Page 95 of The Flame King's Queen

I have no magic, but a prickling in my teeth tells me that my brother is close by. It could be wishful thinking, but something is needling me not to waste this opportunity by being overcautious.

“I must get closer,” I murmur to Isavelle, her bodyguards, and the handful of other wingrunners with us. I point out a way down the ridge. “This way, and keep low to the ground and as quiet as possible. Protect the queen at all costs.”

If the man I once called my brother is here, I want to see him for myself.

We reach the valley floor and are crouched down behind a rock formation. Esmeral has curled her tail around and is keeping her head low. As the four strangers near the hut, nothing moves beyond the dirty glass windows, and there’s no sign anywhere that it is inhabited.

The four warlocks begin chanting quietly, and a line of pulsing light appears on the ground, circling the entire hut.

Isavelle’s eyes widen, and she whispers, “The Brethren didn’t teach them that. It’s a witch’s ward. These warlocks must have researched in Master Gaun’s archives, or they know a witch.”

The ward glows brighter, and suddenly there’s movement from within the hut. I see something dash past a window, and then the front door is yanked open. Emmeric appears on the doorstep, but he’s almost unrecognizable from the last time I saw him. His long dark hair is in greasy tangles, and there are dark hollows beneath his eyes. I wonder if the lich has been punishing him from within his own body for his recent failures. Losing all their prisoners, then their stronghold, and then failing to kill me.

Emmeric turns pale and his hands tremble. He looks tired. So very tired, and for a moment, he even looks afraid. Then green light flares in his eyes and his spine straightens. He reaches into his pocket and flings handfuls of small objects far and wide. Something lands near us, rolling over and over before coming to rest at my feet.

I realize what it is. A finger bone. As I watch, it twitches, glows green, and starts to grow in size.

“Shit,” I growl, and quickly stomp on the bone, grinding it to dust under my heel. “Quickly, destroy them all before they can grow into skeletons and attack us.”

Fiala and Dusan use the butts of their halberds to destroy the bones. Esmeral hisses and snarls as she rakes her talons across a rapidly forming skeleton. Isavelle draws a dagger from her belt and hammers the bones with her hilt.

There are too many of them, and soon an army of sword-wielding skeletons have risen up around us, the warlocks, and the shack, and are closing in on us.

“Wingrunners. Keep the undead off the warlocks,” I shout, while kicking a skeleton toward Esmeral, who rips it apart with her teeth.

The wyverns take to the skies and are diving at the undead, ripping off skulls with their talons, smashing them against rocks.

Isavelle performs a spell. Three skeletons freeze, and topple to the ground in a heap of bones. I swing my sword to cut the head of one skeleton, and I kick the rib cage from another. The undead aren’t so easily destroyed, and the scattered parts of the skeletons reform and get to their feet.

Through the battle din, I can hear the warlocks chanting. A green burst of magic appears between Emmeric’s hands. The four men shout a foreign but vaguely familiar word, and all his green light is blasted away.

Emmeric stares at his palms with furious, almost manic eyes, and snarls at the former witchfinders, “You ungrateful beasts. You were given status and authority when I ruled Maledin, and now you throw my generosity in my face. You will all die.”

But no matter how many times Emmeric tries to fling magic at them, the wards and the warlocks’ words subdue him every time. He can’t escape the ward around the hut either, and he appears to be growing weaker with every passing moment as he tries to sustain all the undead around us and break free of his magic prison. His hands tremble once more, his bared teeth are yellow, and his eyes grow watery and bloodshot. After five hundred years, the man I once called my brother is growing weary of the world.

One of the warlocks has drawn a dagger and is closing in on Emmeric.

“Protect the queen,” I shout to Fiala, Dusan, Esmeral, and the wingrunners, before charging forward, sword in hand. I cleave through three skeletons at once to get to Emmeric.

I’ll be the one to do it.

Emmeric looks terrified as I bear down on him, and holds up both hands in supplication. “Zabriel, please. I’m your brother.”

He falls to his knees, not one trace of green in his eyes. I stand over him, sword gripped in my hand. Please what? Spare him, after all that he’s done? If Emmeric had come to me in repentance and asked for forgiveness when I returned to Maledin instead of stealing my bride and murdering my people, things might have been different. If he begs me now, it is only because his defenses have been stripped away, and he is on the threshold of death.

“It’s too late for forgiveness,” I tell him. “You murdered our parents, and then you dragged Mother up out of the dirt so I had to watch her die all over again. You are not my brother. You’re barely even a man. After all your pride and your hunger for power, look what has become of you. You never thought twice before allowing that lich to invade your heart and bringing so much death and suffering to Maledin, so I won’t hesitate now.”

I tighten my grip on my sword, and thrust it through Emmeric’s heart. I feel the crunch of his bones and his gasping breath. Emmeric’s eyes go wide, he makes a wet choking sound, and blood flows over my hands. As the light fades from Emmeric’s eyes, he reaches for me. Then he slumps to the ground and dies.

Green light forms around his body and coalesces into a small, fluttering knot.

“The lich’s soul. Don’t let it escape,” one of the warlocks calls out.

They shout unfamiliar words, and the ward that encircled the hut snaps tight around the lich’s scrap of soul, all that was left after we killed the necromancer and destroyed its phylactery five hundred years ago, but it is more than enough to possess a man and cause utter devastation in Maledin. The green light fights madly within the magical net, hurling itself around like a wild animal caught in a trap.

One of the warlocks produces a metal vessel shaped like a bottle. They seem to be trying to force the frantically beating scrap of soul into the vessel. Isavelle hurries forward and adds her magic to the warlocks’, chanting with them, her high voice adding a powerful note to their deep ones. The green light is being forced closer and closer to the metal prison.

“Come on,” I whisper under my breath, clenching my fists. “You can all do this.”

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