death on your conscience. Is that it?”
Dax froze a moment, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Rage flashed in Dax’s eyes as he turned his head. “We need to report to Quinnar.”
He stood from the stool and left the store room.
QUINNAR STEEPLED his forefingers against his lips in thought. “Do not misunderstand me, Hunter. I am grateful for your contribution, of course,” he said to Hunter, breaking his long silence.
His contribution? Quinnar made it sound as if he’d spent the afternoon volunteering at a youth shelter or cleaning out an abandoned lot. Just as Dax liked to remind him, there were at least a dozen ways he could have died back there.
“But,” Quinnar continued, “with respect, there is much you do not know. I am disinclined to fall to that conclusion so quickly.”
“He is not wrong,” Dax replied. “They were ready for us. They knew the plan.”
Hunter wondered how hard it was for Dax to admit that.
Quinnar stared back at Dax a moment, lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. “Or, more likely, they outmaneuvered us. They leaked the information to us and predicted how we would respond. We played into their scheme exactly how they wanted us to.”
Dax’s face remained hard and Hunter could feel anger radiating off him. He had refused to discuss the outcome of the mission openly with the council, so the four of them were crammed into Quinnar’s private office. The reason now was clear—Dax suspected someone in the council could have tipped the palace off. Watching Dax’s eyes on Quinnar, Hunter couldn’t help but wonder, too, if Dax suspected Quinnar himself.
Gingerly, Hunter prodded his thumb over the bandage wrapped around his palm, exploring the boundaries of the pain. His hand was throbbing from deep within—a pain different than the typical bruising and muscle soreness he was accustomed to. “And if you’re wrong?”
A flash of annoyance burned in Quinnar’s eyes. “Your hunch is not enough to sow seeds of doubt among us.”
