To Catch A Sorcerer

Killian slid the bolt into place outside the door with a rough clank.

Gray was so far out of his damn league.

He'd been thinking of escape, and figuring out Killian's weaknesses, all the while Killian and his men were prepared to murder innocent townsfolk without a second thought.

Gray slowly pulled himself up against the chair. He swayed where he stood, and bit down on his wrist to stop himself from crying out as his bad ankle took a bit of his weight.

The desk. The draws.

The window.

Gray patted down the cluttered desk, lifting papers and shifting spare ink bottles, searching for something, anything he could use to defend himself.

It didn’t take very long for him to find an unusually sharp phoenix feather quill.

Gray stared at it, the red and gold feather soft against his hand.

They had used phoenix a lot in alchemy. Gray had tested Alistair only days ago, holding up flashcards. Alistair had nailed it, too – remembered all twenty-two brews, potions, and transformations that used phoenix feather.

Useless alone – phoenix feather.

Powerful in a brew, potion, or transformation.

Gently, Gray pocketed it and kept searching. He found something better.

A pair of scissors was tucked away in the bottom drawer. His fingers played over the cold metal as he considered his options.

If Gray were honest, Killian would probably just grab the scissors and stab him with them. The guy had talents that went way past the defence classes and weapons drills Gray had barely scraped through. Hell, it wouldn’t even be a fight.

But what were Gray’s other options? Sit in here and do nothing while a bunch of psychopathic soldiers terrorised Krydon?

Guilt so hot, so alive, roiled inside him, he thought he’d choke on it.

He should’ve left, as soon as the kingdom soldiers had shown up.

Killian - he couldn't control his men.

Gray had to do something.

Escaping wasn't enough.

He had to lead the soldiers away from Krydon. And he had to do it soon, before they hurt anyone else.

Gray released his tight grip on the scissors. He let them lay flat in his palm. He doubted he could use them against Killian. Gray couldn’t run. Not far, anyway.

But maybe Gray didn’t need to get far. Maybe …

There was dragon-breath glazed pottery scattered around on end tables and side tables and in the halls.

Phoenix feather. Dragon’s breath clay.

It was the start of something.

Gray slid the scissors into his pocket, and very slowly wrapped his arms around his waist.

Just about everything hurt, but his head and his ankle were a constant throbbing he struggled to block out.

Gray hobbled over to the window. The window was locked. He reached into his pocket, thinking to use the end of the scissors to break the glass – shit, he’d smash the glass with his fist if it meant being free – but three soldiers were standing underneath in the garden.

Before they could see Gray, he ducked out of view, sliding to the floor, holding back a cry as he bent his ankle slightly. He slithered back to where Killian had left him on the floor by the chair.

Gray shifted, the chair legs hard against his back.

He pressed his hand over his eyes. Who had the soldiers killed, in their search for a mage? Who had been left in agony?

Surely there was a chance some of them could be saved. With proper medical care, people could survive near anything. Gray had seen it happen. The battle tournaments they held in town resulted in terrible injuries sometimes.

There was a chance.

He didn’t look up when Killian came back. He was too tired to meet Killian’s cold and dark eyes.

‘You’re still awake?’ said Killian.

Gray slowly curled his fingers against the floor, not understanding Killian’s surprise. How the heck was Gray supposed to sleep right now?

‘You-’ Gray’s voice cracked. ‘You killed them all?’

‘Every last one.’ Killian stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his uniform streaked with blood. He wiped his hands on his thighs like it was just another day at the office. ‘You’re welcome, by the way.’

Shit - was he really going to start crying right now? He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping Killian wouldn’t see. ‘I didn’t want them dead.’

‘There wasn’t another way, kid.’

The floor creaked under Killian’s boots as he stopped just shy of Gray, polished leather practically touching. He didn’t move, not at first. Then, he hooked his hands under Gray’s arms and hauled him to his feet like he was lifting a child.

Gray stood there, slack, still reeling. Shock, that’s what it was. Numb.

‘Codder really tore through your neighbours,’ Killian said softly. ‘Believe me, what I did for them - it was mercy.’

Oh, gods.

‘Hush.' Killian said. 'Come with me.'

Easier said than done. Gray stumbled beside him as they walked out of the office and down the hall. The weight of the scissors thumped against Gray’s thigh. Killian was on the opposite side of it.

Movement helped. Shock lifted enough for Gray's goal to become clear in his mind.

Draw the soldiers away.

‘Where are we going?’ said Gray.

He tightened his grip on Gray, and for a second Gray braced to be flung into the wall, but the moment passed. ‘My quarters. I need to wash and change.’

‘You need me for that?’ Gray’s heart thrummed in his chest.

‘I thought you wanted a bath, too? You can use my bathroom after I’m done. Unless you'd prefer to go straight back to the prison?’

'No,' said Gray.

Gray let his bad leg drag a bit. He got out of step with Killian. Killian’s rhythm faltered. Gray clenched his teeth, knowing he’d have to put all his weight on his ankle, that his ankle wouldn’t hold his weight for a second before buckling, but he didn’t think he’d get a better chance than this.

Gray kicked Killian as hard as he could in the side of the knee.

Killian fell, but he didn’t let go. Gray landed on top of him, his knee slamming down on Killian’s chest. Killian let out a breath of surprise and his eyes were wide. Gray knew he’d have maybe half a second – if that – before Killian flipped him off him.

Gray held the open blade of the scissors against Killian’s throat.

The corridor was dark, but the scars on Killian’s face caught what little light there was, casting shadows that twisted as his mouth curled, amused, like this was funny. His hand crept toward the blade.

‘Don’t,’ Gray said, his voice steady - at least on the surface.

He pressed down harder than he meant to. The scissors were either sharper than he realised or his hands were shaking more than he wanted to admit, because blood immediately welled up, thick and dark, around the metal.

Killian winced, just a flicker. ‘Get off me Gray, before you hurt someone.’

Gray’s heart pounded, but his mouth moved anyway, and his voice came out cold as ice. ‘No.’

Killian’s lips twitched, his eyes pitiless in the dark. ‘You don’t have it in you, kid.’

Sweat beaded Gray’s frozen skin and his stomach flipped. He forced his voice to stay even. ‘Yeah? I’m not so sure.’

His hands trembled, the scissors sinking deeper. Gray’s breath hitched in his throat. He could taste bile rising.

Just injure him enough, Gray thought, to keep him down long enough to grab the pottery.

He pictured it and almost threw up. Beneath him, he felt the steady, unbothered rhythm of Killian’s heartbeat, like none of this mattered. Killian’s chest rose and fell, shallow breaths, but not panicked. Not afraid.

Gray was terrified enough for the both of them.

‘Looking pale, Gray. If you’re going to puke, do it to the side.’

He’s hurt people. Lots. Killed people.

He killed D’Oncray.

Gray’s hand shook harder.

Killian reached for the scissors again.

‘Move and I’ll kill you.’

Gray’s voice broke when he said that, but Killian stopped mid-reach, his palms up. For a heartbeat, everything was still.

Truth be told, Gray wasn’t much of a fighter. Never had been. Running? That was his thing, but with his ankle a wreck and his heart hammering in his chest, running wasn’t much of an option either. Still, instinct told him to stick with what he knew.

He was going to have to run, and get the pottery, very fast.

It was going to hurt.

‘You stay there,’ said Gray. ‘You just – stay on the floor.’

Gray got up. Fell. He scrambled up again, using the wall for support, holding the scissors at Killian as though it were a dagger, biting down the agony in his ankle as he jarred it.

Killian raised his eyebrows, lying very still on the floor, his palms up.

Gray turned and hobble-ran.

Gray’s ankle screamed with every jolt, and he was stupidly holding a sharp pair of scissors, and he wasn’t thinking too clearly.

And Killian, he didn’t stay where Gray had told him to stay. Killian would have been faster than Gray even on his best day. Gray didn’t think Killian expected him to get so far, though.

Small consolation.

Gray looked for the hall that led the way out. He saw it – familiar landscape paintings on the wall, side table with dragon’s breath glazed pottery – he staggered into the side table. His balance was off. Pottery smashed.

Gray’s eyes locked on the pottery, mind already spinning on how to grab it. He didn’t even see the fall coming.

One second he was upright, the next he was pitching forward, arms outstretched to break the fall. His hand came down hard on a piece of smashed pottery and he skidded face-first into the floor.

It didn’t hurt, not at first. He blinked, dazed, pushing himself up. His ankle screamed like it was on fire.

Then he felt it - something warm and slick running down his elbow, soaking into the shredded fabric of his sleeve.

Gray brushed at it absently and then when the sting hit, sharp and brutal.

Doors opened along the hall, people called – Krydon council members, and soldiers who must’ve been staying in the hall.

Gray ignored them.

The scissors.

The handle stuck out from under the side table.

As Gray reached for it, two scarred hands wrapped around his neck.