The Outcast (Summoner #4)(42)

Sergeant Caulder’s squad had sold their lives dearly, leaving over a score of enemy bodies scattered on the battlefield. The courage to stand against such odds astounded Arcturus, and he felt ashamed that his first instinct had been to turn on his friends.

The dead rebels were clad in different shades and styles of dark, hooded jackets, with scarves across their faces. Their weapons, along with those of the soldiers, had been taken, much to Prince Harold’s dismay. The nobles had but a single sword and a half-dozen crossbows between them.

As they waited, Arcturus wished that Sacharissa could smell the bodies, to see if Crawley was among them. But all their demons had been infused—a precaution in case their scent attracted the rebel hunting dogs. All but one, anyway.

Edmund lay on his back beside Arcturus, his scrying crystal held up to his nose. His demon, a strange hybrid of owl and cat, was gliding over the town, scouting a safe route to the secret passageway. Through the corner of his eye, Arcturus could see the image on the shard of stone, where rooftops and ill-lit streets flitted by.

Arcturus rolled onto his side, to see where Rotter sat with Elaine, his sword drawn. Edmund had tasked the soldier to look after her, and Arcturus was surprised to see that Elaine seemed almost amused, their situation forgotten as Rotter whispered some joke in her ear.

“They’re busy rounding up all the townsfolk into the town square. I think there’s a way,” Edmund hissed, alerting the others. “Quietly now. Make sure your crossbows are loaded.”

Then they were up and running, their bodies crouched as if it would somehow hide them entering the town’s edge and into the cobbled streets.

Lanterns lined the road on either side, and Arcturus could hardly believe that they were heading toward the shouting voices in the near distance. They turned down an alley, then another, and somehow the walls that pressed in on either side gave comfort to Arcturus, as if they were safer here than in the wider streets.

“Wait,” Edmund growled, stopping and staring at his crystal. Above, Arcturus saw a flash of fur and feathers as the demon swooped by.

The young noble knelt and leveled his crossbow down the passageway. The others followed suit, preparing a row of projectiles held back by nothing more than a twitch of their fingers.

“Fire on my command,” Edmund said, and suddenly Arcturus’s vision blurred, his heart pounding in his chest.

Seconds ticked by, and all Arcturus could think of was how much he didn’t want to be there.

“Now!”

Arcturus fired without thinking, his nerveless fingers jerking at the sound. He barely saw the two rebels round the corner, nor did he know which one his bolt had struck. All he saw was the men hurled back against the brick wall. And the blood pooling as they choked their last breaths, their chests pin-cushioned with the broad shafts. It was an ugly, horrible death, and Edmund did not waste precious seconds to end their suffering, urging the group on down the next street.

“Take that, you rebel scum,” Zacharias snarled, and Arcturus heard a thud behind him as the noble kicked one of the dying men.

But Arcturus felt no triumph. Only shame, and horror.

What if he went back, tried to heal them? Edmund’s plan would never work. But it wasn’t too late to join the rebel cause.

“Hellfire, they’ve sent out the hunting parties,” Edmund cursed, looking up from his crystal. “Come on!”

On they went, running faster now, accompanied by the sound of their footsteps and the rattle of the loose crossbow bolts in their quivers. They turned down another street, eerily empty, while the howls of the dogs swirled around them like the baying of wolves.

Then they saw it: the town hall, a round building with a wide set of double doors, set on the corner of a crossroads. Two rebels stood guard outside the entrance, oblivious to the approaching nobles.

They were armed with the most rudimentary of weapons, and now Arcturus understood how Sergeant Caulder’s soldiers had managed to kill so many of them. One held a makeshift spear, constructed from what might have been a rake’s handle and a kitchen knife nailed to its tip. The other held a cleaver in his right hand, the lid of a cooking pot in his left.

The spearman did a double take as they approached, then pressed his back against the wall, terrified. The other seemed frozen to the spot, unable to move even when Edmund’s crossbow pointed directly at him.

“Stand aside, gents,” Rotter said, pushing past Edmund and Prince Harold. “I’ll handle this pair.”

His sword held unwavering in front of him, Rotter approached the two rebels. Suddenly, the spearman yelled and charged him, his spear lowered at the soldier’s gut.

With practiced ease, Rotter sidestepped the skewer and hammered the man’s head with the flat of his sword. The rebel collapsed, sprawled unconscious on the cobblestones, his spear clattering until it settled against Arcturus’s feet.

“Drop it,” Rotter barked to the other man.

The cleaver and pot lid fell to the ground with a clang, and the rebel’s knees followed soon after, his hands clasped in supplication.

“Please … I didn’t mean it.…”

Rotter leaned down and inspected the cleaver.

“No blood,” he said. “You’re lucky.”

He lifted the hilt of his sword and slammed it down, knocking the rebel out with a sickening crack.

“Amateurs,” Rotter spat. “Where to now?”