Daughter of Fate - Chapter 12
“Hurry up,” the guard growled, shoving Pela in the back.
The Knights of Alana is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. When Knights attack the temple of Skystead, seventeen-year-old Pela is the only one to escape. Her mother and the other villagers are taken, accused of worshiping the False Gods. They will pay the ultimate price – unless Pela can rescue them. Pela has never left the safety of her town, let alone touched a sword. What chance does she have against the ruthless Knights of Alana? She’s not a hero. But she knows one…
But she knows one.
Her uncle Devon was a mighty warrior once, in times when magic filled the world. Age has withered his strength and he retired long ago, but maybe he will answer the call of family. Can Pela convince him to stand against the darkness one last time?
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“Hurry up,” the guard growled, shoving Pela in the back.
She cried and almost tripped over the final step before the door above was yanked open. Her eyes watered as the light struck her and she blinked, unable to shield her face with her arms bound behind her. Before she could continue up, rough hands grasped her arms and hauled her the rest of the way.
The breath hissed between Pela’s teeth as the guard tossed her to the deck. Gasping, she struggled to sit up. The flickering of firelight in the distance lit the deck of the queen’s ship, blinding her until her eyes adjusted.
“Pela!” a woman shrieked. “No!”
Pela gasped and swung around, recognising Kryssa’s voice. After all this time, she’d begun to think she would never see her mother again. Hope swelled in her heart, only to wither and die as she found Kryssa edged by two guards, her arms similarly bound. Tears stung Pela’s eyes as she took in her mother’s dishevelled hair and bruised face. Gritting her teeth, she tried to fight back, but the guard only grabbed her and dragged her across the deck to join her mother.
“What are you doing here?” Kryssa croaked, her face a mask of grief.
“I invited her.”
The two of them looked around as the queen stepped from her cabin out into the twilight. She strode across to join them, a smile on her perfect lips.
“You witch!” Pela screamed, struggling in the grasp of the guard. “I trusted you!”
Marianne sighed. “I am sorry, young Pela,” she replied. “Truly I am. Had the Baronians not failed so spectacularly, we would not have needed you. My dear husband was meant to be our sacrifice against the Light, but alas, the fool had to go and die too soon. We had to make…last minute adjustments.”
“No!” Kryssa shouted. Tearing free of the guards, she charged at the queen, but a fist caught her in the stomach, doubling her over. She crumpled to the deck, her breath coming in half-shrieked gasps.
Teeth bared, Pela threw herself at the man that had attacked her mother, but he was twice her size and her hands were still bound. His iron fist caught Pela in the face and sent her crashing down alongside Kryssa.
“If we’re quite done?” Marianne murmured, wandering closer. “Mother and daughter—has there ever been a bond so strong?”
“May the Three Gods curse you,” Kryssa snarled.
The queen chuckled and leaned in close. “My dear, you and I both know those sorry creatures are dead,” she whispered, before saying in a louder voice, “Even now, at the end, you cling to your cursed deities. Get them up.”
Men raced forward and hauled them to their feet. Kryssa seemed to shrink into her captive’s arms as she stared at the queen. “Please,” she whispered. “Do what you want with me, but leave my daughter—”
“Your daughter is twice the heathen you are, witch,” an Elder snapped, stepping forward. Pela started as she realised she recognised him from Townirwin. “She killed an Elder in cold blood. She’ll burn at your side for her crimes against the Order, as our sacrifice against the Light God. As you will burn against the God of the Sky.”
“Please…” Kryssa tried again, but the Elder backhanded her across the cheek.
“Speak no more, witch!”
Kryssa’s face hardened, her eyes taking a dangerous glint. “By the Three Gods, I’ll see the both of you dead,” she hissed.
The Elder raised his hand again, but something about Kryssa seemed to give him pause, and after a second he smirked and stepped back, though now Pela thought she glimpsed fear on his face.
The queen stepped between them. “Enough of this,” she announced gaily. “We’re about to find out who our sacrifice against the Earth is to be!” She pointed off the bow of the ship.
Pela followed her arm and finally saw the source of the firelight. A thousand torches burned around the rim of a massive structure stretching out from the cliffs of a cove. She had never heard of its like anywhere in Plorsea. Where in the Three Nations had the queen brought them?
Then her gaze was drawn to the two figures standing on the great stage of the theatre. A lump lodged in her throat as she saw the massive man with warhammer in hand. It had to be Devon. Blood pounded in her ears and she barely heard her mother’s scream.
“What is he doing here?”
“Devon?” Marianne chuckled. Arms folded, she stepped between them. “Why, he’s here to save you, of course. I told him if he could defeat Ikar, he could take your place in the flames.”
“No…” Kryssa whispered, her silver eyes wide.
“He must know we intend to betray him, but the man refuses to give up. Of course, we didn’t leave him much choice.”
“You witch,” Pela gasped. “Devon!” She screamed his name until one of her captors thumped her in the head, but it made no difference. He could not hear her over the waves crashing on the black shore.
Pela sagged in her captor’s arms. Looking from her mother to Devon, she struggled to find the strength that had carried her this far, but it had abandoned her. Across the narrow waters, Devon stood out stark against the burning torches, his aged face cast in shadows. Against him stood a mammoth of a man, larger even than Devon in his plate mail armour. As she watched, he drew a broadsword from his back and saluted.
“May your legend end with courage, cousin!” his voice boomed out across the waters.
“And may yours end in flame,” the queen said to the two of them.
She gestured to the guards, who dragged them to the mast and bound them there, back to back. The Elder and his guards departed, followed by the rest of the Knights, until only Marianne remained with them on the deck of her ship.
The clash of weapons echoed from the cliffs as the battle in the stadium began. Wood creaked as the ship rocked at anchor. Pela strained against her bonds, glaring at the queen, but it made no difference.
Smiling sadly, Marianne wandered across to them. “I am sorry, you know,” she murmured. “But you really are the best sacrifices I could have asked for.”
“You don’t even believe!” Kryssa shrieked, her jaw snapping closed as though to tear out the queen’s throat.
“No,” Marianne shook her head, “but the Elders, they discovered long ago there was a power in death. They just lack the…creativity to use it efficiently.”
“You’re insane,” Pela said.
“We’ll soon find out, I suppose,” the queen responded. She reached into her pocket, and withdrew two necklaces of polished metal, though not of any kind Pela had ever seen. Runes had been carved into the dark steel. “I’m afraid you will not live to find out though. Here, would you be so good as to wear these?”
She fastened the steel to their necks, despite their protestations. Bound tightly to the mast, there was nothing either of them could do to resist. An icy cold slid down Pela’s spine as the clasp clicked shut, though the metal was warm from the queen’s pocket.
“There!” Marianne said, stepping back. “Now we match.” She held up her arm, revealing a similar band around her wrist.
“What are they?” Kryssa grated.
“Oh don’t worry, they can’t harm you,” Marianne replied easily. “They’re just a prototype, based on a little something we took from the Tsar’s records.”
“So what do they do?” Pela snapped.
But the queen was already turning away, one hand raised in farewell. “Farewell!” she laughed. “I do hope you enjoy the show.”
Then she was gone, disappearing over the side into the rowboat, leaving the two women alone aboard the ship.
Defeat my Knight, and I will set your family free.
Devon’s heart thumped in time with the pounding waves as he watched Ikar. All around the stadium, the stands were packed with the followers of the Order. Their jeers and taunts rained down upon him, but Devon hardly heard. There was an ache in his chest as though he’d been impaled, as though the queen had already struck him a mortal blow and he was simply living out the last motions of his life.
And perhaps that was the truth. Somehow, he had convinced himself that this plan could work, that he could march into the centre of the Knights of Alana and cause a commotion, a distraction of some sort that would give his friends the opportunity to free Kryssa.
How foolish he’d been.
Marianne, the queen who had stood beside Braidon all these years, was behind everything.
And he had delivered Pela right into her hands.
Roaring, Devon threw himself suddenly forward, swinging his hammer with all his might. In his heart, he knew this battle had no meaning, that ultimately Marianne would betray him as she had everyone else. But in that moment, he did not care. So great was his rage and desperation that his exhaustion, his age, all were forgotten in the face of this foe that dared stand against him.
But for all that, Ikar was faster still. He twisted from the path of Devon’s hammer and lashed out with his fist. Devon’s ears rang as the blow struck him in the side of the head and he staggered back, holding up his hammer to deflect a riposte.
But Ikar did not follow, and cursing, Devon began to circle the swordsman. The slits in Ikar’s visor followed him, and Devon found himself wondering at the man hidden within. This was no green recruit like the Knights they had defeated on the plateau; Ikar was a man grown, as skilled as any opponent Devon had faced in his long years.
The stage had been covered in sand from the cove and raked clean, clearing it of obstacles that might trip an unsuspecting boot. The crowd had fallen silent now, but each time their weapons clashed, it seemed as though the very earth shook with their screams. They knew this battle could not last long, that with warhammer and broadsword, a single blow could end the fight. No one wanted to miss that final blow.
Devon adjusted his grip on his hammer and stilled. Ikar mimicked the movement, the tip of his sword lifting half an inch, and Devon attacked. The broadsword leapt to meet him, and steel rang out as the weapons smashed together. But using his prodigious strength, Devon dragged on the haft of his hammer, redirecting his attack for Ikar’s helm.
Ikar cried out, his head whipping back, but he could not completely avoid the blow. There came a great shriek of metal as Devon’s hammer ricocheted from Ikar’s helmet. Then his foe’s sword lashed out, slashing Devon across the chest, and he was forced to retreat before it impaled him.
Cursing, Ikar staggered on the black sands. Devon’s blow had warped his helmet and visor, making it difficult for the Knight to see. Devon started forward and then hesitated, his eyes flicking out to where the queen’s ship still bobbed at anchor. His stomach twisted as he finally saw Kryssa and Pela, bound now to the masts of the ship. Movement came from the end of the docks as the queen climbed from her rowboat and turned to watch him, a smile on her lips. Her eyes were mocking, as though begging him to strike Ikar down, so that she might betray him one final time.
Turning back to his opponent, he lowered his hammer. “You’d best remove it.”
“I can’t!” Ikar snapped. “I am a Knight of Alana. We are forbidden from revealing ourselves to those outside our Order.”
“So be it,” Devon chuckled, “if you’re that eager to die…”
“Wait!” Ikar snarled, then cursed. He tore the helmet loose and hurled it away.
The breath caught in Devon’s throat as he saw the Knight’s face for the first time. He could have been looking into a mirror of his younger self. Anger and confusion reflected from the man’s amber eyes as he lifted his sword once more, preparing himself for the battle to come. Devon swallowed, reminded of his own fervour as a youth, when he had marched against Trola beneath the flag of the Tsar.
He lowered his hammer. “I don’t want this,” Devon murmured. “There’s no need for us to fight.”
“Ah, but there is,” Ikar said. He unclipped the straps of his breastplate, and it toppled to the ground with a thump. He continued to remove the rest of his armour. Stepping clear, he grimaced and gestured at the pile. “It’s no use against a warhammer, is it?”
“No…” Devon replied, his voice sad. He lifted his hammer as Ikar started towards him.
“No,” Ikar agreed, his sword coming up.
Unencumbered now, he moved with the speed of a scorpion, his blade flashing out to catch Devon on the arm. A curse tore from Devon’s lips as he tried to counter, but the Knight danced clear and the warhammer struck the sand with a dull crash. He jumped back as Ikar attacked again, and this time managed to deflect the blade on the head of his hammer.
Ikar twisted and lashed out with his boot, striking Devon a blow to the calf. He staggered and lashed out wildly, coming within an inch of crushing his cousin’s arm. Ikar leapt clear and Devon made to follow, but there was a burning in his chest and he almost staggered. Breath ragged, he recovered and forced a grin, but the disdain in Ikar’s eyes told Devon the man had seen.
“It is a shame we could not have met sooner, cousin,” Ikar puffed. Rolling his shoulder, he gave a practice swing. “I would have liked to fight you in your prime. It is sad to see you now, your stamina spent, your strength worn away by the passage of time.”
Devon’s heart palpitated in his chest as he struggled to regain his breath. “You know nothing,” he breathed at last, “or you would not follow the queen’s evil. Alan and Alana both would be rolling in their graves to know what you have done.”
“And what of your deeds, Devon?” Ikar asked as they circled one another again. “You served the Tsar for years, allowed his avarice to drive Lonia into poverty. What would Alan have thought of his ancestor wielding kanker against his home nation?”
“I never fought against Lonia,” Devon snapped. “Not for the Tsar.”
“No,” Ikar replied, “but you did for Braidon. You served in his guard, fought beside him, protected him from our swords.”
“Braidon did not seek war with Lonia,” Devon growled. “It was your king who started the war…or had you forgotten that?”
“Ashoka only ever took what was rightfully ours!” Ikar thundered.
Devon shook his head. “We could argue over the past all day,” Devon said. He pointed his hammer out to the ship bobbing at anchor. “But Braidon never sentenced innocent women to death.”
“He may as well have,” Ikar snarled, and then he was on the attack, his sword slashing for Devon’s face.
Sparks flashed as Devon caught the blow on the head of his hammer. The crowd roared their approval as the fight resumed, a flurry of violence from the Knight driving Devon backwards. But he held on, knowing Ikar could not keep up such a pace, though his arms burned with the weight of his hammer and his mouth was parched.
Finally there was a break in the attack, and digging deep, Devon countered. Unleashing every drop of rage he had left, he forced Ikar backwards across the sands, hammering again and again at his defences. But Ikar avoided each blow with apparent ease, twisting to dodge each whistling swing of the hammer, his sword rising to deflect the occasional attack that came close.
The shriek of steel meeting steel echoed from the cliffs, and the crowd roared again. Their screams drowned out the howling of the wind and the crashing of waves, even the beating of Devon’s heart, until all there was in front of Devon was the rush of battle. Adrenalin fed strength back to Devon’s limbs and to his surprise, he found his exhaustion falling away. For the first time in years, he felt almost young, his strength renewed, age forgotten.
Ikar cursed and screamed, trying to regain the initiative, but Devon’s relentless assault forced him ever back. Sweat appeared on his forehead, and Devon saw the first traces of doubt enter his enemy’s eyes. Still he kept on, thoughts of Pela and Kryssa aboard the queen’s ship driving him on. He had to keep up the spectacle, distract the Knights from their prisoners long enough for Braidon and the others to reach them. There was no doubt in his mind Marianne would betray him. His life was already forfeit—all he could do now was buy the others time to escape.
But Ikar would not submit and as the battle drew out, Devon felt the familiar pain return. His movements slowed, and with every blow his strength lessened. Slowly Ikar forced himself back into the fight, pressing Devon to defend himself, to duck and weave as Ikar’s blade sought his flesh. Blood dripped from the wound on his chest and Devon found himself regretting his earlier mercy.
Slowly Ikar forced Devon to a standstill, then back one step, and another.
Devon gasped as the broadsword sliced at his head. He leapt back, and the tip cut through the collar of his shirt, narrowly missing his throat. Blood thundered in his ears as he sucked in a breath. All the pain of his body came rushing back in an instant, the burning in his arms, the ache in his shoulder, the agony of his knees. He sagged where he stood, almost falling.
His foe saw it and grimaced, but he did not back away. He had seen Devon’s strength now, had learned to respect it. He would not allow the old warrior another chance to recover. Devon raised his hammer just in time to deflect his next attack, though the power in the blow sent him reeling back.
Steel rang out again as he blocked a second blow, then used the weight of his hammer to force Ikar’s sword into the sand. The weapon struck the wooden stage beneath with a thud and became lodged there.
Seeing his chance, Devon lashed out with a fist, striking Ikar full in the side of the face. The punch shocked the man off-balance and he lost his grip on his sword. He leapt to the side as Devon attacked, seeking to end Ikar’s threat.
“Devon!”
Ice slid down Devon’s spine as Marianne’s voice carried across the stadium. Filled by a sense of premonition, he spun towards her. She still stood on the docks, arms crossed. A smile crossed her lips as their eyes met.
“Time’s up,” she shouted.
Before Devon could cry out, a flaming arrow rose into the sky. It flashed upwards like a shooting star through the night, higher and higher, before gravity finally took hold and it began its slow descent towards the ocean.
Except it was not the ocean it was aimed at. Down it spiralled, down towards the deck of the queen’s ship, where Kryssa and Pela still stood bound to the masts. Pela opened her mouth in a silent scream as it struck, before an audible whoosh carried across the waters, and flames leapt from the decks, stealing them both from view.
The breath caught in Caledan’s throat as he glimpsed the flaming arrow soaring out over the waters. He followed its path to the ship bobbing in the cove. His gaze took in two figures bound to the masts, silver hair flying in the wild wind.
“Pela!”
Before he could comprehend how she had come to be there, the arrow struck the deck and flames engulfed the ship.
“No!” Genevieve staggered past, one hand outstretched towards the flames.
Cursing, Caledan grabbed her and dragged her back. They had searched the entire amphitheatre without success and returned to the shadows of the tunnel—empty now, as the rest of the Order had filled the stands. But just fifty feet away, Devon was down on one knee, his eyes on the flaming ship.
“It’s not over yet,” he hissed, dragging Genevieve towards the beach. “Come on, there’s rowboats on the shore. If we’re quick…” He trailed off as Genevieve came alive in his arms.
She threw him off and sprinted towards the beach. He made to follow her, and then noticed Braidon’s absence. He swung around and found Braidon still standing frozen at the edge of the arena. A curse left his tongue he stepped towards the king. If the Knight that had defeated Devon noticed him, it would bring the entire weight of the Order down on them. They would never escape, not unless…
“Braidon,” he hissed. “It’s now or never—call the bloody dragons, or Pela and Kryssa are dead!”
But the king did not respond. Another roar came from the crowd outside, and beyond the king, Devon surged back to his feet and hurled himself at the Knight. But Devon’s opponent had the old man’s number now, and he deflected the attack almost effortlessly, then smashed Devon with a right cross that hurled him from his feet.
Caledan winced, bracing himself for the end, but instead Ikar turned and addressed someone Caledan could not see. “The sacrifice was meant to wait until the duel was ended.”
A woman moved forward, striding across the sand until she stood before the two men, and finally Caledan realised why Braidon had frozen. The queen stood for a moment looking at the towering Knight, then around at the stadium. She raised her arms, and silence fell over the amphitheatre.
“Is this not the Saviour’s will?” she called to the fanatics in the stands. “To see her champion crush the defender of the False Gods? To burn the blasphemous believers from our lands?” Her hand flung out to point to the burning ship. A dark band shone on her wrist. “With the Great Sacrifice, our freedom is assured!”
The crowd roared, and after a moment’s hesitation, Ikar dropped to one knee before the queen.
“Braidon,” Caledan hissed. Heart pounding in his chest, he darted forward and grabbed at him, but the king shrugged him off. “Call the dragons!” he tried one last time.
“Marianne,” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. Caledan shrank into the shadows of the tunnel as the king entered the stadium, his voice roaring up into the stands. “Traitor!”
Leaving behind the safety of the entrance tunnel, Braidon advanced on the queen. Her eyes had widened at his shout and her face had lost all of its colour. But she recovered her composure quickly, gesturing her guards forward. They spread out to encircle the king.
“Take him, alive!”
A groan tore from Caledan as the guards surged forward. Braidon swayed on his feet, his face a mask of agony, but his sword leapt to meet the first of his challengers. It speared through the guard’s throat and the man collapsed, choking, to the ground. Braidon continued on without slowing, his voice ringing from the stands.
“How could you?” he bellowed, his voice taut with rage. “After everything we shared? After everything I did for you?”
He swayed as a blade flashed at his face, then surged forward, his short sword plunging under the guard’s sword arm and deep into his armpit. It sank to the hilt and lodged there, tearing from Braidon’s hands.
Drawing his dagger, the king staggered on, but the guards were all around him now. They swarmed him, pinning his arms to his side and bearing him to the ground. In seconds they had Braidon’s hands behind his back. They dragged him forward and shoved him to his knees in front of the queen.
“Oh, now my night is complete,” her voice whispered across the sands to where Caledan stood.
He couldn’t bear to watch any longer. His life’s goal had been robbed from him yet again. He might have still run out into the stadium and stolen the king’s life himself, but his other mission called to him now. There was still a chance they could save Pela and Kryssa. However small, he had to take it. Turning, he sprinted from the tunnel out onto the beach.
There was no sign of Genevieve and he prayed she was already in the water. Out in the coves, flames leapt across the deck of the ship, but the masts did not seem to be burning yet. Praying the smoke had not already killed them, Caledan hurled himself into the nearest rowboat.
Waves surged around the vessel, almost upending him. He cursed as water flooded over the side, and struck out again, desperate to pass beyond the breakers. The light of the burning ship flickered on the waters, turning them to a living, churning mirror. Just below the surface, he glimpsed the twisted reefs waiting to tear his boat to pieces. He still wore the heavy armour of the Knights. It would drag him straight to the bottom.
Teeth clenched, he heaved again on the oars, and the boat crashed through another wave. He twisted on the bench, saw he was closer, just twenty yards away now. The flames were everywhere and he strained his eyes, searching the heavy smoke for sign of Pela or Kryssa. He redoubled his efforts as the crackling of burning wood rose above the screams from the stadium.
He was still ten yards away when the fire reached the aft of the ship. They crawled up the stairwell, creeping along the railings and catching on a pile of canvas stacked in the centre of the deck. Caledan gritted his teeth, eyes fixed on the rope ladder. The flames still had not reached it. If he could just—
With an almighty boom, the rear of the ship suddenly lifted from the water, hurled skyward by a massive column of flames. They spread upwards and outwards in a violent wave of orange, consuming wood and cloth and steel alike. Caledan watched in horror as the entire ship disintegrated before his eyes.
Then the shockwave struck, a roiling, boiling blast of energy that lifted the rowboat beneath him and hurled it shoreward as though it weighed no more than a box of kindling. Caledan tried desperately to turn it, to direct it, but the oars were torn from his hands. He threw himself down and clung to the boat, breath searing in his throat, and prayed to whatever Gods remained to protect him.
The rowboat struck the shore with such force that Caledan was hurled bodily onto the rocky sands. The impact sent an eruption of sand up in every direction and he felt the armour buckle around him, twisting and tearing. Breath hissed between his teeth as his lungs emptied, and he felt the sword torn from his belt and hurled away into the darkness.
Pain swamped him as he lay there on the beach, waiting for death to come, for the swirling flames that had engulfed the queen’s ship to reach the shore and consume him, or for the ocean to rise and suck him into its murky depths.
But a minute passed and the roaring of the inferno lessened, and finally he groaned and lifted himself to his hands and knees. The armour creaked and squalled, moving sluggishly, and in a rush of claustrophobia Caledan tore off the helmet and hurled it away. He dragged the dagger from his belt and cut the straps of his breastplate and grieves, until he stood again in pants and tunic, free of the cursed steel.
When Caledan finally took note of his surroundings, he was surprised to find himself at the other end of the beach, two hundred yards from the amphitheatre. A sharp cramp tore through his calf as he stepped towards the stadium. Cursing, he sank to one knee and gripped his leg, and clenched his teeth until the pain ceased.
The crackling of flames drew his gaze offshore. There was nothing left of the queen’s ship, and now the waters of Malevolent Cove were aflame with burning debris. Scorched pieces of wreckage lay strewn across the cove. Caledan had never witnessed such a blast, though the great tales told of Magickers who had commanded similar violence.
He closed his eyes, recalling Pela’s bravery on their journey. She had faced down Baronians and Knights in her quest to save her mother, but in the end, it had all been for nothing. A wave of grief struck Caledan. He’d failed Pela, had failed them both.
Another cry echoed form the amphitheatre. Caledan wondered whether the queen had struck down Braidon too, if she had robbed him of that last piece of meaning in his retched life. Staggering to his feet again, he found his sword sticking from the sand nearby. He claimed it, and then looked from the amphitheatre to the cliffs.
There was no one watching the path now. He could walk from the Cove without a backwards glance, leave behind Devon and Braidon and Pela and never look back, could go and find a new path, a new purpose.
Then he remembered Devon’s words, the night Braidon had joined them.
What’s the point of saving Plorsea, if I can’t save my family?
Sword tight in one scorched hand, Caledan limped towards the shadow of the amphitheatre.
Braidon stared up at his wife, grief and shock tearing him apart in equal measures. Two members of the Queen’s Guard held him tight, but the fight had left him now. He was still struggling to comprehend what he was seeing: that the sweet young woman he’d first met in Lon, that the woman he loved, who had borne his son and slept beside him all these years, had betrayed him.
“Why?” he croaked finally.
Marianne’s smile faltered. “Why?” she hissed, stepping closer and raising her fist. “Because I’m not some trophy for you and my father to trade!”
Held tight by her men, Braidon couldn’t avoid the blow. It struck him hard across the cheek and he heard something go crack. He reeled back, but the guards’ grips did not loosen. Tasting blood in his mouth, he spat on the black sands.
Cursing, Marianne retreated a step, holding her wrist. “Damnit,” she said, her eyes flickering in the direction of the cove. “They still live.”
“I thought you wanted to marry!” Braidon snapped.
His wife’s lips twisted in a sneer. “Are you really so blind?” she snapped. “I was barely a woman; why would I want an old man like you?”
“You lied…”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Marianne snarled. “Yes, I played my part well, obeyed my father’s command and brought peace for our nation. But I have always loathed you, Braidon. Every second, every time I lay with you, I longed to drive my blade through your heart. How I wept, when I thought my Baronians had robbed me of that chance, how I laughed when they burned.”
Braidon shook his head. “We have a son.”
“Perhaps there is a Saviour, after all,” Marianne continued, her eyes aglow. “For my prayers have been answered: I finally have you in my power. Now you will die, dear husband, knowing who it was that killed you. If only I could have done the same with my father, but only poison can slay the snake.”
Marianne drew a slender rapier from her belt and held it up to the light. “There is power in death, in our lifeforce,” she murmured, turning her eyes on Braidon. “The greater the sacrifice, the more power spilt. That is why I wanted Devon here, why his daughter and granddaughter burn. Only the fiercest, the bravest would do.” She glanced again at the bracelet on her wrist, a frown touching her forehead.
“What are you talking about?” Braidon snapped, regaining some of his fight. He strained against the guards, but they pinned his arms behind his back and forced him face-first into the sand. Teeth bared, he spoke into the ground. “If I’d known…”
“You didn’t want to know, husband,” Marianne snapped. “You only wanted to believe that this beautiful young woman could love you.”
Braidon flinched as the cold point of her rapier touched his neck.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked, scrunching his eyes closed.
“Oh yes, tell me—”
Boom!
The roaring struck a second before the concussion wave. Braidon cried out as burning air swept through the amphitheatre, hurling sand at his face and staggering grown men. Caught off-balance, the queen and her guard were thrown sideways.
There wouldn’t be another chance, and Braidon grasped it with both hands. Leaping up, he slammed his shoulder into the nearest guard, hurling the man from his feet. His sword skittered across the sand and Braidon dove for it. Scrambling back up, he spun in time to slam the blade through a guard’s unprotected groin.
The guard went down with a groan and Braidon leapt at the queen—but the giant warrior that Devon had been fighting stepped between them. Unfazed by the explosion out in the cove, he lifted his sword.
“Put it down,” he said quietly. “My queen is not done with you.”
“But I’m done with her,” Braidon snapped.
He launched himself at Ikar, but the big man was faster still, and Braidon’s strength was failing. His broadsword swept Braidon’s blade aside, then his fist slammed into Braidon’s stomach, driving the air from his lungs. Choking, Braidon sank to his knees, the sword slipping from his fingers. A kick from Ikar’s boot sent it out of reach.
“No,” Braidon gasped.
“Yes,” Marianne growled, stepping around the giant.
Looking up at his wife, Braidon saw again that day on the river, how he had done everything he could to protect her from the Baronians. But she had been on their side all along, had even been behind her father’s death, if her words were to be believed. Hatred rose in Braidon’s chest and he struggled back to his feet.
Ikar held out a hand to bar his approach, but Marianne waved him aside and walked forward until they stood face to face.
“I loved you,” he whispered.
“You always were a fool.”
Before Braidon could react, Marianne lanced her slender sword out, stabbing him through the chest. He gasped and staggered back, clutching at the blade, but Marianne yanked it back, slicing his fingers. The strength went from Braidon’s legs as blood blossomed. He sank to his knees, struggling to slow the bleeding.
Sand crunched as his wife approached. She crouched in front of him, her eyes aglow, drinking in his suffering.
“I’m glad you didn’t die in that river,” she whispered. Gripping him by the chin, she forced him to look at her. “I want to see you suffer, like I have suffered all these years.”
Groaning, Braidon tried to push her hands away, but his bloody hands slipped from her wrist. An icy cold had begun in his fingertips and was already spreading up his arms. His legs were numb, and he knew if he did not stop the bleeding soon…
His vision blurring, he stared past the queen, taking in the flames still leaping from the top of the amphitheatre, the roaring inferno in the cove. There was nothing left of the queen’s ship or Kryssa and Pela. Sadness touched him as he realised he had failed even that small task.
Sadness gave way to anger as he looked up at his wife.
“Oh yes, fight, it makes this all the sweeter,” Marianne mocked, her voice a whisper. “I need no bracelet for this—I know the words. When the life slips from your body, it will flow into mine, as the Elders do it. Who would have thought dark magic could be so joyful.”
His entire body numb now, Braidon struggled to understand her, but he could make no sense of her words.
“How it must hurt, to die such a failure,” the queen continued. “Knowing you have brought nothing but death and destruction to your people. How you have failed so utterly, that your entire life was meaningless. You could not save your beloved sister, nor Plorsea, not even a single innocent woman.
A groan tore from Braidon as he struggled to break away from her iron grasp, his will to live slipping away with each passing moment.
“Yes, I can feel the life leaving you…” Marianne’s eyes were aglow now, lit by some unknown force.
“He hasn’t failed yet,” a woman’s voice spoke from behind the queen.
The darkness was beckoning. Braidon squinted, trying to make out the speaker.
“How?” the queen growled.
She shoved Braidon back and stood. He lay on the sand and clutched weakly at his wound, slowing the bleeding as best he could.
“I said I would kill you,” the woman’s voice came again, strangely familiar.
“You won’t get close!” Marianne screamed. “Kill her, Ikar.”
Braidon’s head flopped to the side as the giant strode forward.
“Put down that sword,” the giant said, his voice strangely muted.
“So, this is you, Ikar,” the woman replied, her voice strangely muted. “Step aside,” she continued sadly. “Or only one of us will leave this place alive.”
“You know that I cannot.”
“Then defend yourself!”
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