Page 69 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

“Maybe. Pedr is the Arcanist of the Sea. So . . . let’s hope?”

“Shite. Any chance you can call for Pedr?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Let’s hope the ocean already has.”

Shuffling steps approached from the right. Arvid, striding up the road, didn’t bother to hide as he sidestepped amongst arcane, ash, fallen wagons.

Einar swung around. “When we win against this bastid, can I be the one to whip him until the muscles slide off his bones?”

A brief flash of something like amusement, but too far focused to be that, appeared on Arvid’s expression. “His Glory will meet his end tonight, but we can’t guarantee more than that. This arcane stuff is a major and immediate problem.”

“He’s planning on destroying Stenberg,” Henrik said, tightening his grip on his cudgel.

Arvid nodded, but didn’t appear all that convinced. “Maybe. I think he’s trying to keep us out with a decisive display of power so no one wants to return and he can have his island again. This appears to have happened tonight.”

Einar glanced at several ash piles. Low and livid, he added, “Too bad not everyone made it to the evacuation spot.”

Henrik jerked his chin toward the Temple. “I’d bet my life that His Glory’s in there, thinking he’s safe behind arcane.”

Arvid nodded. “I agree. For all we know, he is safe behind arcane.”

“Only one way to find out. Let’s go!” Einar clapped his hands. “I’m ready to end this. All of it.”

Henrik shook his head once. “Hold.”

“For what?”

“It’s a trap.”

Einar frowned. “Of course it’s a trap.”

Arvid shook his head, then quietly intoned, “Henrik is correct. Wait. We have other resources.”

Fluttering wings followed his reply. A shadow winged closer.

Henrik had his cudgel up, legs braced, before he recognized the svelte outline of a rather young drake.

In size, it was only twice the size of a dragul.

It alighted on Arvid’s shoulder, bearing a white missive that looked blinding in the darkness.

Arvid skimmed the message, brow furrowed.

“Well, I’ll?—”

He paused when gathering feet flooded the exterior walls of the Archives. Einar put an arm out, shoving Arvid back. Henrik put himself in front of Arvid as the drake took off, returning to shadows.

Sailors regurgitated from the depths of the Archives. They marched out at double time, the clink and rattle of armor filling the street. The arcane began to withdraw, retreating from the cobblestone in thin strips that turned to brittle ash.

“What is this?” Henrik snapped.

The unexpected noises, the removal of the obvious threat, startled Einar into silence.

None of them bothered to hide. They’d long been spotted, and now wasn’t the time for hiding, anyway.

Within twenty seconds, every balcony, ledge, open space, courtyard, and visible road filled with sailors.

Their grim faced stares focused on the three of them.

“Forty,” Einar muttered.

Henrik studied the movement behind the glazed windows. No lights, but the shadows seemed to have a life of their own. “There are others inside.”

“Fifty-four sailors.” Arvid lowered the letter. “There should be fifty-four sailors here tonight.”

“How do you know?” Einar retorted as the amassing finalized deeper in the Compendium. The eerie glow as arcane continued to slip-slide backward, not chugging as vociferously from the Temple window, deepened Henrik’s growing confusion. Einar reached for his other knife, but Arvid held out a hand.

“Hold, soldats.”

Three soldats against fifty-four sailors.

Henrik shook his head. Einar had wanted revenge and a flashy defeat.

Well, his opportunity had come. Britt filled his mind, followed by Selma.

The rest of his simplest dreams flooded him like a warm bath.

Enjoying the sea. The simple pleasure of a quiet day, not withheld to another’s schedule written for him.

And yet . . . the ravaged marketplace and standing before His Glory’s loyal sailors was the right place.

Stenberg had enslaved him into the world of the soldats, but he chose to stand here.

Even as death gathered like a hurricane.

The unseeing eyes of the sailors locked on the three of them, filled with an unreadable savagery.

A bang and then thud issued from within the Archives. Sailors split to either side, clearing a pathway leading out. Irony rose up with a bitter taste in Henrik’s mouth as a familiar form appeared there.

Einar whispered, “That’ll be Ingemar.”

Ingemar, the People’s Representative of Stenberg and the Fifth Captain of His Glory’s ranks. The title was granted to whomever Stenberg voted as their representative, though the voting process wasn’t transparent. His Glory likely picked his representative and lied about the results.

Ingemar, the right hand to His Glory.

In the darkness, Ingemar’s profile was muted. Exhausted, just like Arvid. Certainly not someone ready to betray a tyrannical leader that he had, presumably, spent years supporting. Ingemar strode out, two sailors at his back.

“Ingemar,” Arvid said.

“Arvid.”

Ingemar paused a few steps away, and locked eyes on Arvid. An unearthly quiet rippled through the courtyard as Arvid and Ingemar regarded each other. Henrik’s heart slammed against his ribs. Einar repositioned his weight, crouching ever-so-slightly.

Misgivings welled up in Henrik’s stomach. He slid a sidelong glance to Einar, who kept an eye on the sailors at Ingemar’s back and arcane gliding down the Temple. Clouds of dust and fire billowed from other parts of the island as the malefaction spread.

Ingemar folded his hands behind his back. “Has all gone to plan?”

“Yes. You?”

“Yes. Fifty-four volunteered. Fifty-four accounted for tonight.” With a sigh like relief, Ingemar said, “It’s good to see you, old friend.”

Three things became immediately apparent to Henrik as Ingemar and Arvid embraced.

First, Arvid’s tense features had eased considerably.

Second, Einar seemed not at all surprised.

Third, the sailors surrounding them hadn’t so much as moved.

Either Arvid had just betrayed Einar, himself, and all the soldats, or Henrik was missing a piece.

Ingemar a friend? Impossible. He was too tied into His Glory. Too close to their enemy to have any association other than greedy motivation. For several confused seconds, Henrik flailed. He felt as if someone grabbed him by the ankles and spun him around.

He leaned to the side, not tearing his gaze from Ingemar. “What,” Henrik hissed to Einar, “is going on?”

“Arvid will explain.”

At that moment, Ingemar turned his rheumy eyes onto Henrik. “Henrik,” he said quietly. “It’s good to see you. Thank you for returning to help us.” After a pause, he added, “Please understand that I am not your enemy.”

Henrik offered no greeting. He was too busy staring at Arvid, who seemed to brace himself.

“I trust Ingemar,” Arvid said. “Ingemar is the contact on Stenberg that I spoke of back in Kapurnick. Without him, I would have died several times over. He kept me alive, and he’s kept our rebellion alive in my absence.”

Ingemar kept his studious gaze on Henrik, allowing a stunned quiet to roll through the street. He broke it with a calm voice. “Stenberg has always asked too much of you, Henrik,” he said, then concluded, “Stenberg is about to ask too much of you again.”

He spoke with the quiet, steady cadence of someone with absolute certainty in a path.

No obvious signs of lying, nervousness, or subterfuge surfaced, but hesitation made it impossible to be sure.

Anyone associated with His Glory so tightly, with the ability to fool the leader of Stenberg, had the capacity to betray them as well.

Ingemar spun to more fully face Arvid again.

“Fifty-four sailors are loyal to change and ready to fight with you. Loyal to a new regime.” He let out a stiff breath, gesturing behind him with his arm.

“These are your men, Arvid. I’m sorry there are so few, but they’re mighty and prepared for your final stand.

Farther behind us is the rest of the navy, gathering to fight in Stenberg’s streets on behalf of His Glory.

Arcane was His Glory’s first push. The true battle is about to begin. ”

“Navy?” Einar echoed.

Henrik’s rampant suspicions ebbed. This wasn’t a set up. Ingemar wasn’t going to bring the navy against them and demand their heads?

“His Glory has been preparing to fight for Stenberg since he returned from the mainland,” Ingemar said. “He knew the rebellion of soldats and sailors was coming to a point.” He cast a wary glance to the ground where burned marks remained. “Which meant he began the destruction of Stenberg.”

“Why?” Henrik demanded.

“He has no choice. In exchange for arcane, he had to pay. The demand was for all of Stenberg to be burned to the ground with arcane fire.”

Einar demanded, “Was it the Arcanist of Souls who gave His Glory this power?”

With great reluctance, Ingemar nodded.

“Yes.”

Henrik ran a hand over his head, sick to his stomach. “Bloody bastid,” he muttered.

“The rest of the Stenberg navy firmly believes that Arvid is their great enemy. They have commands to kill him and any rebels on sight.” Ingemar lifted a hand toward the sailors at his back, a few of which Henrik recognized. “These sailors have defected.”

“And you?” Henrik asked.

“His Glory does not yet know the nature of my relationship with the rebels. If you do your job well, and we do ours, he’ll be dead before he finds out.”

Einar smiled. “Henrik’s and my job is to kill His Glory.”

“As the only two soldats still on the island with the capability and willingness, yes.” Ingemar inclined his head. “The plan was to give that to you.”

Einar shoved Henrik in the shoulder. “Then let’s go! Time for destiny!”

Arvid nodded toward Ingemar. “These sailors and myself will form a perimeter around the Temple to prevent others from entering.”

Solemnly, Ingemar said, “That will buy Einar and Henrik time to stop the arcane, but it won’t be long. His Glory is bringing a first wave five hundred strong.”

“Fifty against five hundred?” Henrik asked, his voice as neutral as possible.

Arvid’s grim expression hardened into something like a smile. He lifted the hand containing his recent message.

“There are a few more here to help us.”

A voice shouted from the crowd. “Arvid is not alone, you shite piece of garbage. We are here to fight with our brothers.”

Henrik spun. Ten familiar faces stepped out of the crowd of sailors, working carefully around arcane flows. Their raucous grins and ridiculous swagger bore them closer.

Harald.

Fritz.

Ebba.

Timmer. Henrik’s soldat brothers filtered through the old cobblestone road.

“We came with Pedr,” Harald called, slamming a stunned Einar in the chest with a jaunty fist. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, leading Henrik’s gaze to a set of bright pink flames in the harbor. Whispers of, “Burning beard,” and “the soldats have returned!” rippled through the sailors.

“Pedr,” Henrik retorted, stunned.

The question of how faded as quickly as it came. Those questions could come later. Instead, he breathed out a smile and gripped his friend by the shoulder.

“Am I glad to see you, Harald.”

“Your ugly mug will scare all the pretty sailors away, Timmer,” Einar called, laughing. They embraced, hands slapping backs.

Harald nodded, sword in the air. “We’re ready to fight the old-bones bastid who kept us enslaved. Count on us to guard the Temple. Arvid, command your army to a bigger perimeter. Soldats take care of soldats. Brothers.” Harald slammed a fist into his chest.

Arvid embraced each in turn. Einar thumped Arvid on the chest and pointed right at his heart.

“We trust you, Captain Arvid. Our brothers have our backs. We’ll see you when it’s over.”