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By the time the man fell, Raider could see the Sudai’s fighters remained outnumbered. Too many were being dragged out of danger by their friends and family, fighting desperately.
It wasn’t often that Raider wished he could fully command the quicksilver in his body. This was one of those rare times. But no matter how much it tore him up to see his friends in danger, he couldn’t seem to trigger more than the left-side armor.
Since the day the Sudai had found him half dead in the desert, he had used the full strength of the quicksilver only once, on that day when a rival tribe had attacked the caravan. Like the others, Raider had fought with only blades and fists—until Asha had screamed.
At the sight of a man dragging Asha across the sands, the quicksilver had roared through Raider’s body, piercing through at a dozen points. He had become what he’d been made to be: a weapon.
It had been easy, then, to kill the man who would have hurt Asha. It had been easy, then, to kill the rest.
Nusuru, the Sudai had called him after. Protector.
Raider had yelled at them to stop.
Nusuru, Nusuru, they had chanted relentlessly—until Asha had scolded them into silence, saving Raider from their praise.
She had led him to her tent. He had lain down, curled up, faced away from her. She had asked, What happened?
Raider had squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, I don’t remember.
She had been silent for a time then had said, Sometimes it is better that way.
Since that day, Raider had only ever managed to trigger the quicksilver in his left arm.
Now, guilt made him fight harder. There was something in him that could save his friends—and he couldn’t seem to reach it. So he danced through the fight, his scimitar sweeping, his quicksilver fist bludgeoning, killing as many bandits as he possibly could.
When the bandits started to flee, more and more of them leaping onto their horses, the Sudai sent up a cheer. Raider scanned the caravan, relieved to see that the ring had not been breached, relieved that the dead he spotted were all bandits. He laid eyes on Tulef and Fahet.
But Seth, sword stowed in its scabbard, was racing toward one of the bandits. He flung his chakram, but the weapon missed the bandit as he leaped onto the nearest horse—Seth’s.
With one hand raised to catch the returning chakram, Seth used his other to aim … his multi tool? A thin line shot from the device and hooked onto the saddle just as the thief kicked Seth’s horse into a gallop. In the instant the horse leaped forward, Seth caught his chakram—and was yanked off his feet.
“Let go!” Raider shouted, heart leaping into his throat as Seth was dragged across the hard pack. The horse wasn’t worth it. Even the gear wasn’t worth it.
But Seth didn’t let go, and the cloud of dust raised by his dragging body streamed into the distance—toward the tunnel-riddled hills.
CHAPTER 22
THE ARCANE WIRE strung tight from the multi tool’s housing to wherever the harpoon-like barb had punched into Seth’s saddle as the horse raced across the desert, dragging Seth. His arcane clothing protected his skin from the shredding it would have otherwise gotten from the gritty hard pack, but it couldn’t shield him from the bruising impact with every rock.
Seth gritted his teeth and hung on. He could not afford to lose the contents of his saddlebags. Without the letter of credit, not only could he not pay Raider, he couldn’t fund the rest of his mission. Without the arcane restraints, he couldn’t hope to haul Julian back to Masir. His mission would be over, failed.
Seth sequenced the multi tool to retract. Nothing. Sand must be clogging the mechanism.
He clipped his chakram onto his utility belt to free his hand then grabbed a little way up the wire. The arcane glove prevented the wire from cutting his hand, but the fine strand offered no purchase for his grip and sent him sliding back down to the handle.
The bandit flung a knife at Seth. He twisted to avoid a killing shot, but the blade slashed across his arm. Seth hated sleeves because they always felt like they interfered with his sword work, but he was beginning to wish he had them.
He couldn’t see a damn thing. At first the dust had been behind him, but now it was billowing everywhere. The sandstorm that Raider had pointed out on the horizon was catching up.
Seth considered making a wild throw of his chakram or the knife strapped to his thigh, but he would never make the shot. Not from this angle. Not with his body strung out and banging across the ground. Not with visibility so poor.
Grabbing the wire again, Seth managed to haul himself forward a little, slackening the tension on the end of the line. He let go of the wire but not the handle, letting his weight jerk the line. The horse was yanked to one side. The animal stumbled but recovered, and the thief lashed it onward.
The jolt, however, had cleared the retraction mechanism enough to drag Seth closer to the horse—dangerously close to the flying hooves. He got a foot under himself enough to launch himself to the side.
The wire swung him in an arc. He desperately hit the retraction mechanism again. If this didn’t work, he might have to let go. Otherwise he would fall straight back into the range of those pounding hooves. But the line retracted, bringing Seth slamming into the side of the rider’s leg.
Shouting in alarm, the bandit struck down at Seth’s face. Seth punched back at the man, but the angle robbed his blows of most of their force. He couldn’t get to his knife, but if he could just get up a little more, he might throw the man from the saddle—
