Micol ran toward them, breaking clear of the group of guards. Limbs of the fallen threatened to tangle his feet with each step; he stumbled clear of them to join Vasha’s line, which broke just enough to let him through.

  Vasha clapped him on the shoulder. “You look a sight, friend. You know one of those satchels you’re carrying is busted open, right? And someone’s stuck you like a pig.”

  “No, it barely got me. It was mostly satchel.”

  “Good fortune, then.” Vasha paused, his eyes narrowing. “What do you think that powder does when it’s loose? Do you think it would cause an explosion big enough to destroy the main chamber?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Vasha gestured to two of his men to the left. “You, fill the gap. And make sure no one gets through. I have to deal with our amateur sapper here.” Grabbing Micol by the straps at his shoulders, he forced him further down the hallway.

  “What are you doing?” Micol asked as the other man turned him around, working at something at his back.

  “Improvising.”

  A weight disappeared from Micol’s back. When he turned back around, he saw Vasha holding what remained of the satchel that had been pierced; it looked to be half-empty, trailing more powder at their feet. The pommel of the sword that had broken through was mere inches from his face; he reached up to free it, marveling at the intricate work on the handle. Drops of his blood worked their way down the edge, staining it dark red.

  “Looks like a captain’s sword,” Vasha said. “Real soldiers want something with some weight.” He shrugged. “Keep it if you want, though. This is what I’m looking for.” Holding the bottom of the bag closed with one hand, he approached the line of his men. He took one step past them and tossed the satchel toward the center of the platform.

  The next few moments passed at a tortoise pace; Vasha freed a torch from one wall of the hallway as those on the platform grasped what was happening. The few remaining Wolves who could break free of the platform did so, rushing to join the line at the hallway entrance. The guards formed a group on the platform, organizing with three spears in front as the rest followed behind. The impromptu phalanx managed two steps before Vasha threw his torch at their feet.

  Orange-and-white fire blinded Micol, singing his brows as screams filled the air. He heard calls of “Get down! Get down!” as the conflagration swept toward them, feeding on the trail of powder. Micol dove away from the licking flames, working the last satchel around to the front so his body covered it. The air grew foul with the smell of black smoke and charred flesh, but he remained down.

  Whatever you do, Jeshan had said, keep it away from fire. Based on Vasha’s improvisation, Micol could guess that fire was a trigger for the explosive material, and if the last satchel went up that would be the end of their rescue attempt.

  The sound of someone clearing their throat made him look up. Vasha held out a hand. “Glad that worked out. Else we would have been done for.”

  As Micol rose, he saw the remaining Wolves working their way through the main chamber; one of them paused at a twitching body, plunging a sword through his neck to make him still. “How many do we have left?” Micol asked, his voice hoarse.

  “Roughly half. We’re checking the platform now to see if any of ours survived. But I don’t –”

  “Sir!” someone called from the main chamber. “Come here! Quick!”

  Vasha ran over; Micol stowed the officer’s sword on his belt loop before following. He found Vasha and two of his men standing over a groaning body, face half-covered in red-and-white welts.

  “Joji,” Micol whispered.

  The man on the ground continued to groan. His eyes found Micol and he forced himself to stop. “Told my men to go over there.” With obvious effort, he raised an arm to point to the shadow of one of the columns on the other side of the room. “See if any of them made it, would you?”

  They looked over at a Wolf near the column Joji had pointed out. The man glanced at the ground and shook his head.

  Micol found his voice first. “I don’t think they made it,” he said.

  Joji let out another groan. “All this for one man?”

  “No,” Vasha said. “All this for two men.” The correction hung in the air, thicker than the smoke around them. “Whatever information the ranger has, I hope it’s worth it.”

  “Agreed.” Micol helped Joji up, guiding him to a section of wall that jutted out enough to serve as an impromptu stool.

  “Let’s go,” Vasha said from over his shoulder. “You and I should check the cells. The rest of the men will hold the stairs in case there are any guards that didn’t join this ambush.”

  Micol nodded. He and Vasha worked their way down the hall, splitting up to search both sides of the first intersecting hallway.

  The cells that contained prisoners chilled Micol to the bone. Bodies that were little more than skeletons – that he would have judged as dead – shifted at the light of the torch he’d retrieved from a hallway brazier. At first he wondered how they would know they had found the rangers’ second, but then he realized; the man had been taken recently. Amongst the group Micol was looking at, he would stick out like a beggar at court.

  Reaching the end of the row, he cursed and turned back around. “Please!” a thin voice called. “Please, take us with you!” A withered arm appeared at the bars of a cell. “Sir, my only crime was speaking ill of the king amongst those I thought of as friends. It’s been years since I’ve seen the light. Please, sir, take me with you. I’ll fight whoever you want.” The man pressed his face against the bars, reaching out with both arms as if he could melt through the bars of his cell.

  Micol’s first instinct was to ignore him. He felt an unconscious revulsion at the gaunt visage and pleading gaze. Their eyes met, and Micol felt something there, a familiar heat that made him shiver. This man has known pain, and he’ll know more soon enough.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Micol said. He jogged back to the main hallway and made his way toward the Wolves at the platform.

  If there were more guards on the lower levels, they were biding their time rather than attacking; those at the stairwell were milling around, while a smaller group picked their way through corpses. One of them was kneeling at the body of a guard wearing mail, peeling it away link by link.

  “Stop that,” Micol ordered as he approached. “Give the dead some peace, would you? Besides, even if you could get it off it wouldn’t do you any good. It’s probably been warped beyond all use.”

  As the woman raised her head, Micol recognized her as Darshan. Darshan cocked her head questioningly, gesturing to the body as if to say he has no more use for it.

  “Have you seen any keys?” Micol asked, using the questions as an excuse to change the subject.

  “Yeah, we have,” Joji said. He reached down to grab a charred ring by his side, tossing it to Micol. “These men are searching the dead on my orders. Distasteful as it might be, it may be the thing that saves our life. You’ve heard the story of the crew of the Reon?”

  Micol shook his head.

  “They mutinied and threw their captain overboard, only to realize a day later he had the damn map in his pocket. Wound up resorting to cannibalism -- by the time they finally found land, they’d all but given up their mortal souls.”

  “So your point is that one of these dead men could have a map of the dungeon?”

  “No, my point is that – no matter what we’re doing right now – at least we’re not cannibals. Besides, Darshan found those keys, didn’t she?”

  Micol sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, Joji had a point. The sound of footsteps made him turn.

  “Ah, good,” Vasha said. “You already have the keys. I think I found our ranger. Come with me.” He led the way toward the back of the hall, taking a right at the second intersection. He stopped at the third cell in the line, gesturing toward the man inside.

  Despite the prisoner’s supine position on the floor at the back wall of the cell, Micol felt the man’s eyes following him. The prisoner’s gaze bored into him as he tried the first key on the ring, then the second.

  At the fourth and final key, the lock gave way. The cell door creaked open and Micol and Vasha stepped inside.

  The prisoner sighed, moving into a seated position. “You’re not with the Commander,” he said.

  “The Commander?” Vasha asked.

  “Commander Geere,” Micol said. “She leads the rangers. And no, we aren’t with her. But we’re here to free you all the same.”

  The prisoner stared at the pair of them in silence, his eyes seeming to drink in each detail of their appearance. “Judging by your condition, you’re not mercenaries. The guards down here meant to surprise you with superior gear and training, but the fire you brought turned the tide. I’ve seen that fire before.” He rose to his feet in a fluid motion. “Should I take that to mean I am looking at the true Wolves of Vicrum?”

  “Yes,” Vasha said, his chest swelling with pride.

  The prisoner threw a right hook that caught him on the jaw, sending him sprawling. He turned to reach for the handle of Micol’s sword, but Micol caught his hand, squeezing it tight enough to bring tears to the ranger’s eyes.

  “How dare you,” the man said through clenched teeth. “Do you even realize the damage you’ve done to the defense of this city?” He spat at the ground. “Of course you don’t. So take me to your leader, mongrels. I’m done wasting breath on you.”

  “Hand him over,” Vasha said. He seemed to have recovered from the punch, although Micol could see a flush of color blooming along the lower portion of his cheek. “I’ll take him to the others and we’ll muzzle him good. You find Sakaye.”

  Micol did as he said, allowing Vasha to take the prisoner by the arms and march him back to the main chamber. He searched the remaining cells, finding Sakaye in short order.

  Sakaye’s cell lay at the end of the main hall, down the left side of the final row. The door was wide open, revealing a stripped body with limbs that appeared to have been hastily broken. Blood leaking from a slit throat painted the floor.

  The guards had used it to write a message on the wall above him. May your souls rot in your gra…

  Apparently they hadn’t had time to finish. Micol closed his eyes, his deep breaths staving off a wave of nausea. His limbs felt numb as he meandered back toward the main chamber.

  It wasn’t until he was within sight of the other Wolves that he remembered the prisoner he’d spoken with before. He made his way to the man’s cell, tossing the key ring at the emaciated man’s feet. “We are the Wolves of Vicrum,” he said. “And we fight for those in this city who don’t have anyone else to fight for them. If you’re against the king, you’re on our side. Free yourself – and anyone else you think would serve our cause – and find us one floor up. We’ll be leaving soon, with or without you.”

  The sounds of the man frantically working at the cell door followed Micol as he made his way back to the hall. He found the rest of their men gathering, lifting makeshift packs carrying the belongings of the dead.

  “Sakaye?” Vasha asked as he approached.

  Micol shook his head, unable to give voice to the scene that had greeted him.

  The other man nodded slowly, his lids heavy with sadness. “It feels… worse than the rest somehow, doesn’t it? Why should his death matter more than the rest?”

  “I don’t know,” Micol said. “This has been a bad night for us.”

  “Maybe. It all depends on what this one knows.” Vasha smacked the back of the ranger’s head – which Micol saw had been wrapped in cloth – with his hand.

  Joji hissed as he worked his way off the perch he’d been sitting on. “Well, let’s get moving. The sooner we find our way out, the sooner I can partake in this magical healing I’ve heard so much about.”

  They encountered little resistance on their way to the second sub-floor; the first guard they found had tried to hide in a cell, and they decided to leave him. If there were any others, they had found other hiding spots. By the time they located the cell with the window Death had mentioned, the prisoner Micol had freed appeared, leading a group of four others. Their eyes betrayed no spark of hope – they wore expressions that said death would be as preferable an end to their torture as freedom.

  Micol activated his last satchel and tossed it at the wall with the window. They retreated the usual twelve steps, and when they opened their eyes they saw a hole large enough to crawl through. Vasha took the lead, worming his way amongst the jagged rocks. At his confirmation there was indeed a tunnel on the other side, the rest went through.

  Joji and Micol were the last to make the trip; Micol stayed close behind the other man, helping him through when his strength seemed likely to fail. The climb ended in a small drop Joji shied away from, but Micol pushed him forward.

  They dropped together, landing in a pile of filth.

  Chapter 18

  Itan

  The flickering light of a candle on the floor illuminated the parchment in front of Itan. My fellow members of the Synod, he wrote, It will no doubt disappoint many of you to hear I have survived my first summer in Jaruna. What’s more, I have found several candidates for our order, the first of which carry this letter.

  His grip tightened on the spine of his quill as he contemplated his next words. Traditionally, they would be full of praise for the new crop of priests. He was expected to give some background on how they had come to him, and why he thought they would serve the memory of Mirao well.

  But his subconscious refused to supply words to give body to such a lie. Images surfaced in his mind of Ponto – his first, most promising recruit – using necromancy to stave off his spasms; of Heck disappearing with Elysa and returning with a mischievous grin but no story about what he’d done. And worst of all, Padme – sweet Padme – who’d offered to heal his arm of the damage he’d sustained trying to save the baker using souls she’d taken into herself.

  Do NOT let any of these three join our order, he added below, underlining not several times. A necromancer from Jaruna has turned them into her puppets. With a growl, he tossed his pen down and ripped the paper to shreds.

  “How did it come to this?” he asked himself in a whisper. “How did my life come to this? All I ever wanted to do was help. Where did I go wrong?” A lump grew in his throat as he contemplated the situation he found himself in. Next thing he knew, he was standing.

  His naked feet padded down the hallway toward Padme’s room. He entered like a wraith; the girl was already asleep in her bedroll, sheets clasped tightly as if she was afraid they might be ripped away at any moment.

  Itan shook her roughly, making her yelp in alarm. “I need your help with something,” he said. “Come on, get up.”

  “Right now?” she asked, eyes half open.

  “Yes, right now. I know you’ve been to Elysa’s home. I need you to take me there. It’s important.”

  The girl frowned, studying him as if trying to guess his motive. “Why do you want to visit Miss Elysa?”

  “I need to speak with her about… something.”

  “She would be cross with me.”

  “She doesn’t need to know you’re the one who led me to her. I’ll tell her I tracked her down another way.” He sighed, relaxing his grip on the girl’s shoulders. “Please, Padme. It may not feel like it to you, but lives hang in the balance.”

  “You mean your life,” Padme said.

  Itan would have chuckled had the situation been different. Just how much have those eyes seen? “Yes, Padme. I mean my life. And on my life, the fate of every soul in this city.”

  She regarded him in silence, chewing at her bottom lip as she considered. Finally, “Okay, I’ll take you to the path. But no further.”

  “The path?” Itan asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Padme crawled out of bed and slipped on the worn shoes she’d worn when Elysa had brought her into Itan’s care. She followed him to the front door of the temple, taking the lead once they were outside. Itan was surprised at the direction she took, turning left away from the city rather than toward the estates at its heart.

  They exited the city, following the main road a mile before taking a right. If Padme hadn’t pushed aside the brush to reveal a game trail, Itan doubted he would have known one existed. As they kept walking, he noticed a sheet of mist growing at his feet.

  A few seconds later, Padme halted. She turned to face Itan, her voice coming out like a faint breeze. “That turn there will lead you to her place. The other direction goes to… well, you don’t want to know.”

  “Thank you,” Itan said.

  She shook her head. “Whatever you’re planning to do, I feel like it’s a bad idea.”

  “Probably. But when you’re dealt a losing hand, sometimes the only thing to do is play a card.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a gambling thing.”

  “Oh, okay.” Padme closed her eyes, and when she opened them her brows drooped with sadness. “You were always nice to us. And your help came free. Not like…” She nodded toward the path that led to Elysa’s home. “Ponto and I talk about it sometimes. I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot to me. Really.”

  They shared a solemn look. She started to leave, pausing after her first step. “If you hear heavy footsteps, you run, okay? Don’t wait to see what it is that’s chasing you. Don’t try to hide, because he’ll find you.”

  “He?”

  “Miss Elysa’s husband.”

  Itan nodded. “Thanks.” He hadn’t pegged Elysa as the marriage type – although, judging by the location of their home, hers was far from a typical marriage.