Page 11

Evander

W e hear screaming far before we can see the outline of houses in the small village.

Still remaining behind the cover of thick evergreen trees in the forest, I dismount in one swift motion.

Quinn’s feet are already on the ground. We quickly tie the horses, and I draw a dagger, sliding it from the sheath across my chest. Crouching low, Quinn and I rush to the edge of the forest.

As the village comes fully into view, a blinding white light shoots from near one of the houses.

The man in the path of that light is struck and flies back into the ground, a plume of smoke rising from where his body lands.

One of the king’s scouts it would appear, from the royal blue peeking out from under the man’s armor, the symbol of Vaohr emblazoned on his chest. Quinn’s eyes widen and slice to mine, mirroring my stunned expression.

“What the hell was that?” I shout, more a statement of distress than a question. I know Quinn has no answer for me.

“I don’t know, but we better go find out.” Always one step ahead, Quinn is already on the move.

We creep around the side of the nearest building, the downed scout only about fifty feet away from us now.

His tunic is singed around the edges of a hole that burns in his chest. It must be at least a foot wide, if not larger.

There’s no way anyone could have survived that.

The familiar smell of searing flesh floods my nostrils, and I have to stifle a gag.

Most of the village buildings are visible now as I look around, trying to remain hidden from view.

It’s a small town from the looks of it—there can’t be more than seventy-five people living here.

Quinn signals to me and we split off. He darts around the far side, and I round the corner near me, full grasping the gravity of the situation in the village center once I can see it all.

I count nine more soldiers. If Braddock’s men are here, scouts must have reported the location of this village to the king, meaning they suspected the inhabitants were harboring someone with gifts.

It’s the only explanation for the burning hole in that scout’s chest. No mortal weapon could have inflicted that kind of wound, could have done that kind of damage.

That was magic. And if the Crown assumed magic, they would have sent enough soldiers to keep the villagers from putting up a fight—comply or die.

Or so he thought. But Braddock was wrong by the looks of it.

These people are putting up a fight. A handful of women race across the village green with a cluster of children attached to them.

Some are slung over shoulders or gripped in their arms while others tag along, holding on to skirts so they don’t fall behind.

From what I can see, they are trying to gather the children into their small temple—attempting to barricade themselves inside, shield them from the onslaught.

It's a smart move. From this vantage point, I see they have maybe two dozen men and women attempting to fight back which is distracting most of the scouts and soldiers. The villagers are armed with whatever they were able to find, and it’s apparent.

A few dull swords and daggers are in the mix and one of them even holds a shovel.

Probably a farmer. The fields around this place are enormous.

The whole town seems to be quite able to sustain itself.

And these people are desperate right now, just trying to survive, to protect their home, to protect their own.

Those with weapons are engaged with the soldiers, but these are civilians far outside the reaches of the capital of Easthallow or the bustling cities of the south.

There are no lords or ladies here, no earls or dukes with a wealth of land and an army in tow.

They are untrained and have never seen battle.

They have likely never killed another man.

They have nothing on these skilled soldiers. And they are going to lose.

I watch the small cluster of children desperately sprinting across the green in front of the temple.

And it appears now that they have caught the attention of a soldier.

One of the women ushering them is grabbed.

She screams for the children to run as another villager hurries to her aid, sword drawn.

I hope he makes it to her because there is no way for me to run that distance with enough time to save her.

It’s utter fucking chaos and something nearby catches my eye.

It’s another soldier, notching an arrow, readying himself to kill. And he’s aiming at the children.

My eyes narrow on him, blocking out everything else around me.

My sole focus is getting there in time. I need to.

I break into a sprint and close the space in seconds, rushing him before he can fully turn around to see what’s causing the sudden noise at his back.

He’s positioned on the outskirts of the village and likely thought no one would be flanking him. And no one should have been.

My body collides with the man. No— boy , I think, as disbelief spreads across his young face.

He can’t be more than sixteen. His skin is dark, his eyes bright and na?ve.

No signs of age or stress have touched that face yet.

Gods, he must have just recently completed his training. Why did they send him out here?

Pain reverberates down my spine as our bodies slam onto the frozen ground and roll.

Despite the shock, the boy is well-trained.

He quickly rights from the surprise ambush and is back in his body in an instant, landing himself on top of me as we tumble to a halt.

Dagger in hand, I stab at the young man, the blade finding a home in his shoulder with a sickening rip of flesh.

He cries out but manages to land a fist square along my jaw.

My head knocks back, jolting my neck as blood sprays from my mouth into my eyes and clouds my vision.

The sharp pain spreads through my jaw and I swallow the metallic tang of blood that slides down my throat.

I stuff my hand between us to yank another dagger from the sheath along my chest as we grapple, and when the boy pulls his body back to land another steel fist to my face, I drive that blade into him.

I thrust it into the soft flesh of his side in the gap of his armor and yank it toward me with a twisting motion, grunting with the effort of tearing through his muscle.

The boy stops abruptly, staring down at me as his eyes go soft and glassy.

Warm blood pools around my hand, and I can feel more than just liquid pouring out of him and onto my body.

I don’t look to see the contents as I tug the dagger free.

Instead, I focus on pushing his body from me and pull the other blade from his shoulder.

Inky blood gathers around the wound instantly.

The boy’s body slumps to the ground, his eyes empty now.

I stand, straightening my back and wiping the blades clean on my pants before tucking them back into their homes in my bandolier.

“Gods help you,” I whisper to the boy. Each kill is easier than the last. Some people say it never gets easier. I am not one of those people.

I glimpse Quinn as I turn away from the soldier.

He has his hands full fighting off three men at once, another running to their aid.

Cursing, I draw my crossbow and notch an arrow.

Taking aim at the one running, I exhale fully, releasing all the breath from my lungs before freeing the arrow into the wind.

It meets its mark, connecting with the man’s throat in a bursting crimson wave that erupts from his neck.

Before the body drops to the ground, I’m tossing the crossbow on my back and bounding across the space to Quinn.

The muscles in my arms and back flex as I draw my longsword and my legs carry me swiftly despite the heavy armor and weapons.

By now, the other soldiers are aware of my presence, having seen their brother in arms downed by my arrow.

The closest one whirls on his heel, swinging his sword at me, allowing Quinn some sort of reprieve from the onslaught.

Dodging the first strike, I jab, slicing through the fine leather armor around the man’s thigh.

But he comes at me again, unphased by the seeping gash in his leg.

His footwork is masterful, but so is mine.

That’s the beauty of fighting the king’s men—I’m better.

I’m not just being cocky, I was trained by the man in charge of them, brought up by their captain of the guard.

My whole life, I lived and breathed becoming a soldier.

The only other person I’ve known like that is Quinn and he’s humbled me.

Since the first time we sparred as boys, he’d proven he was better, a natural warrior, born to be in battle.

But this man in front of me right now? He is no match for either of us.

I’m too agile for him to keep up. We dodge and thrust, each landing a few blows to the other, but he’s tiring quickly.

I keep one eye on Quinn throughout the fight, though I know he can hold his own.

He has the reputation of being notoriously brutal and has killed far more than he’s let on.

Presently, he stands ready to land the final blow on his last remaining opponent, the other currently staining the grass next to him a deep shade of burgundy.

Unexpectedly, my opponent’s sword pierces my upper arm, carving down the side and releasing a gush of liquid heat. I curse and spin on the man, landing a downright blow, my sword brilliant in the sun as it cleaves through his neck. The soldier’s head lands with a thud and rolls toward Quinn.