Page 38

CYRUS

Cyrus lies still against the rock too tired to move or think. He must fall into unconsciousness, because the next time someone speaks it jolts him awake.

“The water’s rising,” one of the prisoners hisses. There’s splashing and clanking. The chain pulls, jerking him against the rock and igniting fresh fire up his back.

Suddenly he’s angry. “Do something about it, then!”

The chain yanks again and they ignore him.

Cyrus groans. Will I truly drown at the bottom of this filthy hole, alone?

Ekko’s cage is barely twenty feet above his head. He should act instead of wallowing in self-pity. Maybe he deluded himself into believing the King would uphold his end of their bargain—if he entered the Hellspring now he could be doomed to the same fate as General Leuther. If that’s true, he’s the only one who can help himself now—and help Ekko.

Even if it’s not true, he can’t see himself stepping into those waters after what they witnessed.

With stiff, frozen fingers he reaches into the shallow water, where the lock-pick set is still hidden under the leather tongue of his boot. He unrolls it carefully. The thick cloth of its housing is stiff and soaked through. One of the picks drops into the water with a splash as he fumbles with it. He freezes, waiting for someone to take notice. But no one does.

He curls his hand and plucks at the catch on his cuffs. The angle is difficult, pushing his cramped muscles to their limit. His hands tremble. It takes several attempts to even get the pick into the hole. Cyrus takes a deep breath against the panicky frustration that threatens to overtake him.

Breathe out.

The lock-pick slides in.

Slowly, cautiously, he wiggles it back and forth. It’s an age before he feels the pin catch. The chain suddenly shudders as the demons on the other end start to move again, and the lock-pick slips almost from his fingers.

“No!” he hisses, barely catching it. There’s an answering splash as the cuffs fall away, and his wrists are suddenly light.

It worked.

He sucks in another shaky breath. Now to get out.

He feels his way around the bottom of the pit, searching for the chain they used to climb down. He blocks out the muttered argument about the water level that’s still going. The water is definitely higher. That’s not his biggest concern. Finally his blind groping leads him to the end of the chain, and he lifts it carefully so it doesn’t make any noise. Bracing his entire being against the inevitable surge of pain, he grabs the chain above his head and begins to climb.

Going up is agonizing compared to coming down. He wills his arms to be strong. He pauses often, digging his toes into the cliff to hang and gasp silently. As he climbs, he stuffs the chain inside his shirt so no one can follow him up, ignoring the twinge of guilt.

Soon his muscles start to fail, and the thought of pulling himself one more inch upward makes every fibre of his being want to curl up in despair. Everything hurts. Doubt snarls at his heels. He’s just one demon—a small, weak one, at that. He could give up. Rest his aches and pains.

He hangs, panting. His heart batters his chest. He uncurls his hand from the chain forcefully. Just one more foot. Then one more after that.

His hand slips on the chain. Frantic, he scrabbles for purchase on the tiny rock outcroppings. Amid his desperate flailing his hand hits a ledge, and he grabs on. For a moment he can only breathe, gripping the stone and the chain in each hand and hoping desperately his body won’t betray him.

“Hey!” comes a shout from below. “The spy is gone!”

Splash. The noises of demons moving around drifts up.

“The chain’s gone too!”

“Little rat.”

“He stole it!”

More splashing follows, loud enough that it sounds like someone falling back into the water.

Every muscle screaming, Cyrus levers himself onto the ledge and collapses. The bars of Ekko’s cage swim before his eyes. He drags in one breath after the other. He has to focus on the next thing. Get to his feet. Unlock the door. But moving a single inch seems like the biggest hurdle he’s ever faced right now.

“ Ek-ek-ek, ” comes a soft cry, and Cyrus’s chest tightens with unimaginable relief.

“Ekko,” he whispers. Shakily, he pushes himself off the ground, unloading the chain onto the ledge.

Ekko bobs his head, looking at Cyrus with his golden eye first, then his black eye.

Cyrus staggers toward the bars. “I know. I was gone so long.”

Ekko’s black eye is baleful.

“I’m sorry,” Cyrus whispers, reaching through the bars to scratch the underside of his chin.

Ekko ek-eks again, shaking his shoulders. He looks in better health, his feathers slowly growing back in the places that were previously bald. But the sickness comes and goes in waves—if Cyrus doesn’t get him out now, he’ll weaken again. Who knows if he’ll survive next time.

Cyrus withdraws his hand and slips the lock-picks out of his wet boot again. His fingers are almost numb, but it’s the work of seconds to open the door and squeeze inside.

The inside of Ekko’s cave is dry and dusty, lined with feathers and a morbid number of bones. Cyrus ignores them. Slowly, excruciatingly, he struggles out of his coat. The back of the garment is torn to shreds. It turns his stomach to even look at it, so he averts his eyes.

Carefully, he inches closer to Ekko, approaching his golden-eyed side. The bird eyes him warily, letting out a questioning noise.

“Shh,” Cyrus whispers.

He drops the coat on Ekko’s head and ties it quickly, blinding him. Ekko squawks, wings flaring. Cyrus stumbles backward as Ekko shakes his head, but he can’t dislodge the makeshift hood. Distressed, he squawks loudly. The hood has the desired effect, though—enclosed and in the dark, he quickly settles.

“Hush, now.” Cyrus raises his voice to a quiet murmur. “It’s alright. You’ll get used to it. Just be calm.”

Ekko turns toward his voice. He shakes his wings and folds them back with a shudder, bowing toward Cyrus in the gesture he uses to pick up sounds. Cyrus tries to blabber more platitudes at him, words tumbling from his lips unfiltered.

“You’ll be free soon, never to see this place again. You’ll feel the wind in your feathers. Have you ever felt the wind before? It’s glorious.” His breath is shuddery. Will he feel the wind again? He tries to stuff the thought back.

Slowly, Ekko’s swaying stills. Cyrus inches closer and closer, his ears peeled for the sounds of demons trying to scale the sheer rock face. Finally he sinks his fingers into Ekko’s breast feathers, stroking him soothingly.

“This way,” he says softly, stepping back. “Follow me.”

Ekko bows again, listening to his voice.

“That’s right. We’re going on a little trip.”

He holds his breath as he walks backward, hoping with everything he’s worth that all this isn’t for nothing. He can’t force Ekko to follow him. He can only hope the bird trusts him.

Ekko tilts his head—both eyes are hidden now, so it’s impossible to say what he’s thinking. He takes a step forward. And another. Cyrus is leading him out of the cave, through the door, one step closer to freedom.

His heel crunches gravel. He swallows. “Now for the part you won’t like.”

Next to come off is his shirt, sticky with ichor and sweat. He encircles Ekko’s wings quickly, before he can react, fashioning a makeshift harness. Ekko shrieks in alarm as Cyrus lashes the chain to the back of the harness, yanking it tight. Cyrus tenses at the noise. But there’s no hiding the bird now—even muffled, his cries are loud enough to hear all the way up the hall. All he can do is work faster.

He leaves Ekko on the chain and hauls himself up the cliff, ignoring the protests of his body. Fresh adrenaline propels him to the top. He grabs the chain and drags it up hand over fist. In spite of Ekko’s size, he’s light—feathers and bone and fury. Ekko’s enraged screeches ring off the cavern walls. Demons shout from below. Cyrus grits his teeth.

It doesn’t take long to pull Ekko over the edge of the cliff. His claws scrabble against the stone and Cyrus helps him rights himself. His feathers puff up with rage around the makeshift hood and harness. He shrieks through the hood right into Cyrus’s ears, making them ring painfully.

“Sorry,” Cyrus whispers again, unlatching the chain. He lets the chain fall into the abyss, where it clatters against the stone.

Behind him Ekko’s cry changes tenor, and Cyrus’s blood runs cold. A warning. Footsteps sound at the mouth of the cave. He turns. Shadowy figures rush the entrance. But they’re not soldiers—they resolve quickly into a ragged band, and at their head is a now-familiar face.

He groans in relief. “Claudius!”

“Cyrianus.” Claudius grunts in surprise. “All the shadows in Hell, where did you come from? What happened to you? And what is that ?”

Cyrus shakes his head. “There’s no time to explain. You promised to help—I have to get him out before Quartermaster Magnus comes back.”

“Oh, he won’t be back,” says another demon with a smirk. There’s a glint in his eye that instantly puts Cyrus on edge.

Behind Cyrus the rest of the Grey Company are already climbing out of the hole, and Claudius turns away to greet them. The two groups merge around him with whoops and shouts. He goes to Ekko’s side, suddenly overwhelmed, his instincts screaming that something is wrong.

Did they kill Magnus? He should want that. But there’s a fervor in the air that sets off alarms.

“You two! Grab the bird,” Claudius barks, pointing at two of the demons. “Let’s get out of here.”

The other demon who spoke up makes a sharp gesture at Cyrus. “Make sure this one comes along.”

Cyrus’s arms are seized again, but this time the demons on either side are grinning and laughing. He fights the urge to shake them off. It doesn’t feel like camaraderie—it feels like he’s in danger. He trusts Claudius. He doesn’t trust the rest of them.

“Be gentle with him!” he cries as they lift Ekko. They’re careful to stay out of range of his massive claws. “Where are we going?”

“We’ve got clean-up to do.” The demon on his right laughs raucously. He has a dark, livid scar around his neck and a too-wide grin. “We did a little already. One crack in the dam and whoosh —there went the tunnels!”

The other demon points at Cyrus’s back. “That’s an ugly looking gift from your former master, lieutenant.”

“It’s nothing,” Cyrus snaps, twisting away. His stomach clenches with sudden fear.

“Touchy.” The demon shrugs. “If it were me, I’d want revenge for a whipping like that. But minor demons aren’t like that, are they? You lot will just let anyone do anything.”

He reaches out before Cyrus can react and pinches his ribs. Hot rage flashes through Cyrus, and he swipes at the retreating hand. His claws meet flesh. The demon yelps and snatches his hand back.

On Cyrus’s other side, the scarred demon roars with laughter. “The rat has teeth.”

“Don’t call me that,” Cyrus hisses.

“Come on, now. You’re our little rat. Even though you got Sabinus killed.”

“Sabinus was an arrogant idiot.” The first demon licks the smear of ichor off his hand. “The rest of us earned our place by cutting throats, not sneaking around. How do we know the rat isn’t spying on us, too?”

“I say we give him a chance.”

“ I say we make him prove himself.”

Cyrus stiffens. So this is it. His eyes seek out Claudius. But he’s not a fool. Claudius isn’t the leader of the Grey Company any more than Sabinus was—if enough of them want him dead, or left on the wayside, Claudius won’t help him.

But surely they’ll let Ekko go free.

The demon with the scar leans in. “You want some of your own back, rat? Or would you rather scuttle back into the cracks like your namesake?”

“Fine!” Cyrus squares his shoulders. Exhausted at being treated as lesser-than, and his rage bubbles up into words before he can stop it. “You want me to prove myself? Name your terms.”

The second demon bursts into laughter again, and they both grab him by the arms.

“Oh, it’s not me who’ll be talking terms,” says the scarred one. “We got our challenge, Claudius!”

Claudius looks back. Cyrus stiffens, waiting for him to say something.

“Well, good,” is all Claudius says. “Let’s go.”