Page 32 of The Crow Games
Ruchel didn’t move. I lowered myself down beside her, using my body to shade her face.
Blue and the sisters shuffled away.
“We’re not leaving her!” Nola charged after them, stomping across gravel, kicking up sand.
“Our high witch has spoken,” Emma said gently, eyes on the ground.
Blue hesitated then, full lips pursed. She fished her wand out of her satchel and used the forked end to dig in the loose dirt, drawing a rough map. “Up ahead, there are two options, here and here. Both wells are good for refilling a canteen. Our high witch is going to need all the liquids she can get to clear her body of toxins, but be careful of the garm water devils.”
“Help us,” Nola begged.
“That’s what I’m doing,” Blue snapped. She drew more paths. Mimicking the maze ahead, then a broad square. “Here, there’s a statue of the warrior goddess Irmina in a courtyard. You’ve seen it before, I’m sure. Covens like to barter there for things they need, trade spells and supplies. It’s a safe space. The green witch Talia runs it like a market. We’ll wait for you for one hour when we reach it. Justonehour while we rest our legs. Get her there or we go on without you.”
Blue pulled the strap of her bag up higher on her slender shoulder and marched on, never looking back, Liesel not far behind. Emma sent us an apologetic smile before she too departed.
We let Ruchel rest for a time, her head in Nola’s lap. I wet her lips with a damp cloth and made her sip water. She drank, half-conscious.
“We have to go,” Nola said, scrambling to her feet.
I followed her gaze behind us. “Warlocks,” I gasped.
A coven of four drew near, taking the collapsed mind witch in with hungry eyes.
“Fucking vultures.” Nola dropped her pack and pulled Ruchel upright. She dragged her weight across her broad shoulders and hoisted her into the air. Nola wore her draped along her neck like a yoke for an ox, holding her thigh with one hand, the other grasping her arms at the wrists to keep her in place.
I slung Nola’s knapsack onto my back and followed. We hurried around the bend, slipping between two brick buildings to lose our tail, but the sandy soil was soft. Footprints gave our direction away.
The warlocks kept their distance but wouldn’t leave our trail, never too far behind us. I roused Ruchel with a gentle tap on her uninjured cheek when we needed to know which path through the maze was best. We were moving so slowly we didn’t run into anyone else. Other prisoners had wisely kept up the pace and were much farther ahead.
During their pursuit, the warlocks hid their faces with red hoods, the kind executioners wore during a beheading.
“They’re a part of a large coven,” Nola huffed. “Their high warlock is a nasty beast-born who makes all his loyalists wear hoods like that. They only recruit warlocks and beast-born. He calls himself Master.”
“Master?” I said sourly, hating the taste of the offending name on my tongue. “Well, that’s all I need to know about him.”
“He’s a mean bastard. He took over the second trial long before I arrived here, and he still holds it, last we were there. Blue has had the most run-ins with his lot. I keep hoping someone will hurry up and put a knife in his back, but he lives on. I’d rather face devils and garm over vermin like him.”
“I could put a bullet in one of them right now,” I offered, as the warlocks edged nearer. “That’ll send the right message.”
“I like the way you think, duck, but save your bullets. We might need them,” Nola said breathlessly, her steps growing heavier.
I was puffing just with the extra pack on my back. Our pace dragged, and the warlocks grew more daring, pulling within a yard of us. We took refuge in a building that looked war-torn. The windows were blown out, the steps littered with broken glass. Scorch marks darkened the archway, and the door had been knocked down. We had to step over it to enter.
The building was just a shell, nothing inside but bare floors. Nola laid Ruchel down cautiously on the checkered tile, and she stole a drink from the water sack she kept at her belt. I dropped our bags at my feet and drank my fill.
We made Ruchel hydrate too quickly, and she heaved her stomach’s contents onto the floor.
I helped move her away from the mess, her skin clammy and too hot to the touch. She lay curled on her side, clutching her belly, her lavender scarf slipping off her forehead. I fixed it for her. Eyes squeezed shut, she was breathing shallowly, half-conscious moments later.
I readied my revolver, wishing my spirit didn’t feel like lead in my belly. The heat drained me of energy like sand through a sieve. I was in no condition to battle anyone, let alone warlocks, but that wouldn’t stop me from trying my damnedest.
“With a short barrel like that,” Nola said, jutting her chin at my weapon, “you’ll want to aim for the widest part of their chest. If you miss a little, you’ll still hit something important. Let them get good and close and make it count. I’ll be right behind you.”
She rubbed her hands together and blew into her palms, growing a crimson cloud between her fingers. We waited in silence, nothing but the gentle crackle of her building storm and the blood rushing in my ears for company. I didn’t move an inch. A bead of sweat made a slow trail down my neck, and I didn’t even flinch to wipe it.
The drag of a footstep in sandy soil neared, a boot landing cautiously in the dirt just outside.
I slid out the archway, ducked low, and aimed squarely for the warlock’s chest. The hooded men called a warning out to one another. I adjusted for the sight and squeezed the trigger. The crack of the revolver left my ears ringing. My shot struck the warlock’s shoulder and down he went.
