by A. C. Cobble
Amelie placed a hand on her arm and they walked into the hallway.
“Should we trust his directions?” asked Ben.
Rhys shrugged. “I think he honestly believed we would let him live.”
They trailed after Sander down the hall, following the shirtless man’s directions. After the first intersection though, a bell clanged. The alarm, Ben realized. Somewhere, one of the bodies they’d left in their wake had been discovered.
“Run!” barked Sander. He started off, quickly outpacing his men.
A door was thrown open and a guard stepped into the hall. A Quiet Man whipped a dagger into the man’s eye and kept running, not pausing to retrieve his blade or giving the dead guard a second look. Ben heard shouts all around them, but so far, the alarm was general. It must have started in the floors below. They made it to the door the shirtless man directed them to. They had to get out of the hallway where guards could easily find them.
“Wait,” called Towaal.
One of the Quiet Men didn’t wait. He gripped the doorknob then went flying back, a blue arc of electricity blasting after him. He slammed against the opposite wall and slumped down, his body twitching uncontrollably.
“Idiot,” grumbled Towaal. She scratched her belt knife on the door then waved to another man to try the knob.
He looked back at his convulsing companion and took a deep breath.
“Hurry!” demanded Sander.
Booted feet echoed down the hall. Ben didn’t think anyone knew where they were, but it wouldn’t take long for someone to spot them in the hallway. The Quiet Man turned the knob and threw open the door. He rushed in, followed by the remaining two-dozen of the thieves.
Ben started after them, but Towaal slapped a hand against his chest to stop him.
A concussive explosion rocked the walls of the keep and screams of the Quiet Men cut through the air. Steel clashed against steel. Ben realized they hadn’t all been killed in the blast. Another explosion split the air. Loose mortar showered down around them. Screams and fighting continued inside. Then a third thunderous boom sounded. Ben felt the blast through the floor.
“Now!” called Towaal. “Grab anything or anyone who might be part of the Purple.”
She rushed into the dust-filled room, Rhys right behind her. Ben shared a look with Amelie and Corinne. Then they charged in as well. It was complete chaos. Flickering fires burned throughout the room, obscured by roiling clouds of dust. Ben hoped the dust was from shattered stone and mortar. In the gloom, a dozen Quiet Men battled a dozen black-clad figures.
There were already numerous casualties on both sides. Bloody bodies lay scattered everywhere he looked. They were torn to shreds, so brutally damaged that Ben couldn’t identify which group they had been part of.
He didn’t have time to think about it. A black-clad man charged Rhys with a sword that flickered with eerie green fire. The rogue met the man’s strike and danced back as the fire leapt off the blade and swirled toward him.
“Harden your wills,” yelled Towaal.
A heartbeat later, the air crackled. Ben’s hair stood on end. A blaze of lightning arced across the room and a Quiet Man was thrown cartwheeling into the air.
Corinne dropped to a knee and slung her bow off her shoulder. Amelie charged forward into the fray, thrusting her rapier into the back of a black-clad man who’d just rammed a spear into the gut of a Quiet Man. Ben cursed and charged after her.
More lightning blasted through the dust and impacted Towaal. She staggered back, grunting in pain but keeping her feet. Ben felt the heat of it on his face and tasted it in his mouth. In three heartbeats, three more strikes of lightning landed on the mage. She was stumbling back, arms crossed in front of her, trying to offer defense. Her clothes smoked where the lightning struck her.
“Rhys!” she cried.
Ben parried the blade of a black-clad man who’d been trying to come up behind Amelie. He whipped his longsword around, cutting easily through the man’s loose clothing and into flesh. A spray of blood erupted and the man fell back, vanishing into the dust storm.
Ben looked around wildly until he found Rhys pressed against the wall by two of the Thin Blades. The one with the flaming green sword still stood. His companion was stabbing a two-pronged spear at Rhys. Runes were etched on the heavy steel head of the spear.
Ben took a step toward Rhys when Amelie called, “Your sword, Ben, the wind.”
He grunted. Stupid. He’d forgotten it in the chaos. The swirling thunder of wind was already filling his head, just like it always did during any conflict. He swept his arm out and released a gale.
He tried to direct it into the gloom, where he thought the lightning was coming from, but in the confined space, the wind crashed around like a tornado. Bodies of combatants were spun into the air, twisting wildly as Ben’s wind swept them around the room. They crashed against walls and into heavy pieces of furniture. Ben hoped any broken bones would be forgiven by the Quiet Men. Surely they would be. They hadn’t been doing very well before he acted.
Ben had one breath of clear air. Then a wall of dust, pushed around the room by the gale force of his wind, slammed back into him.
Stunned by the recoil of his attack, Ben was sent flying to the ground just like everyone else.
He looked up from the floor when the wind died and saw the room clearly for the first time. It was larger than he expected and filled with destruction. Thick wooden pillars leaned like drunken wagon drivers. Chunks of shattered furniture and decorations covered the floors. Bodies lay everywhere, some of them moving, struggling to comprehend what had just happened, most of them not moving at all. The ceiling creaked. Ben realized with alarm, the wooden pillars had been supporting it.
At the far side of the room, a man wiped a thick layer of dust off his face and coughed. He was wearing black robes with a thick cowl hanging around his neck. A steel grey sigil hung on his chest, the uniform of the council. A neatly trimmed brown beard framed his face and blood streamed down the side of his head, dripping steadily onto his robes. Rage colored his face purple.
In one hand, he clutched a polished steel orb. In the palm of the other, tiny flickers of lightning sparked. He scanned the room, looking for a target. He became one first.
An arrow flew across the room and caught him in the shoulder. Ben saw Corinne was on her feet, swaying unsteadily, trying to draw another arrow from her quiver.
The man, who must be Rettor, raised his hand. Before he could unleash his lightening again, a crack sounded. A timber from the ceiling fell down, landing heavily on him. He sprawled on the floor. Cursing but unhurt, he kicked himself out from under the thick beam.
Amelie was crawling toward him, the etched dagger they’d gotten from Samuel in one hand. She dropped a broken stick from the other. She must have somehow used it to knock down the timber. Rettor’s eyes found her.
Ben jumped to his feet and charged. His gut churned at the thought of Amelie taking the same blast of lightning the mage had sent at Towaal.
“Harden your will!” yelled Amelie.
Ben saw Rettor cut his gaze to him and notice the mage-wrought blade. Ben was charging fast, halfway to the mage. He hurdled a flipped-over couch.
A bolt of lightning shot at him as he was still mid-air.
Time seemed to freeze. Ben’s mind snapped into focus. He could feel the air he was holding in his lungs, the twinge in his ankle from where he’d stepped awkwardly before jumping, the line of pain along his ribs where he had taken a cut, the cold wire hilt of the sword in his hands, and the blood running through his veins. He held onto it, in stasis.
The lightning punched into his chest and Ben flew back.
He felt nothing until his back smacked into the stone wall and his head bounced off. Stars swarmed his vision. His chest felt like he’d been butted by a bull whose head was on fire. Ben rolled onto his side, groaning. His sword lay on the stone floor in front of him. Reaching a hand to grasp it seemed impossible.
; “Who are you people?” demanded Rettor incredulously. “Why are you attacking me?”
“We’re looking for the Purple,” answered Rhys.
Ben turned his head and saw his friend standing tall, scorch marks covering one shoulder, longsword held in front of him. The two Thin Blades who had been attacking him lay dead at his feet.
“The Purple,” replied Rettor, wiping the blood that streaked his face. “They are gone. I killed the last one myself two years ago. Is that what you came for, to avenge them?”
Ben’s heart sank. Hesitant shouts drifted in from the hallways. Guards were getting close, and Ben was in no shape to run. If Rettor knew nothing else of the Purple, then they had wasted their time.
“Attack!” shouted another voice.
Sander and half a dozen Quiet Men swarmed forward. The mage lifted his hand. Lightning blazed forth. Quiet Men were incinerated, one by one.
Then the lightning flickered out. Sander and two other men were still standing, waiting to die.
Rettor’s eyes grew wide. He looked down at the metal sphere in his hand. From across the room, Ben could see it was cracked.
The mage swayed on his feet, blood dripping from his head and spreading from where Corinne’s arrow was lodged in his shoulder. Sander added another wound. He flashed forward in a blur of motion and plunged his blade into the man’s stomach. He laughed maniacally and then stabbed the mage again, over and over.
Coughing blood, Rettor collapsed. He weakly tried to raise his hand and do something to Sander, but he was finished. His will leaking from his body with his blood. His hand fell limply by his side and he slumped over.
Panting ferociously, Sander gazed around the room. Only he and two other Quiet Men remained. The Thin Blades were all down, though Ben saw a few of them still stirring. Ben’s companions had survived, each looked battered and dazed.
“The guards are coming,” warned Rhys. “Sander, I believe most of these Thin Blades will be wearing the weapons from the cache, at least the good stuff. As promised, it is yours. We won’t stop you, but you’ll have to hurry. The guards will be here in heartbeats.”
“Hurry.” The thief laughed, fingering the amulet around his neck. “That is something I can do.”
He darted in a blaze of speed between the bodies of the black-clad men, stabbing to death the ones that still lived, rifling through their clothing, snatching weapons and devices. Anything that had runes on it went into a sack he was carrying. His men looted the bodies near them, albeit at a slower pace.
“We should—” started Ben.
Rhys shushed him. The rogue had moved near the doorway and held up a finger.
Ben rolled onto his back. He looked at Amelie who was also lying down. A grin split her dusty, blood-smeared face. They weren’t in good shape, but they were alive.
Towaal walked over to the body of Rettor. She kicked away the metal sphere.
Sander saw what she did and demanded, “That’s mine as well!”
“It’s broken, thief. It won’t work for anyone, but you’re welcome to have it.”
Mollified, Sander finished searching the Thin Blades. He and his men stood, unsure what to do next.
“Pick a direction,” offered Rhys. “You go one way and we’ll go the other.”
Sander nodded curtly then started out the door and back the way they’d come in, his men following close behind. They were fingering new weapons and grinning wickedly. Ben saw one of them was holding the sword with the eerie green fire. At the very least, it was likely to frighten any soldiers they encountered.
Rhys waited until they were out of earshot to shake his head. “Idiots. Hopefully enough of them survived that they can provide us a proper distraction when they run into the guards.”
Ben sat up, groaning.
“Can you walk?” asked Rhys.
“Yeah, I think so. I just need a minute.”
Towaal had finished her search of Rettor and was standing, staring around the demolished room in frustration. With a sigh, she admitted, “If there was a clue to the Purple in here, I don’t know how we’ll ever find it.”
A table wedged against the wall flipped over to reveal a young man who’d been hidden behind it. “You said the Purple?”
“The Librarian’s assistant!” exclaimed Amelie, recognizing the boy from Northport.
He blinked owlishly.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Towaal.
“I came to find assistance for my master,” quaked the young man. “He had brothers here.”
“Is what Rettor said true, that he killed the last of the Purple?” demanded Towaal.
The young man shook his head. “I found out after I arrived, no more remain in Irrefort. Inzor, the last guardian here, left a cache of weapons, and I hoped, some writings. I tracked the weapons and followed them to Rettor. The mage kept pressing me for information on how to use the weapons. I showed his men how to use some of the weapons to gain their trust.”
“Did you find the writings?” asked Towaal.
The young man shook his head.
“But you studied with the Librarian?” pressed Towaal.
“I did,” squeaked the boy’s small voice.
“Let’s hope that’s enough,” said Rhys. “We have to go.”
“Before I go with you,” the young man said, “tell me, what happened to my master? The last I saw, demons were outside the walls of Northport. He told me to run, to find our brothers. Before I left, I saw you confront him.”
“He’s dead,” answered Towaal flatly.
The young man’s eyes widened. Suddenly, he turned and bolted. He darted deeper into Rettor’s chambers. Corrine, Towaal, and Rhys sprinted after him. Ben and Amelie struggled to rise off the floor where they’d been lying. The women got through the doorway first.
When Rhys got there, he turned and instructed, “He’s gone out the window. Try to follow. If you lose us, meet at the Hangman’s Noose, five leagues south of the city.”
Rhys dashed through the door and Ben stumbled to his feet. He lurched toward Amelie and helped her up as well.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, just bruises and scrapes, I think. It doesn’t really matter though. We have to leave.”
The clash of arms sounded in the hallway, followed by a high-pitched scream.
“Sander’s providing our distraction,” said Ben. “Let’s go.”
They dashed into the next room and saw two open windows. Ben ran to one, Amelie the other. Ben dodged around tables and chairs, barely giving the room a second glance. He got to the window and looked out on five stories of open air. Far below, soldiers rushed through a courtyard. They were likely still trying to find the source of the alarm. From what Ben could tell, there was nowhere someone could climb out.
“This side,” called Amelie.
Ben turned and saw she was already clambering up onto the windowsill. He rushed to her side. Amelie grabbed his tunic and pulled him close. Their lips met.
“We’re going to survive this, right?” she asked.
“Yeah. So far, we’re right on plan,” he said, struggling to keep a straight face.
She grinned then dropped out the window.
Ben gasped and looked down. Three paces below him was a steeply sloped tile roof. Amelie was slipping and sliding down it. It continued for a dozen paces. Below that was a stone-capped peak of another roof that ran away from the tower. Four figures were racing along it in the distance. The librarian’s assistant was surprisingly spry for such a bookish fellow. Corinne, Towaal, and Rhys were struggling to keep up with the man.
“Ben!” shouted Amelie. “What are you doing?”
He placed a hand on the windowsill and hurdled out into the cold night air. Tiles shattered and slid out from under him. He started a barely controlled slide after his friends.
At the end of the tiles, Amelie delicately leapt off and landed lightly on the stone cap of the next roof. Ben crashed down behind her, tiles and debris ra
ining down on top of him. He clambered up off his side and stood behind her.
“If I wasn’t already covered in bruises,” he moaned, “that would have left a bad one.”
“You’re lucky you landed there,” she said, grinning.
He glanced to the side and swallowed. Two more stories of tiled roof and then a three-story drop to the gardens below. That wouldn’t have felt good.
“Let’s go,” said Amelie.
She set off at a shambling run with Ben right behind her. Their friends had vanished already, but Ben hoped they could spot them when they got to the end of the roof. He kept his eyes straight ahead, no longer allowing himself to look to the side and the treacherous fall there.
The rings of alarm bells continued to sound throughout the keep. Ben risked a glance behind them and saw lights flooding half the windows in the council’s chambers. As long as Sander and his companions weren’t taken alive and questioned, and they caught the librarian’s assistant, no one living had seen Ben and his friends in the keep. If they could avoid any more guards, they might just get away with it. Of course, if they didn’t catch the librarian’s apprentice, the entire journey and assault on the keep was wasted effort. There was no way they’d be sneaking back in to try to find more clues about the Purple.
He and Amelie ran down the stone pathway. At the end of it, they found no sign of their friends. Below them to the right was a brightly lit veranda, to the left, a dark one.
“Which way?” gasped Amelie.
Ben glanced frantically back and forth. None of the doors were open on either one. There was no sign of entry or disturbance.
“Where would the apprentice have gone?” wondered Ben.
“To the dark one, if he didn’t want to run into anyone,” replied Amelie.
“Does he want to avoid discovery? He was in the council’s chambers,” responded Ben. “He could be looking for guards.”
Amelie shrugged.
“Let’s go to the right, the lit side,” decided Ben.
It was easier said than done. The stone cap sat atop more roof tiles. At the end of the roof, a seven-pace wide gap spanned the edge and the veranda below. They’d have to jump across.