“What are we waiting for?” Micol asked, his impatience getting the better of him. “In and out quickly, that’s what we need to do.”

  “Not yet. We have to give them enough time to organize based on two fronts of attack. We blow the front gate too early and they’ll be able to adjust their formation. A few minutes, that’s all I ask.”

  Micol glanced back at the men behind him. Hands grasped the heads of small axes, and those few with swords cleared them from scabbards only to drop them back in. Darshan’s muscles flexed as she met Micol’s gaze, raising one eyebrow in a questioning look.

  A horrid cry came from the left, the kind of sound that was clearly someone’s last. It was hard not to picture the scene; in Micol’s mind, Wolves crashed against the hardened ranger force, falling like wasps amidst smoke. Each moment meant more of his friends dying, and once he was convinced of that fact he only spiraled further down.

  “We’re going,” he said through grinding teeth. “Now.”

  “Wait just a little…” Visala trailed off as he strode toward the gate. She followed with a sigh, pulling a linen-wrapped package from her pocket. “Fine, I guess you’re in charge. Just give me a moment at the latch.”

  Micol nodded, pulling up short of the double wooden doors. Visala knelt in front of them, drawing a linen-wrapped package and a thin dagger she used to stick it to the doors near the latch. She withdrew a pair of vials from her side pouch, dousing the linen with a clear liquid from the first. Next, she removed the stopper on the other, flinching away from the package as she tipped cerulean powder onto it.

  A moment later, they all saw why: the package erupted in yellow flames, billowing black smoke as Visala hopped away. An explosion flashed, burning pockets of white into Micol’s eyes. When his vision returned, he saw the left door had swung open.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, stepping forward to slip through. The explosion had been relatively quiet compared to the typical full-size satchels; with any luck the sound had been lost among the fighting, or the rangers had assumed it was further away.

  Whatever the reason, no one was there to greet them inside. Micol tiptoed forward, his eyes flicking between the empty hall ahead and the Wolves entering behind. He looked to Visala for guidance, but she just waved at him to continue straight ahead.

  As they approached an intersection, he heard sounds of movement. “Come on!” a young man said. “We can’t let the others have all the fun, can we?”

  He closed his eyes. Did you really think your hands would stay clean? Memories of leaving Asoka behind assaulted him, like vengeance from his friend for using the memory earlier. Micol’s lip curled; Calamity was the same as Pestilence had been. The world would be better without them.

  The officer sword slid from its scabbard as Micol turned the corner, coming face-to-face with a trio of men. He lunged at the first in a clumsy attack that was easily batted away. The grin that came to the ranger’s face disappeared as he saw the rest of Micol’s pack.

  The ranger on the right – his salt-and-pepper beard marking him as the oldest of the group – sighed. “It’s been an honor serving with you, men. Let’s make Fevre proud.”

  “Aye!” The two others responded. The one Micol had attacked produced a pair of long daggers from out of sight, replying to Micol’s attack with a flurry that he could barely keep up with. Micol knocked aside one blow from the right, back-stepped away from another on the left, and tried a slash that hit nothing but air. Wolves rushed in on to meet the other rangers, forcing them back through sheer power of numbers.

  Visala swept in from the side, plunging a knife into the neck of the ranger facing Micol. He fell like a marionette. Micol expected to hear the ringing of his daggers hitting the ground, but it didn’t come. Another look at Visala revealed why: they had been buried deep in her abdomen, causing the blood to drain from her face.

  “Remove them,” she wheezed. “Please. You have to… remove them.”

  “If I do, you’ll die all the faster.”

  She coughed, producing a trail of frothy blood. “No. Death isn’t ready for me yet. You’ll see.”

  Micol exhaled deeply. He decided to trust her. He pulled the daggers free, grimacing at the sight of the wounds they left behind.

  Flashes of blue light hid the injuries from view. When the light left, fresh skin peeked up through the holes that had been left in Visala’s clothes. “You’ve seen this power before,” she said, her voice markedly stronger than it had been a moment ago.

  “I know. I just… you didn’t have to jump in like that.”

  “Probably not. I thought I would take him by surprise. Turns out, I didn’t.” She shrugged, her gaze avoiding the other rangers who’d fallen. Two Wolves lay on the floor as well, both of them motionless.

  “This way,” Visala prompted, breaking Micol’s reverie. With a shake of his head, he led the way down the next corridor. They passed a set of windows, through which he caught a glimpse of Vasha’s men fighting against a smaller force. The rangers seemed unfazed by the disparity in size; they had formed into a tight, three-man-deep line in the courtyard. A row of spears in back threatened to pierce any wolves who got too close, and those in front carried swords to deal with the few that made it through.

  “Loose!” The shout from the rooftop drew Micol’s attention. He looked up in time to see a half-dozen archers launch arrows into the mass of his allies. Those they’d been aiming for all fell.

  “Micol!” Visala hissed. “We have to move! Don’t let their sacrifice be in vain!”

  His heartbeat echoed in his ears, begging him to help. We could head for the roof, take out the archers at least.

  “Micol!”

  He shook his head, bile rising in his throat as he turned to join Visala and the Wolves who’d moved ahead of him. In a few steps he’d regained the lead, his feet slapping against tile as they ran.

  A pair – one man and a boy who looked a couple years younger than Micol – came into view at the end of the hall. The man put a protective arm across the boy’s chest. “Calamity. They’re coming for her. Find Captain Bilal.”

  “But…” the boy protested, cutting himself off at a look from the other man. He nodded, turning to run down the hallway to the left.

  “We have to catch him!” Visala said, falling into a run. Her path would take her right by the ranger, but she paid little heed to the man. With a deep breath, Micol followed after.

  The ranger stepped to the side to intercept Visala; he brought his sword down in a crisp arc, only to slice through air as she spun in a dancer’s pirouette. Micol reached the ranger a moment later, leading with a kick that connected with the ranger’s chest and sent him sprawling.

  The sounds of fighting from behind made Micol turn. A group of seven rangers had appeared from one of the rooms they’d passed; they were tearing into the Wolves, splitting the group in half and cutting them down on each side.

  “The boy!” Visala shouted. “We have to catch the boy!”

  “I’m not leaving them behind,” Micol said. Not again. He raised his sword, ragged breathing leading his footsteps as he moved to close with a blood-spattered ranger.

  The ranger glanced up at Micol mid-way through liberating his sword from the body of a fallen Wolf. He fell into a fighter’s stance, side-stepping the bodies at his feet as he waited for Micol to make the first move.

  And so Micol did. He ran forward with a yell, slamming his sword down against the ranger’s guard. He hammered away at the larger sword again and again, each impact ringing through his arm like a bell. A twig-break snap reached his ears as the man dropped his sword; the ranger tried to turn away, but too slowly to avoid a deep slice across his chest.

  Boils rose up from the wound, emanating a heat that had become familiar to Micol. He reached out to it, letting the power take him over. The boils erupted with black pus. The ranger let loose a single dry cough and fell.

  The next ranger had his back to Micol, facing down a defenseless Darshan, who was on the ground scrabbling backward. The ranger was closing in slowly, apparently out of a desire to savor the fear on Darshan’s face. It was short-lived, though; Micol’s sword pierced the back of his neck, making him fall as well.

  Of the seven rangers who’d attacked, only three were left standing. They backed through the doorway of the room they’d appeared from, weapons raised as if daring the Wolves to try to breach it. The mass of bodies at Micol’s feet – nearly a third of those in his group – begged him for vengeance.

  Instead, he shook his head. “Let’s move,” he said. “We have to find Calamity.”

  They left the rangers in their room, continuing down the hall to meet Visala. The one who’d tried to block her path lied still on the floor, a gash at his throat. She threw Micol an impatient look before waving him on.

  “Not too far now,” she said. “If I remember correctly, it’s only…” She trailed off as a troop of rangers filtered into the hallway ahead of them. Micol took a step back, but when he looked over his shoulder he saw the trio they’d left before was there, joined by several others.

  The man in front of them wore caked mud in his hair, his tunic stained deep brown with muck. “We have no wish to harm you,” the man said. “Lay down your weapons and we will allow you to live.”

  “Live in chains, you mean,” Visala replied.

  The man sighed. “Yes, you will all be arrested. That tends to happen when you carry out an unprovoked attack on the king’s soldiers.”

  “We would sooner die!” Visala waved for Micol to come closer. “See how he stands in front of the third door like that?” she whispered. “That’s the room where Calamity is supposed to be hidden. Time for one last trick.”

  “Okay, what’s the trick?”

  “This.” Visala hooked Micol’s leg with one of her own, throwing him off balance. The shove she gave launched him forward, rolling into the empty space between the Wolves and the rangers. The mud-crusted man who’d spoken before was first to react, falling on Micol; Micol barely managed to maneuver his sword into place to block the blow.

  Micol moved awkwardly on the floor, taking a cut to his left shoulder in exchange for regaining his feet. He side-stepped another strike from the snarling ranger, snaking his sword through the man’s guard to pierce his belly. The snarl turned into a gasp of surprise as the wound bubbled with pus-filled blisters, making the ranger fall.

  He tried to pull his sword back, but the falling body had snared it, stealing time he didn’t have. He kicked the ranger away with a grunt, yanking hard at the same time to pull it clear. Two other rangers had managed to score blows on him in the meantime – one a glancing slash over his ear, and one a skewer through his right lung.

  A whistling sound followed each breath as Micol’s vision burned red-hot. The ranger pulled his spear out for another attack, and he felt the pain disappear as blue light encased him. The wide-eyed expression of the ranger became his death mask as Micol stepped past his guard and delivered a fatal cut.

  “Skora!” one of the rangers who’d hung back said. “Captain! What was that?”

  “Cut off his head, damn it!” The command came from the mud-faced man Micol thought he’d killed, his face a rictus of agony. “He won’t be able to recover from that!”

  He didn’t have time to react to the revelation that the man was still alive; instinct drove him to move, narrowly avoiding a swing aimed at his neck. He darted forward, repaying the wielder with a kick and earning himself a cut across the gut in exchange. The wound was searing pain, but didn’t seem fatal.

  A two-handed sword came down on his arm, severing it at the wrist. His scream was cut short as a flare of blue coalesced into a perfect replacement. For a moment, he and the woman who’d hit him stared into each other’s eyes, sharing their disbelief.

  Micol was the first to break the spell, liberating a dagger from the woman’s belt and plunging it in the crook between her neck and shoulder. She staggered back, horror etched like stone in her eyes. Micol leaned down, his chest heaving as he retrieved his own sword.

  When he looked up, he saw the remaining rangers wore similar expressions to the woman he’d faced. A lean man near the back took one step away, then another. When he turned to run, the others followed suit. Soon enough, the Wolves were alone in the hallway.

  Micol approached the door Visala had indicated led to Calamity’s room. The door creaked open, revealing nothing but an empty bed. He fell to his knees, dropping his sword beside him.

  “I’m sorry,” Visala whispered. She sighed. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll give the signal to Vasha and Joji’s men to pull out. We failed.”

  Chapter 24

  Ponto

  The morning sun hung low over the horizon, casting the sky in hues of purple and orange. The faint smell of fresh-cut maple mixed with the aroma of pitch. Bodies filled the arena on every side, lines leading out to the streets of those who had arrived too late to grab a seat.

  A square platform had been constructed, with smaller branches beneath and a single wide beam rising up. Two men in black masks stood at either side of the platform, their faces betraying no emotion beyond studied indifference.

  “Hey! Quit shoving!” Ponto said, tossing off an elbow that had connected with his head. Unable to think of anything other than the Death Priest, he’d been one of the first into the arena; he’d watched as the rest arrived, a seemingly endless stream of gawkers.

  It’s not fair, he thought. They lied. They all lied. That Elysa would do such a thing made him feel sick. All the worse that she’d convinced Heck and those others to lie for her as well. We know the truth of what happened, though. The three of us.

  Memories of the big man who’d thrown him down to the street came swimming back, unbidden as they were. The crack of his skull striking pavement, the fading as he’d felt his soul pass from his body – and then the flood of pain as Elysa shoved him back into the broken vessel.

  A hush fell over the crowd as Priest Itan was led out in chains. A pair of guards dragged him by each arm; his face was a pulpy mess. Ponto swallowed, sickened by the sight. They led him to the platform, wrenching his arms behind his back to secure them to the maple pole they had prepared.

  The man with the fancy clothes from the day before arrived. He raised his voice to address the crowd. “Thank you one and all for coming to this auspicious event. This man – Itan Mirao – has asked for a trial by way of the immortals. As it has been several decades since the last such trial, I feel the need to remind you of the rules. And of the stakes, as well.”

  The fancy-clothes man’s eyes swept across the arena, seeming to linger on Ponto’s for a single moment. “We will light the pyre and allow it to burn for a day and a night. No one must interfere with it. Do not try to help the accused for any reason. If he survives after the pyre has burnt to ashes, he will be absolved of all crimes.

  “However, should the flames take him, we will know the truth of his guilt.” The fancy-clothes man said the last words with a sense of gravity, no doubt expecting the latter outcome.

  “Why would we help him?” A shrill voice asked. “He’s not one of us! Death Priest!”

  “Please!” The fancy-clothes man said. “Please, madam, have some respect. This man may well be about to die. Need I remind you there is no record of a man or woman surviving a trial by way of the immortals in the thousand years since their passing? However you may feel about the accused, can you not show him decency in what may be his final moments?”

  “Death Priest!” The cry came from someone else. Far to the right, a rotten tomato flew out from the crowd. A well-aimed piece of fruit, as it turned out; it struck Itan on the shoulder, and bound as he was he could do nothing to avoid it.

  If only I could help, Ponto thought. He returned to the lessons Priest Itan had taught him, but the lessons from Elysa seemed more promising. I could heal him. Except… he would never accept it. Evil, he said. Besides, I’m too far away. Even though he stood near the front of the crowd, Ponto doubted he’d be able to so much as affect a healing of the bruises on Itan’s face, even if he’d had a thousand souls to call on.

  Lost as he was in his thoughts, he nearly missed the fancy-clothes man giving instructions to the others. They produced a torch, tossing it deep into the pile of branches underneath the platform. Ponto’s breath caught – he thought he saw the flames die out, but a moment later they came roaring back to life with a wave of heat that reached out to touch his face.

  Priest Itan’s eyes slitted and his mouth set in a snarl. His chest rose visibly with each breath as the pyre ignited. Guards who’d stood close by took several steps away to distance themselves as a hand of flames snaked up through the planks at Priest Itan’s feet. From over Priest Itan’s shoulder, Ponto’s eyes briefly met with those of Elysa. Her stare was intent with something unreadable.

  Ptiest Itan cried out, a pitiful sound. Ponto closed his eyes, suddenly regretting his decision to attend the event. He risked a glance, grimacing at the sight of red flames lapping up Priest Itan’s legs.

  And then the screams began. Dry screams. They stopped only when Priest Itan took a breath, resuming with more urgency moments later. Ponto’s ragged nails dug into his palms; he wanted to rush forward, but didn’t know how it would help.

  “Mercy!” someone cried out, a voice that sounded similar to the shrill woman who’d spoken earlier. “Death have mercy on him!”

  “Death have mercy,” Ponto echoed in a whisper. If the aspect cannot even protect his own, how can he be worth serving? The one good thing about Death was that he came for everyone. Let him come for Priest Itan now, Ponto prayed. Make the screaming stop. Please make it stop.

  Priest Itan’s cries punctuated each breath, growing fainter and yet more desperate as flames hid him from view. In the moments when he inhaled, the arena was as silent as a crypt. And when he exhaled, a chorus of sympathetic gasps punctuated his howl.