Free The Dawn of a Desperate War (The Godlanders War) by Aaron Pogue

for him,” Corin said. He’d given Ben clear enough instructions; now he had to trust the dwarf to get away. Ben’s best chance was for Corin to distract the justicar, to leave her with a puzzle strong enough to slow her down.
    She still had one fist knotted in his cloak, holding him at arm’s length. He pushed against it to face her nose to nose, and growled at her. “Tell Ephitel I mean to see him dead.”
    Corin jabbed her with his left fist, hard in the short ribs, and though she gasped, she did not let go. He threw an uppercut that clipped her jaw, sparking anger in her eyes, then barely caught her answering haymaker with a block. He twisted his arm around, trapping hers against his side, then slammed a head butt at her pretty little nose.
    She saw it coming and pulled away, but still his forehead split her lip. She spat a curse and released her grip on his shoulder, so she could strike at him.
    But before she could do anything, he dove beneath her grasp, rolled back to his feet, and dashed toward the watching crowd. He glanced back once and found her hard on his trail. He also saw Ben slipping out of the alley beyond her, running as hard as his little legs would carry him in the other direction.
    Perfect. Corin barreled in among the crowd, spilling spectators to the left and right, tearing away from grasping hands. He’d have faced a challenge to escape them, but he didn’t need to. He tangled himself in their midst, just enough to baffle the justicar. Then he closed his eyes and stepped through dream.
    He did not go far this time, only to the shadowed depths of the alley Ben was hiding in. That didn’t matter much, in his experience. Hopping across a room could cost him moments or days, the same as stepping across the Medgerrad Sea. He’d never found a rhyme or reason to it, or any rules to the twist of time when Oberon’s magic was involved, so every step brought the same degree of risk.
    This time he could not bring himself to care. He had a war with Ephitel, and if he waged it in the spring or in the fall, in this year or in the next, nothing would change. Aemilia was lost to him, and nothing short of Ephitel’s blood would satisfy his vengeance. He’d pay any price at all to see that justice done.
    Still . . . it would have been nice to step through dream and end up within arm’s reach of Ben. Corin didn’t want to lose that sword! The dwarf had his instructions, and Corin could think of no one he would trust more, but everything depended on that blade. Corin opened his eyes upon the darkened alley.
    He was alone. Full night had fallen, and whatever furor the day’s attack had raised, whatever crowds it had drawn, no sign of them remained at this late hour. Corin spotted a glint of moonlight on steel and the faint shadow of a man across the way—one of the Vestossis’ investigators—but there was none close enough to see Corin. He shook his head and sighed. Benny was long gone. Corin raised the deep cowl of his black cloak, another shadow in the night, and slipped out of the alley’s mouth and down the road.
    Half an hour brought him to the dwarf’s workshop, but it was empty. The door was locked, but that did not slow Corin. He had it open in a dozen heartbeats and found the room inside left in its usual disorder, but clearly uninhabited.
    Just as he was turning to go, Corin spotted a crumpled scrap of paper fallen from the edge of Ben’s worktable. He stooped and grabbed it, smoothed out the wrinkles, and read one word in Ben’s tiny, strangely delicate hand:
    “A’roving.”
    Corin nodded. He’d not thought to suggest it, but Ben had left a note. That was good news; it meant he’d escaped the little alley and the justicar’s attention. And if she’d somehow followed him here, if she’d read this very note in her investigations, it would have told her nothing. But it told Corin all he needed to know. Ben was on his way to Raentz, to the desperate little farms on its western border,