Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 40: Only Good Strategy

The tunnel was damp.

Isaac hunched his shoulders, trying to ignore the green water trickling down his back. The air smelled of mildew and stone. He had no idea how long they'd been walking for. Twenty minutes? More? Torches flickered ahead of him, illuminating the pockmarked wall. He was amazed that fifty of them could fit in this tunnel at once.

He exhaled. The air felt like glass in his lungs.

"For the record," Isaac muttered, "I still think this is a bad idea."

Camille looked up. "We're almost there."

She was dressed in close-fitting trousers and a cloak, and her mouth was pinched. She'd shed her fur muff; it dangled from her waist like some sort of bizarre tail.

"How do you know?" Isaac asked.

Camille bit her lip. "George told me."

Isaac followed her gaze. George Dartmouth was stalking ahead, holding his torch as if it was a battering ram. A tasseled red sock dangled out of one boot. "Has nobody considered the fact that George is a complete stranger with questionable taste in socks?"

"I trust him," Camille said simply.

He wished the words didn't feel like a knife to the gut. "We should turn back."

"Isaac..." Camille slowed, placing a hand on his arm. "We've never spoken about the battle. Not properly. But I know you watched people die. I know you watched Henry Holloway..." Her mouth tightened. "What I'm trying to say is that not all scars are physical."

His stomach tightened. "I'm not afraid."

"There's no shame in it," Camille said softly.

Her cheeks were flushed. Some of the blonde hair had come loose from her plait, and it curled around her chin. Isaac balled his hands into fists.

"You don't understand," Isaac said tightly. "This plan will never work. We have to—"

"We're here!" Dartmouth called.

The group paused. Isaac could just make out a wooden door; this one looked more secure than the last, although still very kickable. He had no doubt that Anna could knock it down with a single blow.

The knot in his stomach grew tighter.

Anna shrugged off her cloak. "I'll go first." She glanced sideways. "Unless you'd like to offer your head as a battering ram, Dartmouth."

Dartmouth's teeth glinted in the torchlight. "I don't see why I should. Your head is much bigger."

Camille bobbed on her tiptoes. "What's the layout like, George?"

Dartmouth glanced at her, and his expression softened in a way that Isaac found unbelievably irritating. "We enter into the servant's quarters. There's only one door — next to the fireplace — which leads to the rest of the castle. From there, it's a short walk to the main bedroom. My scout tells me that's where Eris sleeps."

"And why," Isaac muttered, "is your scout so familiar with Eris's bedroom?"

Camille ignored this.

"Worst case scenario," Darmouth continued, "we have to lower the bridges and let the rest of my men in. That will give us two hundred extra bodies." He unsheathed his sword. "Best case scenario, Eris is asleep, and we make quick work of it."

Anna crossed her arms. "I'm not murdering Eris in his sleep."

Dartmouth raised an eyebrow. "Suddenly grown a conscience, Cidarius?"