Page 28 of The King's Man 3

I yell, but he doesn’t hear me. A dozen men spring from either side of the river, their crude weapons snapping as they rush Quin’s boat.

Quin sends out a cloud of razor-sharp leaves, but the vespertines are agile, slashing through the leaves with their whips and forcing Quin to manoeuvre sideways.

Figures erupt from the water in a spray of droplets, their black-clad forms cutting through the sunlight. Whips crack against the air, sharp as thunderclaps, and the metallic tang of magic scorches my nose. A storm of violence converges on Quin, and I’m too far away and too weak to help—to do anything but watch with a pounding pulse.

Quin’s magic flares in a blur of gold to fend off the attacks.

A child’s scream pierces the chaos, followed by a splash. My chest tightens as I drop my belongings and run, my legs trembling, towards the submerged child. Too far. I won’t make it in time.

Quin dives into the water, and the surface ripples. The vespertines close in, waiting; my anguished cry catches in my throat as Quin and the child emerge. The child is safely placed on the jetty, but Quin buckles in pain, a leg cramp seizing him, and at that moment—while he’s vulnerable, exposed—they advance, targeting the acupoints that will block his magic.

I bite back a scream, hiding behind an oak, my fist pressed to my mouth. He’s defenceless now. No longer a threat. Theydrag him, weakened by the fight and hindered by his leg, from the water; the leader approaches the child, thanking them and sending them home.

Quin hurls curses, enraged by their use of a child, but his anger has no power without magic. The leader turns, and I finally see his face, the freckle under his eye. It’s the man from the inn, smirking at his hostage. “From all I’ve heard of you, I wasn’t sure you’d bother helping that brat. At least you’re not entirely heartless.”

He gestures to his men, and with a swift blow Quin is knocked unconscious.

My fists curl so tightly my nails bite into my palms. I should’ve acted faster. Done more. Instead, I crouch low, my breath coming in jagged bursts, my chest tight as I follow at a distance.

Each thud of Quin’s body on the cart feels like the vespertines’ whips are lashing me instead. Two cover Quin with sacks and take positions beside him. The cart creaks as the horses pull it down a narrow lane, leaving a trail in the softened dirt. I track it to a group of huts at the base of the mountains, shrouded in forest and fog.

Hiding behind a log pile, I watch as they drag Quin into a shed and post two guards outside. My fists clench as I argue with myself about Quin’s fate. I sigh. I’m not equipped to fight my way in and out. I need a plan; an escape route.

I convince myself that Quin will be fine. If they intended to kill him, they’d have done it already. They’re after the bounty.

As I head back down the road, I ask a local farmer about the frequency of travellers. Few use this route now, but every afternoon around four, farmer Georgos carts wood into the town with his donkey.

Reaching where I tied my horse, I find it gone, along with my clothes and my grandfather’s books. I strike a tree in frustration,splinters digging into my palm. At least my soldad is still tied to my belt. The money remains in my pocket.

Exhausted and frustrated, I return to Quin’s capsized boat and retrieve a few of his soaked belongings, including his chess set and cane. I enter Kastoria through an unguarded gateway. The town’s ancient walls are choked with ivy and young trees, crumbling away—a victor of past wars, now forgotten.

Halfway up a cobbled road, a keeper stands at the gate of a rustic inn. He rushes over when he sees me. “Stay at our inn. Two nights and get the third free.”

Assuming Quin will need to recover before we move south, I agree. The keeper’s desperation is palpable as he leads me into the empty inn.

“Don’t get many travellers since the earthshakes,” he explains. “We used to have many vitalians as long-term guests, but the miasma drove them away. The rooms are well maintained, though. And there’s a communal bath out back, heated by hot springs.”

That would aid Quin’s recovery. I pay for the stay and ask for directions to an apothecary.

The apothecary has a queue outside, but inside, it’s eerily bare. I gather supplies from the nearly empty baskets. “When will you get more?” I ask.

The dispenser avoids my gaze. “Soon, soon.”

The prices are high, but I need to be prepared. Back at the inn, I spend the evening brewing and drinking tea after tea and after a restless night, I head to the tailor for some final necessities and pilfer a governing official’s uniform from a washing line. I hurry out of town and, near a quiet lane by a bubbling creek, I change clothes—

A hard thump hits my back. Hands shove me against a weeping willow, and I let out a shriek as rough bark scratches my cheek.

“Well, well, well. The dead sure is lively.”

I’m yanked around to face Megaera, her red skirts and crimson cloak fluttering. I shrink against the trunk. “You were following me.”

“Since yesterday,” she says, her ground-rumbling magic rising to deliver a long stick, which she points at my chest like a sword. One magical shove could pierce me through.

I swallow hard. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

“He took life-shortening tea. You saw it. The high duke saw it.”

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