The Outcast (Summoner #4)(77)

It was going to have to be now. Arcturus’s breath came thick and fast as he unslung his crossbow. Sacharissa battered his consciousness, eager to help, but if Arcturus summoned her, the flash of light from the summoning would alert the guards to his presence.

“Let me go,” Ulfr said.

Arcturus walked steadily toward the guards, doing his best to keep his footsteps silent. He was shrouded in darkness, but there were torches on either side of the rebels, and with every pace he knew he became easier to see.

“Three plates,” the central guard said, unperturbed by Ulfr’s silence.

“Barcroft said the hostages are to be well looked after,” Ulfr snapped. “Get your greasy paw off me before I cut it off.”

“Looks like the little half man has some balls,” the guard on the left laughed.

“We’re not asking anymore,” growled the central guard. “Leave it, or we’ll take it from—”

“Hey!” the guard on the right shouted, spinning around.

Arcturus cursed inwardly. He did not know what sound he had made to alert them, but now he stood a stone’s throw away, his crossbow dangling from his hand. Luckily, it had not been pointing at them, so he did not appear to be an immediate threat.

“Um … I’m here to relieve you,” Arcturus said, his voice weak with fear.

The rebels peered at him skeptically, the surrounding gloom making Arcturus no more than a shadowy figure.

“Just you?” the central man asked, and Arcturus’s mind went blank.

The speaker was the largest of the three, and he carried a sword, while the others carried long, black-wood cudgels. The man to his left was tall and slender, and the one on the right wide and stocky, but all were well-muscled men and carried themselves with authority. They were the kind of thugs that Arcturus would have avoided if he saw them on the street, for their faces were marred by broken noses and scars.

“He asked you a question,” snarled the thin rebel.

Arcturus took a step back, falling deeper into the shadows. The element of surprise was gone, and with every passing moment they became more and more alert. Ulfr stood behind them, forgotten.

“I … they’re coming,” Arcturus said, looking at a doorway on his right as if it might offer some escape route. “I think they’re in here.”

He stepped into the doorway and turned the handle, only to find it locked.

“I’ll go get them,” he said loudly. “They’re late, as usual.”

“Stay right there,” the stocky rebel snarled.

Arcturus heard footsteps approaching. He was obscured from sight, but within seconds the man would be upon him.

He tried to think, but Sacharissa’s desperation to be released overtook all other thought. With no other cards to play, Arcturus obliged her.

His hands shook as he unraveled the leather mat, and the flash of light as she materialized was near-blinding in the gloom. The demon immediately pressed herself against the door.

“Damned torch won’t light,” Arcturus called out unconvincingly.

“What the bloody hell was that?” the approaching rebel bellowed.

His voice echoed down the passageway, and Arcturus winced with each reverberation.

“To hell with it,” Arcturus muttered, lifting the crossbow.

Heart pounding, he stepped out of the shadow of the doorway, and the stocky rebel squared up to him, a broad silhouette against the torchlit corridor beyond.

“Who—” the rebel began.

Arcturus pulled the trigger, shooting from the hip. It was too close to miss, but too dark to see. He only felt the jar of the recoil against his bicep, and heard the man grunt in pain, words dying unformed in his mouth. Then the axe was pulled over Arcturus’s head and he was slicing down and to the side.

Arcturus heard the gasp, tasted the spray of blood across his face, felt the sick tug and release on his axe as the man collapsed to the ground. His stomach roiled with nausea, and then he was standing alone in the darkness once more.

He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want any of this.

“Roger, what’s happening?” the swordsman called out.

Arcturus knelt and tried to reload, fumbling in the gloom. Bolts clattered to the ground as he tugged one from the quiver, but in the dim light he could not find the slot.

“Get ’im,” the tall rebel yelled, charging.

Arcturus let the crossbow fall to the ground and lifted the axe once more. The approaching rebel was out of the light now, and would be on him in seconds.

“Sacha,” Arcturus breathed. “Now!”

He felt the brush of fur beside him, and winced as the pain of the Canid’s broken ribs flared in his mind. The scratch of claws skittered on the floor, then the outline of the thin man was gone, replaced by a twisting knot of limbs and fur, accompanied by muffled screams of agony.

But there was no time for triumph—beyond, the swordsman was running to help, his sword extended like a spearhead. No time to etch a spell. No time to load a bow.

Arcturus sprinted to meet his charge. Sacharissa was in danger now, and the thought of it turned his blood to fire. He let the anger take over, replacing the guilt and fear and lending strength to his tired limbs.

“I’ll kill you,” Arcturus yelled, enough to turn the swordsman from the tumbling bodies between them. The sword swept high, and Arcturus heard the air thrum with the force of it. It passed inches from his face.