The Outcast (Summoner #4)(83)

“Fine,” Arcturus said, struggling to his feet. “You can come with me.”

“And me,” Alice said.

“No,” Arcturus said. “You’ve got a broken arm. Plus, you’re a woman.”

“I beg your pardon?” Alice said, her eyes blazing.

“Sorry, what I mean is, there’s fighting ahead if we’re to capture Crawley, and there are barely any women among the rebels,” Arcturus explained hastily. “At least from what I saw. You’ll stand out more, and your arm won’t let you fight. It has to be me and Harold.”

“Fine,” Alice said, kicking at the paved ground with her toe.

“You’re weak,” Elaine said, tugging at Arcturus’s sleeve. “Zacharias should go.”

“And go along with this mad scheme? Not likely,” Zacharias said, crossing his arms.

“It’s fine, we’ll need my nose anyway,” Arcturus said, pulling his bloodied shirt over his head and using it to wipe away the worst of the blood. “I might be able to smell Crawley out. We should hurry though.”

With Alice’s help, Arcturus managed to remove the shirt from one of the dead guards. It smelled of sweat and charred cloth, and was at least two sizes too large for him, but he cinched it beneath his belt.

“Good luck,” Edmund said, forcing a weak smile. Arcturus grasped the noble’s hand, and winced at how cold and clammy it felt. The boy needed help soon.

“Come on,” Harold called, already in the corridor. Ulfr followed, his face grim with apprehension.

Arcturus ordered Sacharissa to stay and protect the others, and received a reluctant acceptance in his consciousness. Then he was gone into the gloom. Gone to catch a traitor.





CHAPTER

48

THEY STOOD AMID THE puddled blood, where Arcturus had fought his battle with the three guards. It was sticky underfoot, and Arcturus tried not to look at it as he closed his eyes and concentrated.

Again, his head was filled with the cacophony of conversations, mixed with the snores of a hundred men. The sounds swirled around him in a deafening hum.

He took in the smell of sweat, and the metallic, bitter scent of blood from below. It was overpowering and he struggled to sift beyond it and seek what he was looking for.

Cologne. The same cheap perfume Crawley had used to cover the reek of gasoline. This would have been after he had set fires in Corcillum, if Arcturus had guessed correctly. It was there, on the very edge of the myriad of fragrances seething around him.

Then he heard it. Another roar of pain, the same one he had heard in the corridor after his battle. Only this time he knew who it was.

Sergeant Caulder.

Torn between the mission and his pity for the grizzled sergeant, Arcturus felt his mind would split in two as he sought to pinpoint the smell.

“There’s only one way,” Harold said, propelling Arcturus along with a gentle shove. “We can’t wait here all day. Work while we walk; the smell will only get stronger.”

Arcturus could not argue with that logic, so he walked on. Now the gloom no longer shrouded them, Arcturus felt as vulnerable as a newborn baby as they walked brazenly into the light. Already he could see men peering at the trio as they walked by, the many doors on either side still left open.

Thankfully, a good number of the rebels were asleep now—they were clearly working on some kind of shift system, and Crawley or General Barcroft must have ordered them to use the corridor to create a gauntlet of men on the way to the provost’s office and the prisoners.

Still, Arcturus’s heart beat so hard he felt he might faint as they walked down the corridor, though whether that was from nerves or the blood loss he did not know. Regardless, they made it past Barcroft’s quarters undisturbed, stopping at the dead guard propped against the wall. Arcturus felt sick once more, but it was a part of the corridor where there were no nearby rebels, where it was least risky to stop.

Again he concentrated, and now that there was no blood he could smell the cologne, almost like a trail in the air. The sound of Sergeant Caulder’s pain had been reduced to a low moan, barely audible above the clamor of voices around him. And then he realized that the sound and the smell were coming from the same place.

“I think Crawley is directly below us,” Arcturus whispered.

“Follow my lead,” Ulfr said, “and, Prince, do not speak unless absolutely necessary. Your accent will give you away.”

Ulfr strode ahead before they had a chance to reply, so instead they hurried after him. A sleepy rebel stumbled by, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Arcturus withdrew deeper into the hood, until he could only see the ground and Ulfr’s hobnailed boots, stomping their way toward the atrium.

“Come on,” Ulfr growled. “Mr. Crawley doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

He was speaking for the benefit of the rebels around them, for suddenly Arcturus was walking down the winding staircase, catching a glimpse of the iron railings of the atrium’s floors on either side. He knew the crossbow men were behind him now, still lined up in the shadows, and wondered at the discipline these men showed to keep so still and silent. These must be soldiers, well trained in the art of ambush and warfare.

It meant one thing—each and every one of them would be deadly with a crossbow. If they had to fight their way back, it would be like walking into a swarm of steel-tipped death.