Outside, dusk had fallen, and there was a haziness to the town that hadn’t been there before. Swinton untied Xander, checked his saddlebags and mounted. He urged the stallion into a gallop, and Xander’s hooves thundered against the earth as they rode out of the town. He wished he didn’t have to do this, he wished he could go back to Willowdale instead and visit Eliza again, but orders were orders, and only he could perform the task. He pushed on towards the King’s River, where across the water, the West Farmlands lay. He had to complete this part of the mission, no matter the cost. He’d already let the king down. He wouldn’t do it again, it was too dangerous. As he rode, he tried to push Fiore, Henri and Bleak from his mind. He wouldn’t be gone long; he could make something up. Not that Henri would believe him, or Fiore for that matter. He wondered if they’d found Bleak at the bar yet. Henri would be furious. It hadn’t escaped his notice that she’d ordered all the drink away from the keep as a means of keeping the Angovian sober. He clicked his tongue and leaned forward. They needed to go faster.
They passed more corn crops and the old cotton mill. Finally, after what seemed like an age, they arrived at the King’s River. Just as Swinton had hoped, there was no one around after dark. There was a definite eeriness about the place with the tufts of cotton floating like ghosts across the dark sky, their reflections glinting along the surface of the river. Swinton dismounted and eased a sack from one of his saddle bags. Its contents clinked within, and he adjusted his grip to handle it with more care. What was inside couldn’t be released this side of the river. He knelt down at the water’s edge and reached into the sack. From inside it, he took a jar. The white contents within swirled and roiled. Mist.
Swinton studied it, feeling the familiar gut-twisting sensation of guilt grip him. There were five jars in total, some left over from when he’d been unable to release them in the Hawthornes. Deep shame rushed over him, and he remembered Henri’s words. It takes a real bastard to hunt down his own kind, don’t you think? It did, and he knew that. He knew there was no honour in his actions, not anymore. He didn’t have a choice. He stood, grasping one of the jars in his hand. He looked across the water and wondered who lived there, what would become of them now, if they’d survive. He pitched the jar across the water and heard it smash loudly on the other side. One. He picked up another and threw it, the sound of glass shattering seemed to echo across the water’s surface. Two. Another jar left his hand. Three. He could see the mist find its freedom, roiling over the ground to find its counterparts. Four. There was no going back now. He had been chosen for this and he had to finish it. Five.
He exhaled shakily and watched as the mist took hold of the land, quickly and confidently, as though it had a mind of its own. It was unsettling, and Xander whinnied nervously. He leaned against the beast and stroked his nose.
‘Easy there, boy,’ he said, trying to offer some reassurance to both of them, but there was none to be had. He wanted nothing more than to leave this all behind and ride to Willowdale, but he’d find no reprieve there either. Eliza was dead. And if she were alive, Swinton realised with a jolt, she wouldn’t want to see him like this. There was no redemption for what he had done, no saving grace. He placed his boot in the stirrup and mounted Xander, taking one last look at the spreading mist. He wanted to be sorry, but he couldn’t be. If this was what he had to do to protect his secrets, he would.
Chapter 26
Bleak pored over the map she’d stolen from Swinton earlier, the edges held down by her empty mugs of ale. It was the map she’d seen him with all those weeks ago in the Hawthornes. Small Xs in blood-red ink were marked across the trail they’d been on back then, and elsewhere, too – some in Valia, some in the West Farmlands. She didn’t know the land well enough to identify exactly what these marks pinpointed, but she was intuitive enough to discern that something wasn’t adding up. She smoothed out the crinkles in the parchment and took another sip of her ale. She considered the amber liquid – a minor slip-up on her behalf – but then again, who knew what would become of her? Wasn’t she entitled to a final drink or two? She looked over her shoulder and peered through the crowd, to spot Henri.
Something wasn’t right. The warrior queen was slouched down on the bench, her leather pouch of herbs on the table before her rather than around her neck, and that slime Leslie was beside her. Bleak folded up the map roughly, stuffing it down the front of her underclothes, and stumbled towards Henri. Where was Fiore?
She scanned the inn and found him lying unconscious at the foot of their table.
Leslie was advancing on Henri, and Henri wasn’t moving to stop him – something was very wrong. There was no way Henri would let that letch within a yard of her with that look on his face. Bleak shoved people aside and reached Henri.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she snapped at Leslie.
The greasy man looked up, surprised. ‘The Valian asked me to keep her company while all her friends were otherwise occupied.’
Bleak stared at Henri. Only the warrior queen’s graphite-and-green eyes were moving; the rest of her body was slumped down into the bench.
I can’t move, the panicked voice rang out in Bleak’s head. He’s poisoned me. Get out of here, you’ve got no chance.
‘Well, girl? Leave us be,’ Leslie said, waving her away.
Run, Bleak, Henri said into her mind.
Bleak staggered into a stool, turning back to the rest of the inn.
‘That’s it, girl, go get yourself another round.’ Leslie laughed.
Bleak steadied herself, taking the stool she’d bumped into. She whirled around and smashed it into the side of Leslie’s leering face.
His head hit the table with a crunch; there was instant chaos. A man lunged for her, and Bleak slammed a metal mug of ale into his temple, picking up the stool again. Hers wasn’t a delicate dance. There was no training, no discipline to her movements as more men from the inn advanced on her. She was scrappy, clawing and swinging, enduring as many blows as she herself dealt. But she kept getting up, flinging her arms and small fists wherever she could. This wasn’t her first bar fight. Blood ran from her nose and from a cut above her eye. But it might be her last.
Henri was still slumped in the corner of their booth. Bleak heard her mind call out.
Use your magic.
Distracted, Bleak was hit over the head.
‘Fuck!’ she yelled, her fingers coming away from her hair bloody. She buried her boot in the attacker’s groin and smacked him across the face with the legs of the barstool.
Use her magic? How in the realm could she do that? There were too many. This wasn’t what she’d trained for. She had dipped into the memories of one person, one at a time, slowly, with all the time in the world. Here, she took hit after hit, thankful at least for the fact that the men were also brawling each other now.
She was tiring, though, staggering and supporting herself on the side of the bar as she swung at the men who kept coming. No, she could do this; she could do something. Allehra didn’t send her across the realm with her only surviving daughter just to die on a dirty tavern floor. She had helped Neemah defeat Luka, hadn’t she?
Bleak took another swing at her opponent to buy her a few precious moments of time. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her eyes flew open again and her hands caught a post of timber about to hit the side of her face. She blocked another blow, and another. She parried clumsily around her attackers, hearing their thoughts before they struck. But Bleak needed Henri. Magic or not, she was only one fighter, and a small, untrained one at that. With Henri, she might have a chance. Without her, eventually their numbers and sheer strength would win out.
Bleak staggered again and looked around wildly, her eyes finding Henri, dribble running down her chin, and then Fiore still lying unconscious in the blood and ale on the inn floor. As another man made a dive for Bleak, she scrambled behind the bar. Someone wrenched her arms behind her back and a fist pounded her abdomen, knocking the wind from her lu
ngs. She gasped for air. Whoever it was grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. Her hands flew to her attacker’s grip, clawing. Unable to get free, she gouged at his eyes. He released her, and she slammed her elbow into his face.
In that moment, something thrummed wildly within her, a buzzing reverberating through her whole core. She fell into herself, into a darkness she didn’t know existed. The sounds of the brawling became distant; her ragged breathing stopped. There was a forceful push within her and then – the men started screaming.
Bleak came back into being to see the men clutching their heads and falling to their knees. They begged, but she didn’t stop; she didn’t want to. She blasted their minds with her magic, until blood spilled from their ears, their noses and their eyes. Until there was no one but Bleak, Henri and Fiore left alive.
Chapter 27
When Swinton returned to Hoddinott well after nightfall, he didn’t know if Henri and Bleak would still be there. The gameswood drug he’d slipped the warrior queen would have worn off a while ago – he hadn’t meant to take so long. He’d only spiked her broth to stop her from making a run for it with Bleak, or wreaking havoc on the inn. Despite appearances, there was generally no bite to follow the inn’s bark, and with Fiore there, both women would have been more than safe. As he cantered up to the Hodd’s Nott, he spotted their three horses still tied to the post, thank the gods. How would he have explained two missing charges and a prized stallion to King Arden?
Swinton walked up the creaking wooden steps, and even though the place was glowing with light, something was different. For an inn where, even during daylight hours, you had to shout to be heard, now it was silent. There was no yelling about the price of ale, no whores forcing laughter for their patrons, no voices coming from within at all … Swinton drew his sword, and with one hand, pushed the heavy door open. He gasped.
Inside was a bloodbath.
There were bodies everywhere. Some were unrecognisable, their faces bashed in and mangled. Others looked untouched but for the trails of sticky blood running from their eyes and noses. Broken glass, broken stools and billiard sticks lay discarded on the floor. There was blood spattered on every surface.
Henri, Swinton thought. She’d clearly regained her senses earlier than he’d anticipated and had taken it out on the entire bar, like a wild animal, murdering these innocent people with her magic. He took a step inside and felt his body leave the ground. He was slammed into the ceiling, his sword clattering to the floor and pain splintering his back. He was flung back to the ground and felt his cheekbone shatter.
Henri.
She wasn’t done. She hurled him from wall to wall, through the broken glass and furniture. Pain lancing every inch of his body as he was bashed around mercilessly. Glass, timber and gods knew what else sliced open his skin, each impact rattling his bones and his mind. He still didn’t know where she was. He couldn’t see anything but blood and bodies, and his own undoing.
‘Henri.’ That was Bleak’s voice. ‘Henri, stop.’
‘No.’
Blood from his head ran down his face and stung his eyes. He cried out as he hit the ceiling again. And again. Henri slammed him back into the wall, keeping him upright, and then she flew at him, her katars, their hidden blades springing free, pressed against his throat.
‘Do you know what my kindred would do to you?’ she ground out, her breath hot and stale on his face.
She knew it had been him.
‘Do you know what the king will do to you?’ he managed, his eyes flicking to the massacre around the inn.
‘You think I did this?’
‘Don’t even,’ he tried to swallow, but felt her blades pierce his skin, ‘don’t even try to deny it.’
Henri stared into his face, her nostrils flaring.
‘She didn’t do it,’ Bleak said, emerging from one of the booths, looking badly beaten. ‘I did.’
‘You?’ he croaked. ‘How?’
Bleak didn’t reply. Instead, Henri applied more pressure to the katars at his neck.
‘You drugged me,’ she hissed.
Swinton winced. She would kill him like this, little by little, slowly. He would choke on his own blood.
‘You can’t kill him,’ Fiore said, walking out from the storage area at the back. He was holding a rag to his bleeding head.
‘I can.’
‘King Arden will see it as a direct attack on Ellest, killing the Commander of the King’s Army. He’ll burn Valia to the ground for it.’
Without looking away from Swinton’s face, Henri addressed Fiore.
‘You know what he did. That’s an act of war on Valia.’
‘I know what he did, and I don’t agree with it,’ Fiore said, ‘but, we’ve got bigger problems.’ He gestured around the inn.
Swinton and Henri followed his gaze to the carnage.
‘We need to figure out what to do about this, or we’re all dead,’ he said.
Henri looked at Bleak, who was leaning against the bar, eyes glazed over.
Turning back to Swinton, Henri withdrew her katars from his throat. He exhaled the breath he’d been holding in, and touched his fingers to the small cuts near his Adam’s apple; they came away bloody.
‘There will come a time,’ she told him, ‘when you will die for what you have done here.’ She sheathed her katars and walked over to Bleak.
Fiore rushed forward as Swinton collapsed, catching him under the arms. Throwing one of Swinton’s limp arms around his neck, he dragged him to a nearby booth.
‘Gods, you’re a mess,’ Fiore said under his breath.
Swinton watched as his friend went to the bar to find some alcohol to clean his wounds. This wasn’t going to be pleasant …
Swinton passed out from the pain multiple times. His whole body felt broken and on fire. It hurt even to breathe. Broken ribs, lacerations to the face and head, a dislocated shoulder, a broken cheekbone. Despite the extensive list of injuries, however, Swinton knew he’d got off lightly.
Fiore applied the alcohol to his wounds with the cold precision of a castle doctor. Even amidst the haze of pain, Swinton knew Fiore was angry with him, and he didn’t know what to say. He’d had no choice in leaving them. Perhaps the gameswood in Henri’s broth had been a mistake, but they’d never know now. He’d followed the king’s orders, only the others couldn’t discover that. He stole a glance across the room and saw Henri trying to talk to Bleak. All Bleak was doing, though, was shaking her head. How in the realm had she done this? Had she known what she was doing?
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Fiore asked through his teeth. ‘Don’t insult me by telling me you’ve been in the privy the whole time.’
‘Yes,’ Swinton forced himself to say.
‘But you won’t tell me where you went?’
Swinton shook his head. ‘I can’t. Orders.’
Fiore narrowed his eyes. ‘Then you deserve this. You should have been here.’
‘And where were you? Why didn’t you stop this?’ Swinton countered.
‘I was attacked.’
‘So you failed just as I did.’
‘Not just as you did, no.’ Fiore was rougher with his wounds after that.
‘We have to burn it,’ Swinton croaked.
Fiore paused over stitching up one of his head wounds. ‘What?’
‘We have to burn this place to the ground.’
Chapter 28
A dozen men were dead. Their minds had bled out of their noses, their eyes, their ears. They had been in so much agony, they hadn’t been able to form words, only scream – a primitive, animal sound that made the hairs on Bleak’s arms stand up. Their eyes had been wide, imploring someone, anyone, to make it end. She hadn’t stopped. She’d given in to some baser instinct inside herself. She had wanted them dead. All of them. Bleak shuddered. She’d been right to want a cure, to put a stop to this ‘power’ of hers.
‘They weren’t innocent men,’ Henri said beside her.
<
br /> ‘Most of them weren’t evil, either,’ Bleak said, watching Fiore tend to Swinton’s shocking wounds on the other side of the room.
‘No,’ Henri agreed, ‘but these things … They happen.’
‘That’s your advice?’
‘I have no advice for you. Everyone deals with death in different ways, whether they caused it or not. You did what you thought you had to do to protect us. And for that, I owe you my thanks.’
Henri’s gratitude hung thick in the air.
‘I don’t know how I did it … Protected you, I mean … It could have just as easily been you lying here on the floor,’ Bleak managed.
‘That didn’t happen, though.’
‘No, but it could have.’
‘You have more control than you think. I’m thankful for that.’
Bleak ignored the warrior’s rare moment of humility. ‘These men belonged to someone.’
‘Someone they treated infinitely better than us. Or have you forgotten them attacking you? Have you forgotten the bastard who put his hands on me? None of them were going to stop.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘And if we did, would it make it easier?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then there’s nothing to be done,’ Henri said, and started taking bottles of spirits from behind the bar.
Bleak could still feel her magic roiling within her. She wasn’t tired as she usually was when she’d been in someone’s mind. If anything, she felt stronger, the power within her hungrier. She didn’t know what it meant, but along with her power pulsed horror like she’d never known. The kind of horror, she realised, that only comes with recognising the worst part of oneself, and having long-suppressed fears confirmed.
Bleak’s thirst was at a record high. Despite the blood and tinge of death in the air, the most potent odour was the alcohol, and it made her mouth water. Henri poured the liquid out across the floor and over the bodies. The drunk within Bleak cried out in outrage – Such waste! Such a horrible waste. But when she realised that her thoughts were for the alcohol rather than for the men she’d killed, she too reached over the bar for the bottles and began sloshing the liquor across the floor. Together, they emptied the entire contents of the bar all over the inn and the bodies it now housed.
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