Page 180 of The Queens and the Kings
The grappling ring resurrected, and it felt like nothing more than another spar. The rigid and barren walls of the Temple melted away. The Old Pub resurrected in Henrik’s mind, bringing the smell of mead and torch oil and flickering lamplights. The ghostly cheers of his comrades motivated him as Vilhelm rolled onto his spine, removing the force of initial impact. Before Vilhelm could curl to his side and escape the vulnerable position, Henrik slammed his chest on top.
Hard.
What little breath remained escaped Vilhelm all at once. A crunch sounded near his ribs. Vilhelm grunted as Henrik grabbed his arm, yanked it back, and cracked it at the elbow.
Vilhelm screamed.
Henrik sent a fist into Vilhelm’s jaw. His eyes rolled back. Blood thumping through his ears, Henrik leaped to his feet and whirled. Another soldat lay on the ground near His Glory, out cold, blood chugging from his nose. The second soldat sparred with Einar, who spun with a kick that landed directly to the soldat’s jaw. He crumbled.
Einar whirled around.
His Glory stood alone in a corner, hands upright. He trembled as Einar advanced, panting.
“What?” Einar growled, smearing blood off of his face. “You aren’t going to use arcane against me? Arcane thatisn’t supposed to work?”
“I would!” His Glory shouted. “I would grind your bones to powder in a second!”
Einar closed in with righteous fury. “All those soldats you enslaved and forced to serve you with such unfettered loyalty and there’s no one here to save you. Too many of them rotting in the bog of the Unseen Island where you left them?”
“Stop your approach,” His Glory commanded, but the feeble word shook. Vilhelm, barely conscious again, flopped onto hisside. Groggy, he nearly lost consciousness again. His feet weakly scrambled in a poor attempt to stand. Henrik shoved a foot onto his back and pressed. A strangled, breathy sound preceded Vilhelm’s silence.
“Don’t move,” Henrik sang. “His Glory is about to die, and you have a choice. Stay with the soldats, or die with him.”
Henrik reached into his pocket, fingertips on the sharp tip of his favorite throwing star. Three others lay beneath it, protected by leather.
Einar closed two more steps between him and His Glory. “This is the last time you will ever command me,” he growled. “The very last time. I’m giving you one chance to answer this question and prolong your miserable life.Why?”
His Glory lifted his chin. “I don’t answer to soldats.”
Einar flipped a small knife out of his pocket. “But you will answer to soldats, you see? Henrik and I are here foranswers.Revenge, too,” he tacked on. His voice hardened. “Agnes was taken from me because of you.You, you bastid. If not for fighting against you, we would already be living on our island, happily together.”
Einar stood out of arm's reach, but not by far. Hatred seeped from him as he braced himself. Henrik extracted the flat, hidden throwing star and crouched, hiding behind Einar as he advanced.
Vilhelm remained on the ground.
His Glory’s eyes flickered to the side, registering Vilhelm’s prostrate form, before he paled. He swallowed audibly, his chin cranked so high he stared through slits.
“By the power of Norr?—”
“Shut up, you piece of shite. You still haven’t answered my question. Why,” Einar asked with elongated exaggeration, “are you such a bastid?”
Einar’s knife elevated, poised. He held it as if to toss it, but a boom sounded. The ground beneath Einar rippled. From the stones birthed a brilliant shadow that swamped Einar like a cloak, paralyzing him.
A soullock.
Einar didn’t move. He stood in an arcane shroud, face poised in a scream. A terrible light filled His Glory.
“You,” His Glory thundered, “will never defeat me!”
Feint completed.
Henrik jumped to his feet, slammed a hand into Einar’s spine, and shoved him to the side. Before His Glory could even gasp, Henrik flung the first star. It flashed a brilliant light through the air. Still moving, Henrik threw the second and third before Einar hit the ground in a puff of luminescent rainbow.
The first star slammed into His Glory’s trachea.
The second below it.
The third skimmed his neck, slicing open the side. Blood squelched as His Glory reached up, yanked them out. Henrik palmed his knife, put it into position in his hand, and aimed it with a precision that should have been impossible.
