Page 43 of Magick and Lead
What was this? What new hell had the witch cooked up for her? What?—?
The box was blasted, then blasted again, and she heard the creaking and cracking of wood. Then, the lid was torn off above her.
“Rohree?” a familiar voice whispered.
Rohree tried to lift her head, but the crick in her neck protested.
“Sweet mother! Is that you? Come on, can you stand?”
She tried to open her eyes, but light stung them—though it was only the dim, bluish glimmer of a glowstone.
“Come on. We don’t have much time.”
The box tipped on its side, and Rohree felt herself spill out of it. With a groan, half agony and half relief, she tried to straighten her legs. The muscles responded with terrible cramping that left her hissing in pain.
“Gods, what have they done to you?” her rescuer asked. “Can you stand? You have to stand.”
Rohree felt an arm link with hers, pulling her to her feet. With a groan and a wobble, she found her footing, then, blinking, she looked again at the face of her savior. This time, her eyes were able to focus.
“Clua?” she whispered.
The dwarf woman held a long-handled war mace, and a look of ferocious determination hung on her broad features.
Rohree didn’t know her well. They’d only met a few times as mutual friends of Princess Essaphine. She never would have expected Clua to be the one to rescue her. Certainly, Essa must be here too, and her fellow Skrathan—but when Rohree looked around, she saw only Clua in the tower’s dank basement. No one else was there.
Rohree was confused, but there was no time for questions. Already, Clua was tugging her along as her cramped legsstruggled to keep pace. Through the tower’s dank basement, they ran. Up a curving, uneven staircase. Into a small study. Stars winked in through the windows. Judging from how far the fire had burned down in the fireplace, it had to be the wee hours of the morning.
And on the floor—Rohree saw the carnage and halted, her stomach turning. On the floor, two men were sprawled out, blood staining the floorboards around them.
“What happened?” Rohree asked. A foolish question, but she was still hazy from being in the box.
Clua brandished her mace. “I did. Now come on.”
Rohree took a few more steps, then halted. “Wait.”
The dwarf wheeled on her. “Do you want to be caught? Come on!” she hissed.
The witch would be sleeping now in the chamber at the top of the tower. Rohree could almost feel her, a malevolent, lurking presence, like a spider slumbering in the corner of a web, waiting for the slightest jiggle of her web to awaken and leap on her prey. Terror of that dreadful woman burned in Rohree like a sun. And yet, she couldn’t pass up this chance to help Essa.
“Just one thing…” Rohree whispered, hurrying into the other room, to the kitchen, and over to the desk by the window. She snatched up the basket full of scrolls—correspondence from the prelate.
“What are you doing?” Clua hissed.
On a peg on the wall, there hung an empty canvas satchel. Quickly, Rohree dumped the scrolls into the satchel and slung its strap over her shoulder.
“Got it,” Rohree said. “Let’s?—”
There came a creak from the floorboards above.
Rohree froze, dread pinning her in place. But Clua hooked her by the arm again and pulled her forward, out the kitchen door, and into the night.
They ran. The air was fresh and cool. Dew stood upon the knee-deep grass, wetting Rohree’s pants as she passed, but its chill helped her thoughts come into focus.
“Those men back there…” she whispered as she ran. “The dead ones. They wore black cloaks and hauberks,” Rohree said. “And black armor.”
“Yeah…” Clua said, scanning the horizon as she hurried them toward the nearby woods.
“They’re Lacunae,” Rohree said.
