Twelve barely heard the question as she stared at the weaponsmaster’s back. This wasn’t like Victory: she was usually calm to the point of icy, totally in control. The shock of the attack must have affected her judgment. Twelve dug her heels in and pulled Victory around to face her, nearly sending them both careering back down the stairs.

“We can’t just stroll into the training ground without weapons,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “If there are goblins up there, we’ll be dead before we’ve taken three steps. You said they came through more tunnels—let’s find those instead. If we get out, we can buy more time, plan a counterattack. What about the original tunnel, the one the first attack came through? Is that still open? I know how to find it if so.”

Victory shook her head and resumed her climb. “I told you, I have a plan. You’ll have to trust me.”

Twelve nodded. Of course she trusted Victory . . . but at the same time every bone in her body was crying out that this was a terrible mistake.

“You never answered my question,” Victory reminded her. “Where are the others?”

“I left them,” Twelve puffed, the exertion making her head swim. “Six and I, we had a . . . we . . . we fell out.”

“What about the Guardian?” Victory’s back was still to her, but there was a new stiffness in her shoulders. “Was he with you? Where did you last see him?” The questions came quickly, the Hunter’s voice eager. They were nearly at the top of the stairs. The door was open a crack and Twelve could see more torchlight gleaming through, shapes moving in the training ground beyond. Panic filled her.

“Victory, please—”

“Just tell me,” Victory snapped, whirling to face Twelve as they crested the last step. Her face in the torchlight was a twisted mask of fury. “Tell me where that infernal Guardian is right now!”

Twelve stared at the Hunter, pain dulling her thoughts.

The door was tugged open and a small figure stood silhouetted against the light in the training ground. A ball of green fire flared in his hand, illuminating cruel features and gleaming armor. When he spoke, his voice was low, rasping, and strangely familiar. This was the goblin mage from the earlier attack on the lodge, Twelve was sure of it.

“I thought I told you to leave the interrogation to us, Victory,” he said. “It’s our specialty, after all.” His grin revealed teeth filed to a point.

Twelve cried out, expecting the weaponsmaster to lunge for the goblin’s weapon, try to push him down the stairs, anything, in short, other than what she actually did.

“Morgren,” Victory sighed, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I had to try. Simply asking is much quicker and much less messy.”