Page 117 of The Cradle of Ice

He backhanded a curved sword as it slashed at his face, knocking it out of the guard’s hand. He followed with a thrust of his dagger, aiming for the gap in the armor under his opponent’s raised arm, to sever the thick arteries, as he had been taught.

But his lessons weren’t over.

Thoryn blocked Mikaen’s dagger with the hilt of his sword and kicked a steel-heeled boot into the guard’s knee. The man gasped and fell to the planks. Thoryn pointed his sword at the guard’s face.

“It’s Prince Paktan,” Thoryn explained. “Third son of Emperor Makar.”

Mikaen lowered his own blade, shocked. He had expected the imri prince to be cowering in the forecastle, that they’d have to dig his craven arse out of hiding. He gaped as the young man rolled to his knees. Under his helm, sweat and ash plastered the Klashean prince’s face. Blood ran through it all from a gash in his forehead. Dark eyes glared at Mikaen and Thoryn.

With the prince at swordpoint, the remaining defenders lowered their weapons.

Mikaen retrieved the curved sword, its hilt shining with black diamonds and thumb-sized rubies, the weapon of a prince. In the heat of the battle, he had failed to spot the opulence of the weapon.

Fortunately, Thoryn had—along with the magnificence of the prince’s armor. On its breastplate, the crossed swords of the Klashean Arms were made of pure gold.

Mikaen shifted Thoryn aside, replacing the captain’s sword with his own. He stared down at Paktan, recognizing the prince was only five or six years older than him. Paktan spat on the planks, not in insult, but only to clear his mouth of blood.

“Do you submit?” Mikaen asked firmly, letting his voice carry across the deck.

Paktan’s eyes narrowed, glanced around the ruins of the ship, then back to Mikaen. “I so swear,” he grunted out.

Mikaen sheathed his sword and offered his hand. Paktan reached and took hold of Mikaen’s forearm. Mikaen matched his grip and tugged the prince up. As he did, Mikaen swung his other arm and punched a gauntleted fist into the man’s nose.

Bone broke under steel.

Mikaen felt its satisfying crunch all the way down to his groin.

He stepped back as the Klashean prince crashed to the planks. With a long breath, Mikaen stared up past the billowing ruins of the balloon, to where the Vengeance’s forges flamed the skies, fighting to hold the Talon aloft. The roaring filled his ears, his chest.

Paktan groaned, drawing his attention back.

Mikaen looked down, searching inside himself for some surge of victory, but all he felt was disappointment. And he knew why.

This is not the prince I want bloodied and broken at my feet.

* * *

WRYTH STOOD BESIDE Liege General Reddak on the broad deck of the Winged Vengeance. The air burned and choked with smoke, but Wryth knew he had to be present as Prince Paktan, the third son of Emperor Makar, was led across the planks in chains, a prisoner of the realm.

The Klashean prince was flanked by Mikaen and Thoryn, the massive captain of the Silvergard, who gripped the prisoner’s arm—not to hold Paktan captive, but to keep him on his feet. The imri prince swayed on his legs, dazed, blood flowing from the ruins of his nose.

Wryth tightened his jaw. Earlier in the battle, when the tides had turned their way and the Hawk’s Talon had been greatly damaged, he had urged Reddak and Mikaen to cordon the Breath and force the Klashean ship to retreat home, humiliated and defeated. Such an act would have been victorious enough without raising tensions. It would have also freed them to pursue and hunt down the other colossal warship, the Falcon’s Wing, to stem any havoc it might wreak.

Reddak had leaned toward that plan, but Mikaen smelled blood in the water, stirring his lust for a more dramatic victory.

Wryth watched it being marched toward them.

Maybe I was wrong.

This capture could serve them well. From Mikaen’s hard sneer, even the prince seemed to recognize the significance of his triumph. Mikaen lifted a Klashean scimitar in hand, a gem-encrusted trophy. This earned a resounding cheer from the legion gathered on the deck.

Once close enough, Paktan was thrown at the liege general’s feet.

Reddak ignored the prize and glared over at Mikaen and Thoryn. The shaven-headed general stood only a brow shorter than the Silvergard’s captain, whom most thought was half Gyn from his boulder-sized shoulders and hulking mass. Reddak came outfitted in only light armor, compared to the heavy battlement of the others. Still, the liege general likely could be naked, baring all his scars, and pose no less of a threat. Even Thoryn respected Reddak’s talents in warcraft and his daunting skills with sword, hammer, and ax.

One did not defy such a man lightly.

“I do not recall giving you two permission to leave the ship and sneak off like a pair of thieving whores from a bed.”