Page 78 of The King's Man 3

Master and boy spar into one of the forking tunnels, and abandoning his cane, Quin and I use the opportunity to slip into the main chamber.Prison. Thick bars line one wall and behind them more than a dozen redcloaks grip and shake the metal. Another tries to unpick the lock while master and son are out of sight.

I spy a set of keys hanging between torches, and lunge for them.

I turn and throw them to Quin hobbling along the cells.

“What’s going on here?” Master and boy have returned.

I keep my head bowed, voice raspy. “All redcloaks to be brought outside. A demonstration.”

I’m eyed suspiciously. Master is about to speak when Quin gruffly interjects. “At once.” He unlocks the cell and bellows for the men inside to line up and keep an orderly pace. “Anyone falling out of line won’t make it to the courtyard.”

Master and son eye one another, and the master steps forward. “We’ll fight with our lives.”

The boy shrinks, and my teeth grind. “Captain says to protect the child down here.”

“Boy’s ready to fight for justice.”

He’s too young. He doesn’t want to. I won’t let him, if I can help it. I pitch my voice to sound nonchalant. “Sure. But you know how the captain is. Will you defy his order?”

Master grunts unhappily, and hiding his extreme discomfort, Quin hauls heavily beaten redcloaks out. He glances at me and subtly gestures to two remaining prisoners in a corner. One I can tell immediately is dead, body stiff, eyes glazed. The other is slumped, limbs shaking under his cloak. His hand is bloodied and squeezed tight around... a ribbon.A silver mourning ribbon.

My stomach dips. It takes all my effort to keep my gait even, steady, as if I don’t care. “Everyone out,” I bark, bending over Nicostratus’s sickly, cold figure. “Including you. Up.”

My voice is harsh, but my fingers are gentle as I take hold of his arm and help him into a sitting position. I want to help him, heal his internal bleeding, his cuts and scrapes, warm him through. But I heed Quin’s warning—no magic—and heave him to his feet. He’s unsteady; he falls heavily against me. He doesn’t cease clutching the ribbon and it flutters between us.

Ahead, Quin barks orders, snapping me into action. I whisper, using his voice as cover, “Nicostratus, we’ve got you. You’ll be alright.”

His eyes flutter open and his head rolls back. “Amuletos,” he mouths. “I followed you.” Followed me... “At least, I can be happy now.”

He thinks he’s dead.

The reality is too much to explain in whispers while he comes in and out of consciousness. Instead, I murmur, “Help me move you.”

He chuckles and blood seeps from a wound on his shoulder, but he finds enough energy to stagger to the end of the redcloak line and through underground chambers that curve and riseuntil we feel swirling air and taste the scent of battle among the old fortress ruins, layered in violet as night sets in.

Quin rips off his purple robe and commands the surprised redcloaks to grab anything they can use to fight. “They won’t expect you—help the comrades who came to save you. Free yourselves.”

They’re a blur of movement and war cries as they charge over the crumbling fortress courtyard. Purple robes whisk around at the surprise attack. Blades clash against rock and iron sconces, and fiery torches. Quin spies a route out, but before he can whisk Nicostratus and me away, crusaders bear down on us, sharp spears glittering.

He blasts them away, but the bright flash of magic draws the attention and priority of the crusaders; they shove the gates closed on half the fighting redcloaks to focus on the magical threat—the thing they most want to get rid of in this world.

Nicostratus shudders in my arms and falls to his knees, clutching his stomach. There’s danger in showing my spiritual power. More crusaders will come, will turn their attention to us. But Nicostratus’s breaths are ragged. He’s losing consciousness. His internal injuries are worsening. He’ll pass away within minutes...

My hand glows with a gathering spell. I stack quickly to heal the worst tear inside of him.

“Amuletos,” Nicostratus warns on a grimace of pain.

“Keep still.”

The spell funnels into him, knitting his wound—

A glint of metal catches my spell-focused gaze. It’s coming from the purple-robed master from the cells, who must have felt something was off. He’s emerged from the underground with a cry of outrage, and his spear is aimed at Nicostratus’s heaving back.

“Quin!” I yell as I throw out a shield. The spear crashes against it and bounces off, but the force of his hit ricochets through my bones and my shield collapses.

The spear strikes again, my shield forms too slow—

Quin whirls on the wind and blasts the master; he skids across the courtyard back into the underground entrance.

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