Page 102 of Horn of Winter

After sending another silent prayer to gods likely more intent on enjoying the situation I was in rather than helping, I thrust the door open and sent the air spinning toward the two men at the far end of the hall. I chased after it, my steps echoing on the cold stone and my heart beating so loud it was a drum that filled the silence.

The two men turned and raised their guns, but before either of them could fire, my air-based battering ram sent them flying. One smashed back against the wall with a loud crack and dropped unconscious to the floor. The other hit the metal bars that divided this section of cells from the next and bounced backonto his feet. I swore, drew back my arm, and threw a knife... just as he fired his weapon.

I threw myself sideways. Felt metal thud into my shoulder and the explosion of pain. Hit the ground hard but somehow rolled onto my knees, the other knife gripped fiercely in my left hand while blood soaked through the T-shirt and ran down my right.

My throw might not have been fast enough, but it had been true. The man lay on his back, the knife hilt deep in his forehead.

The wind swirled around me again. The men on the floor below had heard the shot and were running toward the nearby stairs. I swallowed heavily and pushed upright, staggering sideways slightly as the stone under my feet briefly rolled and shuddered. I flung out my right hand to steady myself, only realizing the mistake when my fingers hit the wall. Waves of pain reverberated up my arm and through the mess that was my shoulder, swiftly followed by thick waves of nausea. Sweat broke out heavily across my forehead, and I breathed deep in an effort to battle the looming threat of unconsciousness.

But I was running out of time, and I didn’t need the wind to tell me that.

I pushed away from the wall and ran like a drunkard toward the metal gate and the stranger I’d killed. I pulled my knife from his head, doing my best to ignore the bits of flesh and bone and gods knows what else clinging to the blade, and then stepped over him and opened the gate.

The vibrations of movement were drawing closer, and it wasn’t just the air’s warning now; the stone under my feet echoed with the same urgent ferocity.

I shook my head, wondering whether the combination of drugs and blood loss was affecting my senses, then followed the tug of the wind to the right, away from the thunder of approaching steps. The hall was long and straight, my steps lessso, but I made it to a second, smaller set of stairs before the other men appeared behind me.

I staggered down, but I was leaving a trail behind me now, bloody breadcrumbs that would lead the men who’d just reached my guards straight to me. There was nothing I could do about it. The increasingly ferocious movement of the stone under my feet and my growing lack of strength simply made it impossible to go any faster.

I hit the bottom step and staggered down the hall, following the wind’s whispers toward my aunt. She was probably aware of my escape by now, but hopefully, she’d count on her people recapturing me rather than simply running.

Movement, to my left. I raised a knife defensively, felt more than saw my attacker leap back. I didn’t dare follow up with another blow; aside from the fact I simply didn’t have the strength, I’d more than likely fall. I did the next best thing and raised a thick barrier of air between us. He hit it and bounced back hard, landing on his butt, his gun slithering away from his grip. I flipped the knife in my left hand, caught it by the blade, and smashed the hilt with all the strength I had across his face. As he fell back, my air barrier disintegrated. I didn’t bother regathering it. Doing so would take what little strength I had left.

It was a mistake. Abigmistake.

I’d barely taken two steps when I was hit from behind and sent sprawling onto the floor, skinning my knees and knuckles, the knives falling from my grip as pain exploded through my shoulder and on through the rest of me. A bloody mist filled my eyes and blurred my vision, but I didn’t need to see to know what was coming straight at me.

I called to a knife, felt it thud into my left hand, then swept it back viciously. Heard him leap out of reach, heard the thick, confident chuckle that followed. He thought me easy prey.

He thought wrong.

I flung the air at him, swept him off his feet, and smashed him hard against the ceiling. Bones cracked, a sickening sound, but I was beyond caring. As he thudded lifelessly back to the now convulsing floor, I pushed upright yet again and staggered on.

But that red mist was increasing, and my strength fading as fast as the blood flowing down my arm.

If I didn’t get to my aunt soon, I wouldn’t get to her at all.

From up ahead came a softwhoompand the sound of fighting. The violence underneath my feet increased, making it nigh on impossible to walk in anything resembling a straight line. Or maybe the floor wasn’t moving at all; maybe it, like the sound of distant fighting, was nothing more than a hallucination caused by the Dearil’s increasing grip on my system.

I didn’t know and didn’t have the time or energy to contemplate it.

I staggered on, down to the end of the hall and into a foyer that was wide and high, and, once upon a time, undoubtedly grand. But trees now riddled its expanse, reaching for skies visible through the collapsed roof, and the air held the hint of rot.

My aunt was standing on the far side, close to an exit sign. “Stop, dear Bethany.”

I didn’t.

“Stop, or you will be killed.”

I continued to ignore her. I had no idea what she saw in my expression, but fear flicked briefly through hers. She took a step back, and it was only then that I saw she was holding a gun.

“I haven’t used one of these all too often, but I figure that with the sixteen bullets at my disposal, at least one of them will prove fatal.”

I stopped. That was when I saw the limbs of trees that stood at her back, between her and the exit, were extendingsharp, woody fingers toward her. I blinked, but the movement continued. Real or imaginary? I had no goddamn idea.

I shifted the bloody knife from my right hand to my left, then slowly wove the air around my fingers. My head was a mess of agony and confusion, my arm becoming number by the moment, and my knees threatening to buckle, but sheer force of will—or sheer fucking stubbornness—kept me upright and focused, at least as much as possible given the amount of blood I was losing and the drug wreaking havoc in my system.

“Give me the Eye, Aunt.”

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