by Beth Alvarez
A sword whistled through the smoke beside him and thudded into the ground. Tahl stumbled back to his feet and took his barrels with him. Black powder streamed from the crack he'd made, its unpleasant fragrance filling his nostrils as the coarse grains spilled down his back and left a trail across the grass.
The powder made him easy to follow. The thudding footsteps of pursuers multiplied behind him and Tahl released his smoke to let it dissipate.
The cloud had given him a head start. He hoped it had done the same for Ashyl. Tahl darted between tents as he wove his way back toward the large one he'd tried to infiltrate before. There was no better way to cause a distraction than to target the leaders.
Hopefully they're still there to be targeted, Tahl thought with a hint of chagrin. He hadn't seen anyone emerge. With luck, they were the cowardly sort of leaders that preferred to bark orders from the shadows while others were the ones to act.
Panicked cries and thick plumes of gray smoke rose from the other end of the camp. Tahl didn't dare risk more than a glance. For a split second, he feared someone had set Ashyl's powder afire. Then he remembered she hadn't punctured her keg.
Flashes of flame raced between the tents, churning up acrid clouds behind him.
Not her powder.
His.
Tahl spat a curse and flipped the leaking barrel on his shoulder to halt the stream of powder as he ran. He was supposed to blow them up, not the other way around. Wouldn't that figure? He didn't dare allow himself the harsh, bitter laugh that tickled the back of his throat. Or maybe that was the smoke tickling. It hung low over the camp, clogging the air and the lungs of everyone in it. The urge to cough tightened his chest. On a whim, Tahl grasped his power. His vision narrowed with his concentration. Without stopping to think, he forced the smoke from his lungs with magic. He hadn't realized he could.
What else can you do? He vaulted a rope that supported his targeted tent. Without stopping, he lobbed the powder keg at the canvas walls. It spiraled, spewing powder in loops across the ground.
Tahl skidded to a halt and slammed a hand against the end of the trail, power already in his grasp.
The powder trail ignited.
The keg exploded, the force pitching Tahl and a half-dozen mercenaries to the ground. A harsh whine rose in his ears as he scrambled to his feet amid his enemies.
“You!” someone roared.
Tahl spun toward the voice.
A familiar man emerged from the smoke left in the explosion's wake. Blood plastered his dark hair to his head, but Tahl would have recognized that scowl anywhere.
“I heard you were dead,” Tahl called.
Bahar Eseri's lips peeled back in a snarl. “You're about to be.”
Chapter 15
A scar encircled Lord Eseri's neck. A dozen questions flashed through Tahl's mind as he saw it, but he tamped them down and put them aside. It didn't matter. It didn't change anything. All it meant was that Ebitha's nephew had been telling the truth.
Mercenaries clawed their way to their feet with their weapons in hand. Before they could strike at Tahl, Lord Eseri drew a knife and advanced. “He's mine!”
Tahl couldn't have asked for a better distraction. He locked eyes with the former guild leader and drew a knife of his own. The mercenaries shifted uneasily, but none tried to strike. Fearful of Lord Eseri, it seemed. They should have been fearful of him. “You look good for a man who should be in a grave,” Tahl said.
“Shut it, Ghost,” Eseri snarled.
Tahl's brows climbed. “You know me? I'm flattered.”
A deafening boom shook the ground underfoot. Plumes of smoke churned into the sky on the west side of the camp.
Pure fury crossed the former guildmaster's face. “Get the others!”
The mercenaries around them scurried to follow the man's orders.
Tahl cocked his head. “Just you and me then, huh?” Despite the curiosity that needled at him, the last thing he wanted was to waste time dueling Eseri when his team needed help. If no one was watching, the only one distracted was him.
Lord Eseri didn't give him time to think. He charged with his blade up, his face contorted with fury. He was fast, nimble, but he wasn't the Ghost. Tahl ducked and darted to the side as he reached for his magic. Smoke burst from every footfall, cloaking him with the haze. A few strikes. A few cuts. That was all Tahl could allow.
He rushed in as Lord Eseri hissed and flailed in the smoke. Tahl struck fast, aiming for the man's blade instead of his body. The metal chimed angrily as the blow threw the former guildmaster off balance.
Before Lord Eseri could recover, Tahl disappeared into his smoke again.
Come on, he urged himself. More smoke.
The scent of his smoke cloud was just as acrid as what spewed from the burning black powder.
Powder Tahl had all but forgotten. He retreated into his smokescreen and scouted out the second barrel he'd lost—and abandoned—when the first one blew up. He almost tripped over the keg.
“You can't hide from me!” Lord Eseri snarled, his form a dark silhouette in the pale blue smoke. He charged again, swinging his knife wildly.
Tahl danced away from his powder keg to continue the fight. “You've got no grace. How did you ever survive as a thief?”
“Survive?” The word stirred a new fury in the former guildmaster and his attacks grew more vigorous. “I barely survived at all, no thanks to you!”
“Yeah, that was kind of the idea.” A spark of inspiration lit as Tahl ducked a swipe. He feinted upward, his blade coming just close enough to make Lord Eseri stumble back.
Tahl didn't give him time to recover. He flowed into the opening and with a single, hard swipe, dragged his dagger across Lord Eseri's face.
The man howled, clapping a hand to his bleeding cheek. His eyes blazed with rage.
“A scar to match the one I got because of you,” Tahl said, flipping his blade in hand before he darted into the smoke. A roar of anger swelled behind him, but he didn't turn back. Though part of him wanted to fight, to sprinkle the battle with questions and glean answers for the things that swirled in his head, Tahl knew better than to try. A thief who fought was a thief who died, and his team still needed his help.
Tahl snatched his remaining powder keg from the ground and wove between the tents, ducking weapons and dodging arrows. He couldn't see Ashyl in the camp, but shouts and sounds of battle drew him farther west.
It didn't take long for the smaller thief to come into view, all but surrounded by mercenaries.
Tahl dove into the fray, parrying a sword with his dagger and praying no one would sweep in with a second blow. He lobbed his barrel toward a group of men and flung a hand after it, as if to cause the powder to ignite. Mercenaries shouted and scattered as the barrel hit the ground, but Tahl's magic didn't answer.
He stifled a curse.
“Took you long enough!” Ashyl cried over the clang of weapons.
Tahl ducked closer to help her defend. “What's that supposed to mean? We split up for a reason!”
Realizing the keg was no threat, the mercenaries he'd startled swept back in to pummel the two of them.
Ashyl grunted as she knocked a club aside. “Was that reason me getting teeth knocked out while you hobnob with the nobility?”
Nobility? Tahl's brow twitched. Had she seen Lord Eseri? He swiped at a mercenary's arm and then caught Ashyl by the elbow to steer her south. They had to find the others. By now, he hoped Hadren and Jeran had escaped with the cargo, but he wasn't willing to bet on it. Not with the number of men around him—he and Ashyl weren't even important.
“Go!” Tahl hissed when she resisted his push.
Growling a complaint under her breath, she sprinted ahead, leaving Tahl in the thick of battle. A handful of men spun to catch her, but she evaded their grasp. The mercenaries shifted, closing the gap as Ashyl escaped.
“Thanks a lot,” Tahl muttered as he drew a second knife. He strained to listen for sounds that might betr
ay whether or not the others had been caught, but he couldn't split his focus.
Unwilling to let their prey escape this time, the men charged in a unified, organized pattern.
And here I expected simple-minded brutes, Tahl chided himself as he twisted to evade. Their numbers were threatening, but the men were so numerous they got in their own way. He bobbed under a sword and slipped under someone's arm, upsetting the man's balance in the process. The mercenary crashed into a colleague and Tahl bolted away, his eyes trained on the powder keg.
He almost stopped to grab it again. Instead, he rounded a cluster of tents and spiraled the mercenaries on his heels into a concentrated group, then locked his thoughts on the barrel. Tahl didn't want to kill anyone. He just wanted to inconvenience them as much as possible.
He closed his eyes and focused.
The powder ignited.
A shot of excitement streaked through him as the ground quivered underfoot, followed by a sense of awe. He'd never had the power to start fires, but he could light his inch-sticks. Was the powder that volatile? Or had he finally crossed some threshold into greater capability?
Unlikely, he reminded himself with a chagrined smirk. The blast wouldn't distract them for long, but all he'd needed was a few seconds to make his escape. He pushed himself to run faster, streaking across the camp to rejoin the others.
If he could find them, that was. Ashyl had already disappeared, and though the mercenary force boiled in a frenzy, they charged south. Jeran and Hadren wouldn't have been foolish enough to take the wagon straight down the road, would they?
The answer came a moment later when a new rumble shook the earth. A thunderous noise reached Tahl's ears, muted beneath the quiet whine he'd almost forgotten, aftereffects of that first ill-timed explosion. He fought back a groan as the wagon swayed into view. It swerved between tents, only for the horses hitched to its front to trample right over another. Jeran sat on the wagon's tongue, lashing the reins against the backs of four beasts in crude harnesses fashioned from what looked like scraps of proper harnesses and... were those belts? Tahl could have groaned, but he didn't have time. The wagon veered toward him and he got a running start.
As the wagon barreled past, Tahl vaulted himself into the air and managed to catch a rail on the roof's edge. The wagon rocked dangerously and he dragged himself up. A second later and he would have been flattened by the wheels.
“Welcome aboard,” Jeran called above the hammering of hooves and the mad clatter of cargo inside the wagon.
“Where are the others?” Tahl shouted back.
An arm raised from the back of the wagon so a slim hand could wave. Ashyl made it. Good. Tahl slid toward the back of the roof. He gripped the rail hard and leaned over to peer upside-down into the back.
Inside, Hadren rammed a steel rod down the barrel of a musket. “Not enough powder!”
“Powder? For what?” Tahl had a guess, but he almost didn't want to know.
“Jeran found instructions.” Ashyl's voice was so small, Tahl could barely hear it above the clamor and the persistent ringing in his ears. “The balls get packed in there with powder. Then finer power goes in the... What was it called, Hadren?”
“Who cares what it's called?” the big man roared.
She shot him a glare, then returned her attention to Tahl. “They're basically handheld cannons. We found some powder in a few horns, but it's not enough.”
“For all the good blowing up the barrels did out there,” Hadren said with an angry jerk of his head. Smoke still lay thick over the encampment, but if the explosions had stopped anyone, Tahl didn't know. He hadn't stopped to see if anyone had been injured.
Or worse. Tahl tried not to cringe. He didn't relish the idea of killing anyone, but things had gone wrong so quickly, what else could they do? Somehow, he doubted the queen would care.
Unwilling to let himself stew over the possibility, Tahl gripped the roof rail harder with his left hand so he could wave for Hadren to stop with the right. “Put it down. All we have to do is get this to the queen. I don't know how far off she might be, but the mercenaries were headed—”
“Whoa!” Jeran cried above the shrill whinnies of the horses. The wagon skidded and lurched and Tahl almost fell from the wagon's roof. “Boss, we've got a problem!”
Of course they did. Tahl pulled himself upright just as Jeran tried to set the horses into motion again, the reins pulled taut in his effort to steer the beasts eastward.
Ahead, a sea of armor shone, men in red tabards leading the way.
“Brant's shaking branches,” Tahl spat. “Go! Go!”
Ashyl's head popped out the back as the wagon lurched again. She opened her mouth to ask, but the horses veered and the sea of the Elite came into view. Her jaw went slack.
An arrow with red fletchings whizzed past her face.
Tahl planted a hand on the top of her head and shoved her inside. “Stay inside! Jeran, ride straight into the army and ask for the queen. Remember, you're not enemies. They don't know you. They—”
Something struck his shoulder and a shot of pain lanced across his ribcage and down his arm. Startled, Tahl looked down at the red-feathered shaft that protruded from his flesh. His grip on the railing faltered and his mouth worked a moment before he produced words. “Oh, blight it.”
He fell.
The landing knocked every bit of air out of Tahl's lungs and left him paralyzed on the ground as precious seconds ticked past. He fought to regain control of his body, to overcome shock and move out of sheer determination.
As if something came loose in his chest, his lungs obeyed and he sucked in a deep, gasping breath. Pain came with the oxygen, filling every inch of his body, threatening to cripple him again. Get up, he growled at himself. To his left, the mercenary army surged to meet their new challenge. To the right, the wagon disappeared into the sea of Elite.
Gritting his teeth, Tahl dug his fingers into the earth and forced himself to draw another breath. Slowly, he peeled his head and shoulders up off the ground. The arrow embedded in his shoulder hurt worse than anything he could recall experiencing. That didn't seem right. It was just an arrow. He'd been cut, stabbed, had broken bones—there was no way a single arrow should... what? What couldn't it do? His vision hazed and for a moment, he thought the air was filled with smoke.
Poison, some small part of him answered the unasked question. They're the Elite, and they know who you are.
Tahl found his hands and knees and rolled to his feet. He rocked, unsteady, and grasped the arrow's shaft.
Precious seconds gone. Orrad's best soldiers upon him, no hope for escape.
“Wait,” he croaked, lifting his free hand as if he could stop the emperor's oncoming army with just his outstretched palm.
As if the gesture meant nothing at all, one of the Elite slammed the hilt of his sword into Tahl's head.
Chapter 16
When Tahl woke, grit stung his eyes. He rubbed them with the side of his hand. His body ached with more than just the cold, and as he pushed himself to sitting, he swore every inch of him had to be bruised. After the fall he'd taken, he suspected that was the case.
His hand went to his shoulder. The arrow was gone, though the hole in his heist shirt remained, the fine navy fabric crusted with dried blood. Tahl frowned and probed the skin underneath. It was whole, seemingly unblemished, betraying a mage's healing handiwork. Judging by how clear his thoughts were now, they'd cleared the poison from his system, too.
And why would they do that? His frown deepened as he lowered his hand and observed his surroundings. Maybe the poison wasn't completely cleared. Checking to see where he was should have been the first thing he'd done.
Yet part of him had known the answer, even before he opened his eyes. He'd woken on cold stone, the air thick with humidity and the musty scent of stale mildew. Tahl brushed his fingers over the ground beneath him and wrinkled his nose. It was slimy with something he only hoped was mold, instead of blood... or worse. Fight
ing back a shudder, he wiped his hand clean on his pants.
The cell was dim, but there was no mistaking that was what it was. He'd never seen the inside of Orrad's prison, but he'd imagined it. Three solid stone walls without a single seam framed the cell, the front barricaded by rusted iron bars. The lock appeared old-fashioned and simple, but a quick check of his person showed they'd been thorough in removing his weapons and tools. All he had was his close-fitting outfit and his split-toed shoes. Shoes that were not, he noted, closed. He wiggled his toes and found himself pleased to see his socks remained, but if his shoes were undone, they'd already checked there for lock picks.
Slowly, Tahl ran a hand—the one he hadn't slid across the floor—through his dark hair. So they'd decided not to let him die. That meant they knew who he was, and meant to make an example of him. No one would believe the Ghost was dead unless they saw it with their own eyes. A mistake he'd made with Bahar Eseri, he reminded himself with a grim smile.
But he hadn't been the only thief in that sea of red-accented armor. Tahl was alone in his cell, naught but a bucket and pile of straw to keep him company, but that didn't mean anything. He pushed himself up, wincing at the ache in his joints and muscles, and peered across the hall. The cell on the other side of the walkway was too dark to see, but he thought it looked empty. Given who he was, it wasn't a surprise if they'd chosen to isolate him.
Unsure how to proceed, he crept to the bars and leaned against the heavy door. It did not so much as shift when he put his weight on it. The lock was simple, but he couldn't open it without something stiff. He doubted the straw would cut it. Not that he was eager to escape before he'd determined who else had been captured. The word put a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, even though he'd only thought it.
He'd been the one to send Oria for the Elite. He'd thought that meant they'd have some layer of protection.
Naive of him, Tahl concluded.
His eyes focused better once he was on his feet. The cell across from his was definitely empty, the cell door a few inches ajar. It opened inward, he noticed. Harder for a prisoner to force his way out, perhaps? His fingers curled around one of the crossbars on the door and he leaned back. It still didn't shift.