Then a loud boom shook the raft, accompanied by a bright flash.
Mallik stumbled to a wary stop.
From a corner of an eye, Kanthe watched one of the two polemen go flying off the rear of the raft, his chest on fire. The other had already dropped his pole and lunged at Frell with a dagger. The alchymist flung a hand high, as if defending himself, but something shot free of his loose sleeve and into his palm. With a squeeze, a tiny flame spurted from one side. Frell flung the arcane object at the other’s face. A blinding blast blew the vy-knight’s head back, cracking bone and searing skin.
By now, Mallik’s visage had become a narrow-eyed mask of crimson fury. He ignored Frell and leaped at Kanthe. But his mentor’s success had firmed Kanthe’s hand. He seated his arrow and pulled the bow. He didn’t bother to aim, trusting a talent that was now more instinct than thought. He let loose the string.
His arrow crossed the short distance and pierced the man’s chest.
Still, Mallik came at him, but Kanthe tucked low. As the vy-knight tackled over him, he burst to his feet and tossed his body high over his shoulders. A large splash followed. Kanthe turned around in time to see Mallik sputter up in the water, his sword still in hand.
Malice shone in the vy-knight’s eyes.
Still, there was already too much blood in the water. Before the man could kick toward the raft, a huge shape lurched out of the depths. A long, scaled snout snatched Mallik, clamping yellow teeth into flesh and bone. It rolled, showing a glimpse of an armored back fringed with glowing moss—then both vanished into the dark depths.
Kanthe turned to Frell. Only the two of them were left on the raft. “What in Hadyss’s arse just happened?” he asked, suddenly unable to stop his limbs from trembling.
Frell joined him, his lips thin and bled of color. The alchymist stripped back his robe’s sleeves to reveal some mechanism strapped to his forearms. It was plain they were the sheaths for whatever alchymy the man had used to dispatch the two polemen.
“I had suspected something like this,” Frell said, shaking his sleeves back down. “Though, I had hoped it wouldn’t come to be.”
“Suspected what?”
Frell stared out at the only body still floating in view. Still, the corpse shivered as something picked at the flesh. “I feared you were never supposed to return from the swamps.” He glanced back to Kanthe. “Did you not find it odd that your father would send you on this trek, after ignoring you for so many years?”
“Maybe, I guess.” Kanthe shrugged, trying to mask both his anger and his own foolishness. “I attributed it to him just wanting me out of Highmount for my brother’s nuptials. Maybe also offering me a chance to prove myself.”
“You are right about Mikaen’s marriage. It probably was the impetus for this rash act. To clear the slate for a future heir.”
Kanthe sighed.
Which means I’m just mud that needed to be wiped away.
Frell crossed and picked up the abandoned pole. “The plan must have been to wait until the legion could dump Goren and his party over at Brayk. Once free of any prying eyes, you were to meet a bloody and untimely end in the swamp.”
Kanthe gazed back in the direction of the town. He pictured Anskar sending him off alone, ahead of the rest of the legion. How many of them had known what was planned for me?
Frell pushed the raft toward the other pole floating in the water. “Grab it but take care. With all the blood and torn flesh—”
“I got it. At least, it’s not our blood and torn flesh.”
He gingerly collected the long rod, fighting the despair in his heart. He knew his father had held him in little esteem, but he had never imagined the depths of the king’s disdain. As he straightened, sharper voices carried over the water, sounding distant, but one could never tell out here.
Frell waved him to the far side of the raft. “They must have heard the blasts from my chymical bombs. We must be well away before anyone reaches here. It won’t take the others long to suspect you might still live.”
Kanthe firmed his grip on the pole. Together they got the raft moving. “Where do we go?”
Frell nodded ahead. “First, to Fellfire Scour.”
“And then?”
Frell glanced over to him. “There is much you don’t know.”
Kanthe rolled his eyes and turned away. “Sometimes, Frell, you are the master of the obvious.”
* * *
“WE CALL HIM the King of the Scour,” Nyx said.
She sat in the sand next to Jace and pointed toward the island in the flat expanse of the lake. The round shape was half the size of the sledge. Its arched surface glimmered in the sun, running with every color, as if a stormbow had come to life and settled to the Scour.
Even through her despair and exhaustion, the wonder of the sight—something she had never been able to fully appreciate with her beclouded eyes—gladdened her heart. It was as if the Mother were blessing her with the king’s presence. She knew her dah would certainly ascribe it as such.
So, I will, too.
The island drifted toward one of the banks, occasionally lifting its head into view atop a gray stalk of a neck. She and Jace had been watching its path for over a half-bell, ever since the king first surfaced, revealing its royal presence.
According to the story shared by her family, the dappleback turtle had been released as a baby into the lake after the foundation stone of the winter barn had been set in place five centuries ago. It was the family’s gift of thanks to the gods. All believed that as long as the king lived here in the Scour, the winter barn would stand.
She didn’t know if this story was true or if this was even the same turtle, but she wanted to believe it now more than ever. She needed some hope that her family would survive the ordeal, that Bastan and Ablen would rejoin her soon.
As if jealous of the attention, her winged brother returned, darting and dancing overhead. He pinged and squeaked at her. This time his piping call was not riven through with visions and sights, only warning.
She stood. “Someone’s coming.”
Jace pushed up and searched back at the barn. “Maybe we should get inside.”
Before they could move, faint voices carried to them. Words could not be discerned, but notes of complaint were interrupted by firmer scolds. She bottled her disappointment, trusting the sharpness of her hearing.
She glanced over to Jace, who still looked worried. “I think it’s Alchymist Frell,” she said. “And the prince.”
Still, she listened, straining for other voices.
Ablen’s grouse or Bastan’s glumness.
But it sounded like the prince and alchymist had come alone. Before long, their voices became words, and a raft poled out of the deep swamp and into the open lake.
Jace waved to them.
The raft turned and aimed for their spot on the sand. As it beached, Frell hurried over to her, his face ashen. “Nyx, your father…”
“I know,” she said, not ready to talk about it. She turned to Kanthe. “And I saw you save Ablen. I’m in your debt.”
The prince frowned. “How did you—” The small bat sped past his head, causing him to wince and duck. He then straightened and followed her small brother’s course over the lake. “Ah, I see. Definitely a nosy little bugger. Too bad he couldn’t have warned me of my father’s ambush.”