Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
The walls are wet with damp. Moss and lichen cling to them. We move awkwardly, trying to keep our steps and the cane from giving us away. The tunnel twists and dips and rises until we’re in the shadows looking in at an underground chamber. Torches glow solemnly against vine-choked stone walls and two purple-robed figures spar, the older calling out instructions to a smooth-faced youth on how better to hold his weapon.
Quin and I press close in the shadows, his hand stilling mine around the wrist. He whispers in my ear. “There are robes and armour opposite us. When they start sparring again, grab them. We’ll use them to get closer to the prisoners.”
The boy and his master continue practice fighting, but at shouts from outside, the boy drops his weapon and shields himself. “Please, uncle. I don’t want to go out there.”
“Pick up your spear, Zenon! Fight for freedom.” The master twirls his spear around and when his back turns to me, I dash to the hooks and pull two robes off.
At the dinging of metal as the pair begin again, we slip into the robes. They tie at the waist with dyed rope. If there are less than a hundred crusaders here, we need to be careful not to show our faces. I rip a couple of strips off my undershirt, slash my arm and rub blood over the material. At Quin’s hitched breath, I turn and tie one of the strips around his face, and hurriedly do the same to mine.
Quin grabs my wrist over the surface wound, then lifts his bloodied fingers and smears more around my face. He speaks quietly as he lifts my hood up for me. “Don’t reveal your magic.”
Master and boy spar into one of the forking tunnels, and abandoning his cane, Quin and I use the opportunity to slip into the main chamber. Prison. Thick bars line one wall and behind them more than a dozen redcloaks grip and shake the metal. Another tries to unpick the lock while master and son are out of sight.
I spy a set of keys hanging between torches, and lunge for them.
I turn and throw them to Quin hobbling along the cells.
“What’s going on here?” Master and boy have returned.
I keep my head bowed, voice raspy. “All redcloaks to be brought outside. A demonstration.”
I’m eyed suspiciously. Master is about to speak when Quin gruffly interjects. “At once.” He unlocks the cell and bellows for the men inside to line up and keep an orderly pace. “Anyone falling out of line won’t make it to the courtyard.”
Master and son eye one another, and the master steps forward. “We’ll fight with our lives.”
The boy shrinks, and my teeth grind. “Captain says to protect the child down here.”
“Boy’s ready to fight for justice.”
He’s too young. He doesn’t want to. I won’t let him, if I can help it. I pitch my voice to sound nonchalant. “Sure. But you know how the captain is. Will you defy his order?”
Master grunts unhappily, and hiding his extreme discomfort, Quin hauls heavily beaten redcloaks out. He glances at me and subtly gestures to two remaining prisoners in a corner. One I can tell immediately is dead, body stiff, eyes glazed. The other is slumped, limbs shaking under his cloak. His hand is bloodied and squeezed tight around . . . a ribbon. A silver mourning ribbon.
My stomach dips. It takes all my effort to keep my gait even, steady, as if I don’t care. “Everyone out,” I bark, bending over Nicostratus’s sickly, cold figure. “Including you. Up.”
My voice is harsh, but my fingers are gentle as I take hold of his arm and help him into a sitting position. I want to help him, heal his internal bleeding, his cuts and scrapes, warm him through. But I heed Quin’s warning—no magic—and heave him to his feet. He’s unsteady; he falls heavily against me. He doesn’t cease clutching the ribbon and it flutters between us.
Ahead, Quin barks orders, snapping me into action. I whisper, using his voice as cover, “Nicostratus, we’ve got you. You’ll be alright.”
His eyes flutter open and his head rolls back. “Amuletos,” he mouths. “I followed you.” Followed me . . . “At least, I can be happy now.”
He thinks he’s dead.
The reality is too much to explain in whispers while he comes in and out of consciousness. Instead, I murmur, “Help me move you.”
He chuckles and blood seeps from a wound on his shoulder, but he finds enough energy to stagger to the end of the redcloak line and through underground chambers that curve and rise until we feel swirling air and taste the scent of battle among the old fortress ruins, layered in violet as night sets in.
Quin rips off his purple robe and commands the surprised redcloaks to grab anything they can use to fight. “They won’t expect you—help the comrades who came to save you. Free yourselves.”