5. Chapter 5
Chapter five
“You look pretty,” Kord said.
Cyrus ignored him.
They sat on their horses on the ridge just outside the capital, Kord on his right, Everan on his left. Essandra and the rest of his men were just behind him.
They’d come to meet the nobles. Cyrus shifted in his armor—the armor Essandra had made him wear. She was concerned that perhaps the nobles’ intentions weren’t ones of goodwill. Cyrus wasn’t sure his own were either.
“Are you wearing silk braies underneath?” Kord jested.
Cyrus snorted. “I’m wearing no braies at all, so you don’t want to be around when I take it all off.
” He hadn’t told Kord about how the forge witch had imbued the armor with magic.
Maybe because it sounded silly. Maybe because he wasn’t sure if he believed it himself.
Or maybe it was the needle of guilt that he was the only one with it.
He should ask for armor for his men, although he knew they wouldn’t wear it.
“What will you say to them?” Kord asked, finally turning serious.
Cyrus cut him a quick glance. “It depends on what they say to me.”
The nobles sat on their horses a distance away.
There were quite a few of them—more than Cyrus had thought still remained.
They didn’t have their army with them—a poor decision—but they had more than the number of men Cyrus had brought.
They were obviously committed to some show of force.
Cyrus wagered these were all the instigators.
He waited for them to make the first advance.
They didn’t.
“They’re waiting,” Everan said.
Cyrus snorted. “They’re the ones who wanted to talk.”
“They’re probably trying to figure out if you’ve come to play nice.”
He chuckled. The nobles were nervous. He reached up and unbuckled the clasps of his breastplate, then dropped his armor to the ground.
“Cyrus!” Essandra hissed. “Put that back on.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I look like I’m here to fight,” he said as he took off the remaining pieces, dropping them as well.
She pursed her lips.
“I’ll go alone,” he told his men, and urged his mount forward.
He drew closer to the group of nobles, and a man in front urged his horse forward to meet him. Cyrus recognized him. Alric. A friend of Pyro’s.
They met in the middle.
Alric slid down from his horse.
Cyrus did as well.
“King Cyrus,” Alric greeted him.
Cyrus didn’t greet him back.
They warily closed the space between them, coming to stand face-to-face.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” the noble said.
Cyrus still didn’t reply. He had nothing to say. While he had agreed to meet them, the nobles certainly weren’t welcome here.
Alric shifted uncomfortably. Good —he should be uncomfortable.
“We want to negotiate a truce,” the noble said. “We’ll accept the terms of your rule. In return, we ask for our homes back. Our land.”
That land was now being used for farming to feed the people of Rael. Cyrus would not be giving it back.
“We also want ten percent of storehouse rations,” Alric added.
Cyrus almost snorted. Did this man really think he was in a position to negotiate? Anger heated his core. This man was too bold.
“And”—Alric’s gaze moved behind Cyrus, to where Essandra waited—“you will expel the witches.”
Faster than the wind, Cyrus drew his sword and had it to the noble’s throat.
Alric’s eyes widened. “You gave your word that this was a meeting of peace.”
Cyrus frowned. “I don’t even know what peace is.” And he pushed the blade through his neck.
Bellows rang down the line of mounted nobles, and they kicked their horses forward in a charge. Alric sank to his knees, choking as blood spilled down the front of his jacket, the blade still piercing him.
Behind Cyrus came the roar of his men as they charged in a counterattack. But Cyrus didn’t take his eyes from the nobleman. He reached down and grabbed the top of his hair, holding his head as he severed it from the rest of the man’s body.
Horses thundered around him as both sides clashed in blood, but he paid them no mind. He turned, severed head in hand, and walked to where Essandra held back her own mount from the fight.
He tossed the head to the ground in front of her. “Reparation,” he said. “For your witches.”
Then he turned to see his men finishing the remainder of the nobles. It didn’t matter that his men were outnumbered. The nobles didn’t stand a chance. They hadn’t come with their army, and it was over as fast as it had started.
Cyrus walked back and mounted his horse again. He didn’t even wait for his men to finish off the injured before he motioned Essandra back toward the capital.
Eventually, Kord and Everan caught up with them.
“You planned for that to happen all along,” Kord said, anger hitching his voice. “They were willing to submit to your rule. Was that not enough?”
“No,” Cyrus said. “It wasn’t. They wanted land, food from our storehouses.” He paused, glancing at Essandra. “Among other things.”
Kord’s nostrils flared. “It’s called negotiating! You could have countered.”
But Cyrus hadn’t come to negotiate.
Kord snorted angrily and shook his head, then urged his horse forward. Everan followed.
Cyrus watched them go. “Something is wrong with him,” he said to Essandra.
She sighed. “People grow weary of death.”
“The nobles didn’t deserve to live.”
“You should have told me that was your plan.”
“I didn’t have a plan.” He cocked his head. “But did you really think I would meet them in peace? After what they’ve done?”
There could be no peace.