1st Draft Fridays - A Fistful of Deception: Book #4, Chronicles of Marsdenfel

Year 253 of the Bynding - somewhere in the Pardys Isles - winter, part III

A/N: Thank you for the way y'all commented, last week, making clear that you were enjoying yourselves. I was honestly panicking, thinking Oh, no! I'm sadistic, just like [someone who has always had the most fun when I was in tears…and later tried to convince me that my reserve and restrained emotion were evidence that something was wrong with me…and who might actually be reading this].

So, readers. Thank you for helping me get my head screwed on straight on that one. Enjoying cliffhangers does not make me sadistic. I needed that.

— • — • — • — • —

 Why didn’t I grab another weapon while we were in the armory?

The question irks me as Aldrik and I both spring for a nearby door and barrel through, grabbing air before it’s whisked from that room, too, by the windster attacking us.

I hate battles. Assassinations are so much easier.

Aldrik’s magic draws up like a tsunami, surrounding us and making me wonder if Sylvair would’ve dared manipulate him into marrying her after he inherited his royal magic, because then the marriage would’ve flirted with discovery, which doesn’t seem like her.

He yanks me with him into another room, and his magic surrounds us in a bubble that blocks the jinní’s third theft of our air.

He breathes first, cuing me in that it’s safe to do so, and I cough a little before taking another breath. I assume we’re limited to the air in this bubble, so I reach my own magic into the earth below the stones, asking it what surrounds us.

The soil answers my magic, and I bite back a curse. “One,” I whisper in kintård.

Has to be Sylvair.

Aldrik’s battle-hard expression goes outright cold.

I grab his arm before he starts towards the elemental attacking us. “She’ll have guards.”

His brow furrows with confusion. “But you only detect the one.”

“Earth magic doesn’t read undead.”

He lets out a brief hiss—the standard Plainskin response to mentions of such abominations. His own magic poofs out a cloud of mist, and I feel how it settles, where it’s blocked from settling.

“Five guards,” he murmurs.

“Revenants or zombies,” I agree, though it’s unlikely that she would use an undead that had been made naturally—they have too many quirks that the mage-made variants lack. Which means these are zombies.

And all I have to fight them is one knife designed as a person’s emergency defense if attacked while sleeping.

Even Aldrik grimaces, pulls a single knife from his boot, and gestures that it’s all we have.

That isn’t going to work.

Well, then. Next option. I take a few slow, steady breaths, preparing myself to go without air for a time, as I put my knife away and step towards the closest door to the slave passages. Aldrik comes with me to keep me in his bubble.

I make sure the entrance will function for a quick getaway, then crouch on the stone and position the knife to start prying up some of the flooring. “Lure them in here and run through,” I say, jerking my head back to indicate the slave passage behind me. “I’ll take care of them.”

He scowls. “T—”

“Go!” I snap, because this isn’t the time for him to argue with me. I have far more experience with undead than he does. Even the mage-made revenants can spread the contagion. “Just hurry back before I pass out for want of air.”