Ward Against Death (30 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

Ward careened around a corner, found another flight of stairs, and followed it up. His long legs gained him distance over the soldiers, but he still cursed himself on every step. One of his best options of escape was to jump out a window. It wasn’t a great option, but it beat running around the barracks. Yet climbing to the third floor decreased the chance he’d make the fall without breaking something. And he wasn’t up for testing his luck twice on that matter.

The third floor, however, was quiet. He turned to the first door and threw it open. It was a small room with a window, a bed, a basin, and a wardrobe—that was too tiny to hide in. He closed the door behind him and raced to the window. Below sat the courtyard.

Behind the yells of the soldiers drew closer. It was a matter of seconds before they threw open the door.

He leaned out the window and looked up. If he stood on the sill he could reach the edge of the roof. Maybe he could work his way up. His left arm ached at the thought. He didn’t give his right time to complain and stepped out onto the narrow ledge. He shoved the dagger Nazarius had given him into the sheath at the back of his pants and grabbed the roof. Digging his nails into the wood shingles, he pulled with all his strength. He teetered, his weight pulling him down, his feet slipping against the tiny bumps and grooves in the rock as he tried to find purchase. From somewhere, he found a hidden reserve of strength and dragged his torso over the edge.

Below, the door to the room banged open. He slithered up the steep grade, hiding his legs from sight. The soldiers called to others still in the hall and the door slammed shut.

Ward lay on his back panting, waiting for the rushing in his ears to die down. The soldiers still searched for him, and eventually they’d checked the roof. Above, the sky promised another sweltering summer day. The sun had already chased away all signs of night to the west. It was well into the morning and he had until just after sunset to find the Tomb of Souls. The lunar eclipse would occur as soon as it was dark.

The astrologists called this Contraluxis a good omen. They said it represented the Dark Son acknowledging the power of His brother, the Light Son, and His mother, the Goddess. It would be a very bad omen if Ward couldn’t do what the Master said he must, what Grandfather would say was his duty as a necromancer, and what his heart demanded of him.

He rolled onto his hands and knees and studied the roof around him. It had a steep slope, like those found in colder climates to help rid them of snow—though very little snow fell in Brawenal—however that could have been what was in style when the building was constructed. He crawled along it, praying he could work his way down to the second floor before dropping back into the courtyard. This time he would follow the Master’s advice and go deeper into the dungeon.

The Goddess was kind, and the next building over was only two stories. He turned around, lowered his legs over the side, and wriggled down until he hung by his hands. His arms screamed in protest, but he paused to steady himself before dropping those last few feet.

This roof was flatter and easier to stand on. He crouched by the edge and peered into the small courtyard below. It was empty.

Within, he could still hear the shouts of soldiers, most of whom probably didn’t know what was really going on, but had heard the cries of their comrades and rallied to their aid. If the Master was right, he’d be able to escape from within the palace. He’d likely botched that by not listening and arousing all the guards, but there was no way to tell until he slipped into the courtyard and opened the door to the guardroom.

Again he eased his legs over the edge of the roof, and climbed onto a windowsill. Thankfully this one was wider than the previous one, allowing him enough room to kneel precariously on the edge and gain a solid grip. He lowered himself as far as he could, ignoring his arms, before releasing and falling the rest of the way to the courtyard.

He staggered, but kept his balance and glanced around. No one seemed to have noticed. The yells of the soldiers were deep within the building behind him, and no sound came from the guardroom. Pressing his ear to the door, he listened for anyone on the other side but couldn’t hear past the pounding of his heart.

He pulled the dagger from its sheath, but didn’t like the feel of it in his hands. And really, he hadn’t even thought to use it against the soldiers. Although realistically he wouldn’t have stood much of a chance if he’d decided to stand his ground and fight. What made him think he’d use it now? Maybe as a last resort he could use it on himself. He didn’t like that thought either, but it seemed better than whatever fate awaited him in Olotheal.

The shouts in the building behind him became louder. He didn’t know if it was someone passing an open window, or if they had figured out he’d doubled back. Regardless, it was foolish to stick around and wait.ounro" color

He eased the door to the guardroom open and peered in. Empty. With a sigh, he slipped in, closed the door behind him, and headed for the other side of the room. More yells. Much closer. Followed by the slamming of two doors.

They were definitely in the courtyard, and there was no other place to go but the dungeon. He dashed the rest of the way across the room and threw the door open. Beyond stood a surprised guard. Ward lunged at him, ramming his shoulder into his chest and knocking him to the ground. He scrambled over the man and raced down the hall to the stairwell without looking back to see if he followed. If he didn’t, others would.

He almost missed the stairwell back down, and grabbed the edge of the wall to redirect his momentum. The stitches in his arm tugged at already tender flesh and shot pain over the left side of his body. He staggered and forced his feet to take the stairs two at a time, careless of the uneven footing and the flickering light.

Down the stairs to the bottom. Now turn right. He ran past heavy wood doors with tiny barred windows, and smoky, guttering torches. His heart pounded against his chest, making every rib ache. The sound of his blood filled his ears until he could no longer hear the yells of the guards behind him or the moans of those locked away. He knew both were there, and he didn’t want to meet either.

The corridor stopped at a T-intersection. Ahead, the uncertain light flickered over the bricks. Shadows to either side marked corridors leading away. He hadn’t seen any stairs, nor an exit. Surely he wasn’t as deep into the dungeons as the Master had intended. He hadn’t gone very deep at all.

Then he realized he should have gone left at the stairs, not right. No wonder he hadn’t seen his cell as he ran, although he wasn’t sure if he would have noticed it.

He didn’t have time to stand there and think. He chose left. Right wasn’t working for him anymore. This hall only had one torch, and three doors spaced apart. The smell emanating from them was akin to the sewers, except the sewers smelled better. He tried not to think about who was living—or no longer living—in those cells. People who had displeased the prince were locked away and forgotten about, never to see another living person, or daylight, or food, or water, or... he didn’t really want to think about all the things he’d never see again. He couldn’t decide out of all of it what would be worse. Right now, at least, people were the last thing he wanted to encounter. People meant soldiers.

A dark archway caught his attention and he staggered toe sh="18" a stop. All the other archways had doors. A part of him screamed to keep going, to keep running, that they would catch him, but his curiosity got the better of him. He couldn’t deny that smaller part of him that wondered if this was the stairwell he was looking for.

It was just another cell, strewn with rotting hay. A corpse lay chained to the far wall, his remaining flesh tight against his skull, his clothes in tatters. From a quick glance Ward guessed the man had been dead a long time, starved and dehydrated, the heat from the mountain drying his flesh like hardened leather. Without realizing it, he took a step forward, reaching out to examine the corpse, but his foot scraped against something metal, pulling him from his fascination back to the imminent danger.

In the center of the room was a grate for the sewers. He stared at it, knowing it was significant, but unable to remember why.

Someone yelled at the end of the hall. Ward dropped to his knees and ran his hands around the grate. It was built into the stone with four bands of steel locking it in place. They were covered in thick rust. Three had been worried away. The fourth was only half done.

“Poor man. You ran out of time, didn’t you?”

A yell echoed down the hall and Ward glanced over his shoulder. They weren’t there yet, but they soon would be. If only he had something to pry the band—

The dagger.

Sometimes he really hated Seers. So smug, and always right.

He pulled the dagger free, jammed it between the band and the stone, and jerked it up. The band gave way with a sharp snap.

More yells—closer this time—followed the noise. He sheathed the dagger and, with a strength he didn’t know he possessed, shoved the sewer grate aside and scrambled down. There was no time to close it. Celia would be disappointed with him.

Racing down the sewer, he prayed he’d put as much distance between him and the soldiers as possible. He zigzagged from one pipe to the next as soon as he saw an opening. Left, right, left, left again, not caring where he ran or what he ran through. Haste was more important.

The pale light of the witch-stone flickered. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Heat radiated from his arms and ribs and seeped up his neck toward his face. He stumbled, caught his balance before landing in the sewage, and pushed on.

Without a doubt, the prince’s men followed. If he slowed down now, they’d catch him.

He ran, his pace ever slowing, until he couldn’t run anymore. It felt like mere seconds and a lifetime of labor at the same time. His mind screamed, Run. Run. They’re behind you! But he couldn’t. His legs twitched, threatening to buckle with each step.

This was it. No more. What a very sad place to die, ankle-deep in human waste. Of course, with the way things had been going, it shouldn’t surprise him. He leaned against the wall, regardless of the filth and slime.

After a while, his breathing slowed and the pain radiating over him eased. There were no sounds of pursuit. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the soldiers.

Which didn’t mean anything. He’d been concentrating on running, not listening.

He glanced behind him. The soft glow of the witch-stone made the obsidian walls appear insubstantial, carved from gauze or silk. Or maybe his vision was finally going. If the cuca had taken effect it wouldn’t wear off for a while, so it couldn’t be withdrawal. Not yet. He couldn’t even tell if it had helped. Desperation and fear could have kept him going.

And going was what he needed to keep doing.

He pushed away from the wall. His legs twitched but didn’t buckle. If he gave up now, the soldiers would find him. And while the Master hadn’t risked much by designing Ward’s escape, Ward certainly had. Escaped criminals were not treated with kindness in any of the principalities.

Regardless, he couldn’t question his good fortune. Which he supposed wasn’t really his good fortune. The Master probably knew where he was going even before he did. What was worse? An assassin who could walk through walls and couldn’t be killed, or one who could see the future? At least he could prevent the first one. Maybe, if the Goddess took pity on him, he could avoid the second.

He scanned the sewer pid t

The thought made his stomach churn. He couldn’t return to the cavern. Celia probably wouldn’t be there, but Karysa and her creature might be. Not to mention the Quayestri. For a secret cavern, it had become awfully popular. He still had to stop the creation of the shadow walker, but now he didn’t have anyplace safe to go and catch his breath.

What a complete and utter mess.

His throat tightened and his eyes burned. Grandfather would be so disappointed. Ward had ignored his responsibility as a necromancer and thrown everything out of balance. He never imagined his Physician’s Oath would get him into such trouble.

Yet, if he hadn’t cast the Jam de’U, he would never have had the opportunity to get to know Celia. Whether it was the real her or not, he liked the Celia he saw when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. He couldn’t explain why. She hadn’t been nice to him, and he was sure she had contemplated his death more than once. And still—