Zander
Abarrane pauses to spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor and wipe her face against her sleeve, before pushing her blade farther into a kneeling Isembert’s shoulder. “Where are they?”
He manages a weak laugh through his pained grimace. “By now? Dead, or wishing they were.”
With a cry of rage, she heaves her sword out of his flesh, steps back, and swings her blade.
“No!” I roar, but it’s too late.
Isembert’s body crumples to the floor, his head rolling under a chair.
“Fates,” Jarek mutters, rubbing away blood that splattered his cheek.
“Keeping him alive was a waste of time. He was not going to tell me anything.” Abarrane stoops to collect the severed head by the hair. She holds the gruesome sight up in the light. “But his soldiers will, or they will wish they were dead by the time I am finished with them.”
“If there are any left to question.” I look around at the carnage within the tavern. Bodies everywhere. The eleven men who came with Isembert, plus a dozen or so who were looking to ingratiate themselves with their lord by joining the battle, several drunken fools who thought themselves warriors, and a barmaid who didn’t appreciate seeing one of her regulars cut down.
“I need to find Romeria—”
“She is on her way back to camp with the imbecile. I made sure of it.” Abarrane’s focus settles on the two men who accosted Romeria earlier, still sitting at their table, drinking their ale.
“Polite questions will do.”
“Aye.” She moves for them, Isembert’s head dangling from her grip.
While I would love to interrogate Jarek on exactly how Romeria escaped his watch in the first place, those questions will have to wait.
The mortal who cut me—Etta—is behind the bar, trembling, her flirtatious smile long gone. When she sees me approaching, she shifts behind her keeper. Her pulse sings of terror and guilt. “I’m sorry, my lord … I mean, Your Highness … Lord Isembert demands we inform him whenever there be any stranger in here, askin’ questions, ’specially ’bout the poison. He didn’t give me no choice. Said he’d harm my boys if I didn’t comply.” Tears pour down her cheeks. “Please don’t kill me. I’m all they have left.”
“I’m not going to kill you.” If anything, Etta proved a good reminder that even in an area such as Norcaster, the right—or wrong—nobility can play puppeteer to anyone. “What do you know about the two legionaries who are missing? I assume they came here last night?”
She peeks up at the keeper, who nudges her forward, nodding.
“They were here, yeah. Real late. Got into a game o’ draughts with a few regulars. The one left for some fresh air and didn’t come back. So then the other one, the big, red-haired fella, went lookin’ for him, and that’s the last I saw of ’em. Honest.”
“Do you have any idea where Isembert could be holding them? A cellar or tomb …”
“I’m sorry.” Her head shakes. “If I knew, I would tell ya. I swear.”
“I believe you.”
She hesitates. “Are you truly the king?”
I smile despite myself. “Some would disagree, but I did sit on a throne not long ago.” Though it feels like ages now.
She swallows. “You’re kinder than I expected.”
“I try to be.”
“I’m sorry, ’bout the thing.” She draws a line on her neck, mimicking where and how she cut me.
“It will heal.”
“Would ya look at that.” The barkeep’s eyes widen at something beyond me. “That’s some fire on a night like this.”
My head snaps to the window.
That is an impossible fire for a night like this. At least, impossible through regular means.