Crush the King

by Estep, Jennifer

  She didn’t spot us, and her fists slowly relaxed. Maeven smoothed her hands down her skirt, as if trying to get her raging emotions under control. Then she headed back inside the arena, disappearing from sight.

  “Did you enjoy insulting Maeven?” Serilda asked.

  “Oh, I thoroughly enjoyed it, but insulting Maeven wasn’t the reason I talked to her.”

  Serilda arched her eyebrow again.

  “Okay, so it wasn’t the only reason I talked to her,” I corrected. “I also wanted to tell her the truth about Maximus, especially how her beloved brother views her and her son.”

  “And what do you want her to do with that truth?”

  “The only thing she can.”

  Serilda frowned, her eyes darkened, and the scent of her magic gusted over me, as if she were using her time magier power to consider my cryptic words. I wanted to ask what possibilities she saw, and if my long game with Maeven would ever come to fruition, but I didn’t want to jinx my plan, so I kept quiet.

  Serilda shook her head, her eyes cleared, and the scent of her magic vanished. “Come on. Your little talk with Maeven has put us behind. We need to hurry.”

  We moved away from the cart and headed deeper into the crowd. People were talking, eating, laughing, and drinking, and no one gave us a second look. Paloma was still signing banners, flyers, pennants, and more, but Serilda and I strolled past her and headed to another archway. This opening was much smaller than the others, only wide enough for two people to walk through at a time. A man was lurking in the shadows, although he stepped forward when Serilda and I slipped inside the opening.

  “Finally,” Cho muttered. “It’s almost time for me to introduce the next gladiators. I thought I was going to have to leave this here for you to find.”

  He shoved a black knapsack into Serilda’s hands. She flipped open the top and drew out a long purple cloak, which she tossed over to me. I draped the cloak around my shoulders, covering up my blue tunic with its silver crown-of-shards crest.

  “I want you to know those cloaks were hard to get,” Cho said.

  Serilda rolled her eyes. “Hard to get? All you had to do was swipe them from one of the dressing rooms and bring them here. Besides, how many times have you told me what a master thief you are?”

  “Only when it comes to stealing sweets,” he said. “And only because I can make the evidence disappear.”

  He winked at her. Serilda rolled her eyes again, but she was smiling as she yanked a second purple cloak out of the knapsack and settled it around her own shoulders, covering up her white tunic with its black-swan design.

  She shook the knapsack, and the soft clang-clang-clang of metal hitting metal rang out. “What else is in here?”

  Cho shrugged. “Some extra weapons and a hammer. I thought they might be useful.”

  Serilda nodded and hoisted the knapsack onto her shoulder.

  “I still think that I should come with you,” Cho said. “I could help.”

  “I know you could, but the more people who go, the riskier it is,” I replied. “Besides, you’re the tournament ringmaster. It would look suspicious if you suddenly disappeared.”

  Cho didn’t like being left behind any more than Sullivan had, but he turned to Serilda. He hesitated, then reached out and touched her arm. “Be careful.”

  Serilda’s face softened, and she laid her hand on top of his. “To the end.”

  “To the end,” he repeated in a low voice.

  The two of them studied each other a moment longer, then they both dropped their hands and cleared their throats, pointedly not looking at each other. I had never quite understood their relationship and why they weren’t together when it was so painfully obvious they loved each other. Perhaps that would change when we defeated Maximus.

  If we defeated Maximus.

  Serilda and I pulled up the hoods on our purple cloaks, covering our heads. Cho went deeper into the archway, disappearing from sight. Serilda and I waited a few seconds, then slipped out of the shadows and stepped back into the crowd.

  We made our way across the plaza and over to the steps and quickly walked down to the waterfront. Only this time, we didn’t go to the Bellonan bridge like usual.

  We went to the Mortan one.

  Auster had been right when he’d said that we couldn’t get a large contingent of men across the bridge without attracting attention, but Leonidas and the geldjagers had slipped into the Bellonan camp last night, and I was hoping Serilda and I could do the same to the Mortan one now.

  We stopped near a cart close to the Mortan bridge. The span was roughly the same size and shape as the Bellonan bridge, although it was made of dark gray granite instead of tearstone, and the fancy cursive M of the Morricone royal crest was carved into the railing and flagstones, instead of Bellonan gladiators and weapons.

  A couple of guards wearing Mortan purple were standing on either side of the bridge entrance, but one was eating a bag of cornucopia, while the other was flirting with a giggling girl selling stuffed strixes from a nearby cart. The guards weren’t paying any attention to the streams of people coming and going on the bridge.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Serilda asked. “This is your last chance to turn around. Because once we cross that bridge, we might not come back.”

  I thought of how Maximus had so casually slit that strix’s throat during the kronekling tournament last night and all the magic he had absorbed from the creature’s blood. The memory made me sick to my stomach.

  “I told you back at Seven Spire that I was tired of playing defense. This is my chance to finally go on the offensive. Besides, we have to take away Maximus’s supply of magic if we have any chance of assassinating him before the Regalia ends. It’s worth the risk. Let’s go.”

  Serilda dropped her hand to her sword. I did the same, and the two of us headed for the Mortan bridge.

  * * *

  Despite our purple cloaks, I still expected the guards to stop us and demand to know where we were going. But the two men were busy eating and flirting, and they didn’t even glance at Serilda and me as we walked past them and stepped onto the bridge.

  No one on the bridge gave us a second look either, except for one man who saluted us with his tankard. He was clearly drunk on the contents, and my nose crinkled at the sour stench of ale that wafted off his body.

  He blinked, and recognition sparked in his bloodshot eyes. “Hey, aren’t you the Bellonan—”

  Serilda shoved the man, making him stumble backward and flip up and over the bridge railing. He landed with a loud splash in the water below and came up blubbering for air. My heart leaped up into my throat, wondering what he would say next.

  “My ale!” he wailed. “You made me spill my ale!”

  “Let’s go!” Serilda hissed, dragging me forward.

  I glanced back over my shoulder at the guards, but they were laughing and pointing at the waterlogged man. I let out a tense breath, and we hurried onward.

  It didn’t take us long to reach the far end of the bridge, but I hesitated a moment before stepping off it and putting my foot down onto the plaza beyond. A Bellonan queen on Mortan soil. I couldn’t even imagine the last time that had occurred, and I half expected the ground to crack apart and swallow me whole. But of course that didn’t happen, and we walked on.

  In many ways, the Mortan side of the river was identical to the Bellonan one. The plaza featured a fountain, although this one was made of black marble and shaped like a strix with its wings spread wide, as if it were about to rise up out of the water basin and take flight. And just like on the Bellonan side of the river, a series of steps led up to a high ridge where the Mortans had pitched their tents. Serilda and I quickly climbed the steps, crossed the grassy field, and kept moving forward.

  Straight into the Mortan camp.

  The front common area featured tables and chairs, along with wooden stands where merchants were selling meats, cheeses, wines, and ales, as well as purple pennants
bearing the Morricone royal crest. Everything a person needed to properly enjoy the Regalia.

  Guards ambling around, servants rushing to and fro, a few nobles lounging in the sun and drinking wine. This part of the Mortan camp was eerily similar to the Bellonan one, but it was much quieter here, and I didn’t hear any music or laughter. I wondered if those things were reserved for Maximus like everything else seemed to be. Probably, knowing his ego. Or perhaps people simply didn’t want to risk making too much noise, lest they draw their king’s attention—and ire.

  “My lady!” one of the merchants called out, using a glass filled with red liquid to gesture at me. “May I interest you in some cranberry sangria?”

  Once again, my heart leaped up into my throat at the sudden outburst, but I sidestepped his arm, ducked my head, and kept walking.

  “Who was that?” I heard another merchant say behind me.

  I glanced over at Serilda, whose hand was on her sword, ready to whirl around and cut down the merchants if they had recognized me.

  “No idea,” the first merchant replied. “My lord! My lord! May I interest you in some cranberry sangria?”

  I let out a relieved breath, and we hurried on.

  The wooden stands gave way to rows of small tents made of light purple canvas that were the servants’ quarters. A teenage girl wearing a kitchen apron stepped out of one of the tents right into our path. She glanced at us, and her eyes widened. For the third time, my heart galloped up into my throat.

  The girl bowed her head and dropped into a curtsy. “My ladies,” she murmured.

  Serilda waved her hand, dismissing the girl, who scurried off.

  I wiped a sheen of sweat off my forehead. “Maximus doesn’t have to send any more assassins. My heart is going to give out before we even reach the strix cages.”

  “Forget about your heart. You’re going to die of a Mortan sword to the gut if we don’t keep moving,” Serilda hissed back.

  She grabbed my arm and pulled me forward again.

  The servants’ section was largely empty, so Serilda and I were much more noticeable here. More than once we had to stop and hunker down behind one of the tents until a wandering guard had passed by, although most of them were far more interested in eating, drinking, and ogling the servant girls than keeping an eye out for potential danger. Then again, this was Mortan soil. No one in their right mind was stupid enough to come here and make trouble.

  No one except me.

  Serilda and I slipped deeper into the Mortan camp, moving as fast as we dared, our hands on our weapons. Given their dark purple canvas and fine furnishings, the second section of tents belonged to the wealthy Mortan nobles and merchants, although they too were largely empty.

  The third section of tents were the same light purple as the servants’ quarters, but the racks of swords and shields set up in between the canvas walls indicated that this was where the guards stayed.

  Serilda and I picked up our pace, so that we were practically running. My heart started pounding again, and I sucked down breath after breath, even as my gaze darted around, searching for the slightest hint of movement. But we didn’t run into any guards, and we slid behind one of the tents to get our bearings.

  Up ahead, beyond the guards’ quarters, I could see a fourth and final ring of tents—including the midnight-purple one that belonged to Maximus. It was the largest tent by far in the whole encampment and was topped with an enormous flag featuring the Morricone family crest in glittering gold thread on a midnight-purple background.

  I eyed the tent, but two guards were standing at rigid attention by the entrance. Even if we could sneak past the guards, Maximus probably had enough magic to overcome any poison or other deadly trap I might leave behind in his quarters. I would have to be content with my other scheme.

  “Where are they?” Serilda asked.

  I glanced around, comparing our surroundings to my memories of the crude map Leonidas had drawn for me last night. “The strixes are kept on the west side of camp, close to the trees. Apparently the guards let them out to stretch their wings every now and then, so as not to be too cruel to them.”

  Serilda snorted. “Having a brief taste of freedom and then being forced back into a cage is probably crueler than never having any freedom at all.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  We crept forward to the edge of the tents. A grassy field stretched out before us. Leonidas was right.

  The strixes were here.

  Many of the older, larger creatures had metal collars around their necks with chains that were attached to wooden posts, as though they were horses waiting to be ridden. Leonidas had said that these strixes were trained to obey only Mortan soldiers and that they would tear Serilda and me to pieces with their beaks and talons if we tried to free them.

  No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t save these strixes—but I could save the ones that Maximus planned to slaughter for their magic.

  Those creatures were housed in coldiron cages stacked up on top of each other at the far end of the clearing. The cages were the same size as Lyra’s, and the strixes inside looked to be about the same age as her—not babies, but not full-grown adults either. My nose twitched. And unlike the older, larger birds, every single one of those strixes reeked of magic.

  “So that’s how he chooses them,” I muttered. “Of course. I should have guessed.”

  “What are you talking about?” Serilda whispered, still eyeing the adult strixes tied to the wooden stakes.

  “See the smaller strixes in the cages? Maximus plans to kill those for their magic, just like he killed that poor creature during the ball.”

  “How do you know those are the right birds? Did Leonidas tell you?”

  “He didn’t have to.” I tapped my nose. “I can smell how much magic they have. Each one of those birds is practically dripping with power. Maximus must be able to sense magic as well as absorb it. He must go through the rookeries in Morta and pick out the strixes that have the most power. He’s not slaughtering them at random. He’s choosing the ones that can give him the most magic.”

  I had thought that the Mortan king couldn’t possibly disgust me any more, but I was wrong. All those beautiful strixes, locked in cages, waiting to have their throats cut whenever Maximus snapped his fingers, just so he could have even more magic. Heartless, greedy bastard.

  I started to sprint over to the cages, but voices floated through the air, and a couple of guards rounded the opposite side of the tent we were hiding behind. I scuttled backward and hunkered down next to Serilda.

  We both drew our swords, and my heart pounded yet again. Had the guards seen me? If so, we would have to take them down as quickly and quietly as possible and hope no one heard the noise and came to investigate.

  I tightened my grip on my weapon and waited. Beside me, Serilda did the same thing.

  The guards came closer . . . and closer . . . and closer . . .

  And walked right on by our position.

  I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding. The two men crossed the clearing and stopped by the strix cages, gesturing and talking to each other.

  “We need to get rid of them,” I muttered. “Right now.”

  Serilda sheathed her sword and set her knapsack on the ground. “Leave that to me. Stay here.”

  She vanished around the other side of the tent, while I held my position. A minute later, Serilda reappeared about fifty feet away and boldly sauntered over to the two guards. She’d gotten a glass, along with a bottle of wine from somewhere, and she listed back and forth as though she were already deep into her Regalia celebration.

  “Hellooo, boys,” she called out.

  The guards whirled around, and Serilda raised her glass and staggered in their direction. At first the guards watched her approach with suspicious frowns, but the closer and more wobbly she got, the more their frowns melted into leering appreciation, especially since Serilda had thrown back her purple cloak and unl
aced the top of her tunic to show off her cleavage.

  I had never seen Serilda be anything other than a tough, hard-nosed warrior, and it was startling to see this slightly softer side of her—even if it was just for the guards’ benefit.

  She reached the guards, smiled, and offered one of them the empty glass in her hand. The two men hemmed and hawed a few seconds, but one of them grinned and reached for the glass.

  Serilda smiled and handed it to him. Then she snapped up the wine bottle and slammed it into the side of his head.

  The guard’s eyes rolled up, and he dropped to the ground unconscious. The other guard yelped in surprise, but Serilda whirled around and slammed the bottle into the side of his head as well, and he too dropped to the ground.

  The second the men were down, I grabbed Serilda’s knapsack, left the shadow of the tent behind, and sprinted across the clearing. Serilda tossed her bottle aside, and we hurried over to the cages.

  There were more than a dozen cages, each one containing a strix, and the hot, caustic stench that filled the air indicated that Maximus had booby-trapped every one of these cages with his magic. He was probably the only one who could open the padlocks without being severely injured. He wouldn’t want Mercer, Nox, or Maeven to drink strix blood to increase their own magic—if they could even stomach the idea.

  I passed over the knapsack, and Serilda drew out the hammer that Cho had mentioned earlier.

  “Do you want me to smash the locks?” she asked.

  “Not unless you want to get bludgeoned with hailstones and frozen with cold lightning. I’m going to have to use my immunity to snuff out the magic on each lock.”

  “Can you do that without getting hurt?” Serilda asked in a worried voice.

  “We’re about to find out.” I pushed up my tunic sleeves, stepped forward, and reached for the first padlock.

  Purple lightning sparked to life the second my fingers touched the metal.

  I gritted my teeth against the cold, jolting pain, reached for my immunity, and snuffed out the magic. To my surprise, it was much easier to do than it had been on Lyra’s cage last night. Maximus hadn’t used nearly as much magic on these locks, and no hailstones shot out from the metal to bruise and cut my hand. He probably thought no one would be stupid enough to try to steal his strixes from his own camp.