Page 27 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter twenty-one

There had been no warning. No time.

Cyrus and his men raced down the dimly lit halls, their footsteps thundering through the palace. Torchlight flickered violently as they passed, casting twisted shadows along the stone walls. More men joined them as they went.

They spilled outside to find the courtyard in chaos. Men were scrambling to close the front gates as the nobles’ army tried to fight their way through. Cyrus wasn’t sure how big their army was—a couple hundred or a couple thousand—but it certainly felt on the larger side.

Oil-fed fires scattered the capital, curling smoke into the night sky and choking out the stars.

Flaming arrows streaked the sky, hissing into roofs and alley structures, igniting them one by one.

The clash of swords and shouting men filled the air.

Someone called out Cyrus’s name, but he could barely hear anything above the noise.

Suddenly, Ryman appeared beside him, breathless with blood streaked across his face. Cyrus pulled the Lycus House lead closer to hear him.

“They hit fast,” Ryman shouted into his ear. “We stopped them from coming through on the south side, but we’re outnumbered. They’re pushing for the palace doors!”

Cyrus’s eyes traveled around him. He had thousands of men, but hardly any of them were here.

They’d been working to secure the outer reaches and the rest of the kingdom.

The palace was exposed. They hadn’t expected a raid.

And this wasn’t just a raid; this was a reclamation.

The nobles had come to retake the capital.

He couldn’t let that happen.

“Together!” he bellowed to his men. “Defend the doors!”

They swarmed to join him at the base of the palace stairs, their backs to the doors. This was for more than just the palace. The women were inside. Everan fought with a ferociousness Cyrus rarely saw, even in the arena. Visa was inside.

Steel clashed against steel. His fighters moved with precision. Kill after kill after kill. Yet the noble army kept coming.

Cyrus fought at the front, carving through the enemy, but every man who fell was replaced by two more. The tide against him pressed harder. He cut down a man, pivoted, and dropped another.

And he was realizing…

It wasn’t enough. He didn’t have the men.

He glanced back at the doors. He wasn’t going to be able to hold the palace. And if they lost the palace, they’d lose the capital. If they lost the capital, they’d lose Rael. But there was nothing he could do. It was too much to hold. It was going to fall.

He grabbed Everan. “Get everyone from inside the palace and flee through the south gates!”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“We’re not going to hold. We have to save as many as we can.”

“No, Cyrus—”

Cyrus gripped him harder. “Get Visa out.”

Everan stilled.

“Get Visa,” Cyrus said again. “Get Essandra. Get as many as you can and get out. Once you make it to the outer reaches, you’ll find more of our men. Then you can figure out where to go from there.”

“What about you?”

Cyrus cut a quick glance to Kord and Ryman, who each gave a small salute between blows. “We’ll give you as much time as we can.”

Everan shook his head through gritted teeth.

“Go, brother,” Cyrus told him. If one of them might live, let it be the best among them.

Suddenly, the wind shifted, and a biting chill swept through the courtyard. The torchlights flickered wildly along the outer walls and then were snuffed out, plunging them all into darkness. The battle ebbed as the men paused in confusion, and an eerie quiet settled over them. Uneasy. Unnatural.

A hand touched Cyrus’s shoulder, and he spun.

It was the witch. She held a small flame in one hand as she reached out to him with the other.

He knew what she wanted.

“Not the palm,” he warned. He needed to be able to keep fighting.

Her fingers curled around his wrist, and her flame disappeared. He was again surrounded by darkness. Cyrus couldn’t see her now, but he could feel her. She sliced a clean cut across his forearm. The sting barely registered. Then the feel of her lips.

The instant his blood touched her tongue, he felt the pull. Not the pull of his mind but of his power. Through his chest, through his lungs, through his veins.

The air gusted from ice to fire, and the torches along the walls flamed alive again, flooding the courtyard in light. The nobles’ men staggered back. Cyrus’s men did the same.

Confusion rocked both sides.

Cyrus’s eyes darted to Essandra, but her focus was on the fountain.

A pale glow bled from around the edges of the bronze statue at its center. It pulsed lightly before growing brighter.

Then it exploded.

Shards, sharp as knives, shot outward, tearing armor, slicing flesh, felling men like wheat. Cyrus flung up his arm to shield himself, but nothing hit him. Nothing hit his men.

Another explosion boomed as the fountain itself shattered and burst apart, crippling yet another wave of noble forces. Still, his fighters were spared.

Cyrus didn’t waste the moment. “Push them back!” He rallied his men. The courtyard burst alive again with battle.

Then came the fire.

Burning spheres of witch-flame slammed into the enemy, setting them ablaze. Screams of the nobles’ army rose above the clash of steel.

His men faltered slightly, first in fear. Then that fear turned to awe.

“Push them back!” Cyrus roared again.

They charged forward.

A swarm of the nobles’ men attacked from the left, and a wall of rock erupted from the ground to block them. Cyrus glanced back at Essandra. Figures appeared from the shadows around her, cloaked in smoke. More witches. More power.

A male witch beside Essandra ripped up a wall from the ground, then shattered it, flinging shards of stone as she’d done with the fountain.

The witches fanned out. To Essandra’s right, a woman threshed blows of power through the air. Men buckled midstride, writhing in agony without even being touched.

Another witch slammed her hands against the ground, and the earth trembled beneath Cyrus’s feet. Cracks spidered through the cobbled courtyard. The earth buckled and cracked, then swallowed men where they stood. More screams cut through the night.

Emboldened by the witches, Cyrus rallied his men forward, pressing deeper into the fray.

He cut down man after man, slashing through armor and flesh.

The scent of blood and burning leather filled his lungs.

Through the storm of violence, he kept his eye on Essandra, careful not to get too far from her.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her power to keep her safe. He just trusted his sword more.

She moved through the battle like it was a dance—graceful, lethal, calm amid the madness.

More witches joined her, and he felt the pull of power through him grow even more.

The enemy fought harder, desperate now. They did their best to push toward the palace, but the witches were relentless, and so were his men.

The enemy ranks faltered. Fear took root.

“Drive them back!” Cyrus bellowed, his voice raw, his sword dripping with blood.

Essandra sent a bolt of black flame that reduced everything in its path to mere ash. The air around her shook.

Finally, the nobles broke, scattering into the darkness. Cyrus paused just outside the gates, his chest heaving. Flames broke the night. The courtyard was littered with bodies. The stone beneath his boots was slick with blood.

He turned back to his men. Their eyes moved from him to the scene around them, then to the witches who’d regrouped with Essandra. No one spoke. They only stood with their eyes wide, their mouths open.

What did one even say after witnessing power like that? Perhaps they were all struck with the question of whether it had even been real, as he was. But the devastation of the courtyard told them it was very real.

Apparently Everan was the first to gather his senses. “The nobles are retreating,” he said to Cyrus. “Do you want us to follow?”

They didn’t have enough men for that. Cyrus shook his head. His eyes searched for Ryman. Finding him, he said, “Go to the outer reaches and call men back to the palace. At least a thousand. More if we have them.”

“You think the nobles will try again?”

“I’m sure they will. And they’ll be more strategic about it next time.”

Ryman nodded and left to do as he was bid. Cyrus turned back to Kord’s wary gaze.

“What?” he asked. “You disagree? You question if the nobles will return?”

Kord’s eyes traveled to the witches. His voice came low for only Cyrus to hear. “I question if we’ve bound ourselves to something even darker.”