When the first golden rays of sun were visible over the outer walls, her pulse began to pound. The watch would be changing any minute. If Thran and Oskaren were to make it out on time, they should have already departed.
She was just contemplating what she would do if they were captured when the door burst open, and Dess stumbled in. His cloak was gone, and he wore Oskaren’s white shirt, which she hoped meant Oskaren had on his inconspicuous black one, the hood pulled down to obscure her face.
“They were heading to the gate the last I saw them,” he told her.
She exhaled a breath of relief and shut the door behind him, then hurried to the window. The sky was pink now. “The dungeon guards?”
He gave her a smug grin. “Unconscious and locked in the cell.”
She didn’t think he would have, but it was still nice to hear that no one was dead on her account. “How long does it take to change the watch?”
He shrugged. “Not long.”
“We should go now then.” While they still could.
He nodded, and they slipped into the hall. Thia wanted to run but forced herself to maintain a casual pace in case anyone was watching.
They reached the exit. “Thia Sanbrooke, Witch-Slayer,” she said to the guard in front of the gate. “I wish to go into town.”
He bowed slightly. “Of course, milady.” He lifted his hand in signal, and the portcullis began to climb.
She loosed a breath. It had actually worked. They’d done it. They were actually going to—
The portcullis was only halfway open when shouts rang out from the parapet, a horn blaring from somewhere within the walls.
The guards sprung into action. There was a shout of “Prisoner escaped!” and the portcullis began to descend. Thia felt a hand on her arm.
“Milady, perhaps you should—”
Thia jabbed her elbow out behind her, relieved to hear a loudoomphas it connected, and she dove forward, flinging herself under the gate. She winced as her shoulder banged against the cobbled ground, but shot to her feet as soon as she was clear.
A hand found her leg. She flailed, but it was only Dess. She grabbed his wrist and dragged him to his feet before taking off in a sprint. He fell into step next to her, and she glanced back over her shoulder.
Four guards chased them, but they had a good head start thanks to the portcullis dropping before whomever was controlling it realized what was happening.
“Head back to the forest,” she told Dess, and heard him grunt in response.
They sped through the town, feet pounding the cobblestones, taking the most zigzagging path they could to lose the guards in the labyrinth of buildings. Thia was nowhere near as fast as Dess, and her lungs screamed as he pursed his lips in concern.
She shoved down the fatigue, driving her knees up. They reached the edge of town, until only a short, grassy field separated them from the wood.
Guards appeared directly behind them. Closer than they should have been, as though they’d guessed their destination and had taken a shortcut to head them off.
She pumped her arms faster, breaths coming in shorter and shorter bursts. Her thighs felt like lead, and her head swam, but she didn’t stop. A gloved hand grasped her arm. She stumbled. Someone grabbed her braid and yanked, eliciting a scream as she fell. She landed on her back, looking up into the harsh stare of a soldier in black livery, a gold lightning bolt across his chest. He lifted a hand to strike her, and she braced herself.
But then he screamed, an arrow appearing in his neck.
Hot blood spurted onto Thia’s face. She pushed him off, not waiting to see if he was alive, and struggled to her feet. That much blood, the arrow had likely hit a carotid artery; she wiped it out of her face and searched the tree line.
There. Oskaren and Thran stood at the edge of the wood, bows drawn. She wasn’t sure which of them had made the shot, but she nodded her thanks and rushed toward them. Footsteps thundered behind her; she turned just in time to see her pursuer stumble, an arrow in his leg. To her horror, he only paused momentarily before hastening toward her, arms outstretched.
A silver streak darted out of the sky. The soldier cried out as Mavrel slashed his face, then another arrow landed in his throat, silencing him.
Dess reached the trees ahead of her, and she nearly sagged with relief as the others handed him a sword. Then she was there too, collapsing, her legs made of jelly. In the grass, her four pursuers lay on the ground, unmoving. She didn’t know if they were dead or not. She wasn’t sure if she cared.
She felt a hand on her back. “All right, lass?” Thran helped her to stand.
She nodded. “You?”
