To Catch A Sorcerer

When the last of the men filed out of the office, Killian sat stiffly behind the desk.

Gray trained his gaze ahead to the fireplace, watching the glowing logs. He pressed his back hard against the wall and waited for the words to come, down to the prison you go, kid, or I have a job for you …

Seconds crawled by.

Killian’s breath changed.

It deepened.

Gray dared to cast a glance at him. Killian’s soldier’s cap was pulled down over his eyes. His jaw was relaxed. His body was languid in the chair.

Asleep.

Fully, genuinely asleep.

Gray hesitated.

There was no way.

He waved a hand.

Studied Killian long and hard.

He - Killian was definitely asleep.

Killian, Gray was sure, had not slept the night before. Killian was an inch from losing it - Gray knew nothing about wolf shifters but he was damn sure Killian had almost transformed right there in the office during the soldiers’ lesson.

Perhaps this was normal, perhaps this was what Killian did - sleep at random times and places. Killian had said he slept with one eye open, but the man was drooling.

Gray chewed his lip. Achingly slowly, Gray stood. The carpet muffled his steps. Three more hobbling steps, and he’d be able to reach the door.

Two more.

One.

The ornate door knob was cool in his hand. It opened silently. The landing outside was deserted. His heart thudded hard.

Killian remained asleep.

No angry yell.

Go.

Now.

Gray dallied, his hand on the door and tried to calm his mind.

If he wanted to draw the soldiers away he needed to run, yes, but he needed a huge head start, and he needed to goad Killian so badly he’d put every man onto Gray’s trail.

Gray couldn’t do anything with just the clay and phoenix feather stashed underneath his bedroll, and the salt in the bathroom.

He needed more.

But, if Killian - anyone - caught him, Killian’d be beyond mad, and Gray couldn’t do anything if he was stuck in the prison. Or dead.

Gods.

Risk prison, or risk not being able to do a damn thing to force the soldiers to leave town?

Gray rubbed his tight chest.

If he was careful, if he was very, very fast, perhaps he could search for any components he could use, and then be back before Killian knew better.

He doubted he’d get a better opportunity than this.

His mouth dry, Gray hobbled down the steps from the landing, and along the corridor. A group of voices reverberated up from the floor below.

So, Gray went up.

Up, up, up a cramped stairwell that he’d not used before. Along the windowless hall on the floor beneath Killian’s room. There seemed to be a mix of accommodation and council offices.

There was a point, when the third worker Gray passed came to a complete stop, staring at him, that he thought, maybe, he’d made a mistake.

But, he couldn’t turn back now.

Gray sped up.

He just needed to be methodical about this.

Search left to right.

He should grab anything he could use - leaves from any pot plants, any tiny decorative figurines made out of stone or metal, anything.

But, there was nothing so far.

This corridor only had paintings of fruit on the walls, and no side tables, shelves, or plants.

Gray passed a room where Hall workers were holding a soft-spoken meeting. Poppy was speaking, her salt and pepper hair bent close to other council members.

Gray ducked his head and tried to walk normally. Then, a very bright, very large painting caught Gray’s periphery. A still life, a bowl of fruit.

Apples.

Gray’s heart leapt. Of course. It was so simple.

Firebreath fire.

He needed the kitchen, he needed -

Distracted as he was, Gray ran headlong into a soldier.

Gray banged into him hard enough that the polished buttons from the soldier’s uniform hurt his face.

It was the soldier from the exam prep - the one that had been booted out for suggesting to use a licenced mage or alchemist to identify a sorcerer. His hooked nose screwed up in surprise.

Emwell was his name, Gray remembered dimly.

This one soldier, Gray might’ve been able to handle.

Handle, pfft. Gray couldn’t handle shit.

Convince this man to accept a lie, though?

Maybe.

The pack of five soldiers that rapidly came up behind Emwell, however, not so much.

Gray recognised this pack of soldiers as some of the men who’d been jeering as he and Killian had crossed the town square that morning.

They were coming out of what looked like a dorm.

Gray wheeled back, his heel catching on an uneven bit of carpet, and he stumbled. His chest tightened, panic beginning to settle deep inside him like a coiled snake.

‘Where’s Major?’ Emwell muttered, rubbing the crook of his hooked nose, eyes darting around as if Killian might materialise out of the shadows.

In the second it took for Emwell to glance away, the pack spotted Gray. They smelled blood.

One of them made a low, guttural noise like someone had just taken a punch to the gut. Another let out a high-pitched hoot, sharp as a whip-crack.

‘Here, sorcerer, sorcerer,’ one of them called.

Say something, Gray thought. Anything to get them to leave you alone.

But his mouth was dry. His gaze flicked up to Emwell, who didn’t seem in a hurry to help him. No, Emwell was just watching, his black eyes uncertain.

‘Hey, Emwell,’ called one of the pack, his voice slick with amusement. ‘What you got there, huh? What’s that, a pet sorcerer?’

‘Nothing,’ Emwell said, turning toward them, his voice steady but low. ‘I got nothing. Mind your damn business.’

The pack didn’t care. They were moving in now, too close, the air thick with their hot breath.

Gray’s pulse quickened. This was going very wrong.

The soldiers circled in, a pack of lions scenting weakness.

‘You got something, Emwell,’ sneered a soldier with pockmarked skin. His eyes gleamed like a predator’s. ‘Yeah, you got the little ash-stink right here.’ He reached out, fingers grasping at the ends of Gray’s cut hair. Gray jerked back just in time, swatting the hand away. Barely.

‘D’Oncray’s spawn, innit?’ Another one chimed in, shoving Gray’s shoulder with a rough hand. ‘A cat-tongue.’

‘A goat-eye.’ Push.

‘A mind-messer.’ Jab.

They were bouncing him back and forth and Gray's ankle - still aching, still weak - throbbed under the abuse. He needed to run, dodge, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. He was being shoved, jostled, fists curling uselessly at his sides. His damn brain refused to create a lie to get him out of the situation, and if he couldn't run, he was going to have to fight.

‘Leave him,’ one of them hissed. He jostled the others. ‘We need him. To end Wilde. Krupin. End them forever.’

‘We don’t need him,’ said another.

'Back off,' Gray snarled, forcing his voice past his dry throat.

Emwell’s hand shot out, grabbing Gray by the collar of his sweater, knuckles cold against his skin. He yanked Gray close, teeth bared. ‘Yeah, back off,’ Emwell said, voice low and dangerous, but the pack was closing in, growling now, their words turning to noise - threats, curses, all too loud, too close.

‘D’Oncray’s seed, ending Wilde?’ This man’s voice boomed above the rest. He had a thick moustache that quivered with every word, his breath foul as it spilled out. ‘She cursed every last soul in that palace, killed ‘em all. Boiling blood. Even the horses. You know what that’s like? Cleaning up boiled horses?’

Moustache grabbed Gray’s sweater, pulling hard enough that the fabric stretched, threads straining like a body about to snap.

And then it tore. The sweater ripped apart.

Gray moved on instinct, his fist swinging up. His knuckles slammed into the side of Mustache’s neck, landing hard on his jugular. The man gasped, his grip faltering, and Emwell yanked Gray away, dragging him through the gap that had opened in the pack.

Gray’s heartbeat pounded in his ears, his breath ragged as Emwell pulled him back, step by step. His shoes slid on the carpeted floor, worn soles offering no grip. The pack was shouting, their voices merging into a wild, chaotic roar.

‘You wait ‘til Major hears about this! We’re not supposed to touch him!’ Emwell shouted, his voice sharp, his finger jabbing at the air. ‘He’ll flay you all!’

The noise echoed down the hallway, bouncing off the tall walls. Doors creaked open. Hall staff poked their heads out, eyes wide and confused.

The pack wasn’t backing off. Not really. They followed, their eyes filled with a hunger that Gray knew wouldn’t be sated by words. They were jostling each other.

Arguing with each other, as they continued forward.

Two of them didn’t want trouble with the Major.

The others didn’t care.

Emwell was shouting again, his words coming too fast for Gray to catch, his anger pouring out in rapid Lismerian. The pack shouted back, their insults turning into a feverish frenzy. And then, suddenly, like a match dropped into dry brush, the pack exploded into violence.

Against each other.

And rapidly headed towards Gray and Emwell.

Gray barely registered it - fists flying, boots slamming into flesh, the sounds of grunts and cries rising into an awful symphony.

Emwell dragged Gray back down the stairs, fingers still locked on the back of his neck, a vice that wouldn’t let go. They were running now, flying down the corridor, the sound of the fight fading behind them.

Back to the old captain’s office.

Emwell peered inside, his chest heaving, and saw Killian was fast asleep, still sitting in the chair.

‘Please don’t tell him,’ Gray said miserably.

Emwell didn’t dignify that with a response. He didn’t seem keen on waking Killian, however, because he nudged Gray in, and very quietly, shut Gray inside.

Gray stood rigidly on the other side of the door. Tried to quieten his breath.

With all the mistakes Gray’d made in his life, this was up there with not walking out of the alchemy exam with Alistair.

He had nothing he could use to create something out of the clay and phoenix feather.

And, Killian would be very, very angry with him.

Shit.

Gray pressed a trembling hand over his eyes.

He needed his body to feel steadier before he risked moving to sit back down by the window. One wrong stumble, and he’d wake the sleeping wolf.

Only, the more Gray tried to steady his body, the more he felt something tugging at the fringes of his attention, like a shy customer trying to hail him over a crowded tavern floor.

Gray swallowed. Slowed his breathing.

Slower.

Carefully, Gray lowered his hand.

His gaze locked on the window.

The window -

There was something in the sky. Several dark specks marked the expanse of clear blue. They were growing rapidly bigger. Coming closer.

Flying.

Gray’s breath hitched.

‘Killian,’ he said.

His voice must’ve carried Gray’s alarm.

Killian snapped awake. He went from deeply asleep to standing wide-eyed and to attention in less than a second.

‘What?’ he snapped, running a hand through his dark hair.

’Something’s coming,’ said Gray.

Killian’s dark gaze narrowed as he took Gray in.

Gray could only imagine what he looked like. The pack of soldiers had roughed him up, torn his sweater, and Emwell had dishevelled him more, dragging him back down the stairs.

’Something’s coming,’ Gray repeated, pushing down his panic. Time was really an issue here. Every second that passed, those things were getting closer. ’Sound the warning bell. Get everyone inside.’

‘What happened to you?’ said Killian.

‘Killian -’

‘What did you do?’ The edge in Killian’s voice was pure steel.

‘Sound the warning bell.’ Gray pointed at the sky. At the things coming closer.

Killian glanced at the dark specks. He moved right up to the window. ‘Birds?’ he said, his voice utterly controlled.

Why wasn’t Killian doing anything?

There was no urgency in him. No panic.

‘No,’ said Gray. He could feel them. These things weren’t birds. ‘They - they’re angry - arm your men. Sound the bell.’

Killian threw the window open, squinting against the morning light. ‘Dragons?’

’Now, Killian!’ said Gray.

‘I need to know what they are,’ said Killian. ‘Different creatures require different arms.’

They had to be three times the size of a man.

Could disembowel you with one swipe.

Gold glinted in their feathered wings.

Gray knew, he knew … but before, where it had been one and fought off by Branbright, Longwark, and Emeric, now it was too many to count.

‘Mountain griffins,’ said Gray.

Killian’s scarred hand was around Gray’s throat before he could tense. He dragged Gray and slammed him against the far wall with a guttural growl.

Gray’s head banged against the plaster of the wall.

A painting fell down.

‘What did you do?’ snarled Killian.

He clenched at Killian’s wrist. Gray was aware he looked guilty as hell.

‘It wasn’t me,’ he said, breathless against the squeeze of Killian’s hand. ‘Wasn’t me.’

Killian’s dark eyes were febrile. His upper lip curled.

‘There’s people outside.’ Gray’s eyes watered, hot and stinging. ’Sound - sound the bell. The griffins are almost here. They’re angry.’

Killian’s hand tightened. Gray couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow. Could barely struggle.

Killian would strangle him here, while the griffins descended on the town with no warning.

Every line on Killian’s too-close face, every battle scar, showed Killian’s loathing. His breath was hot against Gray’s face. His bared teeth were inches away.

Gray closed his eyes. Forced himself to open them and meet Killian’s brutal glare. ‘Killian.’

His vision was darkening at the edges. He’d drown, under his tears and Killian’s hand.

‘Kill me after,’ choked Gray. ‘Griffins first.’