“He’s a man who knows what he wants. So do I.” He smiled as he landed three heavy strikes against me, my sword quivering beneath his blows, my blade being forced closer to my face each time. “You’re getting winded, soldier,” he chided. “I think I should just end this—”
And then a loud, savage scream curdled the air. Montegue’s scream. It was the sound of dreams shattering.
Banques glanced away, only for a split second, but it was enough for me to knock his sword off-center before I plunged mine into his chest.
His eyes were on me again, disbelieving.
“I warned you,” I said, as I pulled my sword free, “that one day he would kill you.”
JASE
Montegue’s scream as he charged toward me seemed to give him flight. His sword was slashing the air before he reached me, as if he were fighting winged demons in his path. His movements were frenetic. I didn’t feel like I was fighting a man anymore, but a creature driven by crazed, feverish instinct.
“Ballenger!” he yelled, his sword slicing straight down where my head had been. He turned, confused, looking to see where I had gone, snarling when he saw me behind him. He charged again, and this time I lunged, swinging my sword with both hands, low to high, crashing against his, sending it flying from his grasp over his shoulder.
Before I could regain my balance he dove at me, knocking me hard on my back, and my sword slipped from my grip. W
e rolled on the ground, his fingers tearing at my flesh. My fist smashed into his jaw, and his fist into my chin. My head snapped backward, and for a moment light blinked around me. I pulled back my arm to punch him again, but he flipped me and we were rolling again. When I was on top, I pressed down, one hand on his throat, and I almost had him pinned when he began fumbling for the dagger at his side. I reached down, squeezing my hand around his as we fought for its control. He struggled to pull the dagger from its scabbard and I struggled to keep it there, our hands shaking against each other.
“Give it up, Ballenger.” His voice shook with the strain. “The gods have ordained—”
“You?” I rasped. “Prepare to meet them, Montegue. That’s all they’ve ordained. You’re through terrorizing my wife, my family, my town. You’re done.”
But his strength was not that of a country farmer or even a soldier. It was made of iron, obsession, and rage. And maybe stardust too. I wasn’t sure if I could stop him, except that I was also full of rage. My arm burned as his hand pressed upward against mine, trying to pull his dagger free. Our hands were hot and sweaty, my grip slipping, but then I shifted my weight, maneuvering myself higher, and I let his hand fly upward, the dagger free at last. Triumph shone in his eyes, but before he could rebound, I pushed forward again, his hand still clutched beneath mine, using all of my weight to swiftly force the dagger down. It crunched past bone, through his chest, and into his heart.
He gasped, surprised, his eyes wide.
I pulled my hand away but his fingers remained grasped around the hilt. Blood pulsed from the wound in rapid bursts. He looked at me, the fire in his eyes receding. I sat back on my heels, staring at him. A grimace creased his mouth. Kazi came and stood at my side, her hand on my shoulder, the battle over.
His eyes moved between us as if he was uncertain where to look.
“They love me,” he whispered. “You loved me. They will remember. I was a great—”
His last word lay frozen on his tongue.
Man? Leader? King? Whatever it was, he died believing it.
KAZI
Jase and I held each other, checking each other for wounds. None of the blood on us was our own, as least as far as we knew. Jase’s lips pressed against my forehead, breathing relief.
We looked at our battleground. It was over. Some of the mercenaries had run. As Jase said, their hearts were not in this, especially with the promise of reward gone. Others lay dead.
Our wounded were being treated. Paxton ripped rags to wrap Priya’s arm. He stumbled over his words as he told her to hold still, and I was sure he was consciously trying not to spit on her. Mason had been stabbed in the side by a halberd, a flesh wound, he claimed. Synové went to him to see if she could help, but he waved her off brusquely. “Gunner is taking care of it.” Her lips pulled tight as she turned away.
Titus knelt, holding Aleski in his arms. Aleski was the most severely injured, and Titus talked him through it, whispering soothing words, telling him to hold on while Imara stuffed his bleeding side with cloth and someone ran to the apothecary for medicine and someone else searched for a healer.
Truko had received a blow to the head. Aram was wrapping it.
Jase walked over to him. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Me either,” Truko answered.
Jase extended his hand, and Truko shook it.
“Your head?” Jase asked.
“Just a scratch. I’m still a hardheaded bastard. Don’t go thinking this means I’ll be cutting you any deals. But I choose the sides I play on, and no one tells me how high to jump—at least not for long.”