Page 153 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

I’m about to press my advantage when instinct screams a warning. I throw myself belly-first into the dirt and dead leaves. My chin hits the ground hard enough to rattle my teeth.

The mage tosses a goddamn sword at me. His aim is terrible but the blade still nearly takes my head off. I hear it embed itself in a tree trunk behind me with a solid thunk.

“End of the line, Wolf.” The mage calls out. I can hear him moving through the underbrush, circling to get a better angle. He’s learned his lesson about getting too close.

“You were one of us,” he yells from somewhere in the undergrowth, keeping his distance. “You know how this ends. Surrender and we’ll make it quick.”

The offer is almost tempting. Quick death versus slow torture in the crypts. But I don’t trust them to keep that promise.

The archer is climbing to his feet, trying to pull my knife from his thigh with a grunt.

I watch him through the screen of leaves. He grabs the hilt with both hands and yanks hard. The blade comes free and blood immediately pours from the wound. He rips a piece from his cloak to wrap the injury.

I’ve used most of my tricks.

My throwing knives are all gone except for the blunt one in my left sleeve. They’re stuck in the archer or lost in the forest floor. I lost my short sword after being dragged by the mage’s vine. The poison is making my movements imprecise. My shoulder, forearm, and legs are all bleeding. I’m running on fumes and spite.

Time for something desperate.

I pull the blunt knife from my sleeve. It’s my smallest blade but it’s all I have left. I calculate the angle and distance properly, knowing I only get one shot at this.

My target is not the crow masked archer but at the heavy branch above his head. The dead wood looks unstable, still clinging to the tree despite the rot. I noticed it earlier when he slammed his falchion into the trunk. There’s a visible crack running through its center. It’s barely holding on, ready to fall with the right encouragement.

I release the blade and it sinks in.

For a moment nothing happens. The branch groans as the crack spreads. It’s beginning to give way under its own weight and starts to fall. The archer looks up just in time to see death coming for him. It crashes down where he was standing, exploding into splinters and fragments.

He dives aside just in time but the impact sends debris flying to his face. That should buy me some time. Seconds are an eternity when you’re running for your life.

I use them to run.

I can taste blood in my mouth and every breath is agony. But I’m moving. My vision blurs at the edges. The numbness has spread from my shoulder down my entire left side.

Fuck this poison.

The world develops halos, double images that make it hard to judge distance. I stumble over obstacles as the colors bleed together.

Behind me, the mage snarls something in the old tongue.

“Ghren’thasvik!”

The spell hits me mid-stride.

My legs lock instantly, every muscle in my body seizing at once. I can’t even get my hands out to break the fall. I crash to the forest floor like dead weight. Blood immediately floods my eye. I try to move but my body won’t respond.

Each breath is a struggle, my diaphragm barely responding to desperate commands. I manage shallow, gasping breaths that don’t provide nearly enough air. My vision starts to darken at the edges. Blinking is a monumental effort that I can only accomplish every ten or fifteen seconds.

It’s a paralysis spell perfectly executed.

Shepherd once taught me that it is one of the hardest spells to cast correctly. Too much power and you stop the heart. Too little and the target can still fight. This is perfect, the work of a savant.

There’s no room for escape.

I’m done.

No clever trick will save me now. I’m paralyzed, bleeding, poisoned, and surrounded by professional hunters.

This is how it ends.