Fools all, Brîn is determined to fight her. It’ll be war.
Their Prince is dead,
Draken said.
No. He’s not. He’s lying here trussed like game
.
Draken chose to ignore that, instead wondering how the Akrasians could have brought a ram or other engines and moved so quickly across the country.
They’ll keep the large scale weaponry in Seakeep, likely have done since they took it. Remember the histories of this land, and its conqest? Ty told you as you traveled. Brînians serve at Seakeep as an act of faith, but Akrasians hold it fair. See? It comes now.
Two servii gripped Draken, shoulders and feet, to carry him back to Seakeep, but they stopped as a squeaky battering ram wheeled through the gates. A whipman stood on a ledge built into the ram and beat the eight draft horses pulling it into a gallop. They snorted in protest and bared their teeth around their bits, but they ran. Draken could feel the ground shudder beneath him as they went by. The ram made amazing time across the field. Draken’s servii guards watched the progress for a few moments, then they heaved him back off the ground with a collective sigh and continued their slow trek toward the gates.
Draken looked up at Seakeep and the giant tower, silently cursing the gods and their light shining down on this deception and budding battle. His father still hung there, a spur to Truls’ war, already forgotten. He swallowed hard. If the servii carried him through Seakeep’s gates, he’d never see outside them again.
Draken burst into struggle, twisting in his bonds and fighting the leather strips in his mouth. He grunted, but no sounds made it past the back of his throat. His hands began to chill—Bruche had had enough as well. Together they flexed their combined strength, ethereal and physical. Despite it, the bonds held, cutting into his wrists until they were slippery with blood. The servii dropped him back down to the ground and kicked him for his trouble. In the haze of glaring pain and ethereal cold, he heard thunder.
No, Draken. Hooves!
One of his servii guards fell, hitting the ground like a wet sack of grain, spurting blood. The next soon followed, landing over Draken’s legs, heavy, limp. The horse barely paused its stride, but wheeled about. Draken twisted to see, fighting the dead weight on his lower body, and caught sight of a bloody sword. The horse ran not toward the Akrasian army, but toward the woods, away from the oncoming battle. The rider hunkered low over the mount’s neck and the cloak was colorless gray. Draken turned his head to look at the guard lying on him. He sprawled, still as stone, bloody spittle glossing his lips, seeping hot blood all over Draken’s legs. The rider had struck them down.
But he left you to lie in the dirt?
Bruch wondered.
Or he thought I was already dead.
Curious though. Someone had killed two Akrasians, which put them on the side of Brîn. Or did it?
Before he could ponder this development further, Draken saw a hooded figure fast approaching. It wore Escort green and gripped a knife.
Chapter Twenty-Five
F
air enough, Draken thought, staring at the figure as if it were Korde wielding his scimitar. Enough with this world and its impossible hurdles. Put me out of my misery.
The figure dropped to one knee and grasped Draken’s sore shoulder with a firm hand to roll him back to his side, slipping a knife through the binding on his head.
“It’s me, Aarinnaie,” she said, her nimble fingers pulling the strips from his mouth.
Draken vomited the wretched bile onto the dirt.
“You’re a sight,” she muttered, her hand on his quivering back.
He stared at her, his muscles still recovering from the shock of freedom. Her eyes were outlined in black.
“So are you, Ghost,” he husked out.
She gave him a brief smile. “Mance glamour. We must be quick. Can you move?”
As an answer, Draken pushed himself upright, using hands as numb and clumsy as two wooden clubs. The world spun. “The Akrasians…Seakeep…”
“Be easy.” She grasped Draken’s arms and pulled him to standing. Draken had to work to keep his legs beneath him, but she took most of his weight. “You’re among friends. Brîn has retaken Seakeep. Halmar’s in charge until you’re inside.”
Draken’s mind spun. How had Seakeep fallen from Akrasian control? Was Truls’ treachery already underway? Leaving the Queen and her army trapped in the killing ground between the city and the keep? “Halmar…? Why are you helping me?”
She laughed, mirthless, her arms wrapped around his middle to help support him. “Haven’t you learned anything from your blasted sword? Life for a life. You saved mine, I save yours.”
Halmar? An ally? He had titled Draken but it seemed like a dream, so much had happened in the short time since. Pain knifed through his limbs and his head swam with the agonizing reawakening of his limbs. He leaned on her heavily, but refused to take a step.
“No,” he husked. “Elena.”
Aarinnaie shook her head, misunderstanding. “She’s too far away to kill, surrounded by thousands of soldiers.”
A boom shuddered through the night air. Aarinnaie pulled on him harder. “Already they knock on Brîn’s gates. There will be a battle tonight and you will die if you go there.”
“You don’t understand. I have to get to Elena. King Truls—”
Aarinnaie tugged on his arm again, nearly dragging him to his knees. “Go for Seakeep. You cannot kill her. And we have to organize the counterattack from there.”
“No,” Draken whispered. He drew a shaky breath through his burning throat and staggered another step, dragging her along. “Not kill her. She has Seaborn. It’s the only thing that can kill Truls. And he’s here, Aarinniae.”
Truls sees you coming and he’ll only stop me,
Bruche said.
Go to safety, Khel Szi.
Aarinnaie glanced across the field of fighting soldiers. “Even if she is alive, we cannot get to her.”
A figured glittered out on the field, toward the rear of the troops. Elena, Draken hoped. If so, she wasn’t so far off. It wasn’t just the sword. He’d sworn himself to her; he had to try—
Boom!
The ram hit the city gates.
He swallowed hard and forced his voice. “She’ll try to kill me when she sees me and you can capture her.” Or the other way around. He had to get to the sword. Save Elena. Kill Truls. It was all he knew.
Boom!
A cheer rose up from the Akrasians, cut short by a mass of fiery arrows and spears from the walls of Brîn.
Brilliant plan,
Bruche said.
And after he stops me, kills you, and looses the banes on them? What then? The banes will take Elena as well. And she’ll fight you to the death; Truls saw to it. Korde’s balls, she probably doesn’t even need a bane inside her to hate you.
Draken had little energy to argue, even in his own head. “Seaborn protects her,” he whispered.
She’ll know I mean to save her. She has to.
The spirit snorted in disgust.
“It’s all I’ve got,” Draken said. “I must try.”
Aarinnaie, too, looked doubtful, but she helped Draken walk. After a few moments the sharp agony in his limbs lessened to a bearable state, and he shook free of her grasp. Together—Draken bent and limping—they made their way back toward the Akrasian army.
Crack!
A roar went up from the Akrasians, every eye focused on the ram and the walls of the city.
“They broke through!” Aarinnaie shouted in his ear as if he were deaf and could not work it out for himself.
War horns blared and part of Elena’s army surged at the gates. The mass of servii and horse marshals blocked Draken’s view, but he could only imagine Brînian warriors spilling out. Deadly to a man, willing to bleed for their city, death on their lips. He’d seen them fight at home enough to imagine the vigor of their defense. He almost felt the hostility riding the air, the bloodlust for their conquerors, the ones who had turned them into slave warriors in Monoea, the ones they thought had been the death of their prince this night.
“I’ll grab her horse. You distract her.” Draken began to run in a stumbling gait.
Aarinnaie drew a sword and sprinted past him, doubt apparently settling into resolve. Absurd plan or no, she would do as Draken said. He paused briefly to marvel at their slim-to-non-existant chances. Aarinnaie had been trained more for the shadows and silent kills, but she seemed to have adapted well to the challenges of the battlefield. She slashed through the leg of an Escort at the periphery of Elena’s party and disappeared among the other Escorts surrounding her. She somehow managed to set them into immediate confusion, darting between dancing horselegs and sword thrusts.
Draken’s throat stung, his stomach churned, and every step launched a new argument with his agonized muscles. But even with these hurts, his body remembered, and the adrenaline flowed. His time in the Black Guard was bloody and dangerous, just like now. The movement loosened his muscles and Bruche took care of his real hurts. By the time he reached Elena, thrusting his way through the confusion, the world had settled back on its axis.
Elena still concentrated on the battle, apparently confident her Escorts could handle the disturbance. Draken didn’t see Truls, even in Reavan’s guise. Ducking behind the rump of an Escort’s horse to Elena’s right, Draken slipped around to her horse’s neck and grasped her reins on the left, letting the Queen’s horse block his presence from the bulk of her guards.
Elena stared down at him, her mouth opened in a silent, surprised cry, her hand on Seaborn’s hilt. The Escort next to her grasped his suddenly bleeding side. He toppled from his horse without a sound. Two more Escorts headed their way, but an unwitting servii thrust himself toward the Queen and blocked them—a messenger from the front, no doubt. On the Queen’s right side, Aarinnaie lifted her knife and pressed it to her ribs. “Not a word.”
Elena shouted, “To me! Attack! To me!”
“Go!” Aarinnaie cried. “Take her!”
Cursing, Draken didn’t stop to see if any Escorts responded. He grasped Elena’s saddle and hauled his aching body up behind her. Not waiting for purchase, he kicked the beast into a run and threw his arms around her to yank its head toward Seakeep, clinging to Elena’s mail-clad body. He couldn’t look back for Aarinnaie, couldn’t know if she survived the angry Escorts. The gods’ voices burned in his head, but he only knew he had to get Elena away from the battle. He would face killing Truls later. The Escorts shouted behind them, giving close chase. Elena’s horse stretched out into a run, bolting across the field under Draken’s heels, the Queen pinned to its neck by his body. He heard shouts and the clash of swords after he passed through the gates.
Draken twisted in his sadle trying to get his bearings, and lost his balance. Whether it was his own exhaustion or the wriggling Queen beneath him, he did not know. All he knew was the hard ground leaping up to meet him.
***
The logs’ creaking protest against the furious winds woke him. Draken had been arranged on a cot in a stone room. The sea winds still rattled the shutters, but he heard no sounds of battle.
“My Lord Prince.” Thom sat on a nearby stool, watching him closely. “Are you all right?”
He started to push himself to sitting but immediately thought better of it. Every bone ached, his shoulder throbbed, and a sharp pain stabbed through his temples. He fell back, air rushing from his bruised chest, and lifted his hand to his eyes.
He’s calling me prince.
And why not? You are Khel Szi.
“Elena?”
Thom looked away, at the empty cots, as if to witness Draken in such a weakened state was disrespectful; though doubtless he’d seen to all of Draken’s injuries. “The Queen is all right. She was so furious Halmar didn’t know what to do, so he disarmed her and locked her in a room. It took some doing.”
Disarmed her. “Seaborn…” His voice still wouldn’t cooperate fully.
“The sword is safe. Just there...” He still wouldn’t meet Draken’s gaze. “My Lord Prince, they’re fighting out there. It’s… it’s like nothing I’ve seen.”
Wishing he felt strong enough to sit up, he reached out for Thom’s wrist. “Tell me all.”
The smooth skin above the mask creased with distress. “Prince Osias…” Thom swallowed and his voice strengthened. “After your father took you ashore, we eventually sailed back.” He paused, face pale. “But as we got docked the Brînian sailors became like wild things aboard ship. They started to fight each other and killing themselves. And it wasn’t only them. I’m ashamed, my lord, of the thoughts I had and the deeds I tried—”
“It’s not your fault.” His throat burned with each word, but Draken couldn’t let the Gadye go without reassurance. He coughed. “Osias brought you back.”
Thom nodded. “We escaped only because they were so intent upon each other. Prince Osias stayed aboard ship, saying he would fight the banes. Setia refused to leave him. She said her life was forfeit without his.”
Draken nodded. Setia would never willingly leave Osias’ side. “And Ty?”
“The Captain came with us on the boat, but when he saw the battle he ran onto the field. We could not stop him. And the princess…” Thom shook his head. “I didn’t see her after she went out. Halmar and the others fought back the Escorts chasing you and barred the gates.”
Draken tried to focus on the ceiling, but Bruche shifted his perspective back to Thom, sending his head on a swim again. Aarinnaie had saved him and he’d betrayed her, left her on the field to die. He’d treated her no better than their father had. He swallowed down the sick taste of self-loathing.
You did as you must
, Bruche said.
Aarinnaie is clever and strong. She may see herself clear.
A door opened and Halmar stepped in. The giant Brînian inclined his head. “I have Geord locked up. It was he who launched the attack on your father’s ship.”
There would be time to sort out responsibilities later. Or not. “There’s more, aye? I can see it on your face.”
“It’s worse, Lord Prince,” Thom said, bowing his head so his many braids hid his eyes. “Osias didn’t want the sailors coming ashore, not as they were. He managed to control enough banes so that he and Setia could sail them back out. But Geord and his loyals barred themselves on the battlements. It was a fair span before we broke through and captured them. Meanwhile, they started attacking the ship again...” his voice softened. “It took on water and sank.”