Page 66 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

As three more people crept out of the thick foliage and toward the sea, Old Man, Arvid, Einar, and Henrik pressed close to an almost-crumbling rock wall.

Other figures hurried across the sand, toward a ready rowboat with a former sailor waiting.

This wasn’t the first group Henrik had seen in their bid to escape, and the sheer work of it surprised him.

The boat, now full, shoved away from the sand bar.

When it vanished, another appeared.

Once those people rowed out, their tiny boat barely large enough to meet the weight, Old Man growled, “That’s the hour mark, and the evacuations are well under way.

Let’s get going. We have to sneak through the neighborhoods undetected, and then the abandoned market, and into the Compendium.

There are roaming bands of sailors, but they’ll be little more than a headache for you, and I’m in the mood for heads to roll. I want fire. I want death.”

Arvid chortled. “Good thing you’re on our side.”

Old Man dropped a bulky bag that clunked with the dull thud of metal on metal. Weapons. A thrill of relief brightened Henrik. This, he knew. The world of caring for others, of dreaming of a life ahead, of having something to plan for, he didn’t understand.

Not yet.

Old Man gave a wheezy laugh. “We have a government to overthrow and a self-righteous prig to remove from his fancy-pants throne. I hope His Glory squeals when he dies. I call dibs on wrapping his throat with a whip.”

Einar reached for the weapons first. “You’ll have to fight me for the honor, Old Man.”

With little moonlight to guide, working away from the beach and into neighborhoods was a near-blind midnight walk.

They moved carefully, sticking to tacky shadows along buildings and roads, and kept their footsteps speedy and light.

Old Man, the smallest, sent them frequent glances to see if they kept up.

“No obvious arcane in use,” Henrik said.

“He’ll keep that for himself,” Einar muttered. Arvid, who remained just out of sight behind to keep track of the rear, moved with impressive stealth.

Henrik turned a corner, taking the lead around a tight bend, when a noise tickled near his right ear. He shot out his arm, which slammed into Einar’s chest to stop him. His other hand held up a fist, elbow squared.

Arvid, Einar, and Old Man scattered to hidden corners. Henrik tucked himself around the edge of an ivy trellis and pressed his spine to a wall as a group of three sailors rounded the cobblestone road ahead of them.

“The dark is thick here,” the middle sailor said. He rubbed his arms with his palms, though the night was thick and sultry. His dim profile cast a wary glance to the sky.

“Don’t be a piece of shite,” a different voice responded. “Dark is dark.”

“You say that now! But wait until?—”

“Shut up,” snapped a sailor on the left. “Someone is out there. Did you hear that?”

They stood in the middle of the road. The one on the left, the presumed leader, spread both arms to halt the others. He spun a circle, studying the shadows.

“We’re not supposed to stop,” whined the one on the right. “Besides, who would be out here?”

“Silence!”

Einar breathed, “Feint and cut?” from over Henrik’s right shoulder. Under different circumstances, Henrik might have laughed. Einar’s favorite move was a feint and cut, but it was too sophisticated for this situation. Henrik shook his head.

“Then finish them,” Einar muttered.

Henrik shoved away from the wall. “We’ll give you five seconds to drop to your knees,” he called. “If you refuse, you’ll wake up in the morning or not at all.”

All three sailors whipped around. The middle one gave a mewl-like scream, as if he stepped on a kitten’s tail. The one on the right jumped, grabbing the middle with a shout. Only the one on the left remained calm, eyeing Henrik. Einar and Old Man’s footsteps approached from behind.

“Well?” barked Old Man. “Are you on your knees or are you with us?”

The sailor appraised them, nose in the air and eyes slitted, as if he couldn’t see. Arrogance stained his tone. “Aren’t you that old guy with the soldats, or something?”

Old Man growled through his teeth. He lifted a wooden bludgeon with knobby ends and crimson stains from previous fights. “Or something,” he hissed.

Einar moved like lightning. In two strides, he had the left sailor in a headlock, fended off a clumsy advance from the sailor on the right.

Henrik had his hands on the shoulders of the middle sailor, knee lifted to crunch him in the gut and rob his breath, when something hard slammed into his chest. With an oomph of air rushing free, Henrik doubled over. His entire body locked.

An unexpected sucker punch was nothing new, but whatever hit him was total paralysis. His ribs turned to shards of ice, spreading in a crawl. He collapsed to his knees, unable to gasp. Old Man, advancing from behind, made a strange “Nnnnnguh,” noise and dropped like a sack of coconuts.

Einar shoved the now-unconscious left sailor into the right sailor, knocking both over.

The middle sailor held something with a muted glow, like a prism in front of a candle.

Einar leaped for him, springing like a cat.

Henrik watched from the ground, every fruitless attempt to breathe resulting in narrow vision. A chill ran rampant through his veins.

The sailor dodged Einar’s attack, but fumbled for the glowing rainbow in his hands.

It dropped and skittered across the stones.

Strange thump, thump, thump noises issued as it rolled, flinging misty clouds in a circle overhead.

The gauzy mist vanished when it settled.

Einar grabbed the sailor’s head and slammed it into the cobblestones. He stilled.

Henrik wrestled his white-hot panic. A frozen sleeve constricted his chest, as if someone wrapped him in a binder. He couldn’t wiggle his arms, his toes, or his face. Air. He needed air and he needed it now. Black clouded the edge of his vision.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe .

Mental gymnastics wasted his energy, so he forced his brain off the mental struggle.

Relaxing was impossible. The icy power had slipped all the way into his bloodstream and took over.

Arvid materialized from the night, cuffing the rising first sailor on the head. He collapsed. All three lay prostrate.

“Slam Old Man in the back!” Einar shouted, leaping over bodies to Henrik’s side. “Now!”

Next to Henrik, Old Man writhed. Cheeks red, neck bulging, sweat popping along his forehead. His frenetic movements slowed. Darkness washed along the edges of Henrik’s vision, tightening his sight to a hazy dot in the middle.

A firm thump hit the middle of his spine. Henrik jolted from the painful, unexpected impact. The paralysis broke.

Ice flowed away from him, replaced from the magma-like heat of his blood as it re-perfused his veins. Breath unlocked. He gasped in a great, heaving, shuddering breath that tripled to the bottom of his lungs.

Seconds later, Old Man did the same.

For a long moment, Henrik lay on the ground, gasping like a fish. His head ached as the chill bled away and prickling issued down his skin. Arvid crouched at his side on one knee.

“Henrik?”

“Fine.”

He smacked Henrik’s shoulder. “Take your time.” He moved to Old Man. Einar stood over the arcane item, flipped it over with his toe. He nudged it in a circle, brow scrunched.

“Demmed arcane device,” he called. “Pedr told me about these. They’re concentrated arcane, I guess you could say. It’s a . . . stone. The arcane inside of it sends a paralyzing cold. If you don’t counter it with something physically stronger, you’ll suffocate.”

“How’d you know what to do?” Arvid asked.

“Pedr. He’s—” He stopped short, eyes on Old Man, and finished with, “Different.” Henrik pushed his arms beneath him and shoved up. The pain subsided along his rib cage and spine, but ached along the inside of his skull.

“Who is the arcane from?” Henrik asked, raspy.

“No idea,” Einar murmured. “But if I had to guess, I’d say the Arcanist of Souls.

Had a rainbow again, remember? Just like His Glory on the mainland.

” He met Henrik’s questioning gaze. “If it is, this isn’t good.

Pedr says the Arcanist of Souls is the most ruthless.

If His Glory has given that arcane to sailors . . .”

Henrik swallowed the rising disgust. “We’ll figure it out.”

Old Man slumped, breathing hard. As he shook his head, his eyes rolled back. Arvid caught him before his head slammed into the ground. He kept a hand on his chest. “Regular breathing,” Arvid stated. “He’ll be fine, but he can’t go with us. We’ll leave him.”

Henrik frowned.

“He’d want it,” Einar countered as Arvid pulled Old Man out of line of sight, near the wall along which they’d crept.

Einar studied the road. Shouts rolled from the marketplace, growing with strength and volume.

Einar lifted his chin toward it. “I think we have some more trouble on our hands, and I’m not letting His Glory slip away from judgment day. ”