Page 11 of Poisoned Kingdom
Rage surged through my veins, white hot and blinding. My battle cry drowned out the men’s shouts as my first swing cut the nearest attacker nearly in half. He stumbled, his legs failing, hands clutching futilely at his sword as he collapsed.
The next cur put up more of a fight. He was good, but I was better. Years of training and fighting had honed my body, making the parry child’s play. However, his style gave me a pause; the way he twisted, moving instantly from defence to attack, reminded me of the Dark Brotherhood. I didn’t have time to think about it as the third man joined in, and after a brief exchange, I cleaved the head from his shoulders and maimed the other, sinking the blade in his chest as he scrambled away, whimpering in defeat.
I turned, catching sight of the final hunter running away. My instincts screamed at me to chase him, but one look at the female’s greying skin and I was kneeling, gently lifting her from the forest floor.
‘I’m sorry, I should have arrived earlier,’ I whispered, propping her up as I searched for signs of life. She sucked in a breath, and my racing heart calmed a little.
She’s alive, thank the gods. Riordan will know what to do.
Still holding her limp body, I unhooked my cloak and wrapped it around her, covering everything those bastards had exposed. A number of cuts and bruises marred her skin, yet she was still so breathtaking. Strands of honey-gold hair had slipped free from her braid, loosened during the struggle. My fingers traced the soft curve of her cheek, following the delicate slope of her small, pointed nose. Long lashes cast gossamer shadows against her pale skin, and for a moment, I simply marvelled.
My hands seemed so large against her body, the blood on them smearing as I kept her warm.
‘I would kill them again for you, and I would make sure they suffered,’ I said, realising that the ripped rags still hanging on her were a healer’s kirtle. ‘What were you doing alone in the forest? How long were you lost, little healer?’ I muttered, frowning at her injuries. Some marks were fresh, others days old, their deep purple hues fading into a sickly green.
She stirred in my arms but didn’t open her eyes.
‘Never mind, Riordan will find out.’ I stood, holding her carefully as I walked towards the top of the hill to get to where I’d left my horse near the river.
I felt centred, helping this woman. The southern uprising, the stress of marriage and politics—it could all vanish up Veles’ arse and stay there for all I cared. Meeting her, fighting for her, had stirred something in me I thought I’d lost. It reminded me of who I used to be—a man with purpose, with a clear path and a single goal: to protect those who relied on my strength.
It wasn’t long before I spotted the squire resting under the tree, my horse nodding off beside him.
‘We’re almost there,’ I whispered to her, batting away the insects attracted to her blood-matted hair when something caught my eye. I brushed the strands aside, hoping I was mistaken, but the truth was before me, tattooed just beneath her hairline.
A rune—scarcely visible; small, but unmistakable. My breath hitched.
The mark of the Dark Brotherhood.
She wasn’t a lost wanderer, a healer missing in the woods—but one of them. A dark sister.
‘No, there must be another explanation for this.’ I rubbed the rune, but it was firmly etched into her skin, only reddening under my rough handling.
Her body jerked in my hold, and I bent over to put her down, hoping to prevent further injury. She swore, twisting and fighting. I instinctively put my hand on her chest, pressing her down. ‘Stop fighting,’
Her eyes snapped open—glassy, unfocused, yet arresting in their hazel brilliance. She was conscious, but not fullythere. Still, I couldn’t look away. My body stilled, caught by the luminous fire flickering in those depths. Hazel deepened into a verdant green, alive with lightning that seemed to crackle from within, and something inside me shifted. A low growl rumbled in my throat, my heart pounding in time with the strange pull of her presence, of the intoxicating scent—all lilac and honey—overwhelming my senses.
Unable to resist, I reached out to stroke her cheek as the sensation in my core expanded, stretching like an awakened giant. But as I moved, a twig snapped under my shifting weight, and she screamed, lashing out at my questing hands.
Confusion, shock, and pain flooded back into her eyes, utter panic fuelling her strength. I raised my palms to calm her when the flash of metal caught my attention. My instincts screamed for me to move, but my body failed me. I reared back too late, and a sharp blade sliced through my cheek.
Agony exploded in my face. I fell back, ripping the blade away, clutching at my burning flesh while she bolted without a second look, leaving me roaring in the mud.
The wound burned like aethereal fire, but worse was the creeping weakness that drained my limbs. I could barely stay upright, staggering towards my horse—only to collapse after two steps as my stomach rebelled and I fell helplessly to the ground.
Whether it was magic or poison, it didn’t matter. I’d been tricked. My enemies had finally found a way to kill me.
But as my strength bled away, the power that had awakened when I had drowned in my assassin’s gaze surged in defiance. The legacy of the Erenhart line—the berserker’s rage—filled my blood, refusing to let me die, forcing me to live so that I could take my vengeance.
1.Vila/vi-wa/— a beautiful female nature spirit who dwells in pristine corners of the natural world, from forests and meadows to rivers and lakes. They possess supernatural healing abilities and the power of shapeshifting. Their eyes and dance can bewitch men who often perish from unrequited love.
Chapter 5
Reynard
Whether it was my lineage or pure, bloody-minded stubbornness, I refused to lie down and die. My collapse was rapid and painful, but the sting of bruised flesh was nothing compared to the inferno engulfing my face. I crawled blindly, howling for my squire, until I heard him running, shouting my name in a panicked, breathless voice.
It had to be poison . . .Shewas poison—a perfect honey trap for an idiot desperate to be a hero. I wasn’t afraid of death, but I was not ready for it. Certainly not one such as this, crawling like a worm in the mud, wishing I could tear the skin off my face to escape the torment.
