“I can’t.”

  Death’s eyes stayed on him, searching for something he could only guess at. “That’s good. Your hesitation means we’ve found the right man. Trust me, I wouldn’t throw away any of your lives wantonly. The only reason I give you this order is to spare those who might be captured from pain. If anyone is captured, the rest of their life will be short and painful. They will be tortured, and once they reveal what they know they will be killed.”

  Micol released a ragged breath. “So… it’s to be mercy, then?”

  “Yes, it would be mercy. And only as a last resort.”

  “Alright, then. I suppose I can do that.” Micol nodded his assent.

  The trio of satchels slung across Micol’s back felt heavy as an anvil as he waited in the shadow of a shack at the base of the plateau. Night had fallen quickly, seeming to come on the slums all at once. He breathed out through his mouth, gagging at the aroma of spoiled cabbage baking on granite.

  In total, their group numbered nearly two dozen, consisting of those who had been at the Farai estate as well as others who had joined more recently. The new members stuck to each other, eyeing the experienced Wolves with a mix of respect and fear.

  Vasha’s group was the largest, including Micol, Darshan, Saulie’s brother, and thirteen more. They crouched in the shadows as Joji’s men approached the dungeon gate, wearing the red robes of priests of Mirao. Joji hailed one of the guards and spoke with him – they were too far away for Micol to catch the exact words, but he knew the gist of the plan: Joji’s group would pretend they were visiting the dungeon to gather souls of those who had passed in its depths, a common-enough task.

  The guards let Joji and his men pass, bowing their heads in deference as they walked through the gate. Rare was the man who would risk the displeasure of Death himself, after all.

  Darshan tugged on Micol’s elbow, pointing at a side street as several other guards emerged on patrol. Micol counted ten he could see; they lingered at the gate while a man who must have been their sergeant spoke with the dungeon guards.

  Skora! Micol thought. We haven’t even gotten inside, and already it’s getting complicated. If they’d had a way to communicate with Joji he might have warned the other man, but as it was all they could do was wait. With any luck, the guards would continue on their patrol before it became apparent anything was going on inside.

  Micol counted his breaths, mentally willing the guards to pass. In, out. In, out. The beating of his heart seemed abnormally loud – it was as if his body had decided the time would soon come for taking action, and there was nothing he could do to convince himself otherwise.

  We’re not killers. Immortals, don’t make us become killers. Micol grasped the axe at his side, his fingers working along its pitted head. The group of guards wasn’t moving – one of them leaned against a wall, settling in as if he knew it was going to be a long conversation.

  Micol backed away from the shadow where he and Darshan had been hiding, stealing through an alley to the position where Vasha and two others were watching the same scene unfold.

  “What is it?” Vasha asked. “I don’t think those magic satchels Jeshan gave you are going to do much good here.”

  “Maybe not,” Micol whispered, “But we have to do something. It won’t be long before Joji disables the lift, and then all of those guards will go rushing in. His men will be slaughtered. Or worse, captured.”

  Vasha’s eyes narrowed as he studied Micol’s expression. “Visala told me there might come a moment when you wanted to take over command. She said I should defer you if we were going to have any chance of surviving. Is that what this is?”

  “No. I’m just saying…” Micol trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. “If they’re still here in a quarter hour we’re going to be in a world of trouble.”

  “Agreed. What we need is something to draw them away.” Vasha grabbed Saulie’s brother by the shoulder. His face looked less drawn – if a little more world-weary – than Micol remembered. “You and your brother grew up on the streets, correct?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Very good. Did you ever play the game of – oh, what do the urchins call it? Tumble-running?”

  “Tumble-running?” the boy repeated, his brow furrowing.

  “Yeah, tumble-running. You throw a rock at a guard and try to run away before he and his mates can catch you. Have you ever played that?”

  “Sure, but we didn’t have a name for it.”

  Vasha sighed. “That’s not important. Where I grew up, we called it tumble-running. And we need you to do it now. Draw as many of those guards away from here as you can, and we’ll handle the rest.” He reached down to the street, bringing his hand up with a stone the size of his palm. “Here, I’ve even found a rock for you.”

  “I don’t know. What if they catch me? Hardly seems like a good rescue if we stack up more of our own to be rescued later.”

  This isn’t about saving Sakaye, Micol thought. At least, not primarily. Visala had made that clear to the three of them. The ranger’s second was the top priority; if they could rescue Sakaye at the same time, that was just a bonus.

  “Well, you’ll have to make sure they don’t catch you,” Vasha said. “If you don’t think you’re up to it, we’ll find someone else.”

  The boy shook his head. “No, I can do it.” He took a steadying breath and stole the stone from Vasha’s hand. He swaggered ahead, stumbling onto the street ahead with the shuffling walk of a drunkard.

  “Piss on you!” he said, tossing the stone at the sergeant. It struck the man’s helm with a hollow plink; he let out a curse and turned to face his attacker.

  Saulie’s brother howled, raising his fists as if he was planning on fighting them.

  “Seize him!” the sergeant ordered.

  To his credit, Saulie’s brother held his position until the guards were almost on him. He made a frightened face – whether real or fake, Micol couldn’t say – and ducked beneath the arms of one man, running toward another. The guard fumbled to grasp him; he got a hold of Saulie’s shirt, but it came apart in his hands like so many rags.

  The rest of those at the gate surrounded him, closing like a group of hunters around a treed fox. Micol’s breath caught as a pair of them lunged for the boy; impossibly, he avoided their grasp, reappearing outside of the circle with a steel helm held triumphantly in his hands.

  “Think I’ll just keep this!” he taunted, raising it high like a trophy.

  Micol heard Vasha chuckle to his left. “Clever boy,” he muttered.

  “Clever?”

  “He needs them to chase him, but they have to believe it’s their idea. Otherwise, why allow themselves to be distracted by such an obvious ploy? So he plays the part of a drunk who gets in over his head by stealing something of theirs. Well, now they believe he has a reason to run. And they have a reason to chase.”

  As Vasha spoke, Saulie’s brother lowered the helm, his eyes widening with fear. He dropped it on the ground, backing away from the dungeon gates. But it was too late – the guards gave chase, many of them retrieving daggers from their belts as they ran after him.

  The boy sprinted along the line of the plateau, vaulting over a half-wall that was in his way. He scrambled across a thin beam spanning a lower street, disappearing from view when he took an abrupt turn. It wasn’t long before the guards chasing him disappeared as well.

  As expected, only some of the guards had given chase. Five – including the three tasked with watching the dungeon – remained in position, their eyes following Saulie’s brother.

  “We should strike now,” Micol said. “While they’re distracted. Use our numbers to overwhelm them and force our way inside.”

  Vasha’s jaw worked as he thought. He shook his head. “You’re probably right, but I don’t like it.”

  “What do you want to do, then? Wait till Joji and his men get captured?”

  “No, I didn’t say that either. I just… don’t like it.” Vasha sighed. “Fine, we’ll do it your way. You’re the fastest among us. You should lead the charge.”

  Micol blanched at the thought. The first ones to rush the guards would probably meet the business end of their swords, with only hand axes to protect them.

  Vasha’s eyes burned into him. He clapped a hand on Micol’s shoulder as if to tell him it was okay. “You have the satchels and the mysterious orders no one else knows about. I suppose we shouldn’t go risking you like that. I’ll take the lead.”

  The only response Micol could give was a nod. His ashen tongue betrayed him, making speech impossible. He watched as Vasha worked his sword out from a belt loop and nodded once to the other men in the alley before leaving the shadows.

  The guards were slow in reacting to the appearance of Vasha; they didn’t seem to notice him until he’d covered nearly half the distance to them, and by the time the first guard was able to free his blade the rest of the Wolves had appeared from the alleys. Micol stood near the back, shame coloring his face when he saw the guards freeze.

  “That’s the right idea,” Vasha said, stopping a few paces short of the other group. “Drop your weapons and you won’t be harmed.”

  The guard who’d managed to draw his sword – a bald man with dark eyes – replied, “You’re not getting through this gate, lads. Even if you kill us, those inside won’t open it for the likes of you. You’d best scatter before the city guard finds you here.”

  “Oh, we have no plans to kill anyone. Haven’t you heard of the Wolves of Vicrum?”

  “We have,” the bald man said.

  Vasha spread his arms out, gesturing to the men behind him. “We are the Wolves of Vicrum. And we believe you have something that belongs to us. We’ll just be collecting our men and then we’ll be on our way.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “You work for the people of this city, do you not? People who are starving, all while families like the Farai hoard their wealth and food and refuse to acknowledge the damage their greed causes. Our only crime was in seeing this and deciding to do something about it.”

  “Words are cheap, boy. And I’m tired of yours. Either make a move or leave.” The other men at the gate drew their own swords, their glares challenging Vasha and his men to attack.

  “Very well,” Vasha said. “I charge you with treason against the people of Vicrum. Since you will not stand down, we must sentence you to death.”

  The Wolves fell upon the smaller group, overwhelming them through force of numbers. From his position at the back, Micol could barely see the first of their number fall, but he heard the slick cleaving of blades, followed by cries of pain. He pressed against the back of the throng, dreading what would happen if he made it to the front. Several moments later the press of bodies relaxed, allowing him through.

  The bodies of the guards lay on the ground, joined by at least three Wolves. Vasha’s blade pierced the chest of a guard who was still writhing, stilling him.

  The tall doors in front of them yawned open, revealing Joji and a pair of men behind him. Joji’s expression darkened as he took in the scene. “What happened here?”

  “They didn’t leave us any choice,” Vasha said. “If you don’t believe me, ask Micol.”

  Joji’s eyes turned to Micol. He nodded his head solemnly.

  “What now?” Vasha asked, focusing on Micol.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do we continue? The rest of the guards will return, and they’ll know something happened here. We won’t be able to escape through the gate once we go in. So… what do you have up your sleeves? Before we enter, I want to be sure we have a way out.”

  Micol breathed in slowly, exhaling through his nostrils. “On the second sub-level there’s a window that leads to nowhere. A dead-end window. Or so the wardens believe. But those who’ve been in the room say they felt a breeze. So it opens to something. Most likely the sewers.”

  “Likely?” Vasha repeated, his brow furrowing. “What do we do if we get there and it’s a dead end?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe –”

  Joji cut Micol off. “Doesn’t matter either way. We have the lift, but reinforcements are coming down from the upper levels. We need to block off the stairs now.” He grabbed Micol by the sleeve, pulling him into the dungeon.

  It took a moment for Micol’s eyes to adjust to the relative darkness of the passage. An open space capped its end as the walls spread out, leaving room for a round platform large enough to fit several men. Half a turn to the left, four Wolves in red robes were frantically stacking furniture at the foot of a wide staircase.

  With a steadying breath, Micol slipped one of the satchels from his back. His sweaty fingers slipped on the mechanism that would start the reaction as he saw a group of guards appear at the top of the landing. The men looked at him over the makeshift blockade, their eyes widening as if they understood what he was preparing.

  Twist the striker twice, Micol reminded himself. Listen for the hiss. Toss at the supports. Twelve steps and cover your ears. He threw the satchel with a grunt; it slid to a stop against a wall of the landing, settling between the feet of a bearded man.

  “Scatter!” Micol shouted. He and the Wolves turned, running their twelve steps away from the satchel. He covered his ears as a boom made his teeth chatter. He opened his eyes and squinted against the dust that had been kicked up; the stairs had been destroyed almost completely, blocked off by an avalanche of rubble that would take several days to sift through.

  A glance over his shoulder confirmed Vasha and his men had made their choice about entering – the group was standing at the dungeon gates, which had been barred to prevent entrance from outside.

  “How many do you think got caught up in the blast?” Joji asked, his bloodshot eyes focusing on Micol.

  Micol shook his head. “A couple.”

  “So much for not being killers.”

  “Yup.”

  “Was bound to happen at some point,” Vasha chimed in. “We could only keep our hands clean for so long. All we can do now is trust we’re killing the right people.”

  “And are we?” Joji asked. “Killing the right people, I mean?”

  “Seems like we’re making enemies of the rich and powerful, which I’ll take as a good sign.” Vasha sighed. “But we’re not done yet. Which floor is the ranger on?”

  “Third sub-floor,” Joji answered. “Same as Sakaye. The lift will take us down, but I’m sure they’ll have a welcome party ready. We only stranded those on the floors above, remember. That still leaves three levels’ worth of guards to deal with.”

  Micol nodded. “Best get to it, then.” He joined Joji’s men on the platform in the center of the room; the men formed a circle around a lever that seemed important, eyes training on the work of the guards at the destroyed stairwell as they waited for the rest of the Wolves to join them.

  “It’s going to be a one-way trip,” Joji said, leaning in to speak to Micol. “That lever controls the brake, but the lifting side is handled by a group on the top level. Something tells me they won’t be willing to pull us back up once we’re done retrieving our friends.”

  Micol grunted his agreement. So we’ll be fighting our way stair by stair to get to the second sub-floor. The prospect made his stomach turn.

  The wooden platform dropped without warning, knocking several of the other Wolves off their feet. They picked up speed as one floor passed, then another. Two of Joji’s men squeezed the brake, putting their weight behind a mighty pull that brought them to a halt; Micol’s stomach lurched as their descent slowed.

  Torchlight flickered at each of a number of columns surrounding them, faint enough to cast long shadows throughout the room. Before Micol could take in any other details, a group of guards fell on them, swords flashing as they plunged amongst the Wolves.

  Micol ducked out of the way of a downward stroke he could barely see, freeing his axe from his belt and bringing it against his attacker’s chin in a single motion. The other man stumbled back, only to be brought down by a piercing thrust from one of Vasha’s men.

  There was barely time to register what had happened before another sword swung toward Micol; he turned away from the attack, kicking the weapon wide to close with the one wielding it. His axe struck at the gap between the guard’s coat and helmet; needles of pain shot up his wrist as the fatal blow rebounded off of a mail coat.

  “Mail! They’re wearing mail!” he shouted. If his allies heard, they didn’t respond. Not that it mattered – soon enough, they’d discover the same for themselves.

  The man Micol had struck threw him off with a single-handed push, bringing his sword up to slice across Micol’s belly. Micol took another step back to avoid it, only to be stopped short by the sound of steel puncturing the cloth at his back.

  An arc of pain flared in his mind as he felt his flesh splitting. He expected more pain, but it didn’t come. A second later he figured out why; a man’s voice cursed, jerking him back and forth as someone tried to free the blade. Cerulean powder spread at their feet, coming from one of the two satchels Micol was carrying.

  His eyes rose to lock with a nearby Wolf moments before a spear tip pierced the other man’s breast. The Wolf’s mouth opened in a silent cry; his wide eyes begged for help Micol couldn’t give before the one who’d stabbed him let him fall to the ground. The flickering shadows revealed a face set in a snarl as the guard’s boot pressed down on the body of the dead Wolf to free his weapon.

  The guard in front of Micol, sensing his momentary distraction, stepped forward to bring his sword down in a cleaving strike. Held in place as he was, there was little room to move; instead, Micol doubled forward, praying he’d be able to get low enough to avoid the blow.

  Steel rang off steel as the weight of the sword landed on his back, knocking him to his knees. He didn’t have time to question what had happened – all that mattered was that he felt the pressure of the one behind him disappear. He dove to the side, eyes turning toward the hallway leading to the prisoners’ cells. A group of Wolves – most of them nursing wounds – had gathered there, forming an impromptu defense. He spotted Vasha at their head, shouting instructions to form a line.