I wiggle the key, first gently and then a bit harder. One of the soldiers turns toward the door. I look at him, right at his eyes, but he shrugs and turns back.
Patience, Laia. I take a deep breath and lift the lock. Because it’s attached to something that is grounded in the earth, it does not disappear. I hope no one is looking at this door right now—they’d see a lock floating inches from where it should be, and even the most dimwitted aux would know that’s unnatural. Again, I twist the key. Almost—
Just then, something fastens on to my arm—a long hand that curls like a feeler around my bicep.
“Ah, Laia of Serra,” someone breathes into my ear. “What a talented girl you are. I am very interested in examining your skill further.”
My invisibility falters, and the keys fall to the icy stones with a clatter. I look up to find myself staring into a pointed face with large, watery eyes.
The Warden.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Elias
Shaeva warned me that the Waiting Place would pull at me. As I make my way across the freezing prison yard to the pens, I feel it, a yank in my chest, like an invisible hook.
I’m coming, I shout in my head. The more you bully me, the slower I’ll be, so stop it.
The pull lessens slightly, as if the Waiting Place has heard. Fifteen yards to the pens … thirteen … ten …
Then I hear footsteps. The soldier from Kauf’s entrance has caught up with me. From his cautious gait, I can tell that my uniform and the scims across my back haven’t fooled him. Ten hells. Ah well. This was always a stretch, as far as disguises go.
He attacks. I try to sidestep him, but Darin’s body has me off balance, and the soldier clips me, knocking me down and sending Darin rolling away.
The legionnaire’s eyes widen when my hood falls back. “Prisoner loose,” he bellows. “Pris—” I snatch a knife from his belt and plunge it into his side.
Too late. The legionnaires at Kauf’s entrance have heard his cry. Four of the spearmen guarding the prisoners break away. Auxes.
I smile. Not enough to take me down.
I draw my scims as the first soldier approaches, duck under his spear, and slice his wrist. He screams and releases the weapon. I drop him with a blow across the temple, then pivot and halve the spear of the next soldier, felling him with a blade through the stomach.
My blood rises now, my warrior’s instincts at full tilt. I sweep up the fallen soldier’s spear and send it flying into the shoulder of the third aux. The fourth hesitates, and I take him down with a shoulder to his gut. His head cracks against the cobblestones, and he does not move again.
A spear whizzes by my ear, and pain explodes in my head. It’s not enough to stop me.
A dozen spearmen break from the prisoners. They know now that I am more than just an escaped prisoner.
“Run!” I roar at the gaping prisoners, pointing at the gap in the cordon. “Escape! Run!”
Two Martials bolt through the cordon and make for Kauf’s portcullis. For a moment, it seems as if the entire yard watches them, holding its breath. Then a guard shouts, the spell is broken, and all at once, dozens of inmates surge out, not caring if they are impaling their fellows on spears. The Martial spearmen attempt to fill the gap, but there are thousands of prisoners, and they’ve caught the scent of freedom.
The soldiers running toward me slow at the shouts of their comrades. I heave Darin up and race for the Scholar pens. Why in the ten hells aren’t they open yet? There should be Scholars flooding the yard.
“Elias!” Tas darts toward me. “The lock is stuck. And Laia—the Warden—”
I spot the Warden scuttling across the yard with Laia in a chokehold. She kicks at him desperately, but he’s lifted her off the ground, and her face turns red from lack of air. No! Laia! I’m already moving for her, but I grit my teeth and force myself to stop. We need those pens open if we want to get the Scholars out and loaded onto the boats.
“Get to her, Tas,” I say. “Distract the Warden. I’ll deal with the lock.”
Tas runs, and I drop Darin beside the Scholar pen. The legionnaires guarding its entrance have bolted toward Kauf’s in an attempt to stop the mass exodus of prisoners, and I turn my attention to the lock. It’s jammed good and tight, and no matter how I twist, it does not open. Within the pens, a man shoves his way forward, only his dark eyes visible through the slats. His face is so filthy that I cannot tell if he is old or young.
“Elias Veturius?” he says in a harsh whisper.
As I unsheathe my scim to break the lock, I venture a guess. “Araj?”
The man nods. “What’s taking so long? We’ve—Behind you!”
His warning saves me a spear through the gut, and I barely dodge the next. A dozen soldiers close on me, undistracted by the chaos at the gate.
“The lock, Veturius!” Araj says. “Quickly.”
“Either give me a minute,” I hiss through gritted teeth, flicking my scims to divert two more spears, “or make yourself useful.”
Araj barks an order to the Scholars within the pen. Seconds later, a barrage of rocks flies over the top and rains down upon the spearmen.
Watching this tactic is like witnessing a pack of mice flinging pebbles at a horde of ravening cats. Fortunately for me, these mice have good aim. Two of the closest spearmen falter, giving me enough time to spin and break the lock with a swipe of my scim.
The door bursts open, and with a roar, the Scholars explode from the pen.
I swipe up a Serric steel dagger from one of the fallen spearmen and hand it to Araj, who barrels out with the rest. “Open the other pen!” I shout. “I have to get to Laia!”
A sea of Scholar prisoners now crowds the yard, but the Warden’s form pokes out above them. A small group of Scholar children, Tas among them, attack the old man. He lashes out with his scim to keep them at bay, but he’s loosened his hold on Laia, and she thrashes in an attempt to break free.
“Warden!” I bellow. He turns at my voice, and Laia kicks her heel straight back into his shin while biting the flesh of his arm. The Warden jerks up his scim, and one of the Scholar children slips close and bashes his knee with a heavy skillet. The Warden roars, and Laia tumbles away from him, reaching for the dagger at her waist.
But it’s not there. It gleams now in Tas’s hands. His small face twists with rage as he lunges for the Warden. His friends swarm all over the old man, biting, clawing, bringing him down, taking their revenge on the monster who has abused them since the day they were born.
Tas plunges the dagger into the Warden’s throat, flinching from the geyser of blood that erupts. The other children scurry away, surrounding Laia, who pulls Tas to her chest. I am beside them moments later.
“Elias,” Tas whispers. He cannot take his eyes off the Warden. “I—”
“You slew a demon, Tas of the north.” I kneel beside him. “I am proud to fight by your side. Get the other children out. We’re not free yet.” I look up at the gate, where the guards now battle a horde of crazed prisoners. “Meet us at the boats.”
“Darin!” Laia looks at me. “Where—”
“By the pens,” I say. “I can’t wait until he wakes up and I can give him hell. I’ve had to drag him all around this bleeding prison.”
The drums thud frenziedly, and over the chaos, I can just barely hear the answering drums of a distant garrison. “Even if we escape onto the boats,” Laia says as we race for the pens, “we’ll have to get out before we reach the Forest of Dusk. And the Martials will be waiting, won’t they?”
“They will,” I say. “But I have a plan.” Well, not exactly a plan. More like a hunch—and a possibly delusional hope that I can use my new occupation to do something quite mad. It’s a gamble that will depend on the Waiting Place and Shaeva and my power of persuasion.