CHAPTER 45

  Buried

  Bash flexed and the ropes around his wrists snapped. In the same motion, he spun, grabbed the guard behind him by both sides of his head, and twisted. A loud crack echoed off the stone walls.

  Connell's eyes went wide. The two remaining guards scrambled for their weapons. Three on one. They had no chance. Bash closed the distance before the first guard could raise his sword. He drove his fist into the man's throat, felt cartilage crumble, and stepped forward to meet the second. This one got his blade up in time, but Bash caught it with his bare hand, the edge biting into his palm, and yanked the guard forward into a headbutt that caved the man’s face in.

  Connell tried to run, but Bash caught him by the ankle. The traitor went down screaming as he hit the stone floor. Bash grabbed the man's leg with both hands, one at the ankle and one below the knee, and flexed. The leg folded with a snap. Connell shrieked even louder.

  For a moment, Bash wondered if more guards would come. Screaming usually drew attention. But then he thought about it. In a place like this? Screaming was probably constant. Background noise. No one would think twice.

  He picked Connell up by the throat with one hand, lifting the frail man into the air. Connell's legs dangled uselessly, the broken one bent at an unnatural angle. Bash brought him close. Nose to nose. “So you were a traitor from the start.”

  Oracle flared. A stab, coming for his gut. Without looking, Bash caught Connell's wrist with his other hand, the dagger stopping an inch from his stomach. He squeezed, and bones ground together, and the weapon clattered to the floor.

  Connell couldn't scream any more. Bash's grip on his throat was too tight. He just made a wet, strangled sound, his face turning purple. The world shrank. To Connell's bulging eyes. To the pulse fluttering weakly beneath his fingers. He squeezed tighter.

  “BASH!” He knew that voice. It was Jill. “PUT HIM DOWN, BASH!”

  His head turned to the side. There she was, pressed against the bars of a cell, hands wrapped around the iron. “Bash.” Her voice was calmer now, but urgent. “Put him down.” He met her eyes. That too old face that looked twice its age. His same-aged grandma, pleading with him to stop.

  Bash's grip loosened. Connell dropped, collapsing to the floor in a heap, gasping, clutching his throat.

  Bash walked to the bars where Jill stood. His legs felt strange. Numb. Like they might buckle. “I'm sorry.” The words came out raw. Broken. “I'm so sorry.” He fell to his knees. His forehead pressed against the cold iron bars. Jill's arms came through, wrapping around him as best they could, pulling him close.

  “It's okay, Bash.” Her voice was soft. Steady. “None of this is your fault.” She was the one in a cage. She was the one who'd been arrested and beaten and left to rot. And somehow, she was comforting him.

  For a while he stayed there on his knees, head against the bars, letting her hold him. Letting himself be held. Everyone watched in silence. Even the children had gone quiet. “Stand up, Bash.” Jill's voice was gentle but firm. “You need to get us out of here.”

  > “The guard has keys. Front left vest pocket.”

  Bash rose. Wiped his face. Walked to the nearest dead guard and found the keys exactly where Shai had said. He went to the first cell. Hands shaking. Fitted the key into the lock and turned.

  The door swung open. He moved to the next cell. And the next. One by one, opening them all. The resistance members streamed out into the hallway, blinking, stretching cramped limbs. Two of the larger men grabbed weapons from the fallen guards and took up positions at the bottom of the stairs.

  Jill emerged last. She walked to Bash and cupped his cheek with one hand, her palm rough and warm against his skin. “We never gave up hope,” she said. “We knew you'd come back.”

  His throat closed. “I almost didn't. I might not have…”

  “Doesn't matter.” She shook her head. “You're here now.” Behind them, two resistance members hauled Connell upright. The traitor hung between them, barely conscious, his ruined leg dragging.

  Bash took a breath. Steadied himself. “So. I don't have a plan. That's sort of your thing.”

  Jill actually smiled. “I guessed as much. Follow me. We've been working on something. You can help us finish it.”

  She led him into one of the cells. The smell was overwhelming. Human waste. Unwashed bodies. The sour reek of people who'd been locked in a cage for days without being let out. Bash's stomach heaved, but he forced himself to keep moving.

  Jill pointed to a hole in the floor. Stones had been pulled aside, revealing a narrow shaft that disappeared into darkness. “We dug a tunnel,” she said. “The only thing keeping us from getting out is two, maybe three feet of stone at the end. If we can break through, there's a passageway. Freedom.”

  Bash looked at the hole. It was small. Way too small. He wasn't even sure he'd fit, let alone the larger men. His eyes drifted back toward the stairwell. Twenty guards. He could take twenty guards.

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  “Don't even think about it.” Jill's voice was sharp. “You go up those stairs, you'll cut through the garrison. Maybe. But then what? The alarm goes up. The city guard mobilizes. Every sword in Londonland comes down on us before we make it three blocks.” She gestured at the prisoners. The children. The wounded. “These people can't fight. They can barely walk. The tunnel is the only way.”

  Bash looked at the hole again. At the darkness waiting to swallow him. She was right. He hated that she was right. “Fine. But for the record, I could take them.”

  Jill didn't dignify that with a response.

  Dropping to his knees, he began to crawl. Bash had never been claustrophobic. But this was different. The air grew thick, stale, harder to breathe.

  The walls seemed to shrink with every inch he gained. Stone pressed against his back and chest. He could feel the weight of the earth above him. Thousands of pounds waiting to collapse, to bury him alive in a space so tight he couldn't even turn around.

  Keep moving. Just keep moving. Ten feet in, his hand found the wall. He could just make out the marks where someone had tried to chip through. Maybe an inch of progress. Scratches in the stone that represented hours of desperate, futile effort.

  Two or three feet of solid stone. And he was pinned with barely room to breathe, let alone swing.

  Think. Think.

  He charged his arms with psionic energy, a low hum of power rippled across his skin, and the red lightning lit up the area around him. Bash pressed his palms against the packed earth beside him and pushed.

  The dirt crumbled to dust at his touch. Holy shit. It's working. He tried again, more deliberate this time. Each movement pulverized the packed earth, widening the space inch by inch. The soil broke apart like chalk under his fingers.

  Then the powder hit his throat and he choked. The fine particles gagged him, filling his mouth and nose, coating his tongue with grit. His eyes watered. His lungs burned.

  Okay. So not perfect. He clamped his mouth shut, held his breath, and kept working. Slow circles with his arms. Crumbling outward. Creating space that didn't exist a moment ago. Push. Crumble. Clear.

  His lungs ached. His vision started to spot. How long had he been holding his breath? Thirty seconds? A minute?

  Enough. It had to be enough. He repositioned, drawing his knees up, shifting into a half-crouch. The ceiling scraped the top of his head. His shoulders jammed against the walls. But he had room now. Barely. Just enough to pull back his fist and charge.

  Bash sucked in a breath of dusty air and immediately regretted it. His ears started ringing and his limbs turned heavy. The tunnel started to fade.

  > “Bash. Bash! Focus!”

  He blinked and coughed, spitting out dirt. No way am I going to die in this hole. Not today! Bash swung.

  SLAM. Stone cracked. Dirt and pebbles rained down.

  SLAM. Deeper cracks now. Chunks falling away.

  From somewhere behind him, muffled by distance and stone, he heard shouting. Fighting.

  > “Hurry Bash! The guards are attacking your friends. They won’t be able to hold them much longer!”

  SLAM. SLAM. SLAM. Even with the psionic strike, his arms screamed in protest and his knuckles were split and bleeding. But the stone was giving way, piece by piece.

  SLAM. The wall exploded outwards, and cold air rushed in from the passage beyond. Bash gasped, sucking in the first clean breath since he'd entered this godforsaken hole.

  He turned and started crawling back. The slope up was somehow worse than going down. Every inch felt like a mile. When he finally emerged into the cell, he was shaking.

  The sound of fighting was louder now. Steel on steel. Screaming. Two men held the stairwell, but barely. One bled from a gash on his arm. The other gripped a shield he could barely lift.

  “Everyone move!” Jill's voice cut through the chaos. “GO! GO! GO!” Prisoners scrambled for the tunnel. Women and children first, then the men. They disappeared into the narrow hole one by one, crawling toward freedom.

  Bash pushed through the crowd back to the stairwell. “I've got this!” he yelled, grabbing the wounded man's shoulder. “Get to the tunnel!” The two men retreated with grateful nods and Bash stepped into the gap.

  The stairwell was narrow. Maybe three feet wide. Guards crowded the steps above, packed so tightly they could barely swing their weapons. Shields in front. Spears poking over the top. After that tunnel, this felt almost spacious. He could move. He could breathe. He could hurt people. Bash grinned and waded in.

  The first guard died before he knew what hit him. Bash grabbed his shield, ripped it away, and caved the man's skull with the rim. Another got a brass knuckle through his visor, the metal punching through bone and brain. A third tried to retreat, but Bash caught him by the back of the neck and slammed him face-first into the stone steps so hard they cracked.

  The only thing stopping him from slaughtering them all were the spears. God, the spears. They jabbed over the shield wall, probing for gaps. Oracle screamed warnings, but there was no room to dodge. All he could do was pick which hits to take.

  A blade sliced his cheek. An inch right and it would have taken his eye. A spearpoint caught his shoulder, punching through the thin shirt, grinding against bone. Another split his forearm to the bone.

  He started laughing, couldn't help it. The pain, the blood, the absolute insanity of fighting an entire garrison in a stairwell, it was too much. The laughter bubbled up from somewhere dark and wouldn't stop.

  Blood ran down his face. Down his arm. Dripping from his fingers onto the stone. The cuts were piling up, each one adding to the fire spreading through his body. But he held the line. Wouldn't give an inch, until Shai screamed in his head.

  > “They're all through, Bash! Retreat! GO!”

  He smiled. Blood on his teeth. “Not yet.” Surging forward, he abandoned defense entirely. The guards weren't expecting it. Bash grabbed the nearest one by the jaw and ripped. Bone cracked. Flesh tore. The man's scream turned into a wet gurgle.

  Bash tore through the front rank, grabbed the spearman who'd been carving him up and dragged him back down the stairwell, slamming his head into the stone wall once, twice, three times until there was nothing left but pulp and hair.

  Picking up the body, he charged it with psionic energy, pushing until the flesh began to smoke. And hurled it up the stairwell. The energized corpse hit another group of guards and exploded into gory shrapnel. Screams echoed from above.

  Turning, Bash ran, diving headfirst into the tunnel crawling as fast as his bleeding arms could carry him. Stone scraped his back raw, and dirt filled his mouth, but ahead, he could see light. Faint. Flickering. Growing brighter. He burst out the other end and collapsed onto cold stone, gasping.

  Jill was there. Waiting. “Come with me.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. “We need to leave. Now.”