Nod took the lead up the cliffs. She made good progress up the first ten vertical feet until the angle of the slopes forced her to slow. They'd worn dark clothes for the venture, but the stone was a light enough shade of gray that he wasn't certain a keen-eyed guard wouldn't be able to spot the Marshals.
Stymied by the cliff, the pair of them moved horizontally toward the wall. Joti crouched forward a few feet before settling behind another boulder. Nod, seeming to have reached a dead end, backed up a few feet, groping around herself for handholds. Shain took a tentative step onto a spar of rock. It crumbled beneath her, rocks clacking down to the scree below.
She and Nod pressed themselves to the cliffside. The nearest guard was a hundred feet south. He seemed to glance their way, but didn't move from his post. After a long minute, Nod began to move again, searching for a route that didn't seem to want to appear.
Something twinged inside Joti's chest. Possibility. Uncertainty. A single thread seemed to shimmer between him and the battlements, but it was gone before he could be sure. Heart racing, he raised his bow. A silhouette rose from a crenel near the wall's edge and stared into the rocky slopes. Nod and Shain were still moving, casting about for holds.
The silhouette stood in alarm. Joti took aim. A gray tendril stretched through the air between himself and the guard. Blinking, he adjusted the arrow to match it. The arrow hissed through the air. As soon as he let it go, he knew it was wide right. Silently screaming for Uggot's aid, he reached for another arrow, knowing he wouldn't have time.
The guard swung to his left and took a step along the wall. The arrow struck him square in the side of the head. He staggered and collapsed into a crenel, one arm dangling over the side.
Shain and Nod were already on their way down from the cliff. Within a matter of seconds, they were crouched beside Joti, breathing hard.
"Nice shot," Shain whispered. "Now we've got about three minutes to get onto that wall before someone comes looking for him."
"Not long enough to find a route up the cliff," Nod said. "Have to fall back. Try again after more scouting."
"No cliffs. I was thinking we'd use the hook."
"Can't. They'll hear!"
Shain was already retrieving the grappling hook and its long rope from her back. "If I throw it onto the wall, sure. But I was intending to use that nice soft body."
She jogged toward the wall. Nod gaped at Joti, then followed, keeping low. Shain stopped at the base of the wall and twirled the hook, eyeing the arm draped over the edge twenty feet above them. A ripple passed through Joti. With the hook near its apex, Shain let go of the twirling rope. The hook sailed upward, arcing through the two merlons and landing with a low thump.
Shain drew on the rope until it was taut, then gave it two firm tugs. Nod shook her head in disgust. Shain smiled, exceedingly pleased with herself, and hauled herself up hand over hand. When she was halfway up, Nod started up the rope after her. Joti waited for Shain to roll over the side of the wall before shouldering his bow and following after them.
He made it to the top and clambered over the body, which squished yieldingly beneath him. Shain and Nod sat to either side of it. The nearest lantern glowed a hundred feet away, its light too weak to reach them.
Shain pointed to a staircase twenty feet to their right. Ensuring the walkway was clear, they picked up the body and lugged it down the stairs. The guard had been a grown man, but he was on the small side even for a human and felt light in Joti's arms.
The bailey was broad, dark, and empty. An entrance to the wall stood to one side of the stairway. They entered, stashing the body and then groping their way through the darkness to the door at the far end. After some muffled fumbling, they undid the bolts and bars. Nod opened the door just enough to ensure that it would.
"Okay, now we have an exit," Shain said. "Regarding the tower, I don't suppose you know which cell they've got them in?"
"Probably up top. Wizard."
"Who are closer to the heavens than most royalty. And you wouldn't stick a baron down on the second floor. What about the dwarf?"
"Something lower," Nod said, with the hint that she found this funny.
"Mm. We'll find Wit first and employ his sorcery to track down his wayward slave. Hold the exit for us, will you?"
She exited the short tunnel. After stopping to survey the grounds, she headed north along the wall until they reached the cliffs, then cut east toward the castle buildings. The air smelled like wood smoke and horses. Joti normally found the smell of animals comforting, but the tang of horse meant something sinister: human cavalry.
Shain reached a stable and hooked south along the front of the great stone buildings. The windows were shuttered against the cold. A handful spilled candlelight from cracks in the slats. Boots scraped ahead. Shain pulled Joti next to a tarp-covered pile of wood. Ten seconds later, a guard walked past, disappearing into the gloom.
Shain moved on, faster now. They reached the southern edge of the keep and turned east, ducking alongside a well-trimmed hedge. Snow began to sift from the sky. Joti had imagined the tower would be freestanding, but Shain brought them to the base of an attached wing of the structure.
She moved to the door, giving it an experimental nudge. It creaked open. She stopped its advance and turned to Joti. He nodded. She swung the door open, the well-oiled hinges making no protest. A wall of almost-warm air gushed past them. Shain slipped inside and closed the door behind them.
They stood in an expansive, high-ceilinged foyer lit only by the ambient light spilling through the glass windows set in the upper walls.
"Well," Shain whispered. "That was easy—"
The chink of flint sounded from across the room. Shain ripped out her sword, its steel reflecting the sparks as they showered from the flint. With a soft whump, a lantern lit—or no, not a lantern; a rag inserted into the mouth of a green bottle shaped like a flask of spirits.
The light that burned wasn't much, but it was more than enough to make out the figure of the dwarf holding the bottle. He was grimy and grizzled and didn't look to be at all concerned about either.
"Wa'llach Orc-Friend." Shain laughed softly. "How did you know that we'd be here?"
Wa'llach smiled wryly. "Because all orcs are impatient, and for all your airs, you No-Clan don't like to spend a minute longer than you have to beyond your own borders."
"How did you escape captivity?"
"By hitting people until they saw things my way."
Shain snorted. "Where is Wit? Upstairs?"
"Aye, and just waiting for you to show up before we take care of our business. So let's be off to crack his cell so I can quit burning this jug and start drinking it."
The dwarf turned and headed for a staircase at the back of the foyer. Shain's long legs soon caught her up. As she closed on Wa'llach, she seemed to stumble on an invisible step. She straightened herself and moved her hand to the hilt of her sword.
"Wa'llach." Her voice was low and flat. "I suggest you set down that bottle."
Wallach swiveled about, the guttering bottle held lightly in his right hand. "No need to be afraid of a little fire…unless I drop it and burn us up."
"Who is the other wizard? Is Wit still alive?"
His expression soured like fermented wozzit milk. "How did you know? The damned Gift? I don't know which I hate more: human magicians, or the orcish kind."
Shain drew her sword with a leathery hiss. "Set the bottle down and hold your hands high."
"I will, I will. You have no need to stab me." Wa'llach bent his knees, lowering the flaming bottle to the ground with a glass clink.
As he rose, his hand shot to his belt. He grabbed the handle of an absurdly thick knife, twisting it to point the end at Shain, and pulled a small lever in the handle.
Fire spat from the end of the weapon. A great bang clapped through the room. Shain grabbed her chest and collapsed to the floor.
Joti found his sword in his hand and that he was charging the dwarf.
Wa'llach turned the death-stick on him, its tip a blank black eye. "Wouldn't do that."
Joti stopped ten feet away from him. "I've seen those before. You don't have a second shot."
"Oh, perhaps not." With unnerving quickness, the dwarf snagged the burning bottle of spirits from the floor. "But this will burn us hotter than the flames of Thrag's forge."
The smell of charred poison rolled through the air. The same smell Joti had encountered during the Orange Lady's raid on his tribe. "Why have you betrayed us?"
"I'm no more than a doll on a string. I can't stop myself any more than you can make yourself fly." He nodded his bearded chin at Shain. "But it's not all rotten. When I have no choice over my own actions, it means you people and your damned Gift can't read what I am about to do."
"You'll burn in every hell there is for this."
"They etched my name in their ledgers long before you were born, lad. How old are you, anyway?"
"Thirteen."
"That is unfortunate, for I take no pleasure in killing children." Wa'llach made to drink from the bottle, only to look surprised to find it aflame. "Then again, orcs grow up fast, don't you? How old were you when you took your first life?"
The slaver in the alley at Ankin Drog? No, it had been before that. As always, it all came back to the river. "I was eight."
"Aye, I believe it. You have the look to you, and I would know, having met and killed many like you before."
Joti lifted the tip of his sword. "Then why are you stalling now? Don't tell me you're afraid of a half-grown ninth seed who couldn't even make it as a No-Clan squire."
The dwarf chuckled. "My job is to make sure that none of you green-skinned bastards make it up these stairs, which I can do by waiting here until the castle guard arrives. Which, if there are any brains in that boulder of a head of yours, means that if you were to run out, I wouldn't be apt to follow."
Shain's chest was rising and falling, but she still hadn't moved. He'd have to leave her behind if he wanted to try to find Wit—who, if Wa'llach had been so certain of the No-Clan's arrival, might have been moved elsewhere within the castle. His dad had once told him that hatching a plan was like finding a stray wolf pup: when you caught one, all you could think about was how great it would someday become. But if it started to turn on you, and you didn't have the will to turn it around, then you sure as hell better have the smarts to let it go before it had the chance to maul you.
He moved toward Shain. "I'm going. I'm taking her with me. And this all ends now."
Wa'llach held the bottle in one hand and a very large knife in the other. "If you try to carry her out, I could very easily kill you, and that means that I would have to. You can still save yourself. That's better than you'll get most times."
Joti lowered his face, gazing at the floor and the shadows cast by the unsteady snapping of the flame, then charged toward the dwarf as fast as he could.
Wa'llach lobbed the bottle as casually as if he was tossing aside his boots after a long day's march. It shattered on the granite floor with an airy blast. Just like he'd done when dodging the wozzit-riding cavalry, Joti flung himself to the side. Scalding air rushed past him in a torrent. He smelled burning hair and vaporized alcohol. He landed on his forearm, rolling onto his back on the stone floor.
The dwarf was already upon him, jabbing at his chest with the knife. Joti rolled to the side, the point skidding off the scales of his armor. He hammered at Wa'llach's ankle with his heel. The dwarf cursed, staggering back a step. Joti scooted away.
Across the floor, Shain's trousers were smoldering, but the burning spirits didn't seem to be able to catch purchase on her Marshal's cloak. The same was not true of the stuffed chairs behind her, which had caught flame, dispensing dark smoke into the large chamber.
Joti leaped to his feet. The dwarf bull-rushed him, trying to knock him down before he had his balance, jabbing the knife at Joti's unarmored groin. Joti all but flung his sword at the incoming blade. The weapons met with a clang that was almost musical. Wa'llach stomped on his lead foot. Pain lanced up Joti's leg. The dwarf followed this with an upward-arcing punch to Joti's ribs. The dragonscale armor shredded Wa'llach's knuckles, yet with Joti's foot trapped under the dwarf's, the force was enough to send him sprawling.
He landed on his elbow and shoulder, tucking his chin to his chest as Fardo had taught him to do in his too-short days as a Half Soldier. He jabbed up his sword to put it between himself and Wa'llach, but the dwarf was already past his guard, kicking his wrist with every ounce of his mountain-born strength. The sword hit the ground and skidded away.
Wa'llach fell on him, knife glinting in the light of the fires burning on the chairs. Joti shoved his forearms up. The blade seared along his left arm, but he was able to shove his wrist against Wa'llach's before the point of the knife could drive into Joti's throat.
They strained against each other, the dwarf smelling of sweat and strong liquor. Wa'llach bore down with a strength that seemed too large for his modest body. Joti tried to drive a knee into Wa'llach's backside, but the dwarf merely grunted, undistracted in the slightest as he forced the dagger an inch closer to Joti's face, then two.
The dwarf looked neither angry nor frightened, but rather impatient, like a man finishing up a long and uninteresting yet necessary task. The knife sank past Joti's chin, its tip nicking the soft skin of his neck. He pushed back with strength he didn't know he had, lifting the blade away.
His arms trembled. Within moments, his new strength wore away. The dagger lowered to his neck. The feeling as it pierced his skin was more like surprise than pain. Cold nausea tumbled down his gullet and across his limbs, followed by a pure panic so wrenching he almost let go of Wa'llach's hands just so that it would be over. He tried to beg the dwarf to stop, but no words came out.
He knew then that he was about to die. He knew there was no fairness to it but that there was no malice either. And he knew also that there had been no better place than the prairies and forests where they bathed in waterfall-fed pools and caught frogs by the stream and the season passed one into another and that's how you knew that you were alive.
The knife dug further, but the pain was as distant as the summer mornings when he rose with the sun before the land grew hot. He gazed up at the straining dwarf and something seemed to open and he knew memories that weren't his own: running through the mountains with a band of orcs to feast and drink in a castle; adrift on a boat in the ocean beneath more sunlight than he'd ever seen; the simple peace of a night beneath the stars with a warm fire and a full belly.
That was the dwarf's last good memory. Everything after was a jagged landscape of hatred and patient wrath. The division between the two collections of memory was as stark as the division of the air above the surface of a lake and the water beneath it. And from this second period rose a mass of tendrils woven to wrap the dwarf in a prison. A Binding.
Joti reached his mind out to the strings. The work was delicate, intricate.
He took the tendrils in something that wasn't his hands.
And he ripped them apart.
With the loss of the strings, he and the dwarf toppled toward an utter darkness. Joti cast about, catching hold of something—he couldn't say what—and pulling himself back from the abyss. Above him, the dwarf went limp. No longer being pushed against, Joti relaxed as well, then jolted and shoved Wa'llach aside. The dwarf rolled onto his back, one hand smacking against the stone floor. His eyes were open but unfocused, but he was still breathing, if raspily.
Joti felt his throat. It was bleeding, but not as heavily as he feared. He opened his pack and dug out one of the bandages Nod had prepared for them. It smelled like a heady mix of mountain herbs. He wrapped it around his neck, which went numb seconds later.
He tried to stand and nearly fainted. He sat back down. The furniture and curtains were still smoldering, but the hall wasn't yet too smoky. He got up again, successfully this time, and picked up his sword. It felt good in his han
d. He moved to stand above the motionless, unseeing dwarf. He lifted his sword, wrath beating in his chest. And froze at the memory of the dwarf in his boat, alone on the sea but calmer than he'd been at any point in his wretched life.
Joti swore violently, sheathed his sword, and ran to Shain. She was just starting to stir.
"Shot me," she said, propping herself on an elbow. "Bastard shot me. Do you have any idea how much it hurts to get shot?"
He reached for her cloak, which was matted with blood on the left side. "Where?"
She swatted at him and sat up, wincing as she swung her pack from her shoulders. Doing his best to remember some shred of his training, he got out his other two bandages. Shain had pulled back her cloak and her thick woolen shirt to reveal her midriff. At the lower edge of her ribs, a wound gaped darkly, blood running freely down her stomach.
"That doesn't look too pleasant," she said. "It's a good thing we've already eaten."
Moving shakily, she sprinkled a green powder into the wound, eyes rolling with pain as the blood there sizzled. She motioned for Joti and his bandages. He pressed one over the hole, applying pressure as she tamped the edges, which were coated with sticky resin, down against her skin. Lastly, she unwrapped a dried sprig of brown-black meat and chewed it vigorously. Joti caught a whiff of human liver.
She stopped mid-chew and tipped back her head to gaze at the high ceiling. "Trouble in the Warp. That would be Wit, then. Are you hurt?"
"Not badly."
"Then go try to help him."
Joti took a step toward her, sword in hand. "What about you?"
"It's about time we summon our friends." She drew the bone whistle from around her neck. With some difficulty, she stood and moved toward the door. She glanced over her shoulder in disgust. "What are you waiting for? An escort from the armed guards?"
Joti turned and dashed toward the stairs. Shain swung the door open, drawing the warmer, smoky air to it. She lifted her whistle to her lips. The screech of an owl clawed through the night. As Joti came to the first landing, she repeated the signal. High above him, he thought he felt a twitch in the threads of being, but he had no idea if that was the sign of a new-found awareness, or a trick of his badly-jangled mind.
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