Page 81 of Flight of Fate

I put all my conviction into my speech, willing them to become true.

“We’ve got one chance, and we can’t waste it.”

Forty-Seven

Herinor

When the nextguard turns the corner, we’re all pretending to be asleep or unconscious. Silas barely needs to fake it, blood loss and cold weakening him faster than I’d hoped for. The guard—a man of perhaps forty years, tall and powerfully built for what I recognize to be clearly human—eyes us for a minute, hand on the pommel of his sword as he toes the dead rebel closest to him.

“He died a while ago,” Gabrilla croaks, putting on a good show of barely being able to roll to her side from the awkward angle she’s assumed on the ground, close enough to Silas so the two of them share some warmth.

“Didn’t deserve any better, the traitor,” the guard grumbles, sharp blue eyes cutting toward one dead body after the other until they return to Gabrilla, a flash of interest sparking there. “But I could see waysyoucould escape freezing in your own piss, girl.”

The innuendo in his tone makes my hair stand on edge and not just because the stench of said piss makes it impossible to think of anything other than getting out of here. Gabrilla, however, plays her role too well, leaning forward an inch and glancing at the guard from under her lashes.

“I’d do literally anything to get close to a fire.”

Trying to ignore the mild jerk of Silas’s shoulder at the remark, I focus on my own task, keeping my head down as I wait for Gabrilla to lure the man in.

One step. Two. And he’s near enough for me to spit on his boots.

Come on, Gabrilla. One more step.

When I don’t move, she understands we need the man to get closer, and she lets herself tumble over, her hand flailing toward the guard as she moans. “Please. I’ll even go with body heat if that pleases you.”

For a moment, the guard is torn between drawing his sword and grabbing for Gabrilla’s hand, and it’s that moment of inattention he makes a move forward, stepping within my range.

Willing strength into my legs, I push off the ground, striking like a snake. My arms are bound too tightly to attempt a hit or a grab, but even from down here, I know I’m taller than the man, and my forehead connects with his sternum as I unfold myself as much as the chains allow. The impact makes my teeth sing, stars dancing in my vision as I push the guard over. Twisting to the side, I manage to align my hand with his, and my fingers fall around the hilt of his sword, drawing it as he collapses to the ground.

“Down,” I hiss at Ed and Rochus, who have readied themselves to attack, even when their chains end far out of reach from where the guard dropped.

They both slump back to the ground, pretending to be asleep or dying or already dead. I don’t care as long as the movement in this corner of the camp doesn’t draw the attention of more guards.

“Is he out cold?” Gabrilla asks, hovering on her haunches, coiled to spring, not at the guard but to Silas’s aid, I realize as she takes in the male’s gray and unhealthy features.

“Let’s hope not. I don’t want to have to carry him. Heavy bastard.” I don’t check if she took my disdain seriously or detected the well-hidden affection in my statement, already getting to work with the sword I stole.

My bound hands make it near-impossible to wedge the tip of the blade into one of the iron links of the chain wrapped tightly around my ankles, but I manage, wedging the flat of the blade between my knees and twisting until the link loosens with a groan.

Ed and Rochus follow each of my movements with sharp eyes, hope driving back the icy cold from their features. “You’re almost there,” Rochus notes, his view on my ankles so much better than my own as I wind on the ground like a worm to break that fucking link.

I don’t know how much longer the guard will be unconscious—or how long until someone will come looking for him—but as soon as I can properly move, I’ll slit his throat so he can’t tell what happened.

“Come-on-come-on-come-on,” I hiss through my teeth, sweat building on my neck as I throw all my strength into moving that sword just an inch deeper into the link—and nearly stab my foot when the iron gives and the chain slackens around my ankles.

For a brief moment, I allow myself to breathe, regathering a modicum of strength before I roll into a kneeling position, angling the blade at the guard’s exposed throat. At the touch of the frozen steel beside his windpipe, his eyes flutter open—just long enough to recognize death is coming for him in a slice delivered by my hand.

“Help—” His shout dies on his tongue as I push with both my hands, leaning my full weight onto the pommel of the sword. A splatter of crimson covers his plain gray leathers, and his gaze turns distant as his mouth fills with blood.

I don’t wait for his heart to stop beating. We need to get out of here now before someone answers his call.

Hands still tied too closely at my wrists, I turn to Rochus, gesturing at his hands. “I’ll free your hands first so you can free mine.”

An efficient nod is all the answer he gives, already crawling into a position that will allow for the bloodied tip of the blade to dig between chain links without pushing into his chest or his arms should the blade slip. Smart human. His expression is a contorted grimace, gaze on the point where I insert the narrow tip into the link above his right wrist.

“I won’t cut off your hand,” I say, even when there is no way of telling what will happen without full control over my body. It’s a Shaelakdamned miracle I haven’t injured myself with the steel bindings keeping me from properly using my limbs.

Closing his eyes, Rochus nods. A few feet away to both sides, Gabrilla and Ed hold their breaths as I shove the blade down similarly to how I did with the guard’s throat.

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