Page 72 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

HENRIK

Shadows and secrets filled the Temple courtyard as Einar and Henrik slipped through the Compendium, soldats filtering into various positions without opposition. No one stopped them because everyone had moved elsewhere. Arvid’s and Ingemar’s small rebel force of fighting sailors also faded to black.

Stenberg dropped into calmness.

A harried calm.

An unstable calm.

So violently calm it was ready to crack.

At the doorway into His Glory’s Temple, Henrik paused. Einar, behind him, glanced at Harald. He nodded only a few steps away.

“I’ll guard the door,” Harald promised. “You kill the bastid.”

Einar smiled.

They slipped inside. Unease filled the Temple interior. The immaculate space reminded Henrik of the inside of a tomb. Reverberative. Empty. Filled with ghosts, whispered promises, as much as space.

Henrik had never been inside, but he only skimmed the varied decorations they passed. Depictions of the sea god, Norr, filled nooks and crannies chiseled into the sealstone walls. Sculptures and statues and paintings and other strange amalgamations. He couldn’t hope to understand the mad symbology.

The place was surprisingly vacant. No roaming soldats. No errant sailors. Not much beyond the still and pervasive hallways. Noiseless, Einar and Henrik glided over marbled floors and beyond sealstone walls interrupted by arched windows. Fresh air poured inside.

They spiraled higher.

Einar led the way, having given into a fully feral side. Revenge gleamed from the depths of his hungry gaze as he scanned rooms, hallways, and decor. Henrik trusted every carefully planted foot, kept his left hand armed with a knife, his right hand with the cudgel.

Death lingered in the air, seeking.

After ascending a thin, curving staircase so tight it barely allowed their shoulders, Einar crouched. A fist stopped Henrik. A familiar and distinct voice spilled into the confined space. Vilhelm, the motivated but young soldat Henrik grappled with what felt like a lifetime ago.

“Reports confirm that Captain Arvid has been seen, Your Glory.”

“Henrik? Einar?”

“I would assume so. Our intelligence didn’t indicate them specifically.”

“We would be foolish to assume otherwise. The rest of the deserters?”

“No word, Your Glory.”

Henrik held his breath, waiting for a footfall or scuff to confirm that His Glory and Vilhelm strode closer to their staircase. If the two of them descended these stairs, then His Glory and Vilhelm would have the advantage of higher ground. Not that higher ground would stop Einar.

Walking footsteps carried His Glory’s voice farther away. “Thank you for the report. Where is Ingemar?”

“I haven’t seen him in several hours.”

“Dealing with the impending skirmish, no doubt. Do you have any reports from the Third or Fourth Captain?”

“Last report was an hour ago, and all was well. The navy companies are ready to battle along the outer perimeter, and close in from the east.”

“Hmm.”

Einar stole higher, chasing their retreating voices.

Henrik followed.

The thin staircase ended at a doorless opening that spilled into a hallway.

Windows marched along either side, revealing glimpses onto Stenberg.

The brilliant, burning star of horrid arcane continued to shine.

Arcane fell from the Temple above this story.

They’d climbed to the fourth floor, but the arcane flow originated one higher.

The permeating smell of brimstone wafted by when they passed it.

Vilhelm and His Glory flowed into a distant room, out of sight. No door closed audibly behind them. Henrik and Einar stepped out of the servant’s staircase. They hustled farther along the hall behind His Glory, then ducked into an empty room on the right.

Henrik pressed his back to the wall, held his breath. A painted black square occupied the far wall, and a basket of white chalk waited underneath. Littered leaflets and barren wicker chairs. A learning room.

Einar waited, ear cocked to the door, before he pointed his head down the hall near His Glory. No sound of pursuit thus far. Einar tilted his head that way. “We ambush,” he mouthed.

Henrik frowned, hesitating. Their resources were few. Having never been in the Temple before, they didn’t know exactly where they stood. Only His Glory’s soldats knew the interior and remained inside.

Which would explain why His Glory holed up within tonight.

An advantage.

A small one.

Not only was the layout unknown, but whatever arcane His Glory commanded. Was there more? Did he wield it, or did some Arcanist? Demmed Pedr, holding these cards too close to the chest. Henrik should have asked more questions.

He hesitated, glancing behind Einar’s shoulder. “Ambush?” he soundlessly repeated. “No good.”

Einar nodded with new urgency. “Ambush,” he repeated with one finger. A second popped up. “Feint and cut.”

Henrik frowned.

Was he kidding? No, Einar had never been more serious. Beyond Einar’s lust for revenge was a cool calculation. A steadiness that Henrik had seen before, in battle. In a position similar to this, when they had to scan for advantage, use what they had, and come out on top.

The islands could be a ruthless, cutthroat place to live. It ameliorated Henrik’s concern that Einar desired life . The soldat within had woken with a roaring vengeance, proving he wasn’t driven entirely by revenge.

“There will be more soldats,” Henrik muttered, low. “Not just Vilhelm.”

Einar nodded. “Ambush,” he reasserted. “Element of surprise.” He finished by mouthing, “It’s all we have.”

Truth.

They relied on sheer, dumb luck. On the surprise factor. On the fact that they’d decimated Oliver and five of His Glory’s soldats on the Unseen Island, and a newcomer like Vilhelm, with so little experience, now worked directly with His Glory. There were signs of breakage.

Were they enough?

“It’s a wild chance,” Henrik said.

Einar’s amusement grew to a wry smile. “I know.”

“There’s only one way it’ll work.”

“Feint and cut.” Einar grinned fully.

Henrik drank a deep breath. He didn’t like their odds. Not at all, but what options did they have? The longer they waited, the more Arvid and the other soldats fought hand-to-hand combat against five hundred friends and family members. Potentially arcane supported, too.

With every passing minute, islanders died. Pedr may have brought reinforcements, but with His Glory’s arcane at work, they wouldn’t make enough of a difference.

Henrik nodded.

“Ambush, feint, cut.”

Certainty thrived in the metaphorical and methodical throwing to the winds of chance with Einar at his side. Every sense Henrik honed over the past thirty years came to full fruition. He moved into the instinct that came easily and with refined trust.

As they stole down the hallways, sounds increased. Shuffling papers. His Glory muttering. “Where is he? He said he’d support. This is not enough.”

Vilhelm’s low reply, mostly inaccessible at first. “I’m sure all will be well, Your Glory.” It had the rote sound of an uncertain child attempting to comfort a frustrated parent. Vilhelm, so determined to prove himself before time had taught her ways.

Einar and Henrik slipped along the edge of the hall until a doorway with flickering light underneath came into view. No soldat stood outside in protection, which was serendipitous. Henrik prepared himself for something arcane and dangerous. Hidden soldats or lethal weapons.

Nothing appeared.

Einar strode next to Henrik, visibly unnerved by the ease of their approach. They matched equal and mutual purpose with every silent step. Their chins rose, shoulders widened, grips strengthened. Each step bore them closer.

To finality.

To death.

To revenge.

To true freedom.

This had nothing to do with commands, with the soldats, with His Glory wanting something they couldn’t—and wouldn’t—give. This was freedom at work. Imperfect, perpetual freedom.

Henrik embraced it.

The noises led them to a door at the very end of the hallway. Minute decoration preceded it, with thin, small tables cluttering the walkway. Henrik’s calm, methodical heart reassured him as they closed in. He was ready. He’d chosen. He knew exactly what called to him.

Freedom’s song.

His life, which he decided. Out of love for his brother, hope for better, and a desire to be with Britt every moment after this, he needed this battle.

Ten steps.

Eight.

He didn’t look at Einar. There would be no final farewell, just in case. Nothing but the unrelenting confidence that they would prevail.

Six.

Four.

Einar held up an arm, knife at the ready. There would be interior, protective soldats.

Two.

One.

The half-closed door exploded open under Henrik’s kick. It slammed against a wooden wall, splaying wide to reveal a startled His Glory, a more startled Vilhelm, and two soldats near the windows. They watched the wrong area.

Snarling, Einar hurled himself into the room at a sprint, streaking right for His Glory and gleefully assuming much of the risk. Henrik, taking advantage of their two-second lead, focused on Vilhelm, closest to His Glory.

His Glory folded back with a cry of alarm. By the time Einar crossed the floor, the two soldats intercepted him halfway across the room.

Vilhelm threw his hands up, braced his legs back in a stance to avoid a frontal assault, and prepared himself for Henrik.

Anticipating this response, Henrik swerved slightly left.

His right hand connected with Vilhelm’s left shoulder, throwing him to the side.

Vilhelm bobbled. Henrik used the chance to wrap his ankle around Vilhelm’s exposed calf, taking the leg out from under him.

Vilhelm toppled.

Henrik chased him.

His body weight shifted into his arms. The world passed in winnowing seconds as Henrik dug into the ground. He drove Vilhelm down, down.