Dagan paused just long enough to take his hand again, then tuck it into the back of his knife belt. For a while, they walked like that, two of Hen’s fingers tugging at him. Anything more would put them in danger; anything less, and Dagan wouldn’t be able to move forward. He’d be too busy looking back and petting Hendrik, for both of their sakes, and there was no time.
Time had no meaning. After the discovery of the room full of oil, no one spoke for a long time, everyone straining to catch the sound of a footfall or the side of steel against leather. No one said they expected an ambush, but it was understood that they did. The silence stretched and strands of fear, anticipation, and disgust braided together, thick cords of confusion and terror. They turned down a side tunnel that was barely visible, then another that was positively hidden by shadows. Eventually, they began to see carvings etched into tunnel entryways.
Innan and Kajja paused underneath a large one. Bartolo, Piret, and Jak stopped to wait for them up ahead, Piret’s candle dancing bravely against the dark.
“‘Glory to the Master. Glory to His House,’” Kajja read quietly. “It’s that word again. Master-but-not. From Marsalis’s book.”
Dagan eyed the inscription in the silence that followed, a shiver running down his spine.
Not a hundred feet down the same tunnel, another inscription appeared above their heads. This time, Kajja read, “Glory to the Founder. Glory to His Blood.”
“Not ominous at all,” Gareth muttered.
Dagan swallowed bile again. He would not, absolutely would not lose it down here. Not now. Not ever. He was a scout of the Heart Wood, by all the forest gods, and he would do his duty unflinchingly. For his home. And for Hen.
Piret’s light disappeared around a corner. Kajja and Innan were about to follow when an unfamiliar, deep voice said, “Stop right there, blasphemers.”
Hendrik tried to push forward, but Dagan grabbed his arm to stop him, nodding behind. If he put Kajja and Innan in the back, they’d be exposed. Hen nodded tightly but pulled him around the corner, Gareth close behind.
Dagan couldn’t tell how many people were jammed into the short, rectangular hall before them now: at least five but not more than ten. A torch flared to life among them, illuminating black tabards emblazoned with the white outline of a tower. The Guardhall, Hendrik had called it; he used to wear one, himself.
“I’ll be burned,” said one of the guards. “Piret. I didn’t believe it when Brecca told me you’d gone bad.”
“We don’t have to do this, Silja.” Piret’s voice sounded stretched tight, like a fishing line about to snap. Her candle trembled.
More torches flared to life, a few sliding into iron holders on the walls, which were cut stone rather than rock tunnels. More faces lit up, unfamiliar one and all, though Hendrik’s wide eyes said he recognized more than a few of them.
The guard, Silja, glanced over Piret’s shoulder. “Kajja?” Her eyebrows went up. And then, louder, “Hendrik? What in all the fiery hells—? You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Enough talk,” cut in a gruff man with an overlarge sword in his hand. “We have our orders.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Hen said, tugging Kajja back toward him and wrapping an arm around her protectively. “We can tell you what happened to Maris. She’s gone by now, yes? Sacrificed?”
“She inherited,” Silja snapped. “A moon ago. Kass and Lyla are ashamed of you two. Don’t worry, though; we’ll send you to apologize in person soon enough.”
“Kass and Lyla were murdered, just like Maris. All of you—all of you had charges once. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that there’s a whole labyrinth down here none of us ever knew about? Doesn’t it make you wonder what the priests are hiding?” Piret dropped her candle and reached for the sword she’d taken off a dead assassin.
Dagan backed up, drawing Innan toward him but making sure to stay behind them. He nodded at Gareth, then down the dark passage they’d just come from. It might’ve been the echo playing tricks on his ears, more accustomed to the forest than the reverberations of rock and stone, but it sounded like something was moving back there. Gareth stilled and ducked, one hand on the ground, gaze intent.
He heard something, too. He took out his long knife, and Dagan did the same, saying, “Remember the forest gods and sharpen your knives,” by way of alert.
“Stop this, everyone,” Kajja said, trying to shrug off Hen’s arm and failing. “We’re all on the same side, here. We’re all being used. Just let us pass and we can show you. We can show you what happens to all the Children of the Blood, just like Sister Eva showed Piret and Hendrik.”
“We know what happens to—” The gruff man began.
But something flashed in the dark, and Dagan batted it out of the air just in time to keep it from sinking into his throat. The knife sliced the edge of his thumb painlessly then fell with a clatter. “Innan, down!” Dagan yelled.
“Form up!” Piret yelled. She, Jak, and Bartolo formed a wall on one side of Innan and Kajja, while Hen, Dagan, and Gareth took the other.
“Take them alive!” someone said from the darkness.
Thank all the gods for that, at least. Non-lethal force would be easier to turn against itself. “We can’t die yet,” Dagan said through clenched teeth.
“We won’t,” Hendrik replied, readying the massive sword he’d taken. He lunged with it, feet wide, and someone in the dark parried it with a clang. It was a flash of limbs, but enough to make out the rest of the person; Hen planted his feet, ducked, and brought his long knife around in the other hand, planting it in the assassin’s side with a wet popping sound. The attacker screamed, sounding surprised more than anything else, and the hall dissolved into chaos.
Chapter 4: Catacombs, Stone City
Dagan’s side of the fight was silent but for the grunts of pain and effort and the occasional clash of steel or splash of blood. To their backs, the other three fighters had a mass of guards to deal with, each shouting louder than the other for everyone else to get the bastards already! Dagan heard this, smelled the sweat and blood, felt the attackers’ hot breath and the air stirring around their swinging weapons, but he dropped into a mental fighting stance almost as quickly as he’d assumed the physical one. He kept his awareness open, noticing everything, deciding quickly and efficiently what he needed to deal with immediately (weapons, flailing limbs in the dark, Hendrik’s briefly exposed flank, Gareth’s gurgle of pain) and relegating the rest to the background.
Hendrik and Gareth were taller, on either side of him, so Dagan dropped into a crouch. This would give them more room to fight two-handed, but also allowed Dagan to bring an attack from another angle rather than simply standing on defense. Heels flashed in the darkness, and he lashed out with his long knife, tearing through leather before hitting something stickier, bulkier. Someone screamed and the knife jerked away. Dagan found it and yanked it out as the assassin with the severed heel tendon fell to the ground, knocking over one of his fellows on the way. Gareth jammed his knife into the second assassin’s shoulder from above, angling down and across toward his spine. He hit the ground like a lightning-struck tree branch, landing on top of the still-screaming man with the sliced tendon.
“How many?” Gareth shouted.
“Five, I think! Push them back!” Hen lunged with the huge sword again. Another assassin danced away from the blade; Dagan leapt forward from his crouch, flying over the two downed men and landing with his shoulder directly in the dodging man’s belly. They fell to the ground in a tangle, but Dagan had the advantage; he lost his knife in the scuffle, but scrambled on hands and knees, grabbed the assassin’s hood, and slammed his head into the ground. Then again, this time with a sickening, wet crack that said the man wouldn’t be getting back up any time soon.
Dagan’s gorge rose into the back of his throat, but he swallowed and rolled away, back onto his feet. Gareth and Hen had their hands full with the other two: a large woman with flowing dark hair and wild eyes, and a short, wiry woman who growled in pain when his knee connected with her stomach. Dagan kicked the man Gareth had downed away, then stomped on the throat of the man with the sliced tendon. Something gave beneath his boot, soft and wet, and Dagan turned away quickly.
“You fight like a mama bear, Dagan,” Gareth said, as his own opponent hit the ground before him, blood spurting from her throat.
Dagan grimaced, a little bit satisfied, a little bit sick, still. The glint of metal in the dark caught his eye, and he retrieved his knife from the ground.
Hen bounced his opponent’s head off the wall with a crack, and she went down a moment later, gurgling on her own blood. He turned immediately, leaping past Kajja and Innan, who huddled together against the wall. “Stay with them,” he said over his shoulder.
Dagan and Gareth exchanged a look that clearly communicated neither of them was sure who he’d meant. Gareth, being the senior scout, nodded at the two non-combatants, and the message was clear: they’re your responsibility.
Dagan backed up to them, still facing the darkness and downed assassin bodies, watching and listening for the renewed flash of steel.
“I can’t believe you just took out five more assassins,” Kajja nearly squealed, reaching out for his arm.
