They reached the entrance to the great hall, slowing as they stepped inside. From his position at the back, Micol was the last to see why; a pair of long tables had been upended, and an amber carpet had been thrown back to reveal a round grate three paces in diameter.

  From behind the tables, more palace guards waited. “Now!” a young-looking guard shouted. The sound of scraping metal made Micol look up in time to see a wrought-iron chandelier fall from the ceiling. He dove out of the way, wincing at the crunch of impact as it landed on a pair of others who’d been too slow.

  Cries of pain sounded from the Wolves as the palace guards loosed crossbows at the scattered group, taking down at least three that Micol saw. He climbed to his feet, raising his sword as he leapt over the nearest upended table.

  His officer’s sword was met by a steel shield; he twisted it, taking advantage of the curved blade to slide past the rim. The guard ducked back to avoid a mortal wound, but Micol still managed a deep slice across his nose. Micol embraced the familiar feeling of heat, causing pustules to spread on the wounded area.

  Before he could finish the job, Micol’s concentration was broken by a sword coming in from the side. He brought up his own sword to block the attack, retorting with a kick to the shoulder that made his opponent tumble. He took the third guard in the line by surprise, slipping his sword between two folds of steel near the man’s neck.

  To Micol’s left, a group of Wolves grabbed the upended table, tossing the makeshift barrier legs up. They fought across the underside of the tabletop, overwhelming the remaining guards on that half of the room through sheer numbers.

  Chest heaving, Micol turned to the other group. A barrage of bolts from reloaded crossbows flew toward him and the other Wolves; one caught him on the shoulder, nearly making him drop his sword. He fell on the group that had fired with a war cry, losing himself to the dance of battle. His sword struck with the regularity of a miner’s axe, and often as not it came back having tasted new blood.

  When the fighting had finished, the floor was littered with bodies from either side. A quick count of the Wolves left standing revealed less than half of the group who had entered the castle remained. Micol saw Vasha among them, sporting a gash across the orbit of one of his eyebrows – the eye below was closed, perhaps permanently.

  Vasha spat out blood, fixing Micol with a cold grin. “If I had to guess, I’d say that was their last stand, brother. I doubt we’ll encounter much resistance from here on.”

  Micol nodded wordlessly. He turned to the grate in the center of the room, staring at the marble staircase leading down. If Visala’s information was correct – which he trusted it was – the staircase led all the way to the bottom of the plateau. From there, a secret path would take the princess onto the city streets and out of their grasp.

  “We’re not done yet,” he said, steeling himself for what was to come. Vasha’s assertion that they’d defeated what remained of the guard made his limbs run cold; if true, it meant they’d be fighting through more civilians to try to get to her.

  Micol was the first down the stairs, leaving the others behind as he leapt from landing to landing. As he got further, he began to hear the sounds of movement below, hushed whispers passing between what sounded like a half-dozen men and women.

  A flash of yellow silk caught his eye, spurring him to move faster. He felt as if he was barely pausing for breaths between falling, moving from one jarring landing to the next. A glance above revealed the rest of the Wolves little more than halfway down; he considered stopping to wait for them, but the sound of those he chased reaching the end of the stairs urged him on.

  A wooden door slammed closed. His mouth dry and his lungs screaming for air, Micol finally reached the bottom of the stairs. He saw the door ahead, standing at the end of a torchlit hallway. His shoulder collided with the heavy slab, pushing it half a stride open. When he backed away to try again, it slammed shut.

  “What the hell was that?” a man’s voice on the other side of the door asked. “I thought these chains were supposed to be unbreakable!”

  “Maybe they’re old, Rojas! Did you ever think of that?”

  Micol charged again, grunting as his good shoulder connected with the door. He was rewarded with the sound of splintering wood. He backed away, gathering his breath before taking one more run at it.

  The door collapsed inward, knocking back a pair of men who’d been standing behind it. Taking advantage of their surprise, Micol darted past them and into a tunnel that reminded him of the sewers they’d used to escape the prison. Flickering light in the distance announced the direction of the princess, confirmed by a scream when his quarry noticed his arrival.

  “Princess!” a frail-looking woman hissed. “This way!” They ducked down a side-tunnel, disappearing from view. Micol chased after them, sword held loosely in his injured arm.

  The musty smell of old vellum permeated each breath as darkness crept upon him. Micol hunted the princess and her keeper down endless twists and turns, his advantage in speed almost entirely negated by the difficulty of navigating the catacombs in near dark. Rusty hinges complained just ahead, followed by the sound of iron bars ringing home.

  He turned a corner, bringing a trio into view: the princess, the frail-looking woman he’d seen escorting her, and a portly man he hadn’t noticed before. The portly man trembled the most out of the three, grasping onto the princess’ arm to keep from falling.

  Micol approached iron bars separating him from them; they looked like the gates of a prison cell, although in the light of the torch the frail-looking woman carried he could see a collection of barrels beyond. He tested the door, but it wouldn’t open.

  The princess held up a rusted key. “I think this is what you’re looking for.” She and the others with her backed away, the light of their torch revealing barrels stacked three-layers high on either side.

  Micol cocked his head. “Maybe. Maybe not. Seems like you’re locked in there now. We can always wait you out.”

  The frail-looking woman glared at him. “This is the king’s private storeroom. We have enough food and wine to last a lifetime.”

  “Think about this rationally.” Micol glanced over his shoulder as the first of his fellow Wolves began to arrive. “There are plenty of ways we could get you out of there. We could smoke you out, or use a satchel to bring down the door. We could hire the best thieves in the city to pick the lock. It’s only a matter of time before we get to you.”

  “What do you want?” the princess asked, her voice tinged with sadness. “Those men and women you killed were good people. What could they have possibly done to offend you?”

  Anger flared within Micol. He jabbed a finger through the bars. “Don’t you blame their deaths on me! You’re the one who ran! We tried to end this without bloodshed! They would have still been alive if – if –”

  “If you hadn’t ran,” Vasha finished for him. “Micol’s right, Your Highness. Whether you like it or not, those guards up there died for you. The servants too. And for what? To buy more time so we could trap you like this? Do you even know why we wanted to capture you?”

  The princess shook her head, her lips pursed tightly.

  “To flush out your sister.” Vasha gestured toward the bars separating them from the trio. “I’d say this counts as a victory for us, wouldn’t you? Once she gets word of this, she’ll fall right into any trap we care to lay.”

  A voice coming from behind made them all turn. “Fortunately, you won’t have to wait for long.” Two blue torches flared to life, revealing an entire squad of rangers; the woman who’d spoken stood at their head, holding a sword of steel so dark as to be practically invisible in the limited light.

  “Calamity,” Micol whispered.

  Her dark smile confirmed the guess. “Before our grandfather repurposed these catacombs, they served as secret torture chambers for our family. I wonder, how many ghosts are watching us now?”

  “Congratulations, your family has a legacy of depravity.”

  The young woman cocked her head. “And a history of ending it.”

  “But only after climbing a mountain of those they have crushed.” Micol raised his sword to point it at her. “Everything we’ve done has been for this moment, Calamity. Turn yourself in and we will spare your sister.”

  “I doubt it. Besides, my friends would skin me alive if I denied them their chance at vengeance.” She turned to the man on her left. “Ran, hand me that torch.” The man passed off the blue torch he was holding, drawing a dagger to occupy his now-empty hand.

  There was time for a single breath. The world seemed to stand still as Micol inhaled, preparing himself for the coming fight.

  He launched forward with a roar, his officer’s sword ringing against black steel as it met the edge of Calamity’s weapon. He changed the angle, turning it to attempt a strike at her fingers, but she jumped backward to avoid it.

  Rangers and Wolves flowed around them, meeting with yells that consumed the caverns. Both groups gave them a wide berth, leaving Micol room for an arcing side-swing. Calamity ducked under the blade, darting inside his guard. Micol stumbled to the side, avoiding a killing blow to the neck but not a slice across the top of his bad shoulder.

  The blue fire of the torch Calamity held came alive, snaking out in three long tendrils. He backed away first one step, then another, before the third step brought his back to a wall. Can’t retreat anymore, he thought. Summoning all of his courage, he dove into the flames, leading with the tip of his sword to where he believed her face to be.

  She spun away, but he managed to change the angle of his blade to catch her bicep. Micol felt for the heat he knew would follow – the feeling of sickness growing within her – but it was too weak to control. He strained toward the whisp of illness, sweat breaking out on his forehead as he concentrated.

  Focused as he was on killing her, he barely noticed the sword coming toward his face until it was too late. He lurched sideways, tossing his own sword up to meet the attack; the move threw him off- balance, taking his sword arm too far away from his body to prevent Calamity from burying her own sword into his abdomen.

  Micol head-butted Calamity, making her lose her grip. He took one step forward, his head spinning. It felt like each breath caused more air to leave his body than it brought in; it was a struggle to stay upright.

  He flung his sword toward her face in the torchlight, slicing the head from the torch but missing her in his daze. The torch head tumbled to the ground, where her fingers closed around it. She cried out as she lifted it, pressing it against his chest.

  A scream escaped Micol as all of his senses roared back to life. Calamity grabbed onto her sword, yanking at it at the same time as he pushed her away; their combined efforts made the weapon slide free, knocking her off-balance.

  Micol’s heavy breathing was the only sound that reached his ears. He kneeled on the cool floor, using his sword as a cane to keep himself upright. Calamity appeared to have given up on him, plunging her sword through Vasha’s chest from behind.

  That was foolish, Micol thought. Never turn your back on an enemy. When he looked around, he saw a Wolf on the floor beside him. To his right, another pair had fallen. Only three of his allies still stood – they begged for quarter, but the rangers didn’t seem to have mercy on their mind.

  The sight of their slaughter gave Micol the strength to rise. His breath hissed out between his teeth with each step, a groan that made Calamity and the woman beside her turn. He raised his sword, intending one last attack.

  Instead, he fell on his face, sword clattering beside him.

  “You’ll want to take that,” the other woman said. “I don’t know how he got his hands on a tuqara, but it seems like a powerful one.”

  Chapter 28

  Tarana

  “You take it,” Tarana said. “One taste of that blade’s touch was enough for me. I have no interest in inflicting it on anyone else.” She didn’t bother to wait to see if Zo would take the sword; the tapping of the soles of her boots against the hard-packed earth seemed the only sound as she jogged, then sprinted toward her sister.

  Cora unlocked the gate she and Masak and Ghita had been hiding behind, running to close the distance as well. She melted into Tarana’s embrace; a moment later, Tarana felt warm tears fall against her neck.

  “Cora,” Tarana said. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

  Her sister sucked in air like she was afraid it might run out. “They’re all dead, Tarana. Yone, Father, Sol, Dot. All of them. They…” Words failed her.

  Ghita approached tentatively, placing a soft hand on Cora’s shoulder. “Don’t you go finishing that thought, dear. I know what you were about to say, and it’s best left unsaid. They died because those awful men chose to kill them. Those lying on the ground over there, it’s their fault. There was nothing you could have done.”

  It was difficult to tell whether the woman’s words helped or not; the flood of tears only increased until Tarana felt her own eyes begin to well up. Shouldn’t I be sadder than this? she vaguely wondered. Father’s dead. I’ll never get to see him again.

  Perhaps it’s because I know there was nothing to look forward to in our next meeting. Would have been all business, if that. Memories of her father swam back to mind – at first, she simply felt numb, but when her thoughts took a turn toward memories from before she’d become an aspect it was like her heart had been ripped open.

  “Dad’s… gone,” she whispered, pulling her sister closer. She felt as if the weight of what had happened was threatening to make her collapse; Cora was the only thing holding her up, and she was the only one holding her sister up.

  I’ll never get to hear him say he was wrong about me, she thought. He’ll never see the good I have done.

  From behind, Tarana heard a woman clear her throat. She turned and saw Zo standing awkwardly a pace and a half away. “Pardon me, Blacksword. I know this is an emotional reunion, but we have to get going. The line against the Ma’isans won’t hold long.”

  With all the discipline of a trained soldier, Tarana released her sister and turned away from her emotions. She wiped at her eyes, leaving a blood smear over one brow. “Thank you, Zo. I guess you’re right – this is all meaningless if we don’t make it out of here. Ghita, you know the way out, right?”

  Ghita nodded.

  “Lead the way. As fast as you can. If your knee gives you trouble, ask Ran to carry you. He’s been leading us all day. Maybe if we weigh him down a bit he’ll set a more reasonable pace. Masak, do you have a weapon?”

  “Uhm, no, Calamity. I was… that is…” Masak trailed off, studiously avoiding her eyes.

  Tarana sighed. “Grab a sword from the fallen. I don’t care what your excuses are for not joining those above; everyone is going to need a weapon in case we run into trouble. That goes double for you, Cora.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Cora said. She raised her skirt to reveal the sheath of a dagger at her thigh. “I’ve been practicing with this ever since the siege began.”

  “Good. Let’s move. Ran, you’re with Ghita.”

  They made their way to the end of the hall, pausing to gather weapons. Zo picked up an extra torch from a corner sconce, lit it with the torch head from the ground, and handed it to Tarana. After a moment to make sure everyone was ready, they continued on.

  Ghita led the way down a passage leading left. As turned around as she was, it took Tarana a while to figure out they were heading in the direction of the main gate. They took another turn in a direction leading toward the heart of the plateau, but after a pair of quick turns she lost track of their bearings.

  Before long, they hit an incline in the path. Ran scooped up Ghita when it seemed like she was starting to flag, glancing back over a shoulder to wink at Zo.

  The first sign they were getting close to an exit was the smell of the city from above. It smelled like piss and waste; Tarana had never been happier to encounter such an odor in her life.

  “There!” Ghita exclaimed, pointing at a ladder just ahead. “That’s the exit!”

  Ran set her down, flying up the ladder two rungs at a time. He reached up to lift the grate, only to retreat with a whispered “Skora!”

  “What is it?” Zo asked.

  He held up a finger to his lips, waiting until he’d descended the ladder to speak. “It looks like one of the noble estates.”

  “It is,” Ghita confirmed. “The Tevulun estate.”

  “Okay, sure, the Tevulun estate. That makes sense. Only problem is, it’s crawling with Ma’isans. And I saw a few men dressed like Wolves, too.”

  “Crawling as in ‘we just have to get past this group and we’re free’?” Tarana asked. “Or crawling as in ‘we’ll be coming up right in the middle of their army’?”

  Ran shook his head. “Honestly, no way of knowing.”

  “There’s a way we can guess,” Zo said. “If I remember correctly, the Tevulun estate borders the slums, right? Which means it’s about the farthest you can get from the gate before reaching the shadow of the plateau. Either the Tevulun army hasn’t put up much of a fight – which I doubt – or the Ma’isans sent this group ahead.”

  “Roll of the knuckle bones,” Cora whispered. “Is there really a choice here?”

  “What do you mean?” Tarana asked.

  “I mean, if they’ve already overrun the city then we’re dead no matter what. Come up or don’t come up, it doesn’t matter. Only difference is we’d spend the rest of our days hiding in a hole instead of fighting to survive.”

  Tarana stared at her sister in silence for a moment, surprised at her cool analysis.

  “She’s right, of course,” Zo said. “So what are you waiting for, Ran? If you don’t want to be the first up, move out of the way and I’ll do it myself.”

  Ran chuckled. “And let you lord it over me after this is all done? I think not.” His expression fell as he turned his gaze on Tarana and the rest of the rangers. “If this is the end, I just want you all to know – it’s been a pleasure serving with you.”