Chapter 16 Landon #3
Eirik gives me no space to breathe. Dragonslayer rises and falls, filling my vision with silver light. I know every pattern he uses because he taught half of them to me. But knowing them does not make it easier to survive his attack.
I become so focused on the king that I forget the sentinels.
That mistake costs me.
A sword catches my shoulder. I feel the bite of steel, the hot rush of blood. My weapon clatters to the floor.
The witch’s shadow wraps around my arm, leaving me exposed. Cold burns through me.
I wrench against it. The shadow tightens from my wrist to my elbow as the cold sinks deeper beneath my skin. My fingers stop responding. I grab my own forearm with my free hand and pull, but it’s like trying to tear free from stone.
“Get off me!” I roar, twisting hard enough that pain rips through my shoulder.
The creature laughs. “Struggle, Herald. I do so enjoy watching hope turn to panic.”
I plant my boots and try to lunge for my fallen sword, but the darkness jerks me back. It coils higher along my arm, burrowing beneath leather and skin.
“Does the elfling know you are not coming back?” she asks softly.
Across from me, the king takes one step forward. His face is blank, but his hand is steady on his blade.
No.
I thrash harder, fighting the shadows. They snap tight like a whip and drag me forward onto my knees.
Eirik steps forward and swings Dragonslayer.
The blade cleaves through my arm. My severed limb hits the marble beside my sword. Pain explodes through me.
Blood pours from the wound, splashing across the white floor. My knees buckle.
A boot slams into my ribs and sends me sprawling sideways across the marble. Before I can suck in a breath, another sentinel drives a kick into my stomach. Agony folds through me. I curl around the wound, choking on the taste of blood. A gauntleted hand fists in my hair to wrench my head back.
“Enough. We need him alive long enough to bring her to us,” the creature commands.
Guards swarm me, forcing me to my knees. I thrash, throwing two of them off, but more take their place.
They wrench my remaining arm behind my back and fasten iron chains around my wrist, throat, and chest. The metal burns against my skin with a strange heat. Smoke rises where the links touch me, carrying the stench of scorched flesh.
Pure iron, I realize dimly.
The enchantress approaches and crouches before me. She dips two fingers into the blood running from my wound, then paints a crimson line across my lower lip.
“Your mate will come for you,” she whispers, her cold fingers tilting my chin up to meet those bottomless black eyes. “Through the bond, she’ll feel your pain. The little elfling will come running to save you.”
I lunge for her despite the chains. She laughs and catches my face in one hand, driving her nails into my jaw.
A thread of shadow curls from her fingertip and traces the curve of my cheek. Wherever it touches, my skin freezes. The darkness sinks deeper, burrowing behind my eyes and scraping against the bond itself.
Pain tears through my chest. I feel something jagged move along the golden thread that connects me to Rhianelle.
“Can she feel that?” the witch asks softly.
She twists the shadow inside me. My back arches against the chains, but I refuse to scream again.
“Perhaps she needs something stronger.” Her gaze drops to my severed arm. “A clearer invitation.”
The shadows tighten around the wound. Agony consumes every thought. Somewhere beneath it, the bond flares, bright and terrified.
Rhianelle.
“She’ll feel every moment of this,” the witch murmurs. “Every hour you spend below. We’ll make sure of it.”
The creature leans close enough that Morgaine’s hair brushes my face. “When she comes, we’ll be waiting.”
The king stands behind her, silent and pale. Dragonslayer drips with my blood.
I try to warn Rhianelle somehow through the bond, but the cold has spread to my throat. One of the guards grabs the chains across my chest and hauls me upright. My legs nearly collapse beneath me.
“Break him if you must, but do not kill him,” she says sweetly to the guards. “We have such wonderful plans.”
Horror claws through me, but not for myself. I can survive pain. I can survive the dungeons beneath this palace. Rhianelle is the one in danger. Every wound they give me will pull her closer.
“Take him below,” the mistress orders.
The guards unlock a narrow door hidden behind the throne and drag me backward toward the darkness beyond it. I dig my heels into the marble and fight them with what little strength remains, but my limbs are growing heavy from blood loss and pain.
Dorcha roars somewhere outside the palace. The sound shakes dust from the rafters, followed by the clash of steel and a cry of fury as more guards descend upon her.
I try to call her name, but no sound escapes my frozen throat.
My strength leaves me as the guards drag me on. Around me, the throne room sways out of focus and begins to spin. The last coherent thought I have before the cold takes me completely is Rhianelle.
Don’t come. Please, don’t try to save me.
But I know she will.
That’s exactly what the enchantress wants.