40. Zarek
Zarek
SURRENDER
The guards will probably kill me if I punch their precious Prince Laurance.
It might still be worth it. That fucking idiot, thinking putting palace servants in matching uniforms makes them an army. Is that what he thinks the word army means? Gods above, what does he think war is?
Rage simmers in my chest, and my hands curl into fists. The men of Vsenrog spread across the field as dawn fills the sky. It might look chaotic to someone like Laurance, but it’s clear to me how they’re organized by regiment. How they’re sorting themselves according to a plan.
How the army of Vsenrog is preparing to attack the castle of Ethiria.
I clench my jaw to keep from scowling at Malrik. He doesn’t even need his army, for fuck’s sake. A handful of guards could probably take this whole castle. Laurance’s collection of nicely dressed and poorly trained servants will fold like a house of cards once they’re attacked.
No, Malrik isn’t setting up a battle.
He’s setting up a slaughter.
A murmur rises behind me, and I turn toward the door. A figure approaches the balcony, someone tall, moving with graceful deliberation. I step back, my heart trembling in my throat, and turn to Lilias, wishing there was something I could do to hide her from view.
And then the elf who came out of the mountain’s heart steps onto the balcony. Varitan.
My skin prickles as he walks past me, and nasty memories turn the back of my mouth bitter.
Fyrris, the man in white, pulling a silver chain from his robes.
The unearthly burn of whatever dark energy that chain held pouring through my body as I screamed.
The rock wall melting in front of me. Magic, Fyrris called it. Before the elf murdered him.
I clench my fist until my fingernails bite into my palm. I can’t show fear. You don’t run from a predator.
“Ah,” King Malrik declares, smiling widely. “Welcome, Master Varitan.”
The tall man dips his head slightly. He’s wearing a strange, wide hat, something that covers the long, curving taper of his ears. Still, I don’t see how anyone could mistake him for human.
The cold, calculating part of my mind that’s kept me alive for so long in Vsenrog’s royal court wonders why the damn elf is even here.
Varitan said in the Dragon Mine that he bowed to no one.
I told him everything I could about Malrik before he abandoned me without so much as a thank you.
Still, Varitan clearly joined the king of Vsenrog.
Either they have similar goals, or the elf is using Malrik to further his own ends. I’d guess the latter.
Varitan walks to the edge of the balcony and frowns at the scene below him. The wind carries scattered fragments of conversation past us, buoyed on the smoke from Vsenrog’s fires. No one speaks. Finally, Varitan turns to King Malrik with a look that almost seems disappointed.
“I was led to believe,” Varitan says, in his flat voice with its strange, clipped accent, “there would be an army.”
Malrik laughs like this is a fantastic joke. Varitan does not. Prince Laurance looks confused, and his father has gone as pale as the snow on those distant mountaintops.
“Well,” Malrik finally responds. “We have to start somewhere.”
Varitan sniffs, then turns toward me. I shiver as his cold, pale eyes meet mine. His lips curve into a sinister smile before he turns to the guards.
“Who is king here?” Varitan asks.
For a heartbeat, no one answers. The wind howls across the balcony.
“I am king,” Laurance’s father finally answers.
Varitan sniffs again, like he disapproves.
“And do you surrender?” Varitan asks.
“I came here to negotiate—” the king begins.
“No,” Laurance snaps. “We do not surrender to Vsenrog.”
Varitan grins. There’s a cold joy in the curve of his lips, something that makes me think of wolves and winter.
Next to Laurance, the king gasps, then begins to cough.
He’s still coughing when Varitan raises his hands.
The air around me begins to hum. Malrik’s eyes gleam as the tall elf turns to face the armies.
“We gave you a chance,” Malrik declares. “Everyone witnessed it.”
“My army will fight to the death,” Laurance declares.
Malrik laughs. “They won’t get the chance,” he says.
My gut twists and my skin pulls tight. I remember the silver chains from the cave, the dark energy that melted the mountain’s core, and I clench my jaw to keep from screaming.
The screaming happens anyway.
The air around me starts to vibrate with a hungry, pulsing hum, making me feel like the whole world is trembling. I remember the Dragon Mine, and Fyrris saying I could serve as a conduit for magic. Which was stupid and impossible. Until it happened.
The screams get louder.
At first, I don’t realize the screams aren’t coming from me. It’s only when Lilias steps back, her hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes, that I turn to see what’s happening in the field below us.
And once again, I remember the mountain. The way the granite wall shimmered, like I was staring through a fire. Like the stone itself was melting.
The field beyond the palace walls is rippling like waves on the ocean, short and choppy. The beaten grass rolls and trembles as the ground shivers. Laurance’s army screams as the ground beneath them boils like water. The castle wall chatters behind me; I smell dust and stone.
And the ground opens.
It’s like tearing a piece of paper, or punching a hole through a wall. The ground trembles. It falls still. And then it yawns open like a great mouth, a massive, gaping hole in the world.
And the first of Laurance’s soldiers falls into the earth.
The screams grow louder, and I realize the men on the balcony are screaming as well. Hells, even Malrik’s army is screaming, the organized rows of Vsenrog soldiers turning into a churning, chaotic mess as they drop their weapons and flee.
The hole in the ground grows, hungry and dark, spinning out from the center. Laurance’s soldiers throw their weapons to the ground and run, but the ground falls away beneath their feet. And the shadows swallow them as they scream.
Something hard hits me between the shoulder blades. I realize I’ve backed up until the wall of the palace stopped me. Next to me, one of the guards turns and runs into the palace. Another guard vomits on the stone. The king of Ethiria collapses. No one else seems to notice.
And above it all, through the screaming and retching, through the smoke and dust and the strange, horrible groaning of the earth as Varitan’s magic rips it apart, Malrik’s voice rises.
The king of Vsenrog is laughing.
Slowly, I sink to the stone beneath me. My body responds to the darkness pulling the world apart, just like it did in the cave.
My muscles shake, and my gut twists. Another guard runs past me, fleeing into the palace.
The light grows dim; when I glance up, the sun is wreathed in a crown of smoke and dust.
The world doesn’t grow quiet, exactly. But eventually, my body stops aching. The strange pull of whatever the elf is doing dissipates like smoke. I blink, then wipe my eyes. My hand comes away coated with dust.
“What have you done?” a voice asks.
It’s thin and ragged, like a rusty blade. It takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from Prince Laurance.
The prince’s face is streaked with dust. He’s trembling, and the look in his eyes is beyond rage, beyond grief. Despite everything that idiot has done, some part of me still aches for him, here at the end of everything.
Laurance takes a step closer to Malrik. Malrik grins at him, his eyes wild.
“Come and see for yourself,” Malrik offers, sweeping a hand over the balcony.
“No,” I say, but my voice comes out as a strangled whisper.
Not that Laurance would listen to me. The prince of Ethiria steps forward, joining Malrik at the railing as if he’s accepting an invitation to a ball.
Malrik moves fast. He steps behind Laurance, then shoves the prince between the shoulder blades.
And Prince Laurance of Ethiria falls over the balcony of his palace without a sound. I wince at the wet, heavy crack that rises from the courtyard, followed by a fresh round of screaming from below. Malrik claps his hands together.
“Such a shame,” he announces, his eyes sparkling. “Poor Prince Laurance was so upset at the loss of his dear army. He couldn’t bring himself to live with defeat.”
Malrik looks at the three remaining palace guards as if he’s expecting an answer. They nod. Lilias whimpers. Like me, she’s backed up against the wall, with her hand over her mouth.
And so, the story is born, my mind whispers. Laurance’s death was a suicide. And anyone who disagrees will face the wrath of Malrik.
“You,” Malrik says, pointing at one of the Ethirian guards. “There must be a crown, yes? The crown of Ethiria?”
The guard nods like a puppet on a string.
“Find it,” Malrik demands. “I want you to hand it to me in the courtyard. When I declare victory.”
The guard turns, then vanishes into the palace. Varitan clears his throat, and Malrik turns to face him. The elf looks paler than usual, and he’s not standing quite as tall. He’s tired, some part of me notes. Doing this, it takes a toll.
“If that is all your majesty requires of me,” Varitan says in a low, even tone, as if he’d just prepared some thorny paperwork for the king’s approval.
“Ah, yes,” Malrik says, turning his maniacal smile to Varitan. “Excellent, Master Varitan. Quite excellent.”
“I do have one request,” Varitan continues in that same even tone.
“Anything, my dear Master Varitan,” King Malrik answers.
Varitan turns to me. His lips twitch into that cold smile.
“I want him.”