Chapter 5
In truth, the witches’ greatest mistake lay in misjudging him.
It had been years since he last partook in jousts and tournaments, yielding his position to Corwin instead.
And after he’d ascended the throne, leading troops to border skirmishes and dealing with monster intrusions had become matters to delegate.
He trained less with the sword too, occupied with mountains of paperwork and endless meetings.
But a lifetime of training did not vanish in two years of mild underuse.
And he’d dragged his siblings home too many times for his body to forget now.
Richard sprinted towards the nearest male witch, feet skimming the sand. His sword swept in a clean arc, cleaving through the neck. Blood jetted out. The witch’s head lolled, attached by a thread of sinew, before the body crumpled.
Four left.
A woman rushed Richard from the side with her dagger angled at his face.
Another mistake. He whipped his sword up to sever her arm at the elbow. Daggers needed close quarters to be effective. A sword not only offered reach but also moved faster, its blade arcing with the slightest pivot of his wrist. And his sword—the king’s sword—was sharper than most.
The woman collapsed to her knees, shrieking, clutching her spurting stump. Richard slammed his sword down onto her neck, cutting off a scream mid-note. Her head rolled free before her body joined her compatriot’s.
Three left.
The witch with a branch—hovering near the sorcerer—barked a spell. An invisible force wrenched Richard’s sword from his grip. It flew upward, clattering against the box’s ceiling.
There was no time to mourn its loss. One of the male witches—a scrawny fellow with long hair—was running towards Briony’s hunched form.
She watched him approach with terror, holding up Richard’s robes as though they could act as a shield.
Behind her, Elara was thumping the barrier, her flames fanning the corner uselessly.
Richard moved fast, boots pounding the yard as he drew the dagger. He slid to a stop in front of the long-haired witch, ducked beneath a sweeping strike, and drove the dagger into the man’s belly.
The witch gasped, his body spasming, and Richard ripped the dagger downward. The cut opened him from ribs to navel, and his guts spilled in a slick tumble. The man keened and clutched at himself, before Richard slit his throat. He fell with a gurgle.
Two left.
The female witch had opened her mouth, a spell forming on her tongue. Richard hurled the dagger, and she urgently spat another spell. The dagger veered off course, embedding itself in her shoulder, and she buckled with a scream.
Still two left.
The final male witch—beefy, broad-armed—tackled Richard to the ground, knocking the air from Richard’s lungs. With a roar, the witch raised his dagger high—
And faltered, uncertainty crossing his features.
Not a fighter then. Or perhaps, simply instructed not to harm the king.
Richard seized the advantage. He kicked up, leveraging his core, and sent the dagger flying, before wrapping his legs around the witch’s neck. The witch gagged, hands scrabbling. Richard crossed his ankles behind the man’s head and heaved his thighs closer together.
But the female witch was sprinting past them, straight towards Briony.
“No!” Richard released the man and scrambled up.
But before the woman could reach Briony, she collided into another invisible barrier, this one shielding Briony from all sides in the corner. The woman whirled around and screamed at the sorcerer.
“You fool! Release it!”
“No.” The sorcerer’s voice was barely audible. “You—you said you wouldn’t hurt the child.”
“Release it! Her blood must be—”
Richard was upon her. He rammed her against the barrier, jerked out the dagger in her shoulder and thrust it into her throat. She choked, blood bubbling from her lips.
One left.
“Brother!” Briony shrieked. “Behind you!”
He spun around, and the beefy witch—saliva hanging from his mouth—lunged.
The dagger slashed across Richard’s chest, but he grabbed the man’s wrist and struck it against his knee, forcing the blade to drop.
The witch dove after it, but Richard grappled him to the ground.
Sand billowed around them as he straddled the man and smashed his fist down.
Crunch.
Again.
Crunch.
Again.
The witch’s nose crushed. His cheekbone caved. His eyeball popped out of his skull.
Richard kept punching. Blood splattered his knuckles, his face, his hair. Not even the thought of keeping a witch alive for information stopped the urge to kill, kill, kill.
Danger lurked around his sister. He would end it entirely.
Bones splintered until the man’s face was nothing but a pulpy, unrecognisable mesh of flesh and shattered teeth.
Richard stopped, chest heaving, his fist dripping red.
Finished.
Slowly, he rose to his feet and retrieved his dagger. He was vaguely aware that the soldiers no longer beat at the box. They gaped instead, their jaws dropped.
Richard grimaced at the taste of copper permeating his tongue. Grit clung to the sweat along his jaw. Blood—too much blood—slicked his palms and soaked into his once turquoise tunic. A string of something pale dangled from the cuff of his doublet. Breathing hard, he scraped back his sopping fringe.
Across the box, the sorcerer slumped in the corner. His face was pinched with strain, and the pinkish glow in his eyes was flickering.
Richard cocked his head. “Drop the barrier.”
The sorcerer shivered. “I—”
“Do not make me ask twice.”
The sorcerer’s shoulders sagged. Sound erupted around Richard—shouts, sobs, the clank of soldiers’ armour, the crowd’s whispers, Elara and Corwin yelling for Briony.
Two Threadbourne soldiers were on the sorcerer immediately. They shackled his arms in iron cuffs, engraved, Richard knew, with runes that dulled magic. One guard struck the sorcerer across the temple with her sword’s pommel, rendering him limp.
Dain reached Richard first. The Lord Commander’s face was grim, sand speckling his beard.
“Balls and blisters.” Dain appraised him quickly. “Any bad wounds, Your Majesty?”
Richard heard himself answer, flat and distant. “No. I am well.”
But the sun was too bright, and every flicker of movement snapped his attention like a whip. He flinched when Kaelen ran towards him.
“My king.” Kaelen bowed and straightened. His eyes appeared dazed, and a blush coated his cheeks. Something about his blown-out pupils seemed to irritate Dain, who smacked the knight’s breastplate.
Confusion flickered, but Richard paid it no mind.
His pulse whooshed in his ears, and the impulse to fight, kill, thrummed in his veins.
He followed Dain towards the captured sorcerer.
The guards had him drooping between them, his head lolling, mousy hair mussed.
He looked older than Richard had guessed—perhaps thirty.
Not handsome in the typical sense, but striking with his high cheekbones and soft lips.
Richard’s gaze slid to the sorcerer’s forearm, where his sleeve had ridden up. The tattoo there was familiar. Three small blackbirds, huddled close. Above the middle bird, a sorcerer’s staff. Above the left, a crown. Above the right, an axe. And linking them all was a heart.
“Oh,” Richard murmured.
This was Flint’s other lover. Lyell.
Richard had met the leader of the Raven’s Guild—a bandit group that terrorised the eastern border—a few months prior.
Flint had been roguish and flirtatious, but his tenderness towards the lovers etched on his forearm had been clear.
Edith had been in the tavern too—a brawny woman with cropped hair who’d tongued Flint boldly—but Lyell, Flint had said, had been too sick to come along.
So this was Lyell.
Richard twirled the dagger. “Take him to the interrogation chamber. Tell Chief Morland to do what is necessary. I want answers.”
Dain’s mouth tightened. “Understood.”
Kaelen shifted beside them, jaw flexing. Still a young thing of twenty-four. Full of chivalry not yet scoured away by the world’s ugliness.
But war was looming, and Kaelen would fast need to become accustomed to such brutality.
Richard made his way to Briony. Elara had her encased in a hug, patting her hair. Briony’s face was blotched with tears. She shrank as Richard approached.
“Briony,” Richard said. “Why did they come for you?”
“I—I didn’t—” Briony whispered. “I didn’t mean—”
“Did not mean what?” Richard ground out. Something wet and sticky dripped from his brow onto his eyelid.
Briony shook her head, lips trembling. “I don’t know. I don’t—please—”
“Do not lie to me!” Richard thundered. Blood, the witch had said. They’d wanted his little sister’s blood. “What are you hiding?”
He stalked forward, and Briony wailed, burying her face against Elara’s dress. A palm thudded into Richard’s chest, rocking him back. Corwin stood before him with a wary frown.
“Enough, Brother. You’re terrifying her.”
Richard blinked at him. A hand clamped on his shoulder from behind, and he spun with a punch—
that Dain caught in his broad fist.
“Easy now, lad,” Dain said calmly. “Go wash and settle yourself. We’ll debrief when you’re not tasting battle.”
Richard let his arm fall. He glanced behind to see Briony enveloped between Elara and Corwin. “Yes. Yes. Very well.”
A wave of exhaustion crested over him, and his legs quivered. Kaelen neared, but Richard ignored him and walked across the yard on his own. Guards parted and bowed as he strode through. The crowd had mostly cleared from the stands, but those who remained would not stop staring.
Safe, Richard reminded himself. Briony was safe.
But for how much longer?