She caught just a glimpse of blood seeping from the Ecsoli before the second invader gave a shout. The people closed ranks as she spun, sprinting for the nearest building. Cries rose from behind as she skidded into a new street. She fell back, peering around the stone.

  The onlookers had been flattened, but now they scrambled from the blue-cloak and his guards, all whom charged after Flir. The man had used his magic like wind, as Vinezi had, rather than shattering their bones. A tiny mercy.

  The Ecsoli raised a bone-clad hand.

  Flir dived as stone exploded. A line of fire cut into her back, warm blood flowing even as she rolled to her feet. A gaping hole rested in the wall. What the hell was he carrying, acor? She ran, wincing as the blood flowed.

  On she weaved through the buildings. They’d spread out soon and she’d run out of cover. Or the bastard could simply follow the handy trail of blood she was leaving. Flir ducked down behind a crumbling chimney and tore her cloak in half, tying it around her waist.

  Would it be enough?

  Stone ground over stone. The second storey of a nearby building teetered. Flir fell back, spinning down an alley as the building crashed down, rattling the very street. She splashed through shallow puddles, boots clapping on cobblestones.

  Ahead, one of the Gigansi stepped across the mouth of the alley.

  Flir charged. The giant spread his arms as if to grab her, the sunlight catching the mottled colours on his shoulders. His arms swept down but she dropped her shoulder and barrelled into him. A great whooshing sound followed as the air rushed from his lungs and he bounced across the cobblestones.

  Dock workers scattered, abandoning a handcart covered in an oiled tarp. The crash of the harbour crossed the street and a door slammed at a nearby inn. A single light in the window of a bakery went dark. She didn’t blame them.

  Two more Gigansi ran into view, huge chests heaving. She slowed. Things were about to get complicated. Shouts rose behind her.

  The blue-cloak.

  He burst from the alley but paused at sight of the first Gigansi climbing to his feet. Flir took her chance. She bent to the cobbles and ripped a grate free, tossing it at the Ecsoli before slipping down the rungs.

  Hand over hand she went, skipping steps, half-falling, until the light above grew dark. Figures stood over the opening high above. Something whistled by her head. She pressed herself against the damp wall. Vibrations ran along her cheek and splashes followed.

  The bastard was casting bricks down after her.

  Flir kept climbing. Stone flashed by in dark shapes. One bounced from her shoulder and she growled. That would bruise. Another volley of rubble crashed down the opening, rattling against the sides. She braced herself as more stone hammered her arm when she protected her head.

  Gods be damned!

  If he decided to collapse the whole thing there was a chance she’d drown beneath the rubble.

  Her feet splashed into ankle-deep water and she spun, hands outstretched. A wall of brick. She sidestepped and lost the brickwork. An opening? Flir ducked inside, stumbling as the thunder of a cave-in followed, dust and water chasing her.

  She lay back against the wall in the inky dark, breathing hard. Her back stung and a tenderness ran along her forearms and shoulder, but she was alive.

  “Got the better of you,” she muttered, glancing up before closing her eyes. Hopefully it wouldn’t cost those fleeing across the plain.

  Now all she had to do was find a way out of the underground, locate Luik, get back to the Harper without being seen then break into the palace, rescue Seto and Holindo, Mayla and maybe even Pins too, then deal with the rest of the blue-cloaks.

  Simple.

  Chapter 9.

  Sofia ghosted through the trees in Argeon, circling the campsite and the blazing halo of orange that climbed trunks and splashed across the loam.

  No sign of more Sap-Born, nor the beast that mauled the man.

  On the edge of awareness, warmth from the campfire bore through her robe and her father’s voice boomed in the night, urging the women and children toward the rafts. Confused questions rose and crying from some of the little ones too, but the camp was being broken efficiently under Helena’s supervision.

  “Do you see anything?” Emilio asked her, his voice sounding distant.

  She shook her head as her spirit passed through a thicket. “Nothing.” Her own voice was oddly disembodied too. “I think we’re safe.”

  A ripple ran along the air and she hesitated. It didn’t reach her body; it was more a hint of something distant, something receding. Something that had been watching. A disturbance.

  Gone.

  Sofia blinked back to her body. “I thought I felt something but I can’t be sure. It was leaving.”

  “Good,” Emilio said. “We will keep watch in case it returns. Would you help me with the fire?”

  He doused part of the blaze with a pot of water and she kicked dirt across the rest. It didn’t die out fully, but there was no time for anything better. Then they headed for the rafts and she hopped onto Emilio’s. He took up the pole and pushed them into the current, still gentle, following her father and his charges.

  In the distance, a faint grey glow on the horizon – dawn was in no hurry. Sofia knelt on the logs, facing the tree line, a bare darkened shape against the sky. Light from their fading campfire stood like a candle between the trunks.

  “Why are we leaving?” a boy asked his mother.

  “To be safe,” she said, stroking his hair.

  Sofia removed her mask to smile at them. The air was cool against her skin and despite the relief it offered, she did not leave the mask off for long; the ache in her bones returned too swiftly.

  By morning the river had quickened, widening as the crashing sea loomed in the distance, visible in glimpses through thinning trees. Despite the speed, their raft felt a little sluggish, slower than her father’s raft. But then, they did carry more escapees.

  She let her fingertips skim across the chill water as ruins slid by.

  Bluestone buildings peeked through undergrowth; gutted windows choked with vines and rooves long since crumbled. One tower stood half-free of greenery. Its top had crumbled to an uneven circle of stumps, but birds perched on every available surface – even squeezed into archer’s slots. They squawked a chorus of rasps and chirps, as ravens, small birds and even eagles crowded the stone. A fleet robin or swallow took to the air, spiralling into a nearby tree. The rest flapped and called as the rafts passed. Odd to see so many birds getting along.

  “The Watchtower of the Southern Wood,” her father said from the other raft, which had drawn close. “Before the Ulag destroyed it, the south was said to house stunning architecture and wonders fuelled by the river – great wheels and platforms, a place like no other.”

  “Did no-one survive?” she asked.

  “Few,” he said, pausing to catch his breath. “They fled eventually to the plains or north into the Bloodwood and settled there.”

  Emilio pointed. “Rough water ahead.”

  White water churned in the distance, the jagged peaks of black rocks visible like dark teeth. Sofia stood. “Shouldn’t we land?”

  “Quickly.” Her father poled his raft toward the opposite bank. Emilio followed, expression set.

  “We’re going a little fast, aren’t we?” a woman asked.

  “The current slows near the bank,” Emilio said.

  It was true but there would still be a rough stop when the logs hit. “Hold on to the ropes,” Sofia told them. She took a hold of the edge of the raft and waited. Emilio directed the vessel toward the bank, keeping space between their raft and her father’s. Muscles in his shoulders strained against the river and sweat dampened his shirt. Her cheeks grew warm.

  The raft hit the bank.

  Sofia gave a cry as she lost her grip, floundering to right herself. Caught staring; served her right. It wasn’t the time to be gazing after Emilio, but sometimes, with all the danger...it was easy to forget how handsome he was, the play of his muscles.

  She helped the women and children up onto the grassy banks and into the shade. Emilio took a moment to tie the rafts to whatever stone was available before joining them within the trees. Her father had taken the axe and was cutting his way through the undergrowth.

  “This way,” he called.

  The women filed after him and Sofia glanced back at Emilio, who gave her a wave. She joined the line, Helena helping Alcina along before her. Her father had found an old road. Its edges were grown over, moss and grass crawling into the centre of the path, dipping with the smooth grooves that must have once been made by wagons.

  Even the trees grew in an arch above, stretching forth like a tunnel of branches.

  “Will there be more ruins nearby?” Sofia asked.

  “Yes. I’ve used this road on occasion. Once we pass the rapids, we’ll come to the remains of a village. It is not too large; perhaps the women may like to stay there. Helena?”

  “It might be suitable.”

  “It’s close enough to the river for fishing. Shelter will not be too difficult to build.”

  She nodded and one of the children clapped his hands together. “Are we having fish?”

  “Not yet, little one,” he said.

  The line continued through the tunnel of trees, eventually passing the roar of the rapids. White water flashed between the trunks. Sofia walked beside Alcina, glancing often at the trees screening the river. Did more eyes lurk beyond the green? Something was out there. The thread of danger from last night lingered. Whatever had killed the Sap-Born was still in the forest.

  Would the river stop it? Could it swim?

  “What is it, Lady?” Alcina asked. “I feel your restlessness.”

  “Just watching,” she said. It wouldn’t do to worry the women and children by explaining what she watched for. Most of them didn’t know the exact reason for their hurried departure during the night and she didn’t plan to tell them.

  “Last night?” She lowered her voice. “You sense something?”

  “Perhaps. I’m just a little shaken after what we found.”

  “Trust yourself and keep watching,” she said.

  “Do you feel something too?”

  She shrugged but said no more. Sofia fell back a little, drawing nearer to Emilio. He was just as watchful, one hand on his belt knife as his gaze roved across the trunks, the line of people and the back trail.

  Sofia smiled at a boy clutching a bright blue feather as she passed.

  “Lady, is all well?” Emilio asked.

  She opened her mouth to reply but reached for his arm instead.

  A figure had stumbled from the trees.

  Emilio turned, drawing his knife as he did. The figure’s clothing was soaking wet and his movements strained, as if he fought a strong wind. A man...in Braonn clothing. And he only possessed one arm. The other was a stump.

  “Is that...” Sofia spun. “Father!”

  The dead man continued forward, close enough now that the slack lines of his face were clear. His eyes were wide and bloodshot and his footfalls were wet, squelching.

  The Sap-Born. Dead...but walking.

  “Halt,” Emilio commanded.

  The man pushed himself onward, his movements becoming more fluid. He carried no weapon and made no sound but Sofia took a step back. Something oozed from him, a sense of wrongness.

  Her father appeared, Argeon aglow.

  “Stop, creature.” His voice filled the road.

  The corpse kept on and her father lifted an arm. The crack of snapping bone followed and the dead man collapsed. His mouth was open in a soundless scream and he clawed at the loam, dragging his body forward with his remaining arm.

  Cries rose from those children near the rear of the line. Her father stepped forward, Emilio’s axe held ready.

  “Careful,” Sofia cried.

  “Check on the women,” he said. Father stepped closer, hefting the axe above his head. It whistled down and severed the creature’s arm at the elbow. No blood flowed and the hand continued to grasp. Emilio snatched it up then hurled it through the trees and into the river.

  Her father landed another mighty blow, this one thudding through the neck and into the dirt. He paused, sucking in a breath as he stared down at the twitching torso with its broken legs.

  “I must chop it to pieces.” Women had crowded close together, shielding the children’s eyes. Danillo faced them. “Watch the forest, there may be more danger.”

  He turned back to the body and hacked into a thigh. He swung again, a wet smacking sound following his blows. When he’d cut the legs free, he started on the torso.

  Emilio lifted one of the legs and took it away, casting it into the trees. Sofia hesitated over the head. Would it still be alive too? The Sap-Born’s long hair glistened with water. Between the thuds from her father’s axe, a strange sound rose from the head. As if something was sliding against the leaves. Did it twitch? She bent closer, lifting it by the hair.

  The head twirled.

  Its face chewed leaves.

  Sofia flinched. She dropped the head and it bounced away. One of the women gasped. Emilio had returned. He reached for the severed head where it lay in the grass. “Don’t worry, My Lady, I will –”

  “No,” she said, her voice sharp. Emilio blinked. She softened her tone. “I’m sorry, I can do it.” She had to be strong, despite the revulsion that coursed through her.

  He stepped back with a nod.

  She crossed the path and took up thing’s head again, holding it at arm’s length, by the hair once more, as she strode to the river. Teeth gnashed as she walked. She stopped within sight of the group, slipping between the tree trunks to stand at the water’s edge.

  The Sap-Born had been wet. As if he’d come from the water – was that why the raft had seemed sluggish? She shuddered.

  Twisting her torso, Sofia cast the head into the river. It splashed into the flow and disappeared.

  Chapter 10.

  The path had risen to a screech, slicing into his skull.

  Ain waved Wayrn after Schan; the warrior was already climbing down, hand over hand. “Quickly,” Ain urged them. Why was the path so aggressive, so strong now? Had Hekib’s quartz interfered with it?

  Wayrn was next. The rope creaked with the weight of two but held. Something flashed deep in the darkness. Was Hekib safe? Ain backed to the edge and knelt, placing his hands against the floor.

  And jerked his hands back.

  The path hissed with fury, stinging his hands and arms. Darkling. Ain glanced back over his shoulder. Wayrn blocked any view of Schan; the man moved swiftly but he was no-where near the bottom. Trapped.

  “No!” Ain slapped his hands back down. He ground his teeth as the darkling’s malice washed over him, but as before, his hands sunk into the path – not the sand this time, and not the stone beneath him, but the very path.

  It coursed through his entire body, the pulse wracking him but he clenched his hands to fists and closed it with a gasp. The sense of the darkling faltered and then disappeared. Ain slumped, breathing hard as he unclenched his fists, each finger slow to unlock.

  A darkling rushed back along the path.

  “Sands take you.” He leant forward, pushing his bodyweight into his hands and straining his wrists as he struggled to close the path once more. The darkling resisted – as if a talon protruded through a door – but again Ain fought, twisting his wrists in a snapping motion.

  The path slapped shut with a shudder. He glared at the shadowy maw of the tunnel a moment before taking hold of the rope and lowering himself down. Would the darkling be fooled, as the other? How long would the path remain closed? A soft rhythm remained, but nothing like the sharp pulsing of the darkling.

  The rope creaked again and he climbed quickly, setting his feet against the rock face. The stone was paler beneath the rope, weather-worn. Ain glanced between his legs. Wayrn was some distance below and Schan was beyond him, waving and shouting.

  “I’m tying another rope.”

  Wayrn answered and Ain glanced up. Still no darkling. The fragments of the path that ran along the rope, the steady squeeze, had softened. Sands, let that thing be lost. How close now?

  The rocky floor of the canyon was still some distance. His shoulders ached and his hands, already strained from closing the path, protested as he continued to climb. The rope rippled up from below and he slipped. His knee smacked against the rock face and he muttered a curse.

  Wayrn had coiled his legs around the new rope and slid down with ease, where the rock face cut away from the dangling rope. The man was like water flowing down the cliff. Ain followed, sweat running down his nose. “Not too far now.”

  He continued to step down, occasionally checking on the now distant opening, until his feet reached the point where there was no more cliff-face. The old rope ended in a heavy noose, around which dozens of slimmer lengths of rope were affixed – including the fresh rope Schan had tied.

  Below, Schan helped Wayrn drop the final feet to the pale rock of the floor. Ain kicked until he linked a leg around the still-dangling rope and took a firm hold before resuming his climb. He passed dangling pieces of rope, which looked to have been cut. Yet no paths ended with them. When he reached the last few feet he slipped, then dropped to the stone, landing with a thump.

  Dust rose around his boots and Schan slapped him on the back. “Well done, lad.” Even Wayrn was smiling. Ain grinned. High above, there was no hint of the darkling and still nothing on the path.

  “It’s probably still up there,” he said as he surveyed the floor. Uneven columns of stone spread around a trail leading up to the end of the canyon. The endpoint was shrouded in shadow; the sun had yet to climb above the ridge and into the thin blue sky. “But we’ll be long gone by then,” he said.

  Schan handed him the rope. “Put your weight on this when I say, will you?”

  Ain took it. “Why?”

  “I want to close the way.”

  “But how? You can’t untie it.”

  “Just wait for my signal.” He un-slung the bow and took an arrow, running to the nearest column of stone. He climbed to the top then set his balance.

 

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