Page 61 of The King's Man 3

Then he flicks my forehead, the fondness in the gesture so achingly familiar it brings a lump to my throat. He’s sayinggoodbye. His eyes hold mine for one heartbeat longer, as if to memorise me. “Stay here.”

His words are a soft command. And then he turns with purpose and steps onto the wispy path.

The fog swallows him, greedy tendrils clawing at his figure.

Only the soft click of his cane remains.

Then, not even that.

The ground beneath my knees feels like I do, like something will give way and I will fall forever. I strain my eyes, trying to glimpse him through the curling mist.

A heavy cry has a thousand birds flying from their perches into the air and I fight against my blocked acupoints. Heat pools at my eyes, my chest aches.

Come out. Please come out. Make it.Make it.

Time seems to slow. Falling leaves are suspended in the air and then float towards foggy tendrils. Animals come up to me, sniff me, leave again. Shadow and moonlight play chase over my face.

I stare resolutely towards the caves.

Please.

I concentrate on moving my fingers first. All my energy is trained to one hand, to one finger, to the tip of it. If I can make this one twitch, and then another... There must be a way...

A pearl of sweat worms down my temple, a tickle I can’t wipe away, but—

There. One finger bends.

I shut my eyes and focus on more movement. Any. The forest shivers around me, time creeps by, pained groans catch on the breeze. With all my determination I shove at the invisible chains holding me still.

Gradually, my limbs regain life. My arms and legs are heavy, as if made of stone, but with a surge of will and a gasp, I push to my feet. Stagger a step towards the miasma, and the caves, and Quin, beyond. Another step.

Please.

Please—

A dark form appears, the fog veiling him light enough to make out his shape, the pain with which he moves. He’s hunched around his cane; each step seems to jolt through him like he’s being stabbed. His cloak is a bundle at his side that he grips hard.

Energy sluices through me and my movements snap against the lingering bonds.

Quin staggers out of the miasma. He loses his grip on the cane and I catch his sagging weight, arm around his waist. He presses his bundle to my chest, struggling to speak. “I have... immortal bone.”

His head droops, but I’ll—

“Heal my people first.”

I shake my head, already trying to rummage in the cloak. He grips my wrist. It’s a feeble hold, but the weight of his meaning is not feeble at all. “Promise me.”

Frustration warms my limbs and I help him hobble back to the horse. He manages to pull himself up with me shoving and steering him into the saddle, but his limbs slacken as we ride and I clench my thighs around him, one arm firm at his waist. “Hold on, hold on, hold on.”

His response is weak, scratchy; I spur the horse on harder and faster. “Stay awake!”

My arm crushes around his middle, I jam myself against his back, I bite his shoulder. His hiss is barely audible. I dig my heels into the horse, and bite him over and over—

His wispy grunts of pain stop.

His body goes limp.

“Wake up. Now.” I gallop on in a thick cloud of road dust and cry out for help, and suddenly Bastion is there, catching the king’s tumbling weight as he falls from the horse. Heart jammed in my throat, I help carry him into one of the empty cottages and lay him on a raised bed. My voice comes out strangled. “I said wake up!”

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