“Can we strike a deal?” Joji asked, his eyes on Vasha as the other man appeared at the cellar steps. “We bring up the food only. No ale, no wine. Agree to that, and we’ll help you unload what we can.”

  Vasha sized up the other man, his eyes narrowing. “What happened to you?”

  “Turns out there’s another way to get in. We blocked it for you.”

  “Huh.” Vasha pursed his lips, seeming to consider the revelation and offer. “Alright, then. Food only, and you both help. Granted, neither of you look like you’ll be able to do much.”

  The task went much faster with seven of them working. Micol counted each stair on his trips down and up, his teeth grinding deeper and deeper against each other until he felt like there had to be nothing left but nubs. Each time he made it back to the top, he expected to be greeted by the sight of the Vicrum guard. And each time, he was pleased to find they hadn’t made it through.

  Around his third trip, he could see a hole in the door large enough for a child’s hand to fit through. By his fifth trip, it had grown to the size of an apple. The hacking paused as he came into view of it; he saw the tip of a crossbow bolt appear at the hole, giving him just enough time to dodge it with a sideways hop.

  “Did you hit anything?” someone on the other side of the door asked.

  “I don’t think so. They’d cry out if we hit them, right?”

  “Dunno. Probably.”

  Micol dropped the bag he was carrying, turning to start his next trip. He reached the top step at the same time as Vasha, who was heading up.

  Vasha held out a hand to stop him. “Things aren’t looking good here. We’re not going to be able to escape unnoticed, understand?”

  Micol snorted. “Okay. What do you want me to do about it?”

  “You’re a fast runner. Probably our fastest, based on what I’ve seen.” He paused, smiling. “Makes sense I suppose. At any rate, you need to go to the drop-off and let them know what’s happened. Maybe they can send help.”

  “What if they can’t?”

  Vasha’s eyes closed, and when they opened he wore a calm expression. “Then you’ll be the only survivor. Look, I know we’ve been at odds once or twice tonight. That’s alright. But I’ve had the best interest of this crew in mind from the start. One of us making it out of here alive is better than none.” He dropped one of the bags he was carrying, offering a hand; Micol clasped it tightly, meeting his earnest expression with a grim smile.

  Micol’s steps echoed in the hall as he sprinted along it, turning at the staircase to head for the second story. He snarled away the shoots of pain growing in his legs and raced up the next set of stairs. Retracing his steps to the girl’s room took at once too long and no time at all.

  He found himself at the balcony, where one of the grappling hooks had fallen to the ground. The other was still secure, but it didn’t matter.

  A row of crossbowmen stood on the street below. At an order from one of the men, they loosed their weapons. Micol jerked back, a half dozen bolts flying past him. He retreated from the balcony, taking three steps before a horrible thought struck him: the grappling hook that was still secure offered those on the ground a means of ascent. They had likely only delayed their use of it so they could surprise the crew when they tried to escape.

  On returning to the balcony, he was surprised by another round of bolts. He managed to avoid all but one; it caught him on the cheek, a glancing blow that nonetheless made him wince. Guessing they’d only planned for two volleys, Micol jumped toward the secured grappling hook, striking it with the chipped edge of his axe. It took two blows to sever the cord, after which he again retreated.

  Micol raced down the hallway, his mind reeling to make sense of the situation. He felt the possible escape routes closing like the jaws of a trap. So much for being wolves. He thought. Couldn’t even make it past our first mission.

  He spotted light streaming from a window on the other side of the hall. He pushed it open, revealing a long balcony that looked down on most of the estate. At the far end was the roof of the main hall, running perpendicular to the balcony. The estate walls ran alongside the roof, parallel except for a turn at the very end that brought them within a couple paces. Micol made his way toward it – the gap was wide, perhaps too wide to jump. But it seemed like his only chance.

  The clay roof tiles shook with each step; Micol was sure he was going to fall at any moment. But his balance held out as he reached the end of the roof, tossing his body at full speed toward the top of the estate wall. He struck it chest-first, losing his breath but managing to get one arm over.

  His legs scrambled against the side of the wall, finding purchase that allowed him to push himself over. He dropped four paces on the other side, his already-injured arm crunching beneath his weight.

  It was a struggle to find his feet. A haze ran through his thoughts, threatening to surround him in darkness. Micol fought it back, rolling to his feet. After a moment to get his bearings, he hobbled in the direction of the safehouse they were meant to bring the supplies to.

  A man and a woman stood at the entrance, dressed in the dirty rags of peasants. Their heads dipped low in acknowledgement of Micol as he pushed the door open.

  The home had no furniture save a lone table where a woman in red robes was sitting. It took a moment for him to recognize her as Visala. “Micol. You look even worse than the day I found you.” Her smile of recognition disappeared as she read his expression. “What happened?”

  “I’m the only one who’s made it out. The rest are trapped in the main hall right now. Vasha sent me ahead to see if you could send help.”

  Visala looked away, her fingers drumming on the table. “The aspect wouldn’t want that. The priesthood cannot be associated with you.”

  “It won’t matter whether you’re associated with us if we’re all dead!” Micol heard his voice rising, but he didn’t much care to school his tone.

  “It won’t matter to you, perhaps. To those who are left, it will certainly matter.” She kept up her drumming on the table. “Did you manage to get to the food, at least?”

  “Yes. They should have it all out of the cellar soon. Not that they’ll have anywhere to go with it.”

  Visala whistled at the pair standing at the door. She nodded at each of them as they stepped into the room. “Our wolf pack needs help. It’s time for the back-up plan. Grab the satchels – I’ll send this one along to meet you at the wall.”

  The man and woman nodded. Each of them grabbed a satchel from inside the doorway. Beside the two they took, Micol spotted two more they left behind.

  “Will they need those?” he asked, gesturing toward the satchels they’ve left.

  “Two will be enough. Now, let’s see about you.” Visala walked around the table, her eyes taking in his wounds as she approached. She touched his elbow; a moment later the throbbing eased. He glanced at it, gasping with surprise – not only had the break at his elbow healed, but the slash he’d gotten in holding the kitchen door had closed as well, leaving behind a patch of skin that showed nothing of the wound.

  He saw a flash of blue as another soothing wave passed through him, easing his other injuries. Even the small nicks and cuts on his legs stopped complaining.

  “What power is this?” Micol whispered. “I didn’t know the priests of Mirao were capable of such a thing.”

  Visala chuckled. “They didn’t used to be. Those of us in Vicrum are… a new breed. We’re capable of many miracles that would surprise you.” She shook her head, continuing. “You should head back to the estate. Gwynn and Jeshan will be waiting at the wall. They wait for your arrival to begin the final phase of the plan.”

  “There’s still a plan, then?” Micol asked. He waited for several moments, but eventually it became clear he wasn’t going to get an answer. With a sigh, he headed back for the wall; Visala’s attentions had made him feel like a new man, washing away not only his wounds but also the exhaustion brought on by the long night.

  He found Gwynn and Jeshan close to the section of wall he had crawled over, leaning against it in a way that made them look like any other beggars on the street. They rose to their feet on seeing him, readying the satchels resting against their shoulders. The man – Jeshan – began fiddling with something at the edge of his.

  Gwynn spoke to Micol as Jeshan worked. “He’s going to toss it on top of the wall once it’s ready. If we’re lucky, it’ll stay up there. If we’re less lucky, it’ll end up on one side or the other. That’ll be messy, but we can still get through. Then it’s into the hall where your friends are trapped. Your job once we get in…” She paused at a curse from Jeshan. “Your job is to grab two of the largest bags of rice you can find. Bring them out here, break them open, and toss them to either side. Then say these words to the crowd: ‘A gift from the Wolves of Vicrum.’ They will fall on it, which should allow enough time for Visala’s barrows to arrive.”

  “It’s ready,” Jeshan said. He turned, tossing the satchel. It landed atop the wall, its weight causing it to slowly slide toward the other side.

  Gwynn tugged at Micol’s elbow, drawing him away from the wall. “Twelve paces, turn, and cover your ears,” she instructed.

  He did as she instructed, following the pair along the shadow of the wall. For a moment, he wondered how they would know what was happening if they weren’t watching. The explosion that followed sent a jolt through his bones, answering the question.

  A soft touch on his shoulder let him know it was okay to look. He stared at what was left of the portion of wall the satchel had landed on; the explosion had cleared a hole as wide and tall as two men. At the lowest section the rubble rose to shin-height, leaving more than enough room for them to pass through.

  Gwynn prepared the satchel she carried as they jogged inside the estate. She made short work of it, tossing the bag as soon as they were close to the wall of the main hall. “Twelve paces, turn, cover your ears,” she repeated.

  This time Micol was prepared for the jolt. He gritted his teeth as it shook through him, but he didn’t try to fight the sensation.

  Once it was done, he removed his hands from his ears and turned back to assess the scene in the main hall. The satchel had landed on the ground, leaving a crater that would be hard to work around. But it had cleared a path into the hall, and as far as Micol was concerned that was all that mattered.

  “Remember,” Gwynn said as they jogged for the hole. “Two sacks of rice. A gift from the Wolves of Vicrum.”

  Micol nodded, falling into a full sprint and leaving the pair behind. At the end of the hall, the hole the guards had beat into the door had grown to the size of a paver’s stone. He could see dozens of guards in the courtyard beyond, shouting at him and raising fists.

  Joji was leaning against the doors, his face covered in sweat. He raised his head slightly at the sight of Micol.

  “Cavalry’s here, old man,” Micol said, pausing at the pile of sacks to look through them. “It won’t be long now. You just have to hold on for a little longer.” He lifted two medium-sized bags that appeared to contain rice, turning to head back toward the hole they’d entered through.

  He passed Gwynn and Jeshan on the way. Gwynn nodded at him before giving a command to one of his allies to begin bringing the rest to the other end of the hall.

  Micol reached the estate wall, stepping through the rubble carefully. A couple dozen men and women stood on the street, staring wide-eyed at him as he emerged from the hole. He set down one bag and then the other, using the head of his axe to rip them open.

  “A gift from the Wolves of Vicrum!” he said, tossing one bag to his left. “A gift from the Wolves of Vicrum!” Tossing the other bag to his right. Grains of rice rolled out of the sacks to cover the street; the gathered peasants immediately set to work picking them off the ground, stuffing rice into pockets and cupping hands – anything they could think of to hold the loose grains.

  Micol saw more gathering to look beyond the crowd, no doubt wondering what was happening. When they saw the rice, they joined in as well. He watched as the crowd grew; in the time it took for them to gather most of the rice, it swelled to nearly fifty people.

  A burly man appeared from another street; he pushed his wheelbarrow through, forcing his way past those who would not move. Others appeared soon after, wheeling through the gap in the wall.

  Gwynn appeared beside Micol, thick chains of sausage looped over each shoulder. “We’re not out of this yet. Jeshan is holding off a few guards that way.” She gestured to the left, at the gap between a corner of the main hall and the wall lining the edge of the estate. “See if he needs help, would you?”

  Micol nodded, jogging in the direction she’d indicated. Her shouts followed him, “A gift from the Wolves of Vicrum!” The crowd cheered – no doubt it had been weeks since they’d last tasted meat.

  He turned a corner, coming into view of Jeshan. The man was holding off three guards trying to slip between through a small gap, poking at them with a spear to keep them at bay. He glanced over a shoulder at Micol’s approach. “What are you doing here?”

  “Gwynn asked me to check if you need help.”

  The other man let out a barking laugh. “Against these three? I think not. They’re as timid as schoolboys. Come, children. Come and meet your master.” He thrust forward with his spear, catching one of the men in the shoulder. The guard cried out, falling back into his allies.

  “Then what am I to do?” Micol asked.

  “Help load the barrows. I’ve got this covered.” He hopped out of reach of a sword swing from one of the men he faced, replying with a swipe of his spear that rebounded off of the guard’s helm.

  Micol returned to the main hall to find them loading the last wheelbarrow with food. There were three members of the original crew – Vasha and the others who’d climbed the balcony with Micol – lifting one or two sacks each, rising as they prepared to leave.

  Vasha tossed Micol one of those he carried. “Here. Don’t want you to feel left out.”

  “Where’s Darshan?” Micol asked. “And Joji?”

  “They’re headed to the safehouse. This is the last of it.” He twisted to glance at the hole in the door. “I’d suggest we make haste before they reload the crossbow they’ve been using to harass us. No one’s gotten hit by that one yet, but don’t want their first hit to be right as we’re about to leave, eh?”

  Micol nodded his agreement. The four of them followed the wheelbarrow out, falling into an impromptu line. The woman driving the wheelbarrow whistled as they passed through the courtyard; Jeshan appeared moments later, spear at the ready.

  In the street, Gwynn was standing in the midst of a semi-circle the crowd had made for her. Whatever gifts she’d given them, apparently it had been enough to earn her their rapt attention. Two bodies lay immobile at her feet – Micol briefly wondered what had happened to them, but shook his head to banish the questions.

  “Alright!” Gwynn shouted, her voice hoarse from use. “This is the last one!” She dropped her voice to address Micol and the other Wolves. “Cut those open and toss behind as you go. The crowd will cover our escape.”

  They did as she asked, littering the street with a layer of rice and oats. True to her word, the crowd – now in the hundreds – swarmed around them, closing like a river to grab the food they left in their wake.

  A few of the hungrier men focused on Micol, gaining the courage to try and rip the bag from his hands. At first he kept them away with hands and feet, but once they had passed halfway through the crowd he let go, allowing the bodies to carry him along. As focused as everyone was on gathering what they could, it was easy for him to disappear among them, working his way slowly through the press of bodies.

  Micol finally found his way out on a side street. He turned left, for all intents and purposes just another member of the crowd who’d lost interest once the food had run out. He smiled to himself, arms swinging at his sides as he made his way to the safehouse.

  Chapter 15

  Tarana

  Tarana’s steps clinked against tiles as she approached Bilal. He stood on a rooftop overlooking the Villain’s Gate, shoulders hunched as he stared at the entrance. Fevre’s rangers had piled the bodies of dead attackers high to block it off, sealing the mass tight with pitch; the result was a makeshift barricade that obscured all but the top portion of the gate. She supposed some Ma’isans might be able to make that climb, but even at the late hour she counted no less than two dozen rangers on nearby rooftops, bows ready for any who tried.

  “We shouldn’t linger here too long,” Bilal said, not bothering to turn around.

  “Why not?” Tarana asked. “The roof seems sturdy enough.”

  “You know I’m not talking about the rooftop. I’m talking about Fevre, her rangers. The longer we stick with them, the greater the chances for your secret to be discovered.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  Bilal finally turned, raising himself to his full height. “If what you’ve told me is true, Prelate Gratianos has ordered your death. However friendly Commander Geere seems to you, the prelate is still her superior officer. And no one rises as high in the military as she has by disobeying orders.”

  “You don’t put much faith in people, do you?”

  “I put the right amount of faith in people,” Bilal replied with a sad smile. “My father always said ‘expect nothing and you’ll never be disappointed.’”

  “Your father sounds like an idiot.”

  Bilal’s expression darkened. He took a step toward Tarana, and for a moment she thought he might try and strike her. “Don’t ever speak ill of my father.”

  “Okay.” She took a step back, glancing down as she considered her response. “Sorry.”

  The indignation that was clearly written on Bilal’s face eased up. “He was a legend, you know. The Rogue of Jaruna. Finest thief in living memory.”