“He knew what the Neverseen were planning, and he wouldn’t tell me unless I gave him his green pathfinder.”
“Green?” Mr. Forkle sighed when Sophie nodded. “Green crystals go to the ogre cities.”
Sandor swore under his breath, and Sophie was tempted to do the same. Now she knew why Brant said she wouldn’t be able to follow him. And clearly the Neverseen really were working with the ogres.
“Uh . . . is anyone else as confused as I am?” Biana asked, reappearing in the shadows.
“Yes,” Mr. Forkle admitted. “But it will be easier if I see it,” he explained as he reached for Sophie’s temples.
Sophie forced herself to relax as Mr. Forkle pressed two fingers on each side of her head and closed his eyes. Two hundred and twenty-nine seconds passed before he released her, his swollen face paler than she’d ever seen.
“I want you to know that you made the right decision letting Brant go,” he said quietly. “You may have saved us all—though we have a hard fight ahead of us.”
He stood and stomped his heavy leg against the ground in a strange pattern of beats and pauses.
One by one, dwarves popped out of the hard soil, shaking bits of frozen earth out of their shaggy fur and gathering around him.
“We are far more outnumbered than we realized,” he told them when all ten had crowded into the cramped space. “Also . . . it appears you’ll be forced to fight your own kind—if anyone is uncomfortable with that, you’re free to leave now with no judgment on our part.”
None moved.
“Thank you, my friends. Your support will not be forgotten.”
He called Sandor to his side and the dwarves huddled around him, talking strategy. Sophie tried to listen from the fringes—and tried to understand the strange diagram Sandor scratched in the ground with his blade—but most of it made zero sense.
“Where should I be?” she asked, when Mr. Forkle opened it up to questions.
“Home,” Sandor answered immediately.
“He’s right,” Mr. Forkle told her. “Though, I fear they might have something planned for you at Havenfield, knowing you’re separated from your bodyguard. Perhaps Fitz and Biana could take you and Keefe to Everglen—”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Sophie interrupted.
“Me either,” Keefe agreed.
“Neither are we,” Fitz and Biana added.
Mr. Forkle shook his head. “Sophie, you aren’t even properly dressed. You’d be crippled by frostbite and altitude sickness in a matter of minutes.”
“Maybe,” Sophie reluctantly agreed. “But I can inflict from here. I’d only need the door left open enough to see where everyone is.”
“And I can cover her,” Fitz offered. “And share part of my cloak.”
“Me too,” Biana added.
“I’m still going after my dad,” Keefe said quietly.
“I know,” Sophie told him, knowing why he needed to, but wondering how he was really going to be able to face down his dad.
“You kids are forgetting that none of you were meant to fight,” Mr. Forkle interrupted them.
“But I have my abilities back now,” Sophie argued.
“And I took this from my dad’s office,” Fitz said, holding up a silver melder.
“And I’m the secret weapon,” Biana added, turning invisible.
“I . . . don’t have anything fancy,” Keefe mumbled, patting his arm, which seemed to be missing his throwing stars. “But there’s no way you’re taking on my dad without me.”
“If I have to tie you in this cave, I will,” Sandor warned them.
“So the dwarves can find us totally defenseless if they get past you?” Sophie asked.
Sandor grabbed three throwing stars from a pocket near his ankle and whipped them at her, each one thwacking the wall in a perfectly straight line, just above Sophie’s head. “They won’t get past me.”
“The simple truth,” Mr. Forkle added, before anyone could argue, “is that you are far more valuable than any of us—and I don’t just mean Sophie. She’s incredibly important. But she has always needed the strength and support of her friends. I was willing to keep you here when I thought this was a simple ambush. Now that I know it’s not, you will head to safety. And if you try to resist, you will discover that I have many ways to ensure my demands are obeyed.”
“But—”
“That is the end of the matter!”
He glared at them, daring them to argue.
“Good,” Mr. Forkle said when they didn’t. “But before you go, there’s something I must teach Fitz, in case another opportunity does not present itself.”
He waved Fitz over to where Sophie was standing.
“Place your hands on Sophie’s temples. I’m going to show you how to slip past her blocking.”
“WHAT?!” Fitz, Sophie, Keefe, and Biana all asked at the same time—though Keefe was the loudest.
“Are you okay with that?” Fitz asked.
Sophie didn’t hesitate before she nodded. It would be weird, but . . . “I trust you.”
Keefe grumbled something about Telepaths as Fitz reached for Sophie’s temples and Mr. Forkle pressed his hands against Fitz’s.
“Do you feel the trail of warmth I’m leaving?” Mr. Forkle asked him.
“Yeah—wow, that’s crazy. How are you doing that?” Fitz asked.
“Focus, Fitz. I need you to memorize the path so that you can find it on your own.”
“Right,” Fitz mumbled, his brow furrowing with concentration.
Sophie tried to feel what they were feeling, but she couldn’t detect even a trace of their presence.
“There,” Mr. Forkle announced, making Sophie jump. “Did you see that?”
“I think so. But I don’t understand what you did.”
“It’s a point of trust. Transmit the right thing and her guard will lower.”
“What do I transmit?”
“It varies person to person. What makes her trust me will not work for you.”
“Just so you guys know, this is super weird to watch,” Keefe told them, earning himself a shout of “Silence!” from Mr. Forkle.
But Sophie had to agree. She’d never expected to have an audience while the elf who created her taught someone how to slip past her mental defenses. Especially when Fitz leaned closer and whispered, “What do I say?”
“How do I know? I don’t even know what he says!” she told him.
“She’s right. It’s her subconscious you’re reaching,” Mr. Forkle explained. “Her conscious mind cannot help.”
Fitz sighed, his eyes wandering over Sophie’s face like he expected the answer to be scrawled across her lips. Maybe it was, because a few seconds later he pumped his fist and shouted, “I’m in! And whoa—it’s . . . overwhelming.”
“Yes,” Mr. Forkle agreed. “Photographic memories can be. We’re running out of time, so I’m afraid you can’t explore. But are you following the warmth?”
Fitz nodded. Then his eyes widened.
“Yes,” Mr. Forkle told him, before Fitz could speak. “Remember this place. You may need it. Possibly soon.”
“What?” Sophie asked.
“Don’t tell her,” Mr. Forkle ordered Fitz. “She is not yet ready to know.”
“Are you kidding me?” Sophie shouted. “It’s my brain.”
“Yes, and I’m doing everything I can to protect it. Come on, Fitz, that’s enough for today.”
He pulled Fitz back and Fitz shook his head, rubbing his temples.
“You okay?” Keefe asked, and Sophie wasn’t sure if he was asking her or Fitz.
Their answers were both the same. “I think so.”
Though Fitz sounded far less sure.
“And now it’s time to go,” Mr. Forkle said, fishing out a gl
owing purple vial and handing it to Biana. “You still have the charm?”
Rumbling above them drowned out her answer, and everyone ducked and covered their heads as rock and ice rained down.
“Is it an avalanche?” Sophie shouted, realizing that if it was, screaming probably wasn’t the best idea.
But it wasn’t an avalanche—or not a natural one, at least.
It was two gorilla-size arms punching through the rocky ceiling.
They grabbed Sophie by the shoulders and pulled her back through the roof before she had a chance to scream.
SIXTY-SIX
SOPHIE’S BODY STARTED TO SHAKE—but not from the arctic air.
She barely felt the wind or the snow or the sharp jostling of what she assumed was an ogre carrying her. The world grew dim as the blackness clouded her mind, and red rimmed the edges of her vision as the fear and fury boiled into a frenzy.
She let the rage stew as long as she could bear it. Then she shoved the bitterness out of her head, spreading the pain and wrath as far as it could travel.
Her captor grunted and dropped her. But when she sank into the ice, the cold bored into her bones, breaking her concentration and leaving her numb and useless. She lay there shivering, knowing she should run, but her head was spinning spinning spinning. The air was so thin, it felt like she wasn’t even breathing. And she was so tired. Maybe if she just closed her eyes . . .
Thick hands hoisted her up and she tried to thrash, but her muscles were too weak. She barely managed a raspy scream before cold metal was shoved over her nose and . . .
She could breathe.
She gulped the sweet, soft air as a heavy white cloak wrapped around her shoulders, shielding her from the icy wind.
“I’ve got you,” a high, squeaky voice promised, and it took her a second to realize it was Sandor. He hefted her over his shoulder and she tightened her grip as Sandor started to slide down the steep embankment.
They’d only gone a few feet when something yanked Sandor backward.
Sophie slipped from his arms, tumbling through the snow, trailed by howls and snarls and growls and whimpers. She couldn’t tell which massive body was Sandor’s in the glimpses she caught through the blasting snow. But she could tell he was battling an ogre. And when an agonizing screech splattered red among the pristine white, she scrambled toward the collapsed body, promising she would never give Sandor a hard time again if it would just not be him.
A blur of gray muscle yanked her away and it took her a second to recognize the familiar flat-nosed face.
“You’re not dead!” she cried, feeling her tears freeze before they could fall.
“Neither is he.” Sandor grunted as he shifted her weight onto his other shoulder.
That’s when she felt the warm wetness seeping from his chest. “You’re bleeding!”
“These conditions have slowed my reflexes. Especially without the Purifier.”
Sophie reached for the oxygen mask he’d given her, but he grabbed her hand, smearing her palm with blood.
“Sorry,” he murmured, wiping her hand on a clean part of his chest. “You need that far more than me. I can breathe relatively naturally up here. It just makes everything foggy. That’s what cost me my sword.”
“Where’s everyone else?” Sophie asked, trying to see through the whiteout around them.
“I do not know. Their dwarves came up through the ground as I chased after you. But I’m hoping your friends are still waiting near the outcropping. Is your head clear enough to teleport?”
“I think so,” she said, sucking in another breath. “But I’m not leaving.”
“Yes, you are! And don’t even think about—”
A wall of muscle slammed them from behind, sending Sandor crashing on top of her. The thick snow saved Sophie from the bulk of his crushing weight, but the fall still knocked the wind out of her, leaving her coughing and wheezing as Sandor pushed himself to his feet. He’d barely gone two steps before the massive ogre tackled him again, tearing at Sandor’s neck and chest with his pointed teeth as they tumbled over the ground.
“You’re going over, flat nose,” the ogre shouted as he shoved Sandor toward the edge.
“If I do, you’re coming with me.” Sandor widened his stance, holding his bleeding arms at the ready.
“Deal!”
The ogre launched himself at Sandor with all of his strength, the collision so loud it knocked Sandor back another step.
They wobbled once, twice, then toppled off the cliff.
“NO!!!” Sophie screamed, sprinting to where they’d fallen.
The drop had to be at least a thousand feet.
And all she could see at the bottom was red.
SIXTY-SEVEN
SANDOR!” SOPHIE SCREAMED, HER CHEST heaving with sobs as she searched for a way to climb down the embankment.
She glanced over the edge, wondering if she could see enough details to teleport down to him, when a deep voice spoke behind her.
“Surrender, Sophie, and no one else has to die.”
She spun around, feeling her whole body shake with rage as three black-cloaked figures stepped through the blinding white swells. Glints of silver flashed in their hands, and Sophie realized they each carried a melder.
She pooled her fear and fury, spinning it into an angry swarm in her mind. But before she could inflict any of it, a sharp blast of pain flared in her chest, dropping her like a stone.
“She was trying to inflict,” a familiar voice shouted as the other two figures accused him of violating their orders. “Besides, all he said was to bring her in alive. He didn’t say anything about untouched.”
Sophie tried to move—tried to scream—but the melder had paralyzed her from head to toe, forcing her to lie still and watch as the figures drew closer.
The one who’d shot her leaned over the edge and laughed. “Looks like we don’t have to worry about her bodyguard.”
Sophie raged inside her mind as the others shared in his laughter. She tried to channel the energy into a force she could blast them with. But the melder must’ve done something to her heart. No matter how hard she concentrated, she couldn’t find the force she needed to launch any emotions.
“Let’s go,” one of the other figures said as he crouched in front of Sophie and waved a hand in front of her face. “Think she’s stunned enough?”
“Might as well be safe,” the one who’d shot her told him, blasting Sophie again.
Lightning seared through Sophie’s veins and the iron taste of blood coated her tongue. She stared at the dark spaces where the figures faces hid behind their cloaks, vowing to make them pay the next time she got the chance.
But for the moment, all she could do was endure the agony and try not to wonder how much worse the pain had been for Dex when they’d blasted him three times on the streets of Paris.
“That should do it,” the third figure—who’d yet to speak—decided. “Grab her and let’s get out of here.”
“What about the boy?” the one in front of Sophie asked.
“Which boy? The Vacker one? He’d only be an asset to the girl.”
“No—the boy who led us here. He can’t be allowed to go home.”
“Why?” Keefe shouted, stepping through the wall of wind and snow, looking like a ghost in his white hooded cloak and boots. Fitz flanked him, pointing his melder at the figure closest to Sophie, as Keefe asked, “Afraid I’ll tell Mom?”
The figure stood, his laugh so cold Sophie shivered inside. “Trust me,” he told Keefe. “Your mother is not my concern.”
His voice was clearer now, and Sophie recognized it as Lord Cassius. Keefe must’ve noticed it too, because he looked like he’d been punched in the stomach.
“Is this really what you do?” Keefe asked, choking slightly when he pointed to Sophie’s paralyzed form.
“Is that the Sencen legacy?”
“No, it’s a necessary sacrifice for a larger plan.”
“I hate you!” Keefe screamed, grabbing a chunk of ice and flinging it at his father’s head.
Lord Cassius stepped to the side and the ice breezed past him, plummeting over the edge and falling so far, Sophie couldn’t hear it crash.
Sandor had fallen the same way. . . .
She shook the heartbreaking thought away, forcing herself to focus.
Lord Cassius was stomping the snow off his boots as he told Keefe, “You hate, only because you do not understand. I am building you a better world. Someday you’ll thank me.”
“I will never thank you,” Keefe told him, backing a step away. “I will never speak to you again.”
“Well, then it’s going to be a very quiet day. Gethen—grab the girl,” Lord Cassius ordered, pointing to the figure who’d shot Sophie. “We’ll take all three of them.”
“Don’t come any nearer,” Fitz warned him, pointing his melder at Gethen’s head.
Gethen laughed and aimed his melder at Sophie. “Shoot me and I’ll shoot her again—and she’s already taken several blasts. How many more do you think that freaky little mind of hers can handle?”
“Sophie can handle anything!” Keefe shouted, hurling another chunk of ice and smashing Gethen’s arm so hard it knocked the melder out of his hand.
Gethen scrambled to retrieve it but Fitz blasted him in the chest, dropping him to the snow like a lump of coal before Fitz dove for the melder and tossed it to Keefe.
Fitz spun to check on Sophie as she watched Keefe stalk closer to his father.
“I knew all that bramble practice would come in handy,” Keefe told him. “And you said it was a foolish game.”
Lord Cassius laughed. “Put it down, son.”
“I’m not your son!”
“Yes you are—and you always will be. And regardless of what you may think, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Funny—I will have no problem blasting the snot out of you.”
“Then let’s take stock of your situation, shall we? We have your dwarves outnumbered three to one. Your bodyguard is dead—”
Everblaze (Keeper of the Lost Cities Book 3) Page 40
