“We can’t stay here,” Corran said.
Another quarrel flew, hitting the wagon above their heads. This time, they smelled alcohol and burning cloth, and saw bright tongues of fire where the flaming arrow blazed against the dry wood of the wagon.
“Shit,” Mir breathed. Corran followed his gaze. The street was largely deserted, lit only by a few widely spaced torches. They were in one the quieter sections of Below, but that just meant fewer witnesses. The block ahead of them afforded little protection, and they did not want to lead the archer back to their house.
“Come on!” Corran rolled beneath the wagon and came up on the other side, careful to stay low and keep the wagon between him and the archer.
“Think we can move this thing?” Corran asked, setting a hand on the wagon and rocking it back and forth. The cart’s broken wheel turned stiffly, and he guessed the wreck had sat abandoned for quite some time. But with both of them putting muscle into the effort, they got the wagon rolling slowly down the street.
“Now what?” Mir asked. Another quarrel sailed past his head.
“Haven’t figured that part out yet,” Corran grunted as he heaved the wagon on, inch by inch.
“Makes you wonder why here and why now, doesn’t it?” Mir reached for the quarrel that had nearly taken him in the head. “Army issue,” he said, turning it in the faint torchlight. “Whoever he is, he’s not an amateur.”
Corran, Dilin, and Mir had gone to the marketplace for supplies, a week after the fight with the strix. Just a normal errand, something someone in the household did every day or two, and that made Corran wonder: who had been watching them, to know their routine?
“I wish we could warn the others,” Corran said. “Whoever’s up there didn’t just happen upon us.” An archer with a military-issue crossbow, hiding in an abandoned building on a desolate street in a forgotten undercity? Nothing coincidental about it.
“Assassin?”
“That’s my bet.” There were no more shots, and that worried Corran. A steady barrage would have assured them of the archer’s location. Odds were good that the assassin was shifting position while they were pinned down. They had not worn their swords to the market, but each man had a long knife and a selection of daggers. Still, a crossbow could pick them off from a distance, long before they could reach their attacker with a blade.
“If you’ve got any great ideas, now would be a good time to mention them,” Corran growled.
A twang-thud sounded from the other side of the street, and both Corran and Mir dropped to the ground as a quarrel hit their side of the wagon.
“Run!” Mir yelled. The two men ran for the shelter of the nearest alley, as two more bolts shot after them. One sliced into Corran’s hip, slashing his skin but glancing off the bone. The other caught Mir in the shoulder. He stumbled, gasping in pain. Corran grabbed him by the arm and nearly dragged him around the corner.
“Damn. We’ve got to bind that.” Corran ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt and tied it around the hunter’s shoulder. Blood soaked through almost immediately, but it was better than nothing.
Corran heard footsteps, and froze. Mir’s eyes widened as he heard the same thing. The archers were on the move, heading down to the street. The hunters had become the prey.
“Inside.” Corran pushed open the nearest door, pulling Mir with him into the dark interior. The long-abandoned house smelled of rats and dust, and the dim torchlight outside didn’t penetrate the gloom. Corran and Mir staggered into the room, and Corran’s boot kicked at debris. Hide. We’ve got to find a place to hide.
He would have given anything for Rigan’s handfire, though Corran was grateful his brother wasn’t in danger with them. The assassins weren’t stupid; they would figure out that their quarry had gone to ground in one of the old buildings along the alley. But perhaps in the darkness, Corran might be able to level the battlefield.
“Can you use your arm?” Corran whispered beside Mir’s ear, not wanting to give away their position. Mir nodded.
“Get around the door. And hope for the best.” Corran went left as Mir went right, both drawing their long knives and waiting. Crossbows were distance weapons, and the archers gave up their advantage the moment they came down to ground level.
The door to the street opened and their pursuer thrust a torch into the darkness. Corran lunged. He swung his blade high, going for the throat, but the assassin blocked him with a blade of his own. Mir attacked from the other side, and his blade sliced across the man’s belly. The assassin jabbed his torch toward Mir, forcing him back, then pivoted as Corran pressed forward again, scoring a deep cut on the assassin’s shoulder and narrowly evading a strike aimed for his own throat. Even so, the killer’s knife scored a gash in Corran’s bicep that made him bite back a curse.
Corran backed up a step and Mir pushed forward, between the doorway and the assassin. The hired killer angled himself so that he could keep both men in view, showing neither of them his back. Corran glanced at Mir, who blinked in agreement.
In the next breath, Corran dove forward, angling his knife for the assassin’s face, forcing him to block the blow. Mir lunged, sinking his knife deep into the hired killer’s side with one hand and dashing the torch from his grip with the other. Corran dove to grab the torch before it could set the building on fire, and came up in one smooth movement, slashing his blade across the assassin’s throat. The man fell to his knees, struggling for breath as blood soaked his clothing. Corran threw the torch out of the door into the street.
“Move!” Corran hissed. He and Mir left the body where it lay and retreated further into the darkness of the house, trying not to stumble over the refuse littering the sagging floor. They had bested one attacker, and both been injured in the process. Mir stumbled, and Corran got under one shoulder to help him keep moving. From what Corran had seen in the torchlight, Mir looked spent; he would not be up to another fight. Given Mir’s injuries, there was no chance of outrunning the second assassin out in the alley; at any rate, the moment they stepped through the doorway, they’d be framed like targets for the kill. The best they could do would be to use the slim advantage of the darkened building, and hope that they could elude their pursuer.
If we die here, would Rigan and Aiden even find our bodies? Corran fought back despair, stoking his anger to keep on going. They would not have long to wait for the next attack.
Corran shifted his weight and felt the old floorboards give. He bit back a yelp as his foot sank through the rotted wood, and he stumbled, pitching forward. More of the floor fell away, and Corran went with it. Mir grabbed him by the arm, choking back a groan as he strained his damaged shoulder, but it was enough to yank Corran back from the edge of the abyss and send the two men tumbling over gods knew what in the darkness.
A moment later, the second assassin stepped up to the doorway. He had a crossbow in one hand and a candle in the other.
“You’ve put up a worthy fight,” the assassin said, his lips twitching into a cold smile. “But it ends now.”
“Who sent you?” Corran knew the man could see them, and before he took a quarrel to the chest, he at least wanted to know the name of whoever had paid for his murder.
“Does it matter? You won’t be telling anyone.”
Corran and Mir scuttled back, trying to put as much distance as they could between them and their attacker, futile as it was at this range. The assassin moved forward, his candle illuminating a dim circle in the darkness.
“Humor me. The dead can’t talk.” Corran tried to keep the man talking, to forestall the inevitable. And as he stared at the candle and gauged how much light it shed, a desperate hope flared.
Corran dragged himself backward again, and Mir pushed back with his feet, sliding across the filthy floor. If they stayed here much longer, Mir would bleed out.
The attacker took another step. “I was hired by the head of the Lord Mayor’s guards,” he replied, a note of pride in his voice. “Though sending assassins is t
oo good for street ruffians.”
So there’s a hierarchy for who gets to kill you? I guess I should feel honored, Corran thought. “How did you find us?”
The assassin’s laugh was cold. “It’s what we do. I’m very good at my job,” he said as he aimed his crossbow. At this distance, he couldn’t miss Corran’s heart.
“Time to go,” the assassin said softly. He took one more step… and pitched headlong through the crumbling floor as the weakened boards gave way beneath his weight.
“Go!” Corran rasped, hauling Mir to his feet. They kept to the wall, shuffling carefully to keep the floor from collapsing completely beneath their weight, making their way toward the door. Far below them, they heard a body hit hard dirt.
We could step outside and find out the hard way that there was a third archer. We could get back to the house and find everyone else dead. Corran pushed down those thoughts, intent on getting to the doorway. They’d retrieve Dilin’s body later, give him a proper burial. But right now, staying alive and keeping his brother and his friends safe was uppermost in Corran’s mind, all else be damned.
THEY HAD ONLY gone a block when a voice sounded behind them. “What’s your hurry?”
Corran and Mir froze.
“Hello, Corran.”
“Who in the Abyss are you?”
“Someone who’s been looking for your brother.”
Corran felt himself go cold. “Damian.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d know my name. Turn around. We’ll go into that building over there. Try to run and I’ll make you beg for permission to breathe.”
Corran turned, and saw the tall witch silhouetted against the dim glow of torches. “This makes it easier than I dared hope,” Damian said.
“Makes what easier?” Corran challenged, though he had a good idea of what Damian’s answer would be.
“Finishing the job. Both of you, open that door and go inside.”
He gestured toward the entrance to another dilapidated, abandoned structure.
Corran weighed his chances. He glanced at Mir, and then both men bolted.
Corran hadn’t gone five steps before he crashed into an invisible wall, as solid and unyielding as stone.
“You’re not going anywhere except into the building,” Damian said. “Move, or I’ll burn you where you stand.”
“We’re moving.” Corran made no attempt to hide the anger in his voice. Damian’s handfire lit the way, illuminating the shabby room. “Sit,” Damian ordered, gesturing toward the wall. He tossed a length of rope to Corran. “Tie his hands.”
“He doesn’t pose you any threat.”
“Tie. His. Hands.”
Corran scowled, but did as he was ordered.
“Now remove your knives—all of them—and slide them away from you. Try anything, and I’ll burn your friend before you can draw another breath.”
Corran felt a killing rage building inside, but he said nothing, sure that Damian could read his thoughts from the look on his face. Damian tossed a set of manacles to Corran.
“Put them on.”
He glowered as he closed the heavy cuffs around his wrists. “You betrayed the witches.”
“Necessary losses,” Damian said with a shrug. “They were becoming... inconvenient.”
“For whom? You, or the Lord Mayor?”
Damian ignored him. “They were content staying Below, wasting their magic on hedgewitch work. Then your brother showed up, with promising power. He made progress quickly enough to make him a threat—or an asset, to the right people. He started to ask questions. The others were listening, and bringing up things better left alone. I had to stop them before they became a problem. And I knew he’d be valuable.”
“So you and Alton killed the other witches—and for what?” Damian shrugged. “I don’t expect you to understand. The game is a lot bigger than fighting ghouls or burning lida.”
“Did you come back to finish Aiden and my brother?” “Is that what you think?” Damian sounded genuinely amused.
“That I overlooked them? They were the only two of real value.” “Value?”
Damian chuckled. “A witch of Rigan’s potential? Powerful men will pay good money for a tool like that, properly broken and trained.”
Corran’s fists tightened. “Stay away from my brother.” “Actually, you’re going to bring him to me.”
“Are you the one summoning the monsters?” Corran’s gaze locked with Damian’s gray eyes. He took cold satisfaction in the witch’s surprise.
“Me? No. But thanks to Rigan, I realized that magic presents many more possibilities than I had ever considered. In fact, that little… incident with the witches? In a way, I’ve Rigan to thank for my change of heart.”
“Rigan?”
“He got me thinking. I had never wondered about the why and wherefore of monsters before. Then I realized that Rigan was on to something, and when I went Above, I learned just how limited my thinking had been.”
Damian sneered. “Those stupid witches Below could only worry about not getting caught, healing a few fevers, warding off monsters and guards. But Above...” He waved his hand toward the ceiling.
“Magic is done on a whole different level. I could feel it as soon as I stepped into the street. And I wanted to be part of that.” “So tell me, did you kill the witches to curry favor? Was that your first assignment?”
The witch chuckled. “It proved I was sincere. Bringing in you, Rigan, and Aiden will earn me a place at the table.”
Corran glanced to where Mir sat slumped against the wall, blood staining his shirt, soaking through his bandage. His friend was dying, and Corran’s odds didn’t look much better. But maybe, with luck, he could keep Rigan and Aiden safe.
“Whose table?”
“My patron’s.”
“I’m surprised you’re sharing the spoils with Alton. Where is he, anyway?”
Damian’s lips twitched. “Delivering a message.”
“So you’ve come back for Rigan—and we’re the bait.” “Very good. You worked it out for yourself. No need to take on the rest of the hunters. Just bring Rigan and Aiden to us.” Fear knotted Corran’s stomach. “And then what?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Did you send the assassins?”
Damian smiled. “No, but I knew they were coming. I figured we could make the most of the opportunity.”
“Same patrons?”
He shrugged. “I honestly couldn’t tell you. Probably not. There’s a lot more going on Above than you ever realized.”
Corran looked up as footsteps sounded in the doorway. Another man entered.
“Message delivered. They know where and when.”
So that’s Alton. Corran sized up his captors. In a fair fight, he stood a good chance of taking either of them hand-to-hand; perhaps both of them, with a blade. But not when they had magic on their side. He swallowed. If Rigan knew he and Mir were prisoners, his brother would come. Might not even put up a fight. Corran was pretty sure Damian wasn’t interested in an exchange. He had already made it clear that he cared nothing for Mir’s life. Corran might prove a valuable hostage to keep his brother in line, but only for a while.
Corran could only guess how long they waited. The bells in the market tower were a distant jumble. He fervently hoped that Rigan and the hunters had run for their lives, taking Elinor and Polly with them. But he knew that his brother would never leave him behind, and he suspected the same was true of Aiden.
“You wanted me here; I’m here.”
Rigan’s voice came from the far corner of the room, not the doorway where Alton and Damian kept vigil. He stepped out of the shadows, and Corran took a moment’s satisfaction in the shock on Damian’s face. “There are many exits and entrances in Below. Might want to check that out, next time you decide to take hostages.” Rigan’s steady voice barely hid his anger.
“Don’t mind me; I took the back way.” Aiden’s voice came from the doorway. Damian glanced aw
ay from Rigan, just for a moment, and everything happened at once.
Fire blasted from Rigan’s hand, aimed at Damian’s chest. Damian gestured, and the fire bounced from a translucent barrier that shimmered like a soap bubble. He made a fist and thrust out his arm, and Rigan flew backward across the room. Corran heard his brother hit the far wall.
Damian strode toward Rigan and Corran dove forward, grabbing at the witch’s leg, wrapping his manacles around his foot. Damian responded with a vicious kick but Corran held on, wrapping the chain tighter, feeling metal grind on bone.
He heard a scuffle on the other side of the room, but could not spare his attention to see how Aiden fared against Alton. Damian kicked harder, landing a blow with his left foot to the side of Corran’s head. Corran saw stars and tried to stay conscious, his focus narrowing to keeping the iron chain locked around Damian’s ankle.
Rigan sent another blast of fire. Damian’s hand jerked up to block the magic, but this time, he failed to stop the flames. Corran jerked backward as Damian’s hair and clothing caught. “Corran, get away!”
Rigan yelled.
Corran scrabbled backward, as Damian rose to his feet, a living, burning effigy. Fire wreathed his face—jaw set, eyes cold—and in two steps, he stumbled toward where Rigan had vanished into the shadows.
“Watch out!” Corran yelled as Damian grabbed for his brother, flames spreading, and then the two figures pitched backward as the ceiling came down, smothering them and the fire beneath it. “Rigan!” Corran staggered to his feet, only to have Aiden catch him by the arm. Corran tried to shake loose of his grip. “Rigan’s under there!”
Aiden’s hand held him fast. “And so is Damian. Let me handle this.” Corran glanced past Aiden to where Alton lay in a bloody heap.
Aiden gave a shake of his head. “Not now.”
Corran relented, and the healer advanced carefully toward the pile of rubble. Corran swallowed hard, willing himself not to follow, straining to see anything in the gloom.
Aiden raised his arm and held out his hand above the mound. He murmured words that meant nothing to Corran, and a faint silvery glow slipped over the debris like moonlit spider webs, vanishing a heartbeat later. “Give me a hand,” Aiden called.
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