Jim Butcher - Captain's Fury

Provided, of course, that he lasted.

He dropped the swords in order to get a better hold of the top of the wall- or tried to. He found, to his surprise, that his numb hands would not release their grip on the blades, no matter how hard he tried to do so.

He gritted his teeth, struggling to reach through the stone of the wall to the earth below, to summon up strength enough to haul his body over the top of the wall, but as he did, his concentration on holding his body's pains away began to falter, and flashes of agony shot through him in a dozen places, like jets of water shooting through the cracks of a failing dam.

Tavi stopped trying to call up strength, took the weapon in his right hand, and with a single, focused stroke, drove it six inches into the stone of the wall, blade parallel to the earth. Then he grunted and lifted his right leg, planting his boot on the flat of the sword. Using it as a solid base for leverage, he twisted his shoulders and hauled his right hand from the frozen blade's hilt. Flesh tore. He bled, but freed of the blade, he was able to use his improvised foothold and roll himself over the top of the wall and off the other side, gathering up more cuts and slashes on his legs, though his armor protected his chest and back from further damage.

The fifteen-foot drop was a bad one, and he landed hard, knocking the wind from him and sending a spear of silver pain lancing along his neck and down through his spine.

Varg's shaggy form appeared atop the wall, and snarls bubbled from his throat as he, too, was wounded. He seized the wall's top with one clawed paw-hand and lowered himself in a more controlled fashion, dropping the last few feet without effort.

All the while, the stupid owl never stopped shrieking. Tavi wearily pushed himself upright. His body was not moving correctly, and though he could not tell precisely why, it stood to reason that he had been injured in the fall. After that first flash of pain, the steely resolve of his mind had asserted control over it, and he couldn't feel any pain now-but the lack of free motion did not seem to be a positive sign.

Varg staggered, crouched again, and had to use one arm to hold himself upright. Tavi could see the Cane's blood dripping on the cobblestones of the street.

Tavi heard men's voices crying out now. They had freed themselves of the tower and would be on the street next.

"Now what?" Varg growled, panting.

"This way," Tavi said, turning away from the direction of the Tower's gate. He tried to set out at a brisk jog, but his muscles didn't seem to cooperate. The best he could do was a hasty shamble-which was probably just as well. Varg looked to be in terrible condition himself. They had not gone far when there was a shout behind them.

Tavi turned and saw thirty or forty Guardsmen, most of them in armor now, round the corner and race toward them.

Hoofbeats sounded from the cross street ahead, and a wagon being pulled by a team of four rounded the corner, rising up onto two wheels for a second as it did. Ehren held the horses' reins, and Kitai sat beside him on the driver's bench.

"There!" Tavi said, pointing. "Come on."

He limped hurriedly toward the wagon, and Ehren waited until the last minute to haul the team to a stop. The horses reared and kicked as they caught Varg's scent. Tavi led Varg in a circle around them and found his mother and Araris in the back of the wagon. Isana looked quite pale, and a bloodied cloth was around her upper arm, but her eyes were open, and she seemed alert. She took one look at the blood all over his legs and his arms, and her eyes widened in alarm. "Tavi!"

"In," Tavi shouted to Varg.

The shouts and boot-steps of the Grey Guard grew louder.

"Hurry!" Ehren said.

Varg's strength seemed to ebb suddenly, just as he began to climb into the wagon. Tavi got behind him, screaming sulfurous curses and pushing at the veritable mountain of muscle and fur. Araris seized one of Varg's arms and pulled. Somehow, they managed to get the Cane into the wagon.

Kitai stood up on the driver's bench, holding a thick sack in one hand. "Aleran!"

Tavi struggled for a second, but with Araris's assistance managed to clamber into the back of the wagon. "Go, go, go!"

The street was too narrow to turn the wagon. Tavi saw that immediately. But when Ehren shook the reins and called for the nervous horses to run, Tavi let out a cry of protest. The wagon would never make it through the group of Knights Ferrous. The blades of the Grey Guard would cut the wagon to kindling as they tried to pass through their ranks.

Kitai reached into the large insulated sack that had been left with the wagon and drew out another coldstone. She lifted it and threw it hard at the side of the nearest building, where it shattered, releasing the fire fury within.

There was a flash of blue as the cold spread into the air-and into the public furylamps that hung at the same level, where it devoured their flame, jumping hungrily from one to the next for a hundred feet in either direction. The street plunged into blackness.

"Yahh!" Ehren screamed to the horses. The beasts charged forward, reckless and terrified-which was, Tavi thought, probably a fair description for what the Grey Guard had to be feeling at the moment. He felt exactly the same way. Men cried out around them, and hooves rang on cobblestones, wheels rumbling as the wagon bounced wildly. There were a couple of cries of pain, then they emerged from the darkness and into another furylit area.

Kitai flung another stone, and once again they were in darkness. It would, Tavi had hoped, hinder any pursuit, slowing the reactions of the authorities- and it was working. At least something in the plan had gone right tonight.

After five or six minutes of noisy flight, Ehren slowed the wagon and continued on for several more blocks, changing streets several times, while Araris covered Varg with a canvas tarp. Isana, meanwhile, bound up Tavi's right hand and examined the rest of his injuries with worried eyes.

Ehren pulled into an alley and stopped the wagon. "That's it," he said quietly. "We leave it here. The ship's right through there."

"What about the horses?" Kitai asked.

"My contact will pick them up when he comes for the wagon," Ehren said. "I've arranged for the lamps to be out, so we can get the Cane onto the ship."

"How is he?" Tavi asked. The words came out slurred. Weariness had begun to spread throughout his body.

A growl came from beneath the tarp. "I can walk."

"Good," Tavi said. "Let's go."

"He's hurt," Isana said to Araris. "His ankle looks bad. He needs help walking."

"I'm fine," Tavi said. "Get to the ship."

Kitai let out an impatient breath, and said, "I'll do it." She came around to the back of the wagon and dragged one of Tavi's arms over her shoulders. "Come on, chala . Lean on me a little. Good."

Tavi closed his eyes and let Kitai guide him. She kept up a pleasant stream of quiet orders and encouragement, which was far preferable to paying attention to his own rising discomfort.

He was losing his hold on the metalcrafting, Tavi thought. The pain was growing.

He remembered getting to the Slive , and then Kitai's hands stripping his armor.

"Varg," he mumbled. "Tell her to see to Varg first. He got hurt."

"No more orders, chala ," Kitai replied, her voice gentle.

He drifted in pain and stillness for a time. Then there came a delicious, bone-deep warmth.

Then nothing.

Isana looked up as daylight briefly flooded the hold through the open hatch above. Demos and Fade came down the stepladder into the hold and approached at once. Demos's presence was muted to her senses, as usual, but what she could feel of him told her that he was at least mildly anxious.