Promise of Blood

Nikslaus kept glancing out the window. Tamas wondered what Nikslaus sensed with his sorcery. Was Sabon on their trail? Or was Nikslaus simply nervous about their proximity to the city garrison? Tamas took a deep breath and studied Nikslaus. Nervous? Yes. Near to panic? No, not even close. And panic he would, if he thought any of the powder cabal were getting close.

Tamas listened to the sounds outside the carriage, trying to place their location. Somewhere near the docks and the canal. If they had taken the Roan Bridge, they were very close indeed. They could take a smuggler boat out of any of the pier warehouses. Nikslaus wouldn’t wait for anything fancy. He’d want to be off with his prize as quickly as possible.

The carriage rolled to a stop. Nikslaus lifted the curtain and smiled at what he saw. Tamas’s heart fell. They were here.

Tamas didn’t know which startled him more: the explosion, or the screaming horses that followed it. The whole carriage rocked, slamming Tamas against his chains. He bit his tongue against a scream as his weight—and the weight of the Warden—threw his bad leg against the side of the carriage.

Nikslaus kicked open the door. “Kill him if they take me,” he told the Warden as he leapt from the carriage. The echo of sorcery clapped the side of the carriage, shaking it more than the explosion had.

Tamas shared a glance with the Warden. The Warden positioned himself in Nikslaus’s seat, drawing a knife.

More explosions followed. People screamed. Women and children’s voices were mixed in. Tamas felt ill. People were dying out there. Bystanders, caught out on their weekend errands by a crossfire made in the pit. A volley of gunfire erupted, followed by the nearly inaudible pops of the Wardens returning fire with air rifles. A bullet shattered the window and left a hole in the other side of the carriage, passing right between Tamas and the Warden. The Warden’s eyes grew just a little bit wider.

“Clear the way!” Tamas heard the driver yell. “We’ll make a run for it.”

Tamas gritted his teeth. He wanted to strike, to reach out and wrestle the knife from the Warden’s hands. He’d have lost without powder, but at least he’d have done something. With both hands and legs chained and his magery gone, he could do nothing but sit and listen, grimacing when sorcery or explosions rocked the carriage.

They began to move suddenly. Whatever obstacle had obstructed the road—probably a burning carriage, one filled with Wardens—was now gone. The driver whipped the horses into a frenzy, galloping down the street to the sound of yells. Gunfire and sorcery fell away behind them. The carriage rocked violently. The Warden held on to the sides with both hands, steadying himself without expression. Tamas jolted back and forth, unable to do the same in his chains, and listened to his own whimpers every time his leg jolted.

The Warden watched out the window. “Almost there,” he said. He produced a key, and despite the violent thrashing of the carriage, managed to unlock Tamas’s chains. He left the wrist and leg irons on. He brandished the knife, and said in heavily accented Adran, “You give me any trouble and I’ll bury this in your chest.”

The carriage rolled to a stop. The driver leapt from his post, thumping to the ground outside, and pulled the door open. The Warden turned to get out and froze.

It took just a split second for the Warden to turn on Tamas, knife at the ready. Tamas caught the thrust between his wrists and used the leverage of his irons to twist the blade away. Then he was on his back on the carriage bench, lights swimming before his eyes, his ears ringing. He barely even registered the pain in his leg.

It took him a moment to climb to a sitting position. Every inch was an eternity of agony. His leg screamed. He felt blood on the side of his face; he’d not avoided the knife altogether after all. He braced himself against the side of the carriage, the smell of gunpowder in his nostrils.

The Warden was gone. There was a Warden-sized hole in the carriage, opposite the door. His body was on the ground outside, one leg still up on the edge of the carriage, caught by a splinter of wood.

Tamas looked down as Olem deposited a hand cannon on the floor of the carriage. He grunted from the weight, then looked up at Tamas. There was relief in his eyes. “So I stole the right carriage,” he said.

Olem helped Tamas out of the carriage. They were in an alleyway between two brick buildings. The strong smell of the sea and the sound of waves said they were very close to the water. Adran soldiers filed into the alley within seconds. One tried to take Tamas’s weight from Olem. Olem waved him off.

“Where’s Sabon?” Tamas asked.

“Chasing the Privileged, with Vlora,” Olem said. He sounded tired. Could he get tired? “The bastard cut and run when he saw how many of us there were.”

Tamas’s eyes grew wide as more soldiers filed into the alley. There were more in the streets. “You brought the whole garrison?”