The Orphan by Peter Lerangis Page A

like iron. My eyes rolled upward, and all I saw was black.
    I felt a sudden blow from my left. I fell onto the floor, my throat free. I coughed violently, but I was being crushed by the body of a guard.
    Scrambling desperately I slid out from underneath. I wheezed and gulped for breath, staggering under the table.
    That was when I saw the filthy, bloodied feet—prisoners’ bare feet, shuffling in the dirt along with the guards. I looked up into a chaos of fighting.
    Three of the prisoners were free. Despite their ragged appearances and emaciated bodies, they were punching the guards, grabbing their weapons, biting, scratching, using every tactic at their disposal. Through the shifting bodies I could see the other prisoners, still on the bench. Nico was huddled with them, trying to work their bonds free with the metal shard.
    I leaped across the room and took the shard from Nico. With free hands, I could slice into the bonds at a better angle. “I’m getting you out of here,” I said.
    â€œDaria . . .” he muttered, as much in disbelief as in gratitude. Up close, I could see how roughly he’d been treated. Bruises had formed around both eyes. His lip was fat and bloodied.
    I worked my way through the thick rope until it snapped. The other two men, energized by the sudden freedom, plunged into the melee.
    I took Nico’s hand and made for the door. A prisoner fell in our path, crying out in pain. Numa stood over him, dagger poised. Nico grabbed his arm, but the guard just swatted him away. With a vengeful sneer, he came at me. “A rebel, are you?”
    His neck bulged with anger—and I saw my opportunity. I pulled loose the scarf from my waist, swung it around his neck, and pulled as hard as I could.
    Eyes bulging, he gagged and grabbed at the scarf. As he sank to his knees, one of the prisoners brought a chair down over his head.
    Numa fell in a heap, and I pulled back the scarf. The prisoner, looking at me in bafflement, said, “Who sent you?”
    â€œArwa,” I replied. “And Nitacris. We must escape—”
    â€œWe will go through the kitchen and provide a distraction,” he said, nodding quickly. “We’ll charge through the front gate, into the party. Buy you some time while you escape.”
    â€œThere are too many guards,” I protested. “They’ll slaughter you.”
    â€œI must stay and help my fellow prisoners,” Nico began.
    â€œIf Nitacris said to go, you go,” the prisoner replied. “Both of you. Now!”
    Without missing a beat, he whirled around and clipped one of the guards on the jaw with a perfectly placed kick. The man fell to the floor, out cold.
    â€œNico, I think they can take care of themselves,” I said.
    As we ran into the hall, I could hear the pounding of footsteps coming up the stairs to our left—the stairs I had climbed minutes earlier. But Nitacris had told me to use the back stairs. I glanced around frantically. The hall was dark.
    â€œIt’s there!” Nico said, pulling me toward a blind turn. “I know this hallway.”
    We ran around the corner and flew down a narrow, dank set of stairs. Its walls were filthy, and a small rodent screamed at our surprise appearance, disappearing into a hole.
    As we raced through the kitchen, Nico tore off a large, gleaming leg from a roast pig. “Thank you!” he cried out. Just as Nitacris had predicted, no one seemed to notice, so frantic were they about getting the food to the nobles.
    It was not hard to find the back door, where the palace garbage was thrown daily into a ditch. The smell announced itself. As we ran for the door, Nico tore hungrily into the roast leg. “How can you eat now ?” I shouted.
    He grinned. “I think I’m the one who should be asking you questions,” he said. “Like why are you dressed like that and how did you get in—”
    Before he could finish the sentence,