Calenne lurched into a hunched sitting position. A new, violent throb made itself known at the base of her skull. At least there was no sign of Haldrane and his men – no living sign. Likely they’d taken her for dead and lost interest. Hissing away a whimper, she breathed in the chill, damp air and took stock.

A wisp of pale light shone high above. Thirty feet, at least. More. Too high to climb even without a broken wrist, given the smooth black stone that lined the collapsed passageway.

Even without that tormenting light, it wouldn’t have been completely dark. There was a strange, luminescent quality to the black stone. No, that wasn’t right. Somehow, it contrived to be darker than everything else. As if it drank in the shadow, rather than emitted light.

Calenne made out an exit a short distance behind her. If there’d once been another, the collapse that had shattered the ceiling had swallowed it up. A trickle of water running down the walls and vanishing between cracks in the stone proclaimed the stream as not entirely blameless.

But one exit was enough – or so Calenne hoped. She had to be in Skazit Maze – Konor Belenzo’s old warren of tunnels from the days of a much older struggle. The tunnels ran for miles – or so rumour said – which meant there were other exits, just waiting to be found. At least one passage was rumoured to come up in Eskavord – inside the churchyard no less.

“I’m not trapped,” she said firmly. Hearing the words helped. She almost believed them.

Rising to her knees, she unbuckled her breastplate and let it fall. Achieving it one-handed drove Calenne almost to distraction. She forged on through the pain, and greaves and vambraces followed. The dead Hadari’s dagger-sheath made an acceptable splint for her broken wrist. The belt and strips torn from his cloak served as adequate bindings. By the time she was done, she was sheeted in sweat.

But she was alive and she could walk. It would do.

Tucking the Hadari dagger into her belt, Calenne inched her way into the darkness.

Forty-One

Forty-One

“Useless, deadweight southwealder. Beats me how a stick like you can be so damned heavy.”

The bitter mumble pierced thick, black clouds. A tug on Revekah’s collar shot a spike of pain through her shoulder – her bound shoulder. It jarred her the rest of the way to wakefulness. Undergrowth tore at her arms and legs.

A birch tree lurched past. She grabbed for it and twisted against the hand at her collar. A guttural curse sounded. The weight on her collar vanished, and Revekah rolled free. Hand closing on a fallen branch, she rolled to her feet and swung.

She froze mid-blow. “Kurkas?”

He sank against the nearest tree and glanced furtively about. “Not so loud. This forest’s swarming with icularis.”

“Icularis?” She couldn’t place the word.