Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,203

he’d be running nowhere for a while.”

Mia looked the Shahiid of Pockets over, noticed the odd angle of his shins.

“Black Mother,” she whispered. “He’s broken your legs.”

“And fingers.” Mouser winced. “Rather … unsporting, I thought.”

Mia cut their ropes, but the garrison’s manacles were a trickier proposition. They were heavy iron, locked by a key that none of the three soldiers she’d just ended seemed to possess. Each of the Ministry were chained at wrists and ankles, and would only be able to manage a shuffling walk unless they were freed.

“Shit,” she breathed. “I’ve got no picks on me.”

“In my boots,” Mouser whispered with a ghost of a smile. “Left heel.”

Mia cracked Mouser’s boot heel as he bid her, murmured apology as his shin shifted and he hissed in pain. Inside, she found a few picks and small torsion bar, set to work on Cassius’s bonds. Beaten as he was, the Lord of Blades would still be able to carry Solis, and between Aalea, Spiderkiller and Hush, they’d manage Mouser. The question was should they tuck tail and run, or stand and fight? Solis and Mouser were in no shape to ride, and she’d no chance of saddling up the camel train without the Luminatii noticing. But in a toe-to-toe against a dozen men armed with sunsteel? Any minute now one of them might be back to here to check on—

“’Byss and blood…”

Mia looked over her shoulder at the whisper, saw a figure at the top of the cellar stairs. Dusty boots. Daggers at her belt. Blond warbraids. Wide blue eyes.

“Ashlinn…”

Mia stretched out her arm, groping for the shadow at the girl’s feet. But without a word the girl spun and sprang back up the stairs, out of sight, her boots skipping light across the boards above their heads as she dashed toward the tower door.

“Shit, she’s going to warn them…”

Mia tossed the picks into Cassius’s lap, scrambled to her feet and bolted after Ashlinn. Taking the stairs three apiece, up into the sunslight just in time to see the four Luminatii stationed on the garrison house door burst through it, Ashlinn beating a dusty trail down the street to the Old Imperial, shouting as she went.

The Luminatii were local lads, and unlike the refugees from the raid, all armed with their sunsteel. Though covered in dust from the wastes, they were also wearing plate armor, the plumes on their helms a dirty red. They drew their blades with a shout, the steel bursting into flame as they barreled into the room. Close quarters. Heavily armed and armored opponents. No element of surprise and swords that would cut through her like good-looking butter.

Mia didn’t like those odds.

She tossed the last of her onyx wyrdglass onto the floor, turned and dashed up the stairs. Coughing and sputtering through the thick haze, the Luminatii charged after her, roaring at her to halt. Mia hurled a fistful of ruby wyrdglass as she bolted up to the third level, the globes popping on the lead Luminatii’s chest and splashing pieces of him across the room. Scorched and sprayed in blood, the remaining three proceeded with more caution, huddled behind their shields as they reached the third level. The last of Mia’s wyrdglass melted their shields to slag, the last of her throwing knives took the point man in the throat and sent him to his knees, clutching his severed jugular. Mia glanced at the rope ladder leading up to the roof, wondering if she could make it before the remaining two soldiers cut her down. Reaching out instead to the men’s shadows creeping along the floor …

The Luminatii bringing up the rear fell with a shocked expression, four feet of unlit sunsteel splitting his head almost in two. Brains and blood spattered the walls as the body toppled forward and spilled its last all over the floor. Lord Cassius rose up behind him, face swollen and bruised, dark eyes narrowed in a cold fury. And as Mia watched in awe, Cassius curled the fingers on his left hand and the shadows in the room sprang to life, writhing like serpents before the charmer. With a wave, the Lord of Blades tore the final legionary’s sword from his grip, and without a sound, swung the sunsteel longsword hard at the soldier’s neck.

Despite what your poets might say, gentlefriend, it takes a mighty swing and an even mightier arm to decapitate a man clean. And the Lord of Blades obviously wasn’t at his best. Still, there was