Free Wren the Fox Witch (Europa #3: A Dark Fantasy) by Joseph Robert Lewis Page B

shield again, a wall to hold them back, a fist to push them away, but she couldn’t move her right hand and she couldn’t focus on the muffled noises and the jostling bodies.
    They’re going to kill me. They burn witches in the south. Omar said that once. They burn witches here! They’re going to burn me!
    She stumbled and the Hellans lifted her up to carry her.
    With tears brimming in her eyes, Wren tired to tilt her head back to look skyward, though all she could see was burlap.
    Woden, I know you’re a wise god and a kingly god, but you can be a goddamn monster too. So please, don’t be a monster now. Live or die, just don’t let them burn me!

Chapter 7. Prisoners
    Tycho heard Salvator coming, but he did not turn to look. He kept his eyes on the northern horizon, on the grim gray sky and the snowy fields and the trees sparkling with ice. The road drew a dirty brown line across the land, snaking away over the hills. There were a few people out there, leading mules and driving wagons, but there were no fleet-footed messengers or mounted soldiers racing back to the city.
    Not yet.
    “You’re never going to believe this,” the Italian announced. “Just wait until you see them!”
    “Not now.” Tycho glanced up at the bright glare of the sun hidden beyond the clouds. “It’s nearly noon. They’ll be coming soon. News from Saray.”
    Salvator Fabris, the Supreme Knight of the Order of Seven Hearts, agent and weapon of the king of Italia, leaned against the wall and spat over the edge. He peered down. “This is a very tall wall. I thought you didn’t like high places.”
    “You know I don’t. But I want to see them the moment they come back. I need to know about this deathless army. Lady Nerissa needs to know.” Tycho kept his eyes on the horizon. It was easier to ignore the height if he kept looking out there.
    “What I know is that waiting here will not bring your messenger any faster, and waiting here will not make his news any happier.”
    “Stop trying to annoy me.”
    “I’m trying to teach you sense, little man. Either the messenger will come or he won’t, and either it will be good news or bad. You can’t do anything about it, so there is no point in freezing your nose off out here,” Salvator said.
    Tycho sighed. “So what should I be doing?”
    The Italian’s eyes lit up. “You should come back to the Sunken Palace with me, right now. We have two new prisoners.”
    Tycho rubbed his eyes. “More frightened Turks?”
    “Better! Much better!” Salvator herded the Hellan dwarf off the battlement and down the stone stairs to the frozen road below where a small carriage waited. It took half an hour to cross back through the long bustling streets of Constantia, across the Galata Bridge to the Golden Horn peninsula. Since the beginning of the siege, the masons and the smiths had been working round the clock on the defenses, repairing walls and weapons, and their apprentices and porters and messengers clogged the streets with bundles of supplies and urgent letters and mule-drawn carts loaded with clay, or iron, or coal. The children were out in force, as always, though they tended to avoid the main thoroughfares to congregate on street corners and in alleys, playing dice and watching rats fight. Tycho caught a glimpse of two young boys boxing in a circle of their peers, and he grimaced.
    Fighting is all we know anymore.
    By the time they reached the gates of the Sunken Palace, Tycho had only looked back through the tiny rear window of the carriage a handful of times, and each time Salvator had said, “Ah ha ha, no.” And pointed forward until Tycho turned back around.
    They dismounted the carriage and turned toward the small mausoleum that led down into the cisterns, but a young Vlachian archer held up his hand and called out in broken Hellan, “Major Xenakis? If you are come for new prisoners, I am to tell you they are not being here. His Highness Prince Vlad and Lady Nerissa did summon them