War of mist, p.21
War of Mist, page 21
part #3 of The Oremere Chronicles Series
Still unable to see, he looked to the figure on the other side of the king. Prince Jaxon. The heir to the crown of Ellest. The teenager’s once youthful face was now gaunt, his stare blank as he watched the duel unfold before him. A shell – that was what the prince had become. And on his shoulder rested the hand of Tannus, the king’s weapons master.
Swinton turned to Fi. ‘What are we —’
He was cut off by thunderous applause from the crowd. Above where they were hidden, the stands quaked.
Swinton whirled around in time to see the wall of guards part. Gods.
It was Mother Matriarch Allehra, staggering to her feet. She had been forced into Ellestian armour and was clutching a longsword. Her silver-streaked midnight hair had been hacked away, leaving much of her head bald, revealing the extent of her scarring from the fire.
The man advancing on Allehra was no stranger to Swinton. His arrogant stance, his leer … It can’t be …
Henri was already moving. As was Sahara.
Swinton lunged for the Valians, but even with the strength of one hundred men, he could not have stopped them.
Chapter 19
Henri didn’t think. Her katars were already clutched in her hands as instinct drove her forward into the arena. Sahara moved with her, her sword unsheathed and poised for violence, her cropped hair swinging at her jaw. The crowd erupted as the sisters burst out into the open and the guards surrounding Allehra whirled around to face them.
Henri sliced across the first throat with her blades. They will die. They will die for what they’ve done here. Every last one.
She cut across the back of one guard’s legs, sending him to his knees, striking him on the back of the head with the iron hilt. She blocked a blow to her neck and drove her katar straight into her attacker’s heart, feeling breastbone and muscle crunch upon impact. Blood spattered across the dusty ground as nearby, Sahara swung her sword. Henri watched her sister’s back and Sahara watched hers as they cut their way through the force of Ellestians. More guards swarmed from the stands. It didn’t matter. She and Sahara were unstoppable. They always had been together. Henri relished the weight of her weapons gripped across her fists and the cries of pain that left the soldiers as she dealt blow after blow, her blades shining red.
She used her magic, thrumming in her hands, to knock half a dozen men aside, and then half a dozen more, but … Something blunt struck her across the shoulderblades. She staggered, catching herself before she hit the dirt. There was a cry of shock and bone crunched. Sahara was already wrenching her sword from the man’s abdomen, blood specked across her face.
They reached Allehra. She had been strapped into Ellestian men’s armour as a cruel joke, ill-fitting, clumsy and worn. It had been rammed onto her body and buckled across her with little care. Her face was marred with bruising and burn scars, her silver-streaked midnight hair shorn away and singed from her scalp on one side. The woman who had once been a beacon of strength and Valian training was now something else. Thin and weak.
And injured, Henri realised as their Mother Matriarch limped towards them. But as she grew closer, as Henri placed herself between Allehra and the onslaught of Ellestian guards, she saw something flicker in her mother’s eyes. They burned bright. Bright with pride as her gaze fell upon Henri, and then Sahara. Together. Allehra straightened, lifting her own sword, and smiled at Henri.
‘I knew you would come,’ she said. ‘Both of you. I knew it.’
Henri noted Sahara placing herself at Allehra’s back, so their mother had a guard on either side. But Henri suddenly realised that it wouldn’t matter at this rate. The guards continued to swarm from beneath the stands, fresh and ready to fight, whereas despite her stamina and discipline, Henri found her energy flagging. They were surrounded. She looked up in time to see a familiar face.
The eyepatch confirmed it. The brute of a guard who’d been in the Hawthornes with Bleak all that time ago. The bastard who’d manhandled the Angovian, who’d tried to —
Yes, it’s definitely him. Henri noted his sneer, and froze. Isn’t he dead? She was sure Bleak had told her he’d been part of the crew she’d killed on her way to Oremere. That she’d used her power in the same way she’d done in Hoddinott.
Siv Lennox advanced, locking eyes with Henri, a hunger etched on his face that chilled even Henri’s bones. Something wasn’t right here. The eyepatch he wore was black, save for the red bloom that had been painted in its centre. Henri remembered throwing her katar, the blade embedding into the would-be rapist’s eye. She had been glad for it. Now … now she wished she had killed him then and there.
‘You,’ he said, taking another step towards her, his sword gleaming in the sun.
‘Me.’ Henri was going to end him.
She lunged first, slicing her katars across his middle with a warrior’s precision. She waited for the tips of her blades to find the weak spot between the pieces of armour, to cut through the delicate skin of the lower abdomen. They didn’t. He leaped back, with a speed that didn’t match his substantial size. She cursed, wanting nothing more than to spill his guts upon the dirt here and now.
He drove forward with his sword, a blur of movement and speed. Henri blocked his blow with both katars, her arms trembling beneath the force. He was strong. Stronger than she’d anticipated. Almost as though —
He struck again, not holding back. Henri knew he sought vengeance for his lost eye and the humiliation she’d put him through. That was nothing compared to what she’d do to him now. Allehra was still behind Henri, her sword drawn but her stance weak. Lennox was one of the puppet masters behind this horrific farce that King Arden called tournament entertainment. And he would pay. Henri adjusted her stance and launched herself at him.
He was ready for her. Steel sang as his sword met her katars, the impact reverberating through both her arms and into her chest. He struck again, this time catching her on her shoulder, his blade sinking into the soft skin there. She swore. The sharp pain and warm trickle of blood sent her rage into a spiral. How could he have landed a blow? She was better, much better than he was.
Sahara’s sword clanged loudly behind her. Henri hoped her sister was faring better than she was. She ducked another swing from Lennox, and went on the attack, jabbing aggressively with her blades.
Where’s Swinton? She cursed as Lennox parried around another of her blows. She looked to their hiding spot below the stands, but there was no one there. Bastard. He’d taken his shot to run. Like the coward he was. She’d been waiting for him to crawl back to the king – Lennox’s blade found its mark again. This time just above her breast. Pain carved through her like a hot knife and her breath whistled between her teeth. Lennox wasn’t the same man she’d encountered in the Hawthornes. He was different. He was wearing her down. Impossible.
Henri chanced a glimpse behind her. Sahara and Allehra had their backs to her, both fighting valiantly, but the sheer numbers of Ellestian guards were overwhelming. Henri cursed herself for acting with emotion rather than training. After all they’d been through … were they to die here? As part of some sick entertainment?
From the corner of her eye, she spotted commotion in the stands. Swinton and Fiore. Fighting their way through the crowd towards the king.
Lennox knocked her to the ground. His heavy boot pressed onto her chest, forcing her back down, pushing on her fresh wound. She tried to manoeuvre from beneath him, to twist and kick as she’d done so many times before in battle. But the weight of him on her was too much. She couldn’t budge from beneath his boot. It felt as though her ribs, her sternum might crack under the pressure. This was it. He was going to gut her here, like an animal in the dirt. Vengeance for his lost eye, vengeance for robbing him of Bleak …
A warrior cry sounded.
Henri’s heart stopped. Petra?
But it wasn’t her kindred. The thunder of a hundred horses’ hooves shook the ground as Valians swarmed the arena, spilling onto the field like a river bursting its banks. And it wasn’t only Valian warriors. Groundlings charged, swords and spears seized in their fists. With the healer, Lyse, on horseback at the heart of the fray. How did she get here?
‘Charge!’ she yelled over the battering of weapons.
At the diversion, Henri twisted out from under Lennox’s boot, flipping up and bringing her own boot crashing into the side of his face, the side with the eyepatch. He lurched forward, but Henri’s strength and energy surged at the sight of her people. She lunged, driving her katar in between the pieces of Lennox’s armour, in between his ribs. She felt the tip of the blade pierce flesh and scrape against bone. A sharp cry of pain escaped Lennox and he doubled over. Henri didn’t wait. She wrenched the katar from his body, dripping with blood, and made for Sahara and Allehra.
‘How?’ she managed when she reached them, taking in the sight of the Valians crashing into the Ellestian guards.
‘Bleak,’ Lyse replied. She jumped down from her horse, sword dripping red.
‘Bleak?’ Henri cut down a charging guard, and his body slumped to the ground with the others.
The groundling nodded. ‘She knew we’d be needed. All of us. She had Ermias travel me to the Sticks to rally our remaining forces.’
Allehra joined them. ‘But the groundlings can’t …’
Lyse raised a brow and switched sword hands. ‘Just because we didn’t meet the standard you set, doesn’t mean we’re not capable of great things. Look around. A Valian from the Sticks is still worth twenty ordinary men.’
Henri nodded and gripped the groundling’s shoulder. ‘You’re damn right there.’
‘Where’s Swinton?’ Sahara said, her eyes wild, dirt and blood smudged across her skin.
Henri whirled around and looked to the stands. The former commander and captain had reached the king’s inner guard, where Arden had a knife to his own son’s throat.
Chapter 20
Swinton threw his hand across Fi’s chest, stopping the Battalonian from lunging at the king. Arden’s silver dagger gleamed against the soft ivory skin of Prince Jaxon’s throat, which was pale enough that Swinton could see faint blue veins pulsing in the prince’s neck. Time hung suspended and the chaos around them fell away. Swinton and Fi stood frozen before king and heir, helpless and panicked. The future king’s life was at stake, his blood about to be spilled across the throne that was rightfully his. Swinton took a deep breath, praying to all the gods that another young life would not be extinguished so soon.
‘There’s no need to hurt the boy, Arden,’ Swinton said slowly, finding his voice. ‘He’s your son.’
‘Arden?’ The king laughed. ‘I see we’ve finally dispensed with formalities.’
Prince Jaxon squirmed beneath Arden’s grip, trying to edge away from the blade. On both his and the king’s tunics, the Ellestian royal sigil was embroidered: the crown of fire encircling two crossed battleaxes. Swinton gritted his teeth. Those axes made a mockery of him – his own family’s sigil, one that no longer belonged to him. His eyes narrowed. An addition had been made to the royal sigil – there was now a red flower at its centre, like a heart.
Someone cleared his throat.
Even in his sixtieth year, the revered knight looked fit and muscular. Grey peppered his charcoal hair and beard, while his umber eyes were bright and alert. Sir Caleb stood beside the two royals, his battleaxes drawn. He took in Swinton’s shaved head and plain clothes, his gaze snagging on the sword in his son’s hands rather than their family’s traditional weapons.
For the longest time, all Swinton had ever wanted to be was the knight who stood before him. And for the longest time, he’d kept his distance, kept his secrets, to protect his father from the shame, from the truth of what he was and what he’d done. His admiration for the man ran deep, more than his father, more than anyone had ever known.
‘Father,’ he heard himself implore. You’re standing on the wrong side, he wanted to yell. But Sir Caleb didn’t move. He turned from Swinton. Swinton had renounced his former self; now his father had renounced him as well. Sir Caleb’s gaze had turned wholly to the king. Perhaps he, too, had fallen under the false queen’s spell – perhaps her face had been burned into his breast like so many before. If that had become his father’s fate, there was nothing Swinton could do for him. He turned back to Arden, a pit of despair churning within.
‘What is it that you want?’ he asked.
Arden applied more pressure to the dagger resting against Prince Jaxon’s flesh, and the teenager’s eyes grew wide. He gave a strangled cry as the skin broke, a trickle of blood running down his neck. ‘Please,’ the boy gasped.
‘All I wanted was loyalty,’ Arden said, ignoring his son. ‘From you. From my subjects. From my wife.’
‘You had our loyalty.’ Swinton’s sword was heavy in his hand. He could feel Fi tense beside him. ‘It was us who didn’t have your loyalty. Your people trusted you. Look where you led them.’
Arden’s expression was one of cool amusement. ‘This is it?’ he sneered. ‘You’ve come all the way back to Ellest to ask me to stop? That’s your big plan? I would have thought —’
His words were drowned out by a thunderous sound – a unified warrior cry from below. Swinton glanced down into the arena. He nearly dropped his sword. A second force of Valian kindred had charged through, and were battling the Ellestian guards.
Where did they come from? Swinton drank in the sight of the fierce warriors on horseback. And the sight of Henrietta Valia, staring back at him from the heart of the arena. Her hair had escaped its braid and was blowing wildly in the wind across her mud-specked face. Around them, the crazed crowd fled in droves, knocking the core guard surrounding Arden, near trampling them.
Swinton glanced at Fi. Now was their chance. He gave his friend a subtle nod, seizing the moment of distraction, and lunged. He knocked Jaxon from the king’s grip and tackled Arden with all his might. There was a blur of movement and a shout behind him as Fi took on Tannus.
Where is Sir Caleb?
He had Prince Jaxon. As a hostage or a protected heir, Swinton didn’t know.
A vice-like grip clenched around his throat and suddenly they were falling. He and Arden tumbled down the stands, each impact rattling Swinton’s body, jarring his bones. They kept falling. Swinton’s shoulder, back, hip – everything connected with the stone benches. He couldn’t see Arden. Everything was a blur. He cried out as he slammed into more stone, his teeth knocking together. He bit through his lip as finally, he skidded to a halt in the dirt. On the ground, the frenzy of the battle around him was dizzying. A blur of horses, swords and blood, unable to discern friend from foe. Gasping, he hauled himself to his feet, and Arden scrambled upright beside him.
Sudden colour caught Swinton’s eye. A sea of red flowers bloomed in their wake. A wave of them barrelled towards king and commander, creating a wall of blooms closing in around them. They were trapped within. Swinton’s chest constricted and his throat closed up as the floral walls edged closer and closer. In a moment of surrealness, he realised that the flowers had no scent. They crept in further, pressing against his shoulder. Their petals were full of whispers, thousands of them.
What is this madness? Swinton lurched forward, gripping his sword as Arden faced him.
The king ran his fingers across the red flowers now towering around them. A phantom wind rustled the foliage and kissed Swinton’s battered skin. The whispers grew louder. They were speaking to him, calling him. Something pulsed in his breast pocket beneath his armour. The pouch of Valian herbs Henri had reluctantly given him. It pulled him back from an invisible ledge. Arden’s magic simmered in the enclosed space, tainted with something Swinton’s own magic recoiled from.
‘It’ll never be yours,’ he told the king. ‘The power you long for. It’s hers. She’ll never allow you to wield it for yourself.’
‘She already has.’ King Arden unsheathed the sword at his waist and Swinton staggered back. It was a weapon unlike anything he’d ever seen. The blade glowed like a hot ember, like it would catch ablaze at any moment, like it would not only cut, but melt flesh.
‘A gift,’ Arden told him as he advanced.
Swinton scrambled back. His sword would do nothing against such a weapon. He backed into the solid wall of red blooms, their petals hissing against his skin. It sounded like prayers to Enovius.
‘Forged with the power of energy shifters from Oremere …’ Arden struck.
In a horrified daze, Swinton only just managed to raise his sword in time. The moment Arden’s blade met his, he felt it: his energy being sucked from his body. Arden struck again, and Swinton’s block this time was weaker. More of his energy sapped from his very being, while Arden seemed to grow stronger. His blade skimmed across Swinton’s unprotected arm.
‘Do you remember that mission all those years ago?’ Arden said quietly, admiring the blood on his blade. ‘The one that promised a knighthood. The one that took you away from Willowdale, away from her.’
Swinton’s heart caught in his throat. Eliza’s golden hair flashed in his mind; a curtain of it falling about their faces, her breath warm on his cheek.
‘A group of malcontents, wasn’t it?’ King Arden said, taking a deliberate step towards him.
Swinton couldn’t swallow. ‘They … they wanted to steal …’
‘The horses?’ Arden smiled. ‘That’s what I heard too.’ But the glimmer in his eyes said something else.
‘No.’ The word escaped Swinton, no more than a flicker of a shadow across the void of time and misdeeds. She flashed before him again. The dusting of light freckles over the bridge of her nose. The subtle curve of her smile. The scowl she reserved for when he’d done something to displease her.
