“And I’m afraid I have more information, Your Majesty. I believe Boris, my brother, is planning an attack on you. I—”
Before Catherine could say more, she saw a movement on the balcony behind the king. She pointed and said, “Are they your guards?”
The king turned as the windows behind him burst open. Four men dressed in black ran in, daggers in their hands. Catherine shouted the alarm, and a moment later two of the Royal Guard rushed in through the door. But the men in black were already across the room. One assailant grabbed the king by his arm, spinning him round, and another stabbed at his back.
King Arell fell with a cry. His guards ran forward, slashing at the king’s attackers with their swords, but with a splintering of glass more black-clad assassins smashed in through the windows. They swung on thin dark ropes, and with a jolt of horror Catherine remembered the night on board ship during her crossing to Pitoria, when she had seen Boris’s men climbing ropes in the rigging in the dark.
One of the assassins moved toward Catherine, dagger held low. She backed away, heart thumping with terror. Then, impossibly, Ambrose was beside her, sword in hand. He flashed a glance at her, long enough to check she was unharmed, then darted forward, his blade a blur as he cut down her assailant.
The king was still on the floor, blood running from his back, but more guards were pouring into the room now, and the assassins were being driven off. Catherine pressed herself into a doorway, trying to keep out of the way.
Ambrose advanced on the assassins. “Drop your weapons.”
One of the men spat at him. “We’d rather die, traitor. And we’ll take you with us.” He rushed forward with one of his comrades. Catherine was safe in her doorway, but Sarah was standing closer, frozen with fear, and one assassin stepped to her and slashed her across the neck with a dagger as he passed. She looked at Catherine and clutched her neck as blood spurted through her fingers.
Catherine screamed as Sarah’s body fell to the ground, a pool of blood growing around her face. Keeping low, Catherine ran to her maid. Sarah’s mouth moved, but no words came, just a dribble of blood.
Ambrose sidestepped his attacker and chopped down into the man’s shoulder, almost severing his arm, before whirling his sword round in a reverse sweep that took off another attacker’s head.
Catherine was shaking. She felt like she might be sick. Sarah’s body was pale and surrounded by a pool of dark blood. Her own hands and clothes were sticky with it. Then Ambrose was beside her, hugging her close, and then forcing her to look into his face. “You’re safe now, Your Highness. You’re safe.”
“Sarah. They killed Sarah.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
She clung to his arm as more guards ran in, bending over the king and shouting for a surgeon.
“Is he alive?” she asked.
But no one answered. There were bodies everywhere Catherine looked. Purple-haired guards and black-clothed assassins. Ambrose guided her to a chair. “You’re shaking.”
They sat together as a surgeon arrived and the king was hurriedly lifted from the floor and carried into his bedchamber.
Her father had done this. Killed all these people. Killed Sarah.
Then another of the king’s men arrived and took charge, ordering the bodies be removed. Ambrose wanted to look at the faces of the assassins, but he was reluctant to leave Catherine even for a few moments.
“I’m just shaken. But I know I’m safe, Ambrose. Do all you can to help.”
Catherine watched him as he walked among the bodies. How many dead were there? Too many. Again she looked over at Sarah. Catherine couldn’t think at all. Couldn’t get her body to move. She could only look. There was nothing else to do.
Ambrose came back to sit with her. “Two are Noyes’s men; the rest are Boris’s.”
“All are my father’s men. He’s responsible.”
As Catherine shivered and shook, Sir Rowland arrived.
“Thank goodness you’re safe, Your Highness. The lord chamberlain told me you were here. He said the king had been attacked.”
Sir Rowland was pale and his jacket was slashed—not because of the Pitorian fashion. It had blood on it too.
Ambrose answered, “Yes. The king is badly hurt. But what happened to you?”
“I was in the great hall for the feast, when men arrived dressed in black. They attacked the guests and the servants . . . anyone in their way. There are many dead. Five of the lords at the feast have been killed, twelve wounded, and many servants, all unarmed. It was a massacre.” Sir Rowland had tears in his eyes.
Catherine swallowed hard. “Tzsayn and I were meant to be in that room. It should have been our wedding banquet. Do you think they’d have tried to kill Tzsayn if he was here?”
Sir Rowland nodded grimly. “I do, Your Highness.”
“They would have killed me too then.” Her father and her brother.
“Boris probably intended to take you back to Brigane.”
Catherine shook her head. “No. They had no thought for me at all. Me or my maids.”
Catherine stood as Ambrose backed respectfully away. She’d known Sarah for six years. Sarah—the most sensible, most reasonable, most calm of her maids—had been cut down like an animal. Suddenly she wanted to be far from that room, safe with Jane and Tanya.
Sir Rowland said, “The assailants were all Boris’s and Noyes’s men. None have been caught alive.”
“And Boris?”
“There’s a search out for him, his men, and Noyes. If they are clever, and Noyes is nothing if not clever, they will already be out of the city and on their way to the coast. This was all well planned; they’ll have their escape route thought through.”
Catherine turned to Ambrose. “And this attack confirms that the invasion in the north is true.”
“What?” asked Sir Rowland.
Ambrose briefly explained. “This—all this—the wedding, everything, is a diversion. Aloysius is invading Pitoria even as we speak. That is why Tzsayn left.”
Sir Rowland shook his head. “Why am I surprised?”
“Fortunately Tzsayn is unhurt, and riding north to repel the invasion,” said Ambrose. “Many of the lords are still alive too, and with luck the king will survive.”
“But if he doesn’t”—Sir Rowland looked at Catherine—“you will be in great danger, Your Highness.”
“I’m already in danger. I came here with Boris,” Catherine said, her voice low and furious. “I brought him and fifty other assassins into the royal palace. If the king dies, I will be blamed. People will think I was party to the plan. I’ve won many people over, but I’ll lose all that favor faster than I gained it if there’s a war with my father. We must go to Tzsayn. We’ll only be safe with him.”
“Run, you mean?” Ambrose looked concerned. “But they will think you’re guilty.”
“Everything I’ve done makes me look guilty. For now, I need to be with Tzsayn.”
“He’ll be halfway to Rossarb. It’s a long hard ride.”
“I can ride well enough, you know that.”
“And your maids? They’ll not be safe here either.”
Catherine nodded. “We all go.”
MARCH
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
HOLYWELL WAS in a foul mood and he was forcing the pace. They had covered little distance over the last few days as they crossed a flat expanse of icy rock riddled with gaps. Some gaps were narrow enough to step over, others were not, and all that could be done was to go along, or back, until a way through could be found. The wind was harsher and colder. Thankfully they were now in the shelter of the thin trees, but they had been five days on the plateau, food was running low, and the cold was relentless.
“Look!” March pointed to a large fallen tree just to their left. It was dead and rotting, with broken branches
scattered around. Most of the wood was dry and perfect for the fire. He called to Holywell, “There’s plenty of wood here. We can load the pony up.”
Holywell, who was leading the pony, didn’t even turn, but muttered something to Edyon.
Edyon hesitated, then ran over to March.
“What did he say?” March asked.
“Something about the noise carrying and that if you didn’t stop shouting he’d use you for harpoon practice.”
March hadn’t shouted very loud, but sound did seem to carry a long way here in the still air.
“And I think he wants me to do the job of the pony.” Edyon smiled.
“We’re all supposed to stay together and we’re all supposed to collect wood.” March set his harpoon down. He said, “If you load up my arms with the bigger pieces, then bring the harpoons, Your Highness, we’ll have enough wood for tonight.”
Though if Holywell had stopped, they would have had enough for two nights.
Edyon piled the wood up to March’s chin and asked, “More?”
“Yes. Thank you, Your Highness.”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep calling me that, March. We’re traveling companions and fugitives from the law together.” Edyon picked up a couple of branches and the harpoons. “And wood collectors.”
March half smiled. “But I am a servant and you are the son of a prince.”
“Yet hardly princely material.” Edyon sighed. “What do you think my father will make of me?”
“You’re his son. I’m sure he’ll see your strengths.” March thought this was probably true. Though Edyon seemed naive, he was also intelligent, charming, and patient. March had had to wait on many worse gentlemen.
Anyway, said the hard voice in his head, he’ll never meet his father, so what does it matter?
March slowed to let Edyon go ahead, so that he could avoid continuing the conversation, and that’s when he thought he felt something.
He stopped. What was that?
He took a step back.
And then another.
The something he felt was warmer.
The forest was cold and still, but here it definitely felt warmer. He looked up, wondering if the sun had broken through the clouds, but it was as overcast as ever. He was in a small, natural clearing, and he was standing at the bottom of a slight hollow in the ground. Edyon was well ahead now. March wanted to call to him, but shouting wasn’t a good thing. He looked around, trying to work out if anything else was different, and a piece of wood began to slide from the top of his pile. March tilted it to try to prevent it from falling, but his arms were tired, the wood was heavy, and it fell to the ground. March bent his knees, keeping his back straight, but as he fumbled for it another piece fell and as he swung the pile round the rest of it toppled out of his arms.
He looked up. Edyon had stopped and was watching him. March swore. He held his arms open to indicate this is ridiculous and then bent down to retrieve the wood—and felt the warmth again, but stronger now, on his face and hands. He put his palm on the ground, and was surprised to find it was as warm as skin. And it seemed like the ground had a glow to it, a red tinge to the earth and dead leaves.
He looked up at Edyon and wanted to tell him. But tell him what? And then he realized.
The red tinge. The warmth.
“Oh shit.”
March looked up at Edyon and didn’t know if he should shout or run or stay still. In the end, he moved slowly, almost tiptoeing out of the hollow, and when he was clear of it he ran to Edyon, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him along, saying, “Let’s get away from here.”
“What is it?” Edyon was going slowly and looking back.
“I don’t know, but I think it might be something to do with demons.”
Edyon picked up his pace and ran.
Holywell had stopped a short distance ahead and was looking at them.
“What’s up? Where’s the wood?”
“I think there are demons here,” March blurted.
Holywell looked around. March did too. And so did Edyon.
Everything was as still and silent as ever.
“Demons or not, we need to keep moving.” Holywell nodded to the rock face to his right. “This place is too enclosed.”
Edyon pointed to the rocks, eyes wide. “Something just moved there. Something red.”
March snatched his harpoon back from Edyon, his eyes fixed on the rocks, but he saw no movement. No sign of any demon.
Holywell muttered, “March, keep your eyes behind us. We’re going to keep going, but slow.” He was holding his harpoon back, ready to throw. “Stay alert. And stay close.”
March did as he was told, his heart racing.
They’d only gone a few paces when Edyon shouted, “There!”
March spun and Holywell was unleashing his harpoon at a figure who’d stepped out from behind a tree. The man dodged. Holywell didn’t. And suddenly there was a spear in his chest, the dripping point poking out of his back.
Edyon yelped as Holywell dropped to his knees. The weight of the spear pulled him forward and he fell onto his side. Unmoving. Dead.
March looked up to the rock face as a second spear came toward him. Then Edyon slammed into him, knocking him out of the weapon’s path. March staggered and raised his harpoon. One man was standing on the top of the rocks; the other—the one Holywell had seen—was down at his level. They both had scarlet hair and were holding long knives. The one on the rocks jumped down and they both moved forward.
March backed away. These were sheriff’s men, excellent shots with their spears and probably good fighters with their knives.
“Stay near me. Don’t let them get close,” he said to Edyon quietly.
“H-Holywell’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“What do we do?”
“I’m trying to think. They haven’t got any more spears. If we stay together, we look stronger. Hold your harpoon up.”
“Yes. I won’t run. I’ll stay with you.”
“It’s two against two. We have harpoons. Make them count.”
The men were approaching slowly. March knew his chances of hitting them with his harpoon were low, and Edyon’s were, well . . . Still he said, “You can do it, Edyon. Remember how we practiced.”
“This is crazy,” said Edyon. “I can’t throw.” And he dropped his harpoon.
“What? No!”
Edyon took a step forward, arms in the air, saying quietly to March, “You throw. I’ll talk.”
EDYON
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
EDYON KNEW that he couldn’t fight. He couldn’t hit one of these men with a harpoon even if they stood still directly in front of him. He couldn’t throw, but he could talk.
“I’m Edyon. Son of Prince Thelonius of Calidor.” He opened his jacket and pulled out his gold neck-chain. “This is proof of who I am and who my father is. If you attack me, you attack Calidor.”
The men stopped and looked uncertain. The older one said, “You’re wanted for murder, whoever your father is.”
“I’ve murdered no one. Nor has my man, March. And yet we have been attacked by you without warning.”
“You’re in forbidden territory. I don’t need to give warnings, but I’ll give you this one now: if you don’t surrender, we’ll attack again. Get your man to drop his weapon.”
“So that you can kill us like you’ve killed my other servant? I think not. Perhaps you can lower your weapons first. As a sign of goodwill.”
The older man shook his head. Thick scars traced his jaw; he didn’t look like a man to show or expect leniency. “That will not happen, sir. I’m here with the sheriff’s authority. But if you are who you say you are, and you come with us peaceably, perhaps the sheriff will look kindly on you.”
“I’m not interested i
n the sheriff’s kindness. We are innocent of murder.”
“Well, if we stay like this we’ll all freeze to death.”
The leader motioned to the other man and they began to move forward again.
March threw his harpoon at the younger man, but he rolled to the side and the harpoon landed in the earth behind him. March immediately snatched up Edyon’s harpoon. The older man was now running at Edyon, arms pumping, knives glinting. Edyon retreated as swiftly as he could, but the sheriff’s man was too fast and too close. March came between them, swinging his harpoon at the running man. It all happened so quickly.
The running man veered, but March sidestepped in the same direction, and the harpoon plunged into the scarred man’s side. He was still moving; March moved round with him, impaling the man farther onto the barbs, but also driving him toward Edyon, who tripped and stumbled backward. The scarred man stopped and wavered, then fell sideways, his blood spreading out and sinking into the snow.
But even as relief washed over him, Edyon heard a strange, terrible screech. He looked up and saw the younger man, armed with two knives, coming at March, who was now unarmed and backing away to Edyon’s left. But the screech came from a red figure that was running out of the trees from the right, faster than a charging bull.
The demon, for that’s what it had to be, bowled into the sheriff’s man, tossing him into the air like a child. It turned in an instant, and as the sheriff’s man fell heavily to the ground, the demon pounced on him, gripping the man’s head, twisting and wrenching until it ripped from the body with a sickening crunch. The demon tossed the head into the air, spinning scarlet drops of blood. Then it turned to March and screamed.
March stood, frozen. He had no weapon, no chance.
The demon stepped toward March. Edyon had to do something.
“No!” Edyon shouted. “No! No!”
And he ran, flapping his arms, at the demon.
The demon turned to Edyon and stood to its full height. It was huge.
“Oh shits,” Edyon murmured, skidding to a halt.