Page 23 of The King's Man 1

The cry echoes again, sharp and anguished.Dying. I squeeze my hand into a fist. I can’t ignore this.

I slide down the embankment, heart pounding as I follow the trail of destruction and emerge from the shadows of the pines. I find myself in a grassy clearing littered with a dozen bodies. None have the telltale purple robes of crusaders or the dark cloaks of vespertines. These are redcloaks, soldiers from the royal army. What happened here?

I steel my stomach and scurry to the nearest one. Frantically, as I check for signs of life, I pull at my flask and tip the contents down my throat. Dead. Pierced by larch needles at the seven deadly acupoints. I move to the next body, and the next. All dead.

Where—

A blast of spiritual power slams into my back, throwing me into the middle of the clearing. I catch myself hard on hands and knees.

“Who are you?”

Fighting the power rippling in my gut, I spit and raise my hands.

I turn just in time to see the man’s palm thrust forward. A gust of wind lifts me off my feet, slamming me against a tree trunk. Bark digs into my back and wind rushes into my face, plastering my shirt to my chest; even my boots seem to strangle my ankles with the force of it.I need to stay focused. I can’t let him kill me.

“Don’t move,” I choke out, noticing the dark veins spidering up his neck. “You’ve been poisoned.”

“Did my uncle send you?”

My eyes water; I force myself to keep them open. My knowledge of sentinian spells is scant—barely enough to conjure a measly shield, certainly not enough to hold back this man—but the force of the wind is faltering. He’s weakening.

Blood streaks his pale robe, the embroidered belt out of place in this chaos. He’s an eparch, rich by the looks. Perhaps ambushed? Or, an assassin who made quick work of his enemies.

His arm shakes. Dark eyes pierce me with suspicion.

I slip a few inches down the tree and choke out, “I can help you.”

His eyes narrow, untrusting. “They look like normal redcloaks. They’re dead. You’d help me?”

“Healers don’t see enemy colours.”

He wheezes. “You’re a vitalian?”

Technically, I’m not allowed to call myself that. But if it will lower his guard...

I nod.

Clasping his chest with a cry, he falls to his knees, the loose lengths and twisted braids of his hair partly veiling his pained expression. The wind ceases abruptly, and I drop onto knotted tree roots.

My knees and palms sting. I struggle to catch my breath, but there’s no time to rest. This man will die in front of me if I don’t hurry.I have to do this right.

Summoning essences of thornwort and swiftleaf, I direct them into a swirling mist of blue light, thickening it like water. Scrambling toward him, I press the spell into his wound.

His face twists with pain, his hand twitching upward.

“I’ve done this before,” I assure him, though my pulse ticks sharply with doubt.

Blood dribbles from his lips. “I don’t trust anyone.”

“You’re dying. What choice do you have?”

He laughs hollowly and collapses, clutching his chest with a ragged intake of air.

I straddle his hips, pinning his convulsing body down. Five larch needles. I settle them into the swirling blue. With my free hand, I part his robes and bare his chest.

He gasps, his body jerking with the poison, eyes widened on mine.

“This will hurt.”

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