The Emperor's Edge 3: Deadly Games

The Emperor's Edge 3: Chapter 16 Part 3

Six faces stared at her. Six practitioners’ faces, she reminded herself. Suddenly her plan with the vial seemed ridiculously simple and doomed to failure. As soon as she dropped it, they would figure it out and raise magical defenses.

“Good morning, all,” Amaranthe said. “I heard you could use help getting a couple of pesky escaped prisoners out of there.”

“Just talk to your men,” Spectacles growled.

The practitioners parted to let her pass. The man closest to the door held some sort of baton that was spouting a stream of fire. It had burned three sides of an access panel into the hatch, leaving smoke drifting from perforated singe marks.

Amaranthe tried to see through one of the tiny holes, but the room appeared dark behind it. Or maybe something else blocked the door. If her men were barricaded inside, it would take time for them to come out and help if a fracas started. She had to assume she and Maldynado were on their own for this.

As she drew closer to the door, she wiggled the cork loose with her thumb. The gloves stole some of her dexterity, and she fumbled, almost dropping the vial.

Inside the stuffy helmet, a bead of sweat rolled down her nose. Too bad she had no way to wipe it.

The cork came free in her hand. Yellow smoke curled between her fingers, and she lowered her arm, swinging it to hide the evidence.

She pointed at the hatch. “Should I knock?”

“Stop him,” someone blurted behind her, then switched to another language.

Cursed ancestors, they must have seen Maldynado opening his vial. Two men reached for him, and a woman stepped back, her eyes growing glazed.

Amaranthe threw the vial at her nose. It bopped her between the eyes, breaking her concentration. The two men had tried to grab Maldynado’s arms, but he thrust them away. He did tower like a behemoth over these people. Too bad it wasn’t going to be a solely physical confrontation. But if they could keep the practitioners busy until the smoke kicked in...

A man grabbed Amaranthe’s wrist even as a prickle on the back of her neck alerted her to a magical attack from elsewhere. She kicked her captor’s shin and twisted her arm, yanking it free from the man’s grip. She jammed her knee into his groin and spun about, seeking the practitioner targeting her.

The man with the baton torch lunged at her. She ducked and whipped her arm up in a hard block. The baton flew from the man’s grip, hit a wall, and spun into the fray. Someone screamed.

Nearby, a glassy-eyed male practitioner raised a hand toward Amaranthe. She lunged and launched a punch, twisting her hip to put her whole body into the maneuver. Her fist smashed into the man’s nose with bone-crunching force. He hadn’t made an attempt to block, and he went down like a brick. He wasn’t the only one with slow reflexes.

The vials. They were working.

Relief welled and caught in her throat. No, not relief. Something was tightening her airway. Though the helmet protected her neck, a force pressed in from all sides, as if someone were strangling her.

Amaranthe stumbled back, fighting the urge to clutch at her throat. That would do nothing. She whirled about, searching for her attacker.

Six of the eight practitioners were sprawled on the deck. Maldynado had crumpled to his knees, his face contorted in a rictus of pain behind his mask.

The rangy navigator stood in the intersection, his focus on Maldynado. A gray-haired woman had a fist clenched as she stared at Amaranthe with fierce concentration. Neither appeared affected by the smoke that wafted from the vials.