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I want to protest that my brilliant but not particularly soldierly scholar should stay back here where it’s safer, but I can see how much it means to him to contribute in every possible way. My heart swells with more affection.
Tinom hesitates but offers to join us since it’ll be easier for him to conceal himself than anyone else—and easier to cast his gift for illusions over others if they’re nearby. Emor calls on a couple of his people to join him on the front lines, and one of the royal soldiers steps up as our eighth.
With an air of urgent anticipation hanging over us, we distribute the explosive supplies and the flints to set them off between us. Our other companions gather weapons and shields, Filip among them with a grim expression.
Stavros demonstrates a whistle that sounds like a hawk’s cry to set us in motion. “I’ll use my gift as well as I can to scan the grounds before I signal you. I don’t want any unexpected surprises if we can avoid them.”
As we nod, he reaches to give my shoulder a quick squeeze, as if willing me to return safely. I shoot him the most reassuring smile I can manage before we set off to do our duty.
The bundle of volatile substances in my hands makes my heart thump hard. I cradle the waxed tubes carefully as I lope across the grass, making for the far side of the facility.
So far there’s still no sign of the scourge sorcerers from the upper building, so our initial efforts must have gone undetected.
When I reach my chosen grate, I brace myself above it and loop the far end of the oiled cord around a bar to ensure I don’t lose hold of it. Then I sit back on my heels and wait.
My pulse thuds in my ears for what feels like an eternity before Stavros’s whistled signal carries across the fields.
I drop the explosives between the bars and strike my flint. As the tubes tumble down the tunnel beneath the grate, a hissing flame darts along the cord after them.
I snatch one of my knives from my boot and scramble backward to avoid the worst of the explosion.
A stuttered booming shatters the quiet of the afternoon. One set of explosives and another and another blast apart in quick succession. The ground shakes, a puff of dark smoke rising from my grate.
And four figures burst from the inner building.
Flares of magic send a tingling rush over my body, but the scourge sorcerers don’t know where to aim. I dodge the searing bolts of energy and charge right into one of the men, slamming my knife into his throat in the same motion.
The woman next to me staggers and collapses into a blackened corpse, telling me Rheave has made it to my side. Shouts ring out from the other side of the building, along with the thunder of more than a dozen racing feet.
I dash around the building in time to see Emor wrenching his dagger from a body that’s turned to clay. Two more forms hurtle out to attack us, but Stavros is there, cutting through one with his sword. One of the soldiers slays the other attacker.
Another tremor ripples through the earth, followed by an unearthly creaking. I spin around to see the ground collapsing around one of the grates, opening a sinkhole as big as the building we’re standing by.
As my jaw drops, someone yelps behind me. I whirl back around.
Filip is stabbing his spear into the side of a man who was ramming a sword toward me. He jerks backward as my would-be murderer transforms into a statue of clay.
I stare at the Order defector for a second, the hairs on the back of my neck on end. I shouldn’t have gotten distracted.
I never would have thought the man who once associated with the scourge sorcerers would save me from one of their creations.
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
Filip blinks at the spear he’s holding as if startled by his own act and then flashes a sudden grin my way. “I owed you, didn’t I? We’ll take them down together!”
I can’t help smiling back. “Yes, we will.”
Our group storms into the building and catches another wave of fleeing sorcerers and captured daimon just emerging from a deep stairwell. They don’t have even a chance to lash out with their magic before Emor’s followers leap in to cut them down.
It all goes quiet except for a few gasps and groans from below. Tentatively, we descend the stairs.
A short hall leads to a huge room. At the far end, chunks of the ceiling have collapsed by the doorways to other parts of the facility. The idea of rocks bashing down on the heads of the scourge sorcerers gives me a grim satisfaction.
The rest of the room is laid out with cots. More than half of those cots hold a body, some still clay, some looking like flesh, their chests rising and falling with shallow breaths.
A shiver travels down my spine.
Rheave rushes to the nearest beds holding bodies of flesh. He grips one figure by the shoulders. “Can you get up? Can you talk to me?”
