Page 47

Forty-Seven

Herinor

When the next guard turns the corner, we’re all pretending to be asleep or unconscious. Silas barely needs to fake it, blood loss and cold weakening him faster than I’d hoped for. The guard—a man of perhaps forty years, tall and powerfully built for what I recognize to be clearly human—eyes us for a minute, hand on the pommel of his sword as he toes the dead rebel closest to him.

“He died a while ago,” Gabrilla croaks, putting on a good show of barely being able to roll to her side from the awkward angle she’s assumed on the ground, close enough to Silas so the two of them share some warmth.

“Didn’t deserve any better, the traitor,” the guard grumbles, sharp blue eyes cutting toward one dead body after the other until they return to Gabrilla, a flash of interest sparking there. “But I could see ways you could escape freezing in your own piss, girl.”

The innuendo in his tone makes my hair stand on edge and not just because the stench of said piss makes it impossible to think of anything other than getting out of here. Gabrilla, however, plays her role too well, leaning forward an inch and glancing at the guard from under her lashes.

“I’d do literally anything to get close to a fire.”

Trying to ignore the mild jerk of Silas’s shoulder at the remark, I focus on my own task, keeping my head down as I wait for Gabrilla to lure the man in.

One step. Two. And he’s near enough for me to spit on his boots.

Come on, Gabrilla. One more step.

When I don’t move, she understands we need the man to get closer, and she lets herself tumble over, her hand flailing toward the guard as she moans. “Please. I’ll even go with body heat if that pleases you.”

For a moment, the guard is torn between drawing his sword and grabbing for Gabrilla’s hand, and it’s that moment of inattention he makes a move forward, stepping within my range.

Willing strength into my legs, I push off the ground, striking like a snake. My arms are bound too tightly to attempt a hit or a grab, but even from down here, I know I’m taller than the man, and my forehead connects with his sternum as I unfold myself as much as the chains allow. The impact makes my teeth sing, stars dancing in my vision as I push the guard over. Twisting to the side, I manage to align my hand with his, and my fingers fall around the hilt of his sword, drawing it as he collapses to the ground.

“Down,” I hiss at Ed and Rochus, who have readied themselves to attack, even when their chains end far out of reach from where the guard dropped.

They both slump back to the ground, pretending to be asleep or dying or already dead. I don’t care as long as the movement in this corner of the camp doesn’t draw the attention of more guards.

“Is he out cold?” Gabrilla asks, hovering on her haunches, coiled to spring, not at the guard but to Silas’s aid, I realize as she takes in the male’s gray and unhealthy features.

“Let’s hope not. I don’t want to have to carry him. Heavy bastard.” I don’t check if she took my disdain seriously or detected the well-hidden affection in my statement, already getting to work with the sword I stole.

My bound hands make it near-impossible to wedge the tip of the blade into one of the iron links of the chain wrapped tightly around my ankles, but I manage, wedging the flat of the blade between my knees and twisting until the link loosens with a groan.

Ed and Rochus follow each of my movements with sharp eyes, hope driving back the icy cold from their features. “You’re almost there,” Rochus notes, his view on my ankles so much better than my own as I wind on the ground like a worm to break that fucking link.

I don’t know how much longer the guard will be unconscious—or how long until someone will come looking for him—but as soon as I can properly move, I’ll slit his throat so he can’t tell what happened.

“Come-on-come-on-come-on,” I hiss through my teeth, sweat building on my neck as I throw all my strength into moving that sword just an inch deeper into the link—and nearly stab my foot when the iron gives and the chain slackens around my ankles.

For a brief moment, I allow myself to breathe, regathering a modicum of strength before I roll into a kneeling position, angling the blade at the guard’s exposed throat. At the touch of the frozen steel beside his windpipe, his eyes flutter open—just long enough to recognize death is coming for him in a slice delivered by my hand.

“Help—” His shout dies on his tongue as I push with both my hands, leaning my full weight onto the pommel of the sword. A splatter of crimson covers his plain gray leathers, and his gaze turns distant as his mouth fills with blood.

I don’t wait for his heart to stop beating. We need to get out of here now before someone answers his call.

Hands still tied too closely at my wrists, I turn to Rochus, gesturing at his hands. “I’ll free your hands first so you can free mine.”

An efficient nod is all the answer he gives, already crawling into a position that will allow for the bloodied tip of the blade to dig between chain links without pushing into his chest or his arms should the blade slip. Smart human. His expression is a contorted grimace, gaze on the point where I insert the narrow tip into the link above his right wrist.

“I won’t cut off your hand,” I say, even when there is no way of telling what will happen without full control over my body. It’s a Shaelakdamned miracle I haven’t injured myself with the steel bindings keeping me from properly using my limbs.

Closing his eyes, Rochus nods. A few feet away to both sides, Gabrilla and Ed hold their breaths as I shove the blade down similarly to how I did with the guard’s throat.

It takes more effort than I care to admit, but the link eventually breaks with a plop, chain loosening around Rochus’s arm and releasing him from the odd angle where the bindings restrained his hand close to his chest. With a wince, he pulls his right hand free, flexing his fingers and studying the bruises blackening his skin.

“Other side.” Without hesitation, he rolls to his left, placing the still-bound wrist on the frozen earth, and I push the tip of the sword into another chain link while Gabrilla and Ed keep their eyes on the camp.

When Rochus’s hands are free, I get to work on his ankles so he can get me out of my own bindings without accidentally slitting my throat. The relief crossing his features at the regained freedom to move is almost worth the wait—only, it won’t matter that I did a good deed freeing someone else first if he won’t get me out of my chains, too.

So I hold up my hands what few inches the chains allow and pin him with a gaze.

Lucky for him, Rochus understands the benefits of freeing the strong Crow before Ed and Gabrilla, even when his expression gives away he’d rather break their chains first.

On all fours, Rochus crawls closer, careful not to make any rash movements that would draw attention should someone glance our way from the main corridor of the camp. This human must have lived through his fill of danger and stealth to function like this while injured in an enemy camp. I’m almost impressed.

He inspects my chains, one hand gliding along the sturdy links connecting the bindings on my wrists to the ones around my neck.

“It would be best to just break these,” he comments. “Then we only need to break one chain.”

It’s too thick for him, though, and he’s weak from cold and blood loss.

“Do my right hand first.” Once that one is free, I can fight. Even if my left one remains trapped. I can search the guard for additional weapons, and together we’d be faster freeing the others.

Trying not to flinch as Rochus lowers the blade to the steel, I think of all the things I yet want to do with the part-Flame who never ceases to infuriate me. If I get out of here alive, I’ll show her just how much she affects me. I’ll run my fingers along her delicate neck and wait for her reaction—if she’ll send a weak ball of fire flying at me or if the fire I ignite in her will burn in a different way.

It’s an oath I make to myself, and I’m not surprised as the magic of fae promises coils around my essence, locking into place until I can follow up with it.

A clicking sound brings me back to reality, and I almost cry out with relief when I find my hand free and able to move.

Rochus gives me a curt nod, turning toward my other hand, but I stop him. “Take care of Ed first.” Instead, I dart for the dead guard, patting down his drug-covered armor for a key to more efficiently get us out of the rest of our shackles. All I find is a knife in his boot.

It’s all I need, though. With shaky fingers, I pull it out, getting to work on the chains on my other wrist. This size of a blade, I can insert into the lock holding together the thick chain connecting to the bindings at my neck, but my fingers slip on the hilt, the angle wrong, and I’m unable to pull my left hand farther away from my body.

“Let me help you,” Gabrilla hisses from where she’s still pretending to be dead, her eyes sparkling with challenge as she watches me fumble with the knife.

I shake my head, sliding closer on my knees and slipping the tip of the blade into the lock on her chains instead. With a few twists and turns, her legs are free, then her hands and her neck. She flexes her arms and stretches her back with a groan on her lips before she takes the knife from my hands and gets to work on the chains still restraining me.

By the time she’s done, Rochus has freed Ed, leaving Silas the only one tied up like a shrimp.

Gabrilla doesn’t pause before all chains fall away from the male’s body, and he sprawls to the side as if the bindings were the only thing holding him together.

Fuck—

We’re running out of time.

“The shield might provide an obstacle,” I whisper, hoping that I’m wrong. That the shield is more to protect the camp from the worst of the elements—storms and snow—and attacks from the outside rather than to lock us in.

If the latter is the case, passing through the shield will be the last thing we ever do.

Rochus inclines his head. “If it kills us, we’ll still die as free men.”

The determination in the humans’ eyes as I meet each of their gazes is more convincing than my own hope that we’ll get out of here alive. So I reach for Silas’s arms, heaving him onto my back as I push into a half-upright position.

“Ready?”

Ed comes to my side, supporting Silas’s weight as best he can, while Rochus with the sword and Gabrilla with the knife flank us.

“Let’s get out of here.”