Vitiosi Dei (Heritage of the Blood Book 2) (41 page)

              “Where are you going?” they said at the same time.

              “Well, I figured first I’d find a shirt that was loose enough to hide these manacles, and then I’d make it look like I was a street kid breaking into houses while everyone is in the center of town.”

              “That’s crazy.”

              “They’ll kill you.”

              “Maybe, but it will make at least one of them come out of hiding if they are watching the place, which will give you a shot at taking one of them out first. After that, you are on your own.” He gave them a few moments to process the idea.

              “It’s still crazy,” Za’erath said.

              “Yeah, but it might work,” Za’kereth replied. “Wait a moment; I think I have a shirt that will work.”

Za’kereth walked into the room that didn’t have the broom in it and dug around for a moment before returning with an old woolen shirt. It was too big for either of the men to wear, but he thought it might be able to fit the woman Za’kereth had been using as an illusion.

“What happened to the people that lived here? I imagine the images you were using were of them?”

“Right,” Za’erath said, completely oblivious to the hidden question that had been asked.

“No, we didn’t kill them,” Za’kereth winked. He did seem pleased that the question had been asked though. “We gave them some gold and helped them run away on the night when the rest of the squad was brought into town. Never do by force that which can be accomplished with a little ingenuity.”

“Or coin,” Za’erath added.

“Same thing,” his brother shot back before turning to the boy. “Alright, how are you going to do this?”

“I figured I’d sneak into another building in sight of the one they are being held in, grab a few things, and then move towards the target.” He looked at them. “I’m guessing you have a way to stay unseen long enough to get the Dracairei after he comes out or shoots me in the back?”

“Yeah, I can handle that much,” Za’kereth said. “I’d just like to say that we appreciate what you are doing, and if there was any other way for this to go down I would never let you do this.”

“I might,” Za’erath said, drawing looks from both his brother and the boy. “What? I can heal. Chances are I can get to him before his soul leaves his body.”

It was the middle of the night. Elandria had no idea what day it was; each day in here had begun to blur into the next. She knew that they were brought food and water every few days, but she was aware of little else. Rundig had at least gotten well enough to start building back some of his strength. Their rations made sure that he wasn’t able to regain much of it, but it was better than being nearly helpless. Sometime earlier, they had heard several doors opening and closing around them, and they could smell the smoke even above the fetid stench that permeated the cellar.

She had watched the activities from her little window for a while, but they were on the edge of the village and the foot traffic in this area had been extremely light for the entire time they had been imprisoned. After no activity at the window, she talked to Rundig for some time before they decided that whatever was happening didn’t seem to be affecting them. They had just lain down to sleep when the quiet footsteps approached their door.

From the sound of the footfalls, the person was either fairly light or an inexperienced thief with a light step. Rolling quietly out of bed, Elandria pushed past the rug that divided her side of the room from Rundig’s. From the look on the Dwarf’s face, he had also heard the noise. They heard the first bar slide free a moment before the “Thwack!” from a crossbow bolt hitting the door.

“Bad night to be out, kid,” The familiar raspy voice of their captor said.

“I’m sorry, I’m just hungry and looking for food. I didn’t think anyone would be out here,” another voice replied. Something seemed familiar about the second voice as well, but she couldn’t place it. Whoever the thief was, they were young.

“There’s no food here, kid,” the Dracairei replied. “Get out of here. This building is off limits. If I ever see you again, I’m going to make sure not to miss.”

“Yes, sir,” the voice said, and the soft patter of little feet receded into the distance.

“Stupid kid,” the Dracairei said, his voice muffled as he turned to head back to wherever he had come from.

Elandria let out her breath. That had been the closest they had come to escape in the entire time they were being held. Rundig made a tsk sound in disappointment as he lay back down. She was just about to move away from the door when all of the hair on her body stood on end. A crackle of sound was followed by a muted grunt. Several seconds later, a heavier set of footfalls approached the door. The second bar was removed from its place before a dull impact was heard.

“Idiot,” she heard a man mutter through the door.

The disdain in the voice was both familiar and welcome.

Another dull thud broke through the silence that followed.

“Anytime, brother,” Za’kereth whispered.

A scream of pain cut through the darkness and then stopped suddenly.

“Excellent.” The last bar slid out of place and the door began to open.

Elandria rushed forward into Za’kereth’s arms as the door opened and planted a firm kiss on his mouth.

The Grey Elf spat and pushed her off of him. “Any other time and I’d not complain about such a thing, but your breath smells like someone died, you taste like dirt, and you smell even worse.”

“It’s good to see you too, Za’kereth,” Elandria laughed. “I’m guessing since you aren’t on full alert and just casually strolled up to the door that the rest of the Dracairei are otherwise occupied?”

“Got it in one,” Za’erath said as he walked up behind his brother.

Elandria had to fight the urge to leap into Za’erath’s arms as well, but if what Za’kereth said was true, it was probably best that she didn’t. She knew the priest would be much kinder about it than his brother, but it was still something that you shouldn’t subject your friends to.

“’Bout time you boys showed up,” Rundig said. “I was beginning to think you had left us here to die.”

“We might have if Victor hadn’t shown up,” Za’kereth said. “Where’d he get off to, anyway?”

“Victor?” Elandria said, finally understanding why the voice of the young thief had sounded familiar.

“Knowing that boy, he’s probably hunting down the rest of the Dracairei, wherever they ran off to.”

“Stewart Cantel,” Za’erath said. “He came through town and burned the remains of the Sergeant.”

“So he is dead then,” Elandria sighed. “I had hoped that somehow he would be able to survive the cold.”

“I did what I could for him,” Za’erath scowled. “The stubborn old bastard wouldn’t let me do anything to reverse the obvious signs of frostbite though; he was afraid we’d be found out and not be able to mount a rescue if the rest of the squad came back.” His voice grew heavy. “I was thirty feet away when he died. Under orders to not do anything, I just let him die.”

“It was the right call,” Za’kereth said.

“No, it was the expedient call,” Za’erath replied. “And it is the last time I ever let someone I care about die when I know I can do something about it.”

None of them doubted the priest’s words.

“Enough yappin',” Rundig said as he pushed his way through the door. “We need to get away from this village before the rest of the Dracairei come back.”

“You are right.” Za’kereth moved aside and motioned for Elandria to exit the cellar. “Victor said that Warren and Trenton are in the forest with the Quaelyne somewhere. Apparently, there are some Quaelyne on the edge of the forest who will guide us to them if we behave.”

“Quaelyne?” Elandria asked.

“It’s the proper name for the Wolverines in Death’s Edge.”

Rundig whistled. “Not only does the boy show up out of nowhere to come help rescue us, but he has legendary killers waiting to help us return home. Remind me to buy him a pint when he’s old enough.”

“Yeah, about that…” Za’kereth began as he explained to them the little information they had on Victor’s lost memories.

Elandria listened to the story as they skirted the outer edge of the village. She couldn’t believe that Victor had already been through so much in his life. Part of her wondered if forgetting some of the things he had been through might be for the best in the long run. If he managed to make it back to them, she vowed that she would do what she could to make sure he didn’t have to suffer alone.

Well, this was a dumb plan.
Stewart Cantel said to himself as he ran past the burning remains of his lifelong friend. He was fairly certain that at least five of the Dracairei a block behind him, at most. Several crossbow bolts had been within inches of hitting him as he raced through the streets and out into the country. Once he hit the road he let loose every ounce of speed he had. The Dracairei might be heavily modified killers, but no one was faster than Stewart Cantel.

His eyes tracked each dip, rut, and rock in the road as he poured on the speed. The sounds of pursuit began to grow distant and he heard the steps stop for a moment. In the next moment, he rolled to the side, dodging a hail of crossbow bolts that tore through where he had just been. His eyes tracked the six bolts as they tore through the air in front of him.
Alright, guess I have six on my tail, or someone has two crossbows.

Stewart ran until his legs began to protest mightily. He knew that the Dracairei were more than likely not far behind; his speed gave him the advantage, but they had stamina in spades. Looking back, he could just make out the vague outline of the six forms running on the road behind him. Knowing he had gone as far as he was likely to go, he turned left off the road and ran for the trees.
Rather fitting that we’re going to die in Death’s Edge
, he thought.

Once he reached the relative safety of the trees, he took a moment to catch his breath and let his aching muscles stretch out. It was probably his imagination, but he felt like the forest greeted him like an old friend, offering him relief under its eternal gaze. He pulled out each of his daggers, one at a time, their sharp blades reinvigorating him. Today might be the day he dies, but he would be damned if he didn’t take as many of those scaly bastards with him as he could.

Climbing one of the larger trees, he watched as the assassins slowly approached the area where he had entered the forest. A short, raspy discussion ensued. For some reason, a few of them didn’t think it was a good idea to follow him into the forest that was an anathema to their kind. The only words he caught from the conversation were the loudly hissed “…remember what happened last time?” However, it seemed that their need to kill him outweighed their instincts of self-preservation, as several minutes later they began to trickle into the forest.

Stewart Cantel had never been the biggest or the strongest, but he had learned at an early age that positioning and surprise would give him an edge that was difficult to overcome through brute strength. It wouldn’t be until after puberty that he had developed the speed to hold his own in a one on one contest with the other students in the Academy. That speed, combined with his strategic mind, saw him quickly rising through the ranks of the Protectorate until he had attained the highest station a military man could hope for.

There were two reasons he had set out on his mission to rescue the Princess. The first was that he knew that he was tenacious enough to get the job done, no matter what it took, and the second was that he was tired of having the lives of millions of people on his mind. He knew it was a selfish reason to go, but he couldn’t sit back and watch as more men and women died in a fruitless battle with an enemy they barely understood.