Strange Attractors - Kim Falconer [38]
‘We’ll do it here,’ a deep voice said. ‘Less mess.’
‘They aren’t going to question him?’
‘Too risky. He’s a temple-trained witch. He might bend their minds. Don’t look in his eyes and whatever you do, don’t speak to him.’
‘I doubt he’s still alive.’ The owner of the voice stepped closer to him, nudging him with a staff. ‘That arrow’s black-tipped. Cast in hemlock.’
Hemlock? That would explain the headache. Scylla, how’s the backup looking?
We can get you out, but you’ll have to deal with those two yourself. Rosette’s got a prince on her tail. She’s trying to lose him.
A prince?
Focus, Rowan!
An’ Lawrence closed his eyes and soothed his mind. He sensed the boots near his face and listened for the draw of the man’s sword. It came with a pure-pitched sing—a fine blade, for the broad, double-edged kind. Today he was glad the Corsanons wielded such chunky weapons. It would do the trick.
The man lowered his sword to An’ Lawrence’s head. He paused for a moment, hovering just above the articulation of his first and second cervical vertebrae. The proximity of the steel raised the hairs on his neck. As the guard lifted the sword, An’ Lawrence sprang, twisting his back to the blade and holding his wrists as wide apart as possible. The tip of the steel blade sliced through the bindings before the guard had time to stop the momentum. An’ Lawrence spun back around, his hands free. The second guard drew his sword and charged towards him.
An’ Lawrence leapt away from the first guard’s hammer blow, grabbing the wooden bucket. He smashed it into the second guard’s face, the splinters impaling like daggers. With a focused boost of energy, he called on the Elemental Fire and the shards burst into flames; the guard’s broadsword clattered to the floor and the man frantically swatted his face. An’ Lawrence swept up the blade, freeing his feet in one swipe. Thrusting his sword arm up, he blocked a strike from the first guard and followed with an uppercut that sliced his opponent’s torso before driving the blood-soaked blade deep into the second guard’s chest. The Corsanons dropped to the ground at the same time. An’ Lawrence flicked the weapon clean of blood, groaning at the effort, but stayed poised to strike in case either opponent moved. As dark fluid seeped from their still bodies, he stretched his neck left and right, letting out his breath. I’m ready when you are, Scylla.
Brilliant. Rosette is near. Hold them off a little longer.
Hold who off?
The guards coming down the stairs. Mind the fire, too.
An’ Lawrence ducked behind the door when he heard marching boots. His fire spell was out of control. It leapt into bright orange flames, consuming the guards’ uniforms and ripping across the straw and splinters scattered on the floor. Smoke rushed out the barred window, taking the gagging stink with it. He stifled a cough then dragged one body back against the wall and pressed himself flat as the door swung open.
Orders were barked and a string of guards carrying water buckets poured in. They were preoccupied with the flames until the fire was almost out. When they rolled the remaining body over, the cell went quiet. The charred man smouldering on the floor was not the prisoner but a fellow warrior, though there was a moment’s debate over which one it might be. The ring of drawn swords was deafening. As one, the guards in the room turned to spot An’ Lawrence pressed against the back wall.
They screamed a battle cry and charged. He was counting on that—overzealous, foolish Corsanons. The room was too small for them to manoeuvre. They were all in each other’s kill circle and none of them could swing without slicing a head or an arm off their comrades. An’ Lawrence took advantage of their lack of foresight and swung his blade double-handed across the lot. He charged the steel with a boost of magic, but the blade was broad and thick, not as quick a conduit as he was used to. Still, it was effective. The three warriors left standing jumped forward and with another boost he knocked