The man wore the dark hooded cloak of the Dragon Tongue, though his eyes were not blazing with the dragonfire. He was not as powerful as the ones Maria had to face. Ignatius cursed the Gods under his breath for that. It is I who should’ve faced off with them. I alone.
“Ignatius? What are you doing?” Frieda asked from behind him. She sounded like she was halfway back the way they’d come.
Ignatius never took his eyes off the guard. From his side, a low growling rumbled. It was Sherlock.
“What d’you think ya doin’ out here, old man? Back in the cage with you!” the guard said. “You’se the one who ‘scaped the dungeon, eh? The one that slipped right by little Shov? Well, my friend,” the guard brandished his sword, the dark steel gleaming in the low light, “I guess it won’t be too bad if they ain’t find ya.” He smiled. His teeth were filed to fine points, and his forked tongue poked out between a natural gap in them. “My blood is boiling. I need ta kill. Need my thrill. What say ya, old man?”
“I say you don’t know who you are talking to, lizard breath!”
The man stopped about five feet from Ignatius. Sherlock barked and lunged forward, but Ignatius’s hand came out in time to steady him.
“You, too, pooch!” the guard said, making kissing noises. “I’ll kill ya both, nice and slow.”
“Listen,” Ignatius said slowly. “There is a valuable lesson to learn here.”
The guard cocked his head; that grin still on his face.
“If you want to be a successful bad guy,” Ignatius began, “then you should never monologue. Monologuing is a waste of time. It gives your victim too much of a window to come up with a plan. And when that happens? You usually lose. I know it won’t make much of a difference, this lesson, because you’ll be out, but if there’s any spectators out there, then they’ll—oh dear, look at me, I’m turning into quite the hypocrite, aren’t I?” His wand shot out from the sleeve of his robe, his magic already lighting the tip. He gripped the gnarled wood and waved it with a flurry of blue light, bathing the dark alley in sapphire. The Dragon Tongue’s dim eyes opened as big as Oriceran’s moons, and the magic Ignatius had summoned bested the enemy.
He dropped next to a trashcan full of fishbones and soiled aprons.
“See…” Ignatius said. “You don’t…monologue—”
He wavered, lightheaded, and plopped down on a nearby box with a muffled thump. His wand retracted up his sleeve on its own, thankfully; otherwise, he was liable to drop it among the garbage.
“Ignatius?” It was Frieda again, her voice distant.
“I’m okay. I just need a minute.”
Sherlock barked, then the bark quickly changed into a growl.
“We don’t have a minute,” Frieda said. “Come on, up we go.” She seized him under his arms and helped him to his feet.
Down the way, then between two wooden buildings, Frieda pulled Ignatius onto the road. The dust of the battle near the gate hadn’t settled yet; had it, they wouldn’t have been able to linger. Torches bobbed in the darkness where Maria had been. Though Frieda didn’t know her well, she wished the young witch good fortune, and knew they would meet again before their journey was over.
They cut across the road into an array of other darkened buildings. The voices passed them as they leaned up against the backside of a butcher’s shop.
“I think we are okay for now,” Frieda said.
“We must regroup with Maria,” Ignatius said. “I’m too weak to be of any use to you, Frieda. That last bit of magic took a lot out of me.”
“Where do you think she went?”
“The dungeons. I heard the guard talking of the dungeons.” Ignatius looked to Sherlock. He patted his thigh and the Bloodhound obediently came toward him. “Can you guide us to the dungeons, Sherlock?”
Sherlock nodded.
“Good boy.”
His tail beat the ground.
Ignatius ruffled the fur behind his ears. “Go on, lead us.”
“Ignatius, let me go. I will find her and bring her back. Just stay here and rest. If they come looking down this way, you can—”
Ignatius got up. The movement was quicker than Frieda would’ve expected. “No, I will not let you plunge into chaos on your own. We are bonded together by a shared purpose, and together we will go.”
Frieda knew there was no persuading Ignatius. Men were always so hardheaded, often to their undoing.
She only hoped she wouldn’t witness his.
Seeing they were ready to move, Sherlock bounded down the alleyway toward the town square beyond.
The first thing Maria asked the old man, once they were safely hidden, was if he had seen a Gnome in the dungeons he had come from.
The man shook his head. “I haven’t seen a Gnome in many a year.”
Maria asked for his name again, and why he thought it a good idea to take the men five on one.
“I am Castro,” the old man whispered. “And those bastards murdered my family.”
Maria had broken into one of the abandoned buildings. She wasn’t exactly sure, but judging by the birdcages and stacks of letters, she thought it was the Oriceran equivalent of a post office. She and Castro sat in the shadows, hunched low so their heads were below the front windows.
“You should’ve let me die,” the old man said.
“Quiet,” Maria said. Her sword was sheathed now, and the music box in her satchel seemed to hum.
“I escaped to defend their honor. My wife. My daughter—she was only a girl of your age. She had so much life ahead of her.” The man put his head in his hands.
“You do, too. Now be grateful.”
“How can I live when there’s nothing left to live for?”
Maria gripped the hilt of her sword and turned toward him. “Fine. If that’s the way you want it to be—”
The man fell backward, his hands up. Luckily, he didn’t make too much noise.
“That’s
