A Curse of Blood & Stone (Fate & Flame 2)

The distraction is what Zander needed, and he doesn’t waste it, spinning out of his seat to disarm the man holding him at sword point before cutting him down with his own blade. In seconds, he’s slayed two more men and is moving in on a fourth, wielding a sword in each hand.

Elisaf and Jarek fight off opponents in their respective corners, Jarek standing on the table, swinging his blades so fast I can’t follow either of them as he cleaves into flesh. The hairy-knuckled beast lies facedown on the tavern floor, nothing more than a bloody obstacle to trip over.

The sounds that have exploded in the tavern are deafening, of clashing steel and battle screams and moans of agony. It’s enough to make me grip my dagger and press my back against the wall as I watch my three companions slice, stab, and twist away from rival attacks.

The ox twins have shifted into a corner and are still downing ale, watching the battle unfold, their swords inert on the table in front of them.

Maybe they’re smarter than I gave them credit for.

Suddenly, a hand clamps over my wrist and tugs at me. On instinct, I swing my dagger toward the assailant, only to register that it’s Pan a split second before I stab him.

He yelps and jumps back, holding up his hands in surrender. “This way!” He jerks his head toward a hidden door in the corner. Of course he’s found it. He’s as resourceful as I was in my old life.

I falter, scanning the tavern again. It’s nothing but a flurry of blades, the skilled swordsmen easily cutting down drunken opponents caught up in the moment.

Zander catches my attention. “Go! Now!” he shouts, pointing toward the door, a second before one of Isembert’s men charges him. He barely lifts his sword in time to block the attack, and then he’s checking to see where I am again. “Get out of here!” he roars.

I’m risking his life by standing here.

“Go.” I shove Pan toward the concealed exit.

He leads me down a narrow hall surely meant for servants, hopping over crates and spare pillows strewn across the path, before pushing through another door. We spill out near the stable yard.

The cold rain against my face is a welcome relief.

As is the sight of Abarrane, Eros’s reins in her grip. “Leave now,” she growls, not wasting time with her usual threats of bodily harm.

“They need you inside!” She’s alone, which means she hasn’t found Drakon or Iago yet. “Isembert knows where the scouts are, and he’s in there.” I jerk my head toward the tavern.

Her eyes flare with determination. Shoving the reins into Pan’s hand, she draws her sword and disappears through the door.

“I thought she was gonna kill me for sure.” Pan leans over to brace his hands on his knees, catching his breath. “Scariest moment of my life. Even scarier than when Oswald had me on that fountain. Scarier than when those guys dragged us into the woods …”

I dismiss Pan’s prattles and peer up into the soulless sky, squinting against the rain. The screaming from the inn room has stopped, replaced by the sounds of a brutal battle.

I hope Zander and Elisaf are fine. And even Jarek. But I can’t do anything for them.

I draw my hood over my head and tuck my ring in my pocket. “Stay here.”

Pan’s protests fade as I move away from the Greasy Yak, my boots splashing through puddles. People leak out of the door in a panic, some holding wounds, others in hysterics, yet others with their heads down, intent on escaping the chaos to the safety of their hovels.

It’s the perfect time.

It’s the only time.

I embrace the swell of adrenaline buzzing in my core as I stalk toward the square. The guard watching over the prisoners runs past me and into the tavern’s fray, not so much as glancing my way. No one looks at me, the lone hooded figure walking toward the condemned mortals. Even they don’t hint at noticing me.

I am a ghost.

That certainty brings with it a wave of confidence.

The female on the end—a young woman of maybe twenty—sobs quietly, but otherwise no one makes a sound, trembling in the cold. A few are slumped, their knees buckled. I’m not sure they’re alive. The pungent smell of urine and vomit curls my nostrils, the rain unable to wash it away.

How long have these people been here?

It’s so dark, and the trigger to open these contraptions so I can release these people is not obvious—

“You have to pull the peg out.”