Ward Against Disaster (Entangled Teen) (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) Page 2

  Something nearby snapped. He jumped toward the sound. Celia and Nazarius strode toward him, the Tracker’s height and broad chest making Celia appear fragile, but between the two, she was far more dangerous. Her loose shirt and pants hid a lithe, muscled form honed into a deadly weapon, and if it weren’t for her skill as an assassin, Ward would be dead ten times over. She was so beautiful, so captivating, and still so dead. Looking at her made him ache with a wild jumble of feelings that he didn’t know how to accept and the feelings had gotten more confusing over the last four days.

  Nazarius ran his fingers through his dark, short-cropped hair and then rested his hands on the hilts of his matched sword and long dagger. “I’d say no one’s gone down that road for at least two days. Which leaves us hoping we’ll pick up a trail farther down the road or going into Dulthyne.” Nazarius didn’t sound happy about either prospect.

  Ward scanned the area. He didn’t know how much magic Allette needed to maintain the spell anchoring her soul in her body. But the farmhouse made it clear more than just sustenance was compelling her now. With over a hundred years of being tormented at her master’s hands, her rage had to be insatiable.

  “If Dulthyne isn’t Allette’s final destination, joining one of the ore caravans leaving the city could ensure she won’t starve.” Which still led them to Dulthyne. Ward stepped toward the bridge. If he closed his eyes, he felt drawn to cross it, a tugging at his heart. But was that the spell he’d just tried to cast or his imagination?

  “Ward?” Celia asked. “Did you try the spell? Did it work?”

  He strained to hear affection in her voice when she said his name—that yearning compelled him almost as much as the need to fix his mistake and capture Allette—but he couldn’t hear anything other than her usual, brisk tone. As much as he wished their situation was different, this was still business. Not to mention that regardless of his yearning, confused emotions, or anything else, she was still dead and there were still laws preventing anything between them but friendship.

  “Ward?” she asked again.

  Nope, no affection in her tone. He blew out a sigh. He needed to take a chapter from Celia’s book. Focus on business first, as it would always be with Celia. “She has to be in Dulthyne. She can’t risk starving.”

  “It’s going to be impossible to find her,” Nazarius said.

  Ward adjusted his rucksack on his shoulder and headed toward the bridge. “This coming from a man with your skills.”

  “Fine.” Nazarius rolled his eyes. “Annoyingly difficult.”

  Celia fell into step beside Ward and raised an eyebrow at the Tracker. “That’s the spirit. Besides, you’re such a man of mystery, I’m sure you have a few tricks you haven’t shown us yet.”

  Nazarius flashed her a grin. “And reveal all my secrets?”

  Ward squeezed the rucksack’s strap and headed across the bridge, fighting the urge to say something sour and put an end to the banter. Nazarius wasn’t supposed to be smiling at Celia. He was a Quayestri Tracker, for goodness sake, and she an assassin. Natural enemies and all that. Quayestri were the highest law in the land and assassins the complete opposite. Which meant Nazarius and Celia were supposed to have a grudging friendship at best. No banter. That was the way the world worked.

  Except, Celia didn’t know Nazarius was a Quayestri and she was gorgeous—even if she was undead—and they both had an affinity for all things martial.

  No, Ward wasn’t going to think about that. He ran his damp palms down his thighs, bumping the locket in his pocket. That, too, was something he didn’t want to think about. He’d stolen the locket on the command of Nazarius’s master—a man with far too many secrets and plans.

  Thinking, at all, was becoming far too dangerous of late. Celia, Nazarius, his once favorite pastime of medicine, even necromancy, were now fraught with reminders of the terrible things he’d done to survive, things he didn’t want to do, and things he yearned to have and couldn’t.

  He dragged his attention to Dulthyne. Generations ago, a great magi had shaped the sheer vertical drop of the cliff face into an architectural wonder with his powerful magic. Thin columns held massive structures above them, and large sections of the city hung, without apparent support, over the verdant valley far below.

  In a way, Dulthyne reminded Ward of Brawenal City, except the terraced rings of that city hadn’t been piled on top of each other, and there were distinct houses. Here there were large, carved structures big enough to hold hundreds of houses.

  The clouds parted and the sun hit Dulthyne, sparkling in the veins of crystal and obsidian caught within the granite walls. Or was that witch-stone woven into it, brought to life by the heat of the summer sun?

  At the end of the bridge stood a portcullis, the massive iron gate raised and the heavy oak door open. There wasn’t a guard in sight, contrary to all of Ward’s previous experience with every other city he’d been to. Beyond the portcullis lay a wide-open area, paved with white bricks. To the right, thick columns held up massive arches, creating large windows overlooking the sweeping vista of the Red Mountains and the valley below. To the left, a road wide enough for three carts abreast curved into the heart of the mountain. Before them another passage headed straight, going deeper into this level of the city, while a wide ramp led up and around.

  Ward slid his gaze to Celia. A narrow line formed between her brows and her hand eased to the hilt of her dagger.

  “Where are the guards?” she asked.

  “Good question.” Nazarius crossed under the heavy gate and glanced down the passage leading into the mountain.

  No one ran out to stop him.

  The sweat chilled on Ward’s brow and under his arms. He moved his hand to the hilt of his dagger—not that it would do him much good since he wasn’t much of a fighter, but Celia was obviously wearing off on him and his hand had moved before he’d fully realized what he was doing.

  He crossed the threshold between bridge and city. The need to enter, go forward…follow Allette? It pulled at him, regardless of the cold dread sweeping across his senses. The sensation reminded him of how a corpse with a destroyed soul felt. Empty and desolate. His mind had to be playing tricks on him. He needed to meditate, clear out the magical ichors clogging his psyche, and the sooner the better.

  Celia followed him. “I don’t like this. It feels wrong.”

  Ward couldn’t agree more. But if this was where Allette was, then he had to go forward.

  A yell shattered the quiet, echoing off the hard granite walls.

  Ward jumped, his heart racing. He ground his teeth and forced himself to look ready and dangerous like Celia and Nazarius.

  Nazarius jerked his chin toward the passage before them. “Up the ramp.”

  Frozen by another yell, Celia glanced at Ward, a question in her expression hanging on the edge of her parted lips. Was she asking his permission? Probably just confirming what she already knew: if someone was in trouble, Ward would assist if he could.

  The urge to go and help pulled at him.

  No. Not this time. He had to stop Allette and not get caught up in someone else’s problems. He could, in the very least, learn from his mistakes.

  But Celia’s frowned deepened. Another cry ricocheted around them and then another. The sound filled the passage, turning into a roar of angry voices. “We can’t take a chance on this not being Allette’s doing.”

  “You know running headlong into trouble isn’t usually the best idea,” Nazarius said.

  Ward snorted. “You think?”

  “But it does make life more exciting.” Celia flash them a fierce grin and rushed up the ramp.

  Nazarius barked a quick laugh and raced after her.

  This was a really, really bad idea, but if it was Allette, they would need all the help they could get. Goddess above, she couldn’t be allowed to commit any more murders.

  Three

  They stormed into a large public square filled with men and women locked in battle among ma
rket stalls and vendor carts. Most were fighting with bare hands, and those with weapons looked like they’d picked up whatever lay close at hand: eating daggers, brooms, sticks, pans.

  A few feet away, two girls struggled with a shaggy pony terrified of the chaos around it. The girl astride the animal clung to its neck, while the other, a girl with bright red hair, tried to calm it down.

  Opposite them, a large man with a sword impaled a soldier distinguishable by his gray-on-gray tabard. The soldier crumpled to the ground, dead, and the man grabbed the soldier’s sword and tossed it to a friend. They turned, their expressions wild, to Ward, Celia, and Nazarius, and with a roar, the men rushed at them.

  In one fluid motion, Nazarius drew his sword and slashed at the first man, who blocked the attack.

  The second man lunged for Ward but Celia grabbed the man’s arm and jerked him off balance. Ward scrambled back. He’d just get in Celia’s way if he stayed in the fight. He was more useful after the fight with his physician’s training. But he didn’t want to hide like he had in the past, he wanted to take action, control his life, and for once be fierce instead of awkward.

  Near the pony, a man crashed into a vendor’s stall, sending apples and pears scattering everywhere. The animal bucked, tearing the reins from the red-haired girl’s hands. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old, and fear etched her pale face and wide eyes. The girl astride clutched tighter to the pony’s neck, her screams growing more desperate.

  Ward leapt at the animal, reaching for the reins. If he could just get it calmed down enough, the girl could dismount.

  The creature reared back, eyes as wide as the red-haired girl’s, and kicked at her. Ward tackled the girl out of the way, falling on his side, his arm underneath her. Hooves whooshed by him and pounded inches from his head. He shoved the girl aside without checking if she was all right—there’d be time later once he’d dealt with the pony—and seized the reins.

  The pony heaved, yanking the leather through Ward’s grip, burning his palms. He squeezed tighter. The cord bit into his skin, sharp and stinging, but he couldn’t let go. The creature bucked, bringing its head down, and the girl astride it whimpered.

  Ward seized the bridle on both sides of the animal’s head and sat up, drawing its nose closer to his chest.

  Calm.

  Confidence.

  Focus on him, not the chaos around it. Ward knew horses, and he was in charge.

  He used his palms to shield the animal’s view and locked gazes with it. It twisted in his hands, but he held tight.

  He shifted onto his knees, boring his gaze into the creature’s. The fight thundered around them, but he had to convince the pony that none of the chaos mattered.

  The animal panted with fear and rolled its eyes. The girl astride it sobbed but didn’t move. Her hair fell into a dark, unkempt veil around her face, and her back heaved like the pony’s sides.

  Ward eased up to his feet, murmuring to the pony, willing it to trust him. All the shaggy creature needed to do was trust him.

  The pony blinked, but still huffed quick breaths.

  Just a little bit longer. That’s all he needed.

  The roar of the fight grew distant. It was only the two of them. Nothing else. He prayed it would understand it was safe.

  The animal snorted again, and pressed its nose into Ward’s chest. It still trembled beneath his hands, but it trusted him. Thank the Goddess. He blew out the breath he’d been holding, and ran a hand over the creature’s shaggy mane.

  The red-haired girl rushed to the other girl’s side and helped her dismount, a motion made awkward by her voluminous dress with folds upon folds of black fabric. Except it wasn’t just the dress…her silhouette was wrong.

  She brushed her hair from her face, revealing she was closer in age to Ward than he’d first assumed, and hugged her belly, emphasizing how it protruded. She was pregnant. Very pregnant.

  “Oh, Rhia.” The red-haired girl brushed tears from the pregnant woman’s cheeks. “I promise I’ll never suggest the pony again.”

  “Not the pony’s fault.” The pregnant woman, Rhia, sniffed. Myriad emotions flashed across her face, so fast Ward didn’t have a chance to register all of them before she settled on calm. There was still an edge of fear, as if the calm was held there by force of will and she knew she needed to keep herself together.

  Behind them, soldiers poured into the square, and the townspeople turned and ran, swarming down alleys hidden between the ruins of the market. A few feet away, Nazarius sauntered from around a precariously leaning fruit stall, while Celia stood, still on guard, a sword in her hands. Blood slicked it and had splattered her shirt. Ward’s heart stuttered at the sight of her.

  She gave him her wicked smile.

  He thought his heart would stop altogether. She was stunning—she was always stunning—and he ached with a desire he wasn’t supposed to have. Her braid had fallen out and her black hair hung loose about her face and cascaded down her back. Her pale blue eyes shone with a ferocious light, and the smile meant she was uninjured—the red gashes on her cheek were from the fight four days ago. None of the blood was hers.

  A heavy hand clamped around his arm, and Ward spun around. A soldier, tall enough to look Ward in the eye and as wide across the chest to rival Nazarius, slid a looped rope over Ward’s wrist.

  He snatched his hand from the loop, the rope burning his skin, then wrenched free from the soldier’s grasp and staggered back. Across the market someone yelled, and a soldier tackled a man to the ground and yanked a rope around the man’s hands. They were arresting everyone.

  The soldier in front of Ward lunged at him. He twisted away and scrambled toward Celia. She parried a sword strike from another soldier. More soldiers closed in and blocked potential escape routes. “We can’t get arrested,” Ward said.

  “Agreed.” She parried another blow and retreated a step to Ward’s side.

  “There are too many of them.” Nazarius slammed a soldier’s sword aside, the blades squealing, bright against the roar of yells.

  Ward twisted out of reach of another soldier’s grasp. “How many more will Allette murder while we’re in the Dulthyne’s dungeon?”

  There—a feet few behind him and on the other side of the girls with the pony—a narrow alley. It looked like it twisted between two walls and headed into the mountain. Ward dodged a swing from a soldier and tugged on Celia’s free hand, but didn’t hold it. “This way.”

  She blocked a strike aimed at her shoulder and kicked out the knee of the soldier. He staggered and fell, and she leapt back toward Ward.

  “Come on,” Ward said and ran. He didn’t want to leave Nazarius behind, but if they didn’t leave now they were certain to get arrested.

  Nazarius growled, but turned and raced after them.

  Ward bolted past the girls to the alley, his rucksack bouncing against his hip. A soldier lunged in front of him, and he skidded but couldn’t stop his forward momentum. He wrenched to the side, desperate to avoid impaling himself on the soldier’s sword. The blade sliced the air inches from his chest. Ward rammed his shoulder into the man’s sternum. Air flecked with spit sprayed Ward’s face and the soldier doubled over, making room for Ward to slip past.

  Celia slammed her elbow into the soldier’s face. He staggered back making even more room, and Celia and Nazarius stormed into the alley.

  Footsteps pounding on brick clattered behind them. The alley cut to the left and sloped up. Ward’s blood roared in his ears, devouring the sounds of pursuit. He scrambled into a passage leading right and up another slope with Celia beside him and Nazarius close behind.

  A soldier with short-cropped blond hair barreled down an intersecting alley toward them. Two more soldiers raced behind him. Ward hurtled forward, but the blond soldier got there before them.

  Celia shoved past Ward and jabbed her sword at the man. He scrambled away with an awkward parry, throwing himself off balance, and she jabbed again. Behind them
, Nazarius blocked a strike from one of the other soldiers while another shoved past and swung for Ward.

  Ward ducked and rammed his shoulder into the man’s gut, but the soldier grabbed Ward around the chest. They toppled off balance, and the soldier twisted and slammed Ward’s side to the alley floor.

  Pain raced over his arm and his fingers went numb. With a growl, the soldier scrambled up and pinned his knees on Ward’s chest. The man yanked a dagger from a sheath at his hip and raised it. Ward seized the soldier’s hand, his arms trembling. He wasn’t strong enough to hold him off for long.

  The dagger dipped, inching closer to his heart.

  Ward squirmed, desperate to free himself, but the soldier was too heavy. His only escape was to either give up and pray the soldier didn’t kill him out of spite—not something Ward was willing to bet on—or use magic and cast a reverse wake.

  Except he didn’t have magic, and even if he did there was no blood to power the spell.

  The soldier sneered, wrenched his hands free from Ward’s grip, and plunged the dagger down.

  Something within Ward contracted. A tightness filled his chest and not just from his muscles tensing in anticipation of the pain of getting stabbed. It flickered a hint of light across his vision, drawing the soldier in perfect clarity—the scar by his eyebrow, the dark stubble dusting his cheeks, the hint of wrinkles across his forehead and feathered lines at his eyes.

  All with a hint of something light…magic…the impossible.

  A mud-covered boot slammed into the man’s cheek, knocking him back.

  The impossible something, the detail, the whatever-it-was Ward saw, vanished. Smoke in a high wind.

  Celia shoved the unconscious soldier to the side and held out her hand. Ward stared at it, unable to make his mind work. Something had happened, but he had no idea what.

  Someone yelled behind him.

  Nazarius punched a soldier in the face and parried the sword strike of another man.