Attack
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Another hiss turned my attention in the opposite direction. Lord Draven had already caught the second arrow and crushed it. Smoothly, he tossed his legs over the side of the horse, dismounted, and reached over his shoulder to grab the hilt of his sword.
Four large figures with hoods on their heads and cloth across their mouths came from various directions.
“Get the horse!” a bellow came from the woods.
Another arrow came for me, and I ducked, though I needn’t have. Lord Draven swung his sword up, changing the arrow’s course to the ground. I huddled closer to Abrax who seemed unfazed by what was happening around us.
One of them snuck behind Lord Draven.
“Cassiel!” I shouted out the warning. He turned toward me, hair fluttering around his temples. Multiple things happened consecutively. An arrow came at me again and his sword clanged against the arrow.
There was no possible way he had not seen the blade swinging toward him, but he still kept the arc of his swing to stop the arrow from hurting me. Meanwhile, the attacker in front of him pierced his side.
Lord Draven did not flinch.
“He’s a high-ranking Elite!” The shout came from a thief behind Lord Draven, the man’s horrified gaze fixed on the embroidered fleurlet on the saddle.
“Fuck! He’s the Warlord King,” a different one spat and fled.
Even with the blade in his side, he never seemed more alive. He thrived on violence.
Most of the attackers ran off, except for the one that currently withdrew the black-coated sword from Lord Draven. His eyes widened at the droplets, gathering the gravity of what he had done.
“Your Highness,” he choked out, dropping to his knees, the sword clattering on the ground.
The battle was embarrassingly short, and Lord Draven seemed more irritated than anything else. Lord Draven’s sneer widened. Without a beat, he swung in an arc, slicing through the kneeling man’s throat with the ease of cutting butter.
For a moment, the forest turned silent, and as if time had slowed, the head slid off the neck while the body crumpled onto its side. Before assisting Al in his experiments, the sight of the blue, leaking blood, flayed flesh, and perfectly sliced spine would have made me vomit.
A sharp sound of birds rattling the trees caused goose flesh down my arms. I hugged my torso, staring into the increasingly darkening forest. Very soon, Hollows would begin to emerge from wherever den they crawled into while the sunlight was out.
Lord Draven raced in front of me, and mounted fluidly to settle behind me, his presence a strange comfort.
He nudged Abrax forward with a tap of his leather-bound boot. The clop of hooves resounded, and we settled into a trotting pace as if nothing had happened.
I could not stop reeling.
The murder attempts, to him being stabbed, to a beheading.
All of it was taken in stride on his end.
His entire life is filled with this.
A pang struck my chest.
How . . . lonely.
Orange-tinged dusklight speared through from the sides of the trees. Only moments remained until pure darkness. I shivered. To my utter surprise, Lord Draven wound his arm around my front, tucking me even closer to his front.
I turned my cheek to the side. Leather and ink played along my senses. I shivered again, more from the pleasure of his scent than from the cold.
A sharp ringing of a bell began.
“What is that?” I asked. It scratched at the surface of a memory . . .
Unsurprisingly, Lord Draven did not give an answer, but the mystery was solved as Abrax trotted into a village.
Brick shops began, opening onto a park with lush grass and a cobbled pathway perfect for a stroll. A bit further, the dirt path split into a four way intersection.
A young boy cycled past, one hand pumping to cause the ringing from the bell in hand.
“Curfew!” he shouted, sounding the bell to ensure everyone was within walls.
A Ringer.
Hollows could not cross into a home with protection, and lingering outside was challenging the Saints with your life.
The spindly creatures, with knobby joints wherever they bent, were a true terror outside of the Kingdom.
Straw-covered shacks came into view far off ahead of us, and dusklight haloed around more structures.
Abrax took the turn and Lord Draven tugged the reins, guiding him to a well-built structure made of wood paneling and stone materials.
Horses were being guided by a stable hand into the barn behind the structure.
Lord Draven dismounted.
East End Inn was scrawled across the board above the entrance.
“What are we doing here?”
Instead of answering, he reached up, gripped my waist, and hoisted me off with ease.
“Staying for the night.”
He grabbed the pack strapped to the side of Abrax and pushed it to me. I hugged the leather material to my chest and followed him.
The door swung open to an older man with thin features and pale skin that marked those with Eastern Sycarious ancestry.
He lowered his head to enter through the door. Nothing outside the Kingdom of Sycarious fit his big form.
“My lord,” the innkeeper bowed his head. “We are pleased to host you again.” His smile was too toothy. “Any special requests?”
Lord Draven grunted. “Bring a meal to my chamber.”
“Would you care to sample blood from our new wench?” He waved a young girl over; her gown was especially tight at the bosom. She kept eyeing Lord Draven from under her lashes.
The coy look on her face swelled the urge to stand before him—as if I could block him from her lustful gaze.
“A mortal meal,” he clarified.
“Ah.” The innkeeper’s gaze flicked to me.
“Yes, Your Highness. After you are situated, could you hear some of the grievances from the villagers? There are some issues we have been sending to the council and have yet to hear any news of when we are to bring our petition about the increased Hollow attacks to Sycarious Court. Of course, only if you are able.” He bowed so low it looked painful.
The corners of Lord Draven’s eyes pinched almost imperceptibly, and he worked his jaw.
“I will return once I have situated my mortal.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you,” he wheedled. “I will escort you to our best chamber. The one you have enjoyed plenty of times.”
The innkeeper continued talking despite Lord Draven’s obvious disinterest.
I jolted forward to follow him, the words echoing. His mortal. The manner it rolled off his tongue re-emerged the nervous flutters—foolishly.
I ascended the wide staircase behind Lord Draven while he kept having to duck his head.
The innkeeper moved to the first chamber with the propped open entry. Two girls rushed out, sweat glistening on their temples. They were dressed as servants, and one of them had a canine wraithling at her side.
Poverty was not only limited to redbloods, but bluebloods had freedoms while the redblood must have been assigned to this innkeeper. All still-living redbloods must be registered to a highborn blueblood.
Once I was inside, he shut the door. I scanned the well-sized area hosting a bed that would fit him. They must have ensured they had a place for him. Dusklight no longer filtered through the slim window pane near the bed.
Lord Draven took the bag from me, pulling out the Creation Scripture, and slapped it on the wooden desk across from the bed. Then he drew out a journal, quill, and ink.
“Your meal will be delivered.” He tapped the top of the leather book, causing the candle upon the desk to shudder. “Translate.” With that ominous order, he left the chamber, leaving me in ringing silence.