Spittle sprayed from the man’s lips as he heaved once more. Arcturus craned his neck in desperation, and his arms seized in effort, yet still the blade sank deeper. Fresh blood spurted from the wound, and Arcturus knew he was going to die.
Then the man stiffened. Arcturus moaned with effort and suddenly the sword was his, and he pushed it up toward the man. His effort did little more than graze the rebel’s face, but in that moment the rebel coughed, and Arcturus’s face was sprayed with crimson. It was only then that he saw a second blade glittering above, and he could finally breathe again as the man’s body keeled over.
For a moment he lay there, gulping great gasps of air, ignoring his rescuer. Beside him, he sensed Sacharissa’s triumph as she finished her opponent off with a final, savage bite, and the sudden concern as she processed the terror and desperation from her master. She had been oblivious, too focused on the man beneath her, but now she came, her rough tongue bathing his face as he choked his way back to breathing easy once more.
“You’re a fool,” said a gruff voice.
Ulfr. The dwarf stood above Arcturus, his legs akimbo, hands on his hips. He clutched a long knife, the blade red with blood.
“I had … to try,” Arcturus managed.
“You should have killed them with a lightning spell,” Ulfr grunted, grasping Arcturus’s hand and lifting him to his feet.
Arcturus steadied himself on Sacharissa, his legs wavering like jelly, and Ulfr kneeled, wiping his blade on the dead swordsman’s cloak. He had been too low on mana for more than a few, weak spells, but Arcturus didn’t have the energy to tell him that.
“Thank you,” Arcturus said instead, “for helping me. You didn’t have to do that.”
Ulfr didn’t respond. He simply shook his head and began to drag the swordsman’s corpse down the corridor.
“What do we do now?” Arcturus asked.
“Grab hold of a body, get that mutt to do the same, and follow me,” Ulfr snapped, stopping to blow out the torches on the walls. “If we’re lucky they won’t see the blood.”
The dwarf stopped to grab his tray and balanced it on the man’s crimson-soaked belly. Then he continued on, grunting with effort.
Arcturus sent Sacharissa back to the stocky man he had killed with the crossbow, and tried not to look at the bloodied remains of the rebel beneath him. He could see now that the man had worn chain mail beneath his cloak. It was not a pretty sight.
He looked up the corridor, where Ulfr had already disappeared into impenetrable darkness.
“Hellfire,” Arcturus breathed. “That was close.”
And followed him.
CHAPTER
45
IT FELT LIKE AN age dragging the body through pitch black, and as Arcturus focused, he could still hear the conversations of the men on the floors beneath them. They swirled around him like the whispers of dead men, but he heard no alarm in them, even if the sound itself sent shivers up his spine.
Then there was a stark voice among the crowd, chiming as an off-key note in the conversation’s melody. A bellow of pain, like a boar being speared on a hunt. Arcturus stopped, but it was gone as soon as it came, and he was forced to shuffle on once more.
He had never felt in more danger. It was only the thin light of the moon in the near distance that drove him on, for without it he might have stopped and buried his face in Sacharissa’s fur.
With every heartbeat, the wound in his neck throbbed with pain, and he could feel the blood that had pooled on his chest congealing. He only wished he had enough mana to heal it, but he had used the last of it in that final blast of wyrdlight.
Finally, he reached a small pool of light, where Ulfr had already levered open a dust-covered window.
“Help me lift him,” Ulfr said, taking the swordsman’s corpse under the arms and heaving its back onto the window. Arcturus took the legs, then the body was gone. It took a long time for Arcturus to hear the distant splash.
The food tray and other bodies followed, and Arcturus felt the blood, sticky on his hands. He felt sick once more—he had no stomach for this kind of killing.
“I took the keys from the big one,” Ulfr said, peering into the gloom they had come from. He held them out and shook them impatiently.
Arcturus took the keys, unsure what Ulfr expected of him. They had likely passed several doors in the darkness, but there was no way of telling which one held his friends.
“Why are you helping me?” Arcturus asked, delaying the task at hand. “Surely you hate the nobles as much as anyone.”
“Rich humans, poor humans, you’re all the same,” Ulfr muttered, avoiding Arcturus’s eyes.
Sacharissa whined, sensing Arcturus’s fear, and he comforted her with a ruffle of her mane.
“So what’s in it for you?” Arcturus pressed.
“If the rebels take power, they won’t treat the dwarves any better.” Ulfr sighed, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. “We refused to help them.”
“Why?” Arcturus asked.
“We’ve tried to overthrow the nobles many times, and never won,” Ulfr replied. “We didn’t think they had a chance. Of course, we didn’t know the rebels would capture their children. They have a slim hope now, but it’s too late for us to join them.”
He stopped for a moment, and the dwarf’s brow furrowed, as if he were working something out.
“But if a dwarf saves King Alfric’s son, the rebels lose,” he whispered, so quietly that Arcturus had to strain to hear it. “Then he would owe us. Give us more rights. Make us equals.”
Ulfr opened his eyes and Arcturus thought he saw the briefest hint of a smile through the dwarf’s beard.
“Can you help me get them out of here?” Arcturus asked.
“I can try,” Ulfr said. “But it’s not going to be easy. Come on.”
The dwarf hurried back down the passageway, and Arcturus followed. Within moments they were in darkness once more, but soon Arcturus grunted with pain as he ran into Ulfr’s back.
“Here,” the dwarf said, guiding Arcturus’s hand to the keyhole. “This is where I brought their food yesterday.”
Arcturus struggled with the keys. There were three of them on a loop, and he blindly fumbled one into the slot. It rattled in the lock but would not turn.
“Try the next,” Ulfr whispered.
On the other side, Arcturus heard the low murmur of voices, and his heart leaped at the thought of rescuing his friends. The next key turned, and suddenly the world was bright again as he fell into the room.
He looked up, a grin on his face, but it was wiped away as swiftly as it appeared. Because in front of him, spread in a row, a trio of crossbowmen stared at him down the shafts of their quarrels.
“I’m here to relieve you,” Arcturus said weakly, even as he lifted his bloodied hands, and Sacharissa growled from behind him.
“Don’t. Move,” one of the rebels growled through gritted teeth.
“If his fingers so much as twitch … shoot him,” another snapped. He appeared to be the leader, for his voice commanded some authority, and he wore finer clothes than the others.
Beyond the guards, Arcturus could see the trussed-up bodies of his friends, and hear their muffled moans as they tried to speak through tight gags. Arcturus only glanced at them, for he could not tear his eyes away from the sharp points aimed at his chest.
He heard the shuffle of footsteps behind him, though he dared not turn his head to look. Ulfr had entered the room, but the dwarf did not have his hands up. Instead, he stumbled to the side and fell.
“Thank you,” Ulfr said, getting to his knees and shuffling away. “The bastard forced me to bring him here.”
The men ignored him, their crossbows firmly pointed at Arcturus. He was the threat—a single spell from him could take the three of them out. Little did they know, Arcturus had no mana left to use.
“Listen, I can explain,” Arcturus began.
“Save it,” the leader said. “We know who you are. You’re the common summoner. The bastard.”
“We should kill him where he stands,” hissed one of his companions. “He’s a traitor to the cause.”
“Not before Crawley gives the go-ahead,” the leader said.