“Ouch.” Twelve grimaced. It felt like she had bruises all over her, but somehow she was alive. It seemed nothing short of a miracle. She stared at the others, drinking in their faces hungrily, unable to believe that after everything that had happened, all the awful things that had been said, they’d still come for her. She held Widge close and let a warm feeling of certainty wash over her.

She was among friends.

Chapter

Fifty-Two

“Glad to see you awake, Twelve,” Hoarfrost said gruffly, pulling a stool from the corner of the tent and sitting. The others followed suit. “This lot have filled me in on as much as they can, but there are still a fair few blanks to my mind.”

Twelve edged herself up painfully in the bed and nodded.

Hoarfrost looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and a nasty gash across his forehead, but he sat ramrod straight and his gaze was as penetrating as ever.

“Why,” he said softly. “Why did Victory do it?”

Twelve’s breath caught and a sour taste flooded her mouth. “Respect.” The word came out as a hiss. Hoarfrost’s eyes narrowed.

Words spilled from Twelve’s mouth as she related everything that had happened to her since she had left the others: how Victory had pretended to rescue her from the dungeons, how the Hunter had interrogated her over Dog’s whereabouts and allowed the Croke to invade her mind. Then she took a shaky breath and told them about the arrows, about the untold depths of Victory’s darkness and deception.

Hoarfrost stood abruptly, knocking his stool over. “Splottering spineghasts! I never woulda believed it if I hadn’t seen her there myself. Fighting alongside the ruddy goblins! Victory!”

“She escaped?” Twelve asked, already knowing the answer.

“Aye,” Hoarfrost growled. “With whatever’s left of that mage an’ the thing you called the Croke. I couldn’t send a team after ’em, not with everything so chaotic.” His eyes narrowed. “We will catch ’em though.”

Five’s face was screwed up as he absorbed everything Twelve had said. “What did Victory mean about a ‘master’?” he asked.

“An excellent question,” Dog said. “Could she mean Morgren?”

Twelve shook her head quickly and regretted it. Pain jarred down her neck. “No,” she winced. “Morgren talked about a master as well and”—she paused and frowned—“I got the impression that it was this master who had given Morgren his powers.” Twelve remembered how the mage had stared at the fire in his hands, the delight and greed and wonder on his face. “I don’t think he’d had them very long.”

“He should not have them at all,” Dog growled. “The witches bound goblin magic.”

“What else can you tell us about this ‘master,’ Twelve?” Hoarfrost asked.