Page 22 of Dance of Kings and Thieves

The first line of warriors followed Halvar. The archers followed Herja to the guard watch posts on the tall fence. They fired an onslaught of arrows at the skyds in the bell tower before the guards could sound off a warning.

Next, Hagen stepped in front of Valen and guarded the king against the flood of Rifters as they came forward.

Bard whistled as a signal. Straightaway, Sol and Tor stepped out into the open. The Alvers were in clear sight. There was something wickedly satisfying knowing they had no idea what was coming.

Black Palace Rifters cursed the gods after it was clear their mesmer did nothing over Hagen’s shield. Frustration kept them from spotting the murky flood of black staining the grass beneath their feet.

Before Sol’s poisonous magic touched the Rifters, Tor ignited his palms in blue flames. He tossed the spark to meet his consort’s power.

I shielded my eyes when the blight caught fire and devoured the line of Rifters in one blow.

The first time we’d followed this strategy, I wanted to marvel at the viciousness of the Sun Prince and Tor. Now, I quickened my step and barreled through the ashes without thinking twice.

Steel crashed against steel. Units of skydguard scrambled to fight off the insurgents, but the North’s warriors were hidden well and attacked from Kase’s inky shadows.

Herja and Gunnar stood side by side atop the gates. One word from the princess and arrows opened chests and throats. Gunnar guided half the upper archers into a position near the back where skyds were fleeing. He caught hold of the captain of the guard. “You’ll let us through.”

“I’d die first,” the skyd shouted.

“All right.”

The captain’s body stiffened. Then, as if in a trance, he stepped aside, allowing the Northern archers to take positions all along the tall fence.

“Listen to me,” Gunnar shouted to the skyds, fleeing from the archers. He took a pause to lift a leather ale skin to his lips. Ale, of all things, strengthened his mesmer. “You’ll all jump off. Make sure to land on your heads.”

Their trance kept the guards silent as they leapt over the edge of the fence to the broken, rocky yard below. My stomach still did not take kindly to the crack of bones and necks. I groaned slightly and swallowed the burn of bile back down my throat.

The camp was scattered. In moments, half their Alvers and guards were leveled. Now came the chaos, the sloppy attacks, the desperation. It was perfect. Seamless and vicious. Our objective was to strike the cottages with supplies, but if we could take out several Black Palace forces, all the better.

Guarded by Hagen, Valen made quick work of cracking the soil around the food storage cottages.

Moldy soil hung heavy in the air. Dust clouded the sight, but beams snapped and groaned as the walls of the small structures sunk at the rooftops and crumbled into the pit Valen carved beneath the foundation.

For a breathless moment, the skyds stared at the wreckage, dumbfounded.

Then, from the main academy, screams rang out. Pupils, noble ladies, and young lords alike, scattered from their dormitories and rooms.

Gods, the bleeding fools fumbled around like cocks with their heads severed. They’d flee toward the warriors, then scream when they realized they were not skydguard. They’d run to skydguard and be shoved aside as the Black Palace defenders took up arms against the warriors.

Some fled into the waiting arms of the Falkyns. One plump noble girl ran into Niklas’s back. The Falkyn smirked and wiggled his fingers, lined in his gold rings. The girl shrieked, then swooned, falling backward onto the grass. Niklas tilted his head, crouched beside the unmoving girl, and plucked the beaded purse slung over her back.

“Many thanks,dännisk.” He saluted the unconscious girl, then took a big step over her unmoving form, her purse around his neck.

A shrill cry of frustration drew me across the shattered yard toward an amphitheater, the place for entertainers and tricksters to perform during festivals. Tonight, it hosted a different performance: Elise, Halvar and Tova, battling against several Alvers.

A man watching the battle sent my heart to my throat. He wore a pearly tunic, his hair was shorn close to his scalp, and a violent grin putrefied his face. The Benevolent.

Kase was lost in the skirmish, likely directing the Kryv and Falkyns toward the field to steal as many weapons as possible. But the Benevolent was looking at Elise Ferus with hungry eyes, as if he had a plan.

I had already started running for them when he struck the queen from behind.

“Elise!” Halvar roared, taking two Alvers at once.

Tova dodged and ducked in her own fight; her glowing eyes wide as Sabain dragged the queen to the ground by her hair.

The race of my pulse matched the heavy thud of my feet.

Elise was no damsel. She did not hesitate before taking one of her small knives on her thigh and slicing through the lock of her own hair in Sabain’s grip. On her feet, she slashed at the Benevolent.