Chapter Forty-Two Anton
Chapter Forty-Two
Anton
His thoughts are a war drum, a resounding beat of rage.
He will kill Maksim once and for all and use whatever leverage he has left with Moranya to make him suffer for all eternity.
He read for himself what the man did to Vasalie, her stepmother, and worse—the arrangements and deaths he orchestrated to gain himself power.
Maksim will stop at nothing, razing all of Razam before slithering into Miridran either by sword or by treaty, ensuring they are indebted and bound to Brisendale one way or another.
And he will persist until all of the Syndicate is under his thumb.
Anton will not let that happen. He sent word to the Syndicate, yes, but he will end the reign of terror now by severing the head of the snake.
After slicing through another of Maksim’s men, he turns to Basile and Arjuna, both of whom have stayed by his side. “We’re within range. Are you ready?”
Arjuna tugs one of three arrows from his satchel, brandishing the bow he’d kept on his back for this moment. “More than,” he says.
They have one chance. One shot to kill Maksim without drawing the masses.
“Take aim. I will cover you.”
Arjuna has always been a clean shot. He notches the arrow. Aims. Releases the bowstring—
Lightning-fast, the king’s horse crumples, dumping Maksim into a heap in the sand. His men have yet to notice, their attention on Sadira’s latest push. Anton spots her in the fray, and Veer, too. The distraction he needs.
“We finish this now,” Anton growls under his breath, treading up the rocks, the final climb that separates him from his intended kill.
By the time he reaches Maksim, the man is upright and clinging to his sword and shield. His gaze swings wildly about until finally, finally, it settles on Anton.
“Guards!” he shouts like the coward he is. Four soldiers leap to attention, gathering into a shield around Maksim.
“How weak you are, old man. How pitifully frail,” Anton says, approaching one step at a time, readying his sword.
He mocks a bow as the first soldier charges, though Basile is already there, blocking the blow and knocking the man off balance with a kick that no doubt breaks his shin.
“Don’t have all the fun,” Anton quips as Maksim’s remaining defenders charge.
Alongside Basile, he wards them off, swords clanking. The rest of Maksim’s group is still below, picking off more that seek to protect their traitorous king now that he’s under threat.
Anton slashes the leg of the last Brisendali soldier before shoving him off the small cliff—past Sadira, he now notices. How did she get so close? She couldn’t have pushed through that many men. But he can’t lose focus, not when Maksim is standing tall, a lone captain at his back.
The captain steps forward. In his arms is a rolled-up tarp, by the look of it. He loosens the ties, then dumps out a—
A corpse.
“I took pleasure in killing him,” Maksim sneers. “A life for a life. Your pathetic pup of a prince for my king. Hardly a fair trade, I’d say.”
Sundar. It’s Sundar, lifeless, preserved as if he’s been on ice, his skin pale as frost and tinged with gray, his lips a smudge of unnatural blue.
Then there are his eyes, open and lifeless, unseeing.
Anton staggers back, his rage near blinding, yet he can’t seem to tear his eyes from Sundar. He hears a distant scream and knows it belongs to Sadira.
Sundar. He’d seen him in Moranya’s Lair, but hadn’t stopped to consider it since regaining his memories, not with the war on his hands. It takes everything in him not to retch on the spot.
Basile puts a hand on Anton’s shoulder. Anton growls, “When we finish this, secure the prince’s body immediately. Preserve it as best you can. Get him back on ice.” Perhaps…perhaps it won’t be too late.
But Maksim’s plan has worked, Anton realizes. Sundar’s corpse was a distraction, and now a new unit has joined their king, ready to defend. Twenty. No thirty—
Fifty men now, all rushing to aid Maksim. Far too many for Anton and Basile—and even his men below—to battle. Anton might be immortal, but Basile is not. Neither is anyone else.
They can’t fight off this many.
For once, fear singes his heart. He grips the hilt of his sword, teeth gritted, a vision of the night before with Vasalie flashing in his mind, before he shoves the thought away.
He might have a deal with Moranya, but his friends don’t.
He can’t lose Basile or Arjuna like he lost Sundar.
Can’t bear yet another loved one torn away, not to mention the rest of his men.
He doesn’t have enough leverage to make another bargain—not now that he’s already agreed to attempt what she wanted him to do.
From a distance, he sees Queen Sadira’s helm behind the masses, and he thinks about how he’s about to deprive her of yet another son. More of Maksim’s soldiers crowd in, swords pointed, arrows notched.
Hundreds.
“I am sorry,” he breathes, “for endangering you all.”
“It has been an honor to stand with you, Sire,” Basile says. But Anton shakes his head. He has brought them all here to die.
Then three of the Brisendali soldiers fall to their knees—in sync.
Two more.
Another.
They drop like flies, falling unnaturally, one after another—out of nowhere. As if someone has flicked them over like a line of dominoes. A closer inspection reveals the graying of their complexions, the way their eyes go unseeing before they collapse.
How is this happening? Confusion muffles the voices around him.
And then Anton sees her. Vasalie.
Her pupils are a glittering, starlike white, her hair floating around her, weightless. It takes him a moment to understand, even with the sheen cast about her skin.
Mercy’s mirror. It’s in her hand, and Vasalie—
She is wielding the power of a Fate. She has power over souls.
It’s him that almost falls to his knees now—more so as he watches the clenching of her outstretched fist, the dropping of more soldiers. Behind her, so many more are dead. She cleared a path to him. She is here.
Except she isn’t herself. Not as he calls her name. Not as he shouts it. “Vasalie!”
He notices then the parting of her lips. She recognizes her name, yet it’s as if a part of her has succumbed to the power.
Seeing the destruction at her hands, the power she holds—the final soldiers guarding Maksim lift their hands in surrender, their eyes shot wide.
Weapons clatter to the ground. Even across the battlefield, the fighting has come to a halt. The air is thick with fear, many backing away.
Then Vasalie’s gaze lands on Sundar’s corpse. Recognition sings in her eyes, but then they flash a brilliant, rage-filled red. She stretches out her hand once more—
He runs until he reaches her. He grabs her face, bracketing her cheeks with his palms. “Vasalie, look at me.” Her eyes flit toward his, so bright they are difficult to stare directly into. “Not like this,” he says. “They have surrendered. The battle is ours.”
But she’s breathing so heavily she can’t hear him.
“What are you doing, you fools!” Maksim shouts in a furious fit, oblivious to his daughter, his line of sight blocked.
“Basile, apprehend him,” Anton says before turning back to Vasalie. “Minnow.”
Her lips shape words, though he can barely hear them, her breath like the hiss of a gale. He makes them out, only just, when she repeats it. “His soul is mine.”
“Not like this,” he says again, noticing the satchel at her hip. He lifts it. “Put the mirror down, Vasalie. When you take his life, you will do it with sound mind—savor the justice of it.”
“But this power,” she breathes. “I cannot give it up. I have never been powerful before, never in my life. So much pain and suffering, but now I am the master of it.” Still, it’s as though she’s looking right through him.
He knows it isn’t really her talking, but the seduction of such power. Power has always been like that, whether Fates-given or mortal-stolen.
“Hogwash,” he says. “You have never not been powerful, Vasalie. Though you have struggled and suffered and been dealt the harshest of blows, you have overcome it all. And you saved me, don’t you see?
You saved me when it was impossible. Furthermore, you command my damaged, half-beating heart.
You,” he says, “are the most powerful person I know.”
A tear drips down her cheek, another in its wake.
“Hand me the mirror, Minnow. Be yourself again and be with me.”
She breathes out, as if expelling a sigh.
“I love you,” he says.
She drops the mirror into his cloth-covered hands.