18. Holmgang | Wilder
Apounding beat behind his eyes—again. Nausea churned like a tempestuous sea in his gut.
The acid burning up his throat elicited a gagging cough. The sound was smothered by the rough fabric that covered his head and eyes.
Light flickered behind it. Large hands gripped underneath his arms, holding him upright as his body was still boneless.
Hard, cold stone pressed into his knees. Every movement felt sluggish and heavy.
A loud snap pierced the hood before it was ripped off his head.
The air was cool and soothing against his clammy, dirt-streaked face.
But the light was painful.
Wilder screwed his eyes shut and inhaled sharply through his nose.
“Wilder Vale.” The High King’s voice was a steel blade. “You are being accused of conspiracy to assassinate the High King.”
Wilder scanned his surroundings.
This room was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. The evening light that poured through the gabled windows was a rosy gold, so it appeared they were on the west side of the castle.
A multitude of nobles lined the walls of the ample-sized room.
Their glittering jewels gleamed as they fluttered their fine capes and gowns. The fabric was thick with exquisite embroidery that detailed the flora and fauna of their kingdom.
Such a stark contrast to what Wilder knelt in.
Dirty and withered travel clothes, as if he weren’t the crowned prince.
No one looked in his direction.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” the High King asked, leaning forward to better survey his son.
How dare he sit there, wreathed in melancholy, when Lyra was being held against her will.
The shackles around Wilder’s wrists clattered as he adjusted his knees against the unyielding marble.
“I should have struck you down,” Wilder ground out.
Gasps swelled through the room, but a small chuckle rose above them.
“Warick,” the High King grumbled. “You find this funny?”
Warick pushed through the nobles closest to the window. The drugs were still taking their toll on Wilder. He couldn’t focus clearly on his uncle’s face. His silhouette quivered like a mirage in the dwindling light.
“Of course,” Warick replied. “He just clearly stated the reason why we’re all here.”
King Oberon reclined in his velvet chair. “There were multiple witnesses who saw him pull his sword.”
Warick’s brow arched as he clasped his hands behind him. The movement had the velvet jacket he wore stretching wide to reveal the cream silk shirt he wore underneath.
“The Prince did nothing wrong, and where are your witnesses?”
The High King waved a hand lazily, gesturing to the gathered nobility.
“They all bore witness and will testify to such.”
The pounding in Wilder’s head was turning into a deafening roar as the sedative worked through his system.
Luckily, it was receding much faster than it had in his cell. If he could stall long enough, his magic would return, and he could cause a distraction large enough to escape.
Warick took another step towards the center of the room, and the guards behind Wilder adjusted their position to keep themselves between Warick and Wilder.
“Easy,” Warick huffed. “I have no intention of freeing the Prince.”
Wilder ground his teeth. Well, that answered that question.
His mother had been misled; Warick was not on his side.
“Then why are you delaying the inevitable?” the High King asked. “You’re the only one in this room questioning my judgement.”
Warick grinned. “Has that not always been the case, Brother?”
King Oberon scowled and drummed his fingertips against the plush arm of his chair.
“It would merely be wise of one to consider all facets of the truth and get to the bottom of it,” Warick shrugged.
“You think I’m not being wise? You think you could do a better job?”
“I’m not falling for that trap,” Warick chuckled and straightened his already perfect lapel. “Let us walk through the details together.”
The tension in the room rose and fell.
It was both warm and frigid. But the scent of bloodlust swelled yet again.
Warick glared around the room as he scoffed.
“A life hangs in the balance. Surely you’re not yearning for blood so hungrily already?”
No one spoke, but by the drooping of shoulders and tightening of lips, Warick had assumed correctly.
Warick began pacing, his tall, black boots thumping on the gleaming marble floor behind Wilder.
It was easy to follow his steps as the reverberation vibrated up through Wilder’s knees and thighs.
“The Prince confronted you based on information that was gathered during an ambush. An ambush that was orchestrated with your participation?—”
The High King’s glower deepened with his displeasure.
White bloomed across his knuckles as he clenched his fist.
Several nobles nearest him leaned away to avoid notice.
“That—is unnecessary, Warick,” Oberon growled.
Warick stopped moving. A hint of humor laced his voice, “Is it?”
Wilder couldn’t see Warick’s face, but he knew exactly the picture of mischief his uncle exuded.
“As I was saying,” Warick drawled. “The Prince had been kidnapped and assaulted. Clearly he wasn’t within his right mind, but that wouldn’t matter if the formalities of a challenge had been voided, anyway.”
A divot formed between Oberon’s brows. “Excuse me?”
Warick took a step towards the king, and inadvertently, towards Wilder. “Your words cleared the rules of a challenge. By you disowning Prince Wilder, you enacted the rite of holmgang.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from around him. Only someone with vast knowledge of their rules and customs would have known about a holmgang.
It was positively archaic.
Wilder could think of only one person who would have knowledge that vast—Baelwyn.
“Holmgang,” King Oberon grumbled. “Show me the text.”
Heavier boots thudded from behind Wilder, and a tunic of pure silver shimmered as the elf passed.
Baelwyn.
“It is an ancient rite,” his deep voice washed over the room. “But it is here.”
A tome of crumbling leather, with gilded, scrawling letters, was gripped in his fist.
He slid the pages open and pointed at the passage for the king.
Oberon’s eyes scanned the text.
Baelwyn held still, allowing Oberon to read the text several times. It was silent, uncomfortably silent.
“Seems very much like an ancient game, does it not?”
Slowly the High King lifted his eyes from the page and locked them onto Wilder.
“Blood or not, he drew his sword against the King.”
Warick strode back to the perimeter of the room nearest to the window.
The sun had set at last, and darkness crawled towards the castle. It was apparent that a solution would not be met anytime soon.
Wilder felt a twinge of gratitude that someone—anyone—had come to his defense at least.
Maybe he had misread Baelwyn’s arrival in the dungeons.
Although he wasn’t totally trusting of Warick. He knew his uncle wanted the throne, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he would do to get it.
The King continued to glare at Wilder, and Wilder glared right back.
“Your Majesty,” Baelwyn said, shifting just enough to block Wilder from the king’s gaze. “These are already contentious times?—“
A loud boom shook the room.
The floor beneath them shuddered. It sounded oddly like an explosion.
Red-and-orange lights flashed outside.
The scent of smoke laced the air.
Wilder stared with a sense of befuddlement. Had that been an explosion?
“What was that?” a guard whispered.
Another blast ripped apart the room, the force of it leveling the wall and the people next to it.
Wilder couldn’t hear.
A loud ringing pierced his head, interrupted by cracks of screaming.
His eyes burned from the smoke and the residue that permeated it.
It tasted like sap.
Oberon gripped the arms of his chair as the guards converged around the High King, their weapons drawn.
A third explosion ripped through the room, shattering the windows. Pieces of glass sliced through the air and embedded themselves in stone or flesh.
A coppery tang permeated his throat when Wilder inhaled.
He choked on dust as it filled his lungs.
Nobles fled as smoke poured through the blown-open hole in the wall.
Heat shimmering in the air blurred colors and textures together.
Wilder held his head as it pounded beneath his fingers. His hands still locked in the shackles that kept them together in front of him.
“Protect the King!” Warick’s voice boomed over the chaos.
A feminine voice screamed Wilder’s name, but he couldn’t figure out who or where it was coming from.
Everything sounded close and far away at the same time.
His equilibrium had been tipped, and it was a struggle to sit upright.
Prone on his knees, Wilder was nearly trampled as people fled.
A tall elf with gleaming black boots rushed past and, in his haste, knocked Wilder to the ground. Strong, calloused hands wrenched Wilder to his feet and shoved him roughly backward.
For a moment, Wilder thought it had been a guard. But the hands left his chest and did not fasten him to another body.
He was free.
Wilder didn’t get a look at his savior before they melted into the mayhem.
He launched himself into the chaos, but not quickly enough.
A guard caught sight of him and pushed his way through the throng of people and towards him.
Wilder tried to blend in, ducking between a particularly robust elf.
Over the sound of panic and screaming, the guard yelled.
“Stop the Prince!”
A few eyes darted his way, and he felt hands tugging at his clothes. Fear had him squeezing his arms to his chest and pressing against the crowd.
There was so much screaming.
A fire somewhere nearby crackled loudly as it consumed. Smoke had darkened the hallway and made breathing difficult.
Wilder bent at the waist, seeking clear air to breathe as he stayed in the center of the throng.
“Someone grab him!” the guard continued shouting. “Don’t let him escape!”
Wilder had only made it three steps down the hall before something soft and heavy was pulled over his head, and hands wrenched themselves under his arms.
“I’ve got the Prince!” a masculine voice volleyed back to the guard.
Wilder tried to fight off his new assailants, but a voice had him freezing.
“Just play along,” Maelys whispered. “We’ve got you.”