The Scourge of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #3)

“Coming,” Braide said, tightening his grip on the reins and nudging his stallion forward.

The sound of galloping was heard a moment later, piercing the cluck of birds and sending several keening into the wind as they flew away. Around the bend came an Evnissyen, hunched low over the saddle. His face was streaked with sweat, his eyes wide with terror.

“Ambush!” he shouted when he saw them.

The Prince saw the arrow protruding from the meat of his massive arm as he reined in next to them.

“Ride, my lord!” Campion gasped. “They have already crossed the river. They were waiting for me in the woods, silent and still. Two hundred knights, if not more. They tried to shake me from the saddle, but I fought my way through.”

His hands were bloody. Campion looked backwards at the road. “They ride hard behind me. We will be hard pressed to make it back to the castle. Ride, my lord!”

“Crossed the river!” Kent seethed. “No one knows of the shallows here. No one save one of us. How could they have found it?”

“Ride to the castle,” the Prince ordered, his heart beginning to shudder with anticipation. His breath came in little gulps. “Ride hard while you can. They will be without the walls by morning. The women and children, make sure they are…”

The arrow struck him in the center of his back. The pain was excruciating, a hot fire that stole his breath and made him gasp. Already his fingers and legs were useless, seized up in a fit of agony. They would not respond.

“By Cheshu!” Kent roared. The Prince was facing the river. The arrow had come from behind.

“In the trees!” Tethys shouted, pointing. “I saw a man! Over there!”

The Prince fell from the saddle and struck the ground with a jolt that smashed his arm and stunned him. The pain in his back burned hotter and hotter. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He could not move. He could not scratch an itch on his nose.

“My lord!” Braide was off his saddle in an instant, gladius in hand.

“Ride,” the Prince wheezed. “They…come…”

The sound of hooves, a chorus of hooves, an avalanche of hooves sounded from the trail ahead.

“Carry him!” Kent ordered. “Toss him on my saddle. We can ride with him.”

Braide looked at the Prince’s eyes. His face turned as hard as stone. “I had hoped you were wrong, my lord,” he whispered.

“Go…” the Prince moaned, shutting his eyes as the pain overwhelmed him.

He heard the sound of stirrups, the creaking of leather. “Ride hard,” Braide ordered.

“But we cannot leave him!” Kent shouted.

Braide whistled crisply and his stallion plunged into the forest.

“There he is!” Tethys warned. “I will draw his fire. He must be a kishion!”

The others rode hard, their hooves thundering in the loam. It was not long before the knights of Comoros arrived. Not long before they were assembled to stare at their fallen foe, jostling and jeering with each other, trying to get a better look at him. The Prince listened to the mocking laughter, at the boot jabs that nudged his body this way and that.

“Roll him over,” said a voice. It was a voice he recognized and knew. A voice he had not heard in person since the day of his wedding to Elle. It was the king’s own voice.

“The arrow,” someone said. “In his back.”

“Well, you had best pull it out first,” came a chuckled reply.

The prince readied himself for the pain, but he was not prepared for it when the arrow was yanked from his back. He nearly choked on the vomit the pain caused. Someone twisted him roughly on his back, facing the sky. He blinked, teeth clenched, and tried to see or even breathe. There was the king of Comoros, on his war horse, in full armor. The Prince could sense the power of the kystrel around his neck. He could sense the despair and hopelessness that were showered on him, thrust on him, swirling around him. The king wanted him to feel every awful emotion before he died.

“Where is the traitor?” the king asked.

Tethys approached, flanked by several knights. The king looked at him disdainfully. “Give him his pay,” he said. “I keep my promises. Of that you can be sure.”

Someone thrust a bag of jangling coins into Tethys’ hand. He looked at the king in confusion, at the distaste and distrust on his face. There was a subtle nod and then Tethys slumped to the ground without a sound.

Each breath was a torture. The Prince’s mouth would not work. He tried to turn his neck, but the pain in his muscles prevented anything but blinking. Someone scooped up the bag from Tethys’ dead hand.