The one who grabbed me slams me down on a slab of stone that used to display one of the weapons. My ears ring with the force. His hands press so firmly on to my shoulders, I can barely move.
“I’m not going to kill her.” He tilts his head. His armor is filthy, covered in dirt and grime. He turns to me, smiling. “I’ve already broken one vow of honor.”
“What?” Ice fills my blood. “P-please. No.”
The other guard stares at us, me on my back, his companion above me. He does nothing.
“You’re pretty, even covered in blood.” The guard licks his cracked lips and tilts his head so strands of sticky hair fall across his brow. “Can’t wait to see it smeared across your pink skin.”
In a burst of anger, I scream and kick out my legs. Connecting with his armor, I feel my knees bruising but don’t stop. It makes little difference in his hold. Then I snarl and spit, sending a gob of saliva smack on his cheek.
He sneers, but it’s the other guard who yells, “You fucking cunt!” Blinding pain explodes across my face as he hits me.
I choke, vision going blurry, the warm stream of blood running from my nose. Two sets of hands cover me. Disgusting, groping hands. I hear clinks of armor falling to the ground. The tearing fabric of my dress, and rough fingers digging into my legs.
And I scream again. A scream filled with so much terror, I barely recognize it as my own voice.
96
Ezryn
I push open the large metal doors to the monastery. One of the Queen’s Army stands there, wearing leather armor with a spear slung across his back. He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t let the words fall.
I drag the sword across his neck, pushing myself inside the building as he chokes on his own blood. The entrance hall has three more soldiers. Their weapons aren’t even drawn.
Giving a disappointed shake of my head, I launch at them, striking two across the back of their knees. I quickly dodge the one who finally draws his spear. He stumbles, off balance from the miss, and I push between the gap of his armor, piercing his kidney.
He drops.
There’s the creaking of metal, and the elevator shoots up, carrying a bleeding soldier. His wavering gaze meets mine. He’s only delayed the inevitable. I’m not surprised, nor disappointed. I’ll start at the bottom and tear apart every inch of this damned place until I get her back.
Regardless, I wouldn’t have used the elevator.
She is here, but the bond is weak, like a part of her is not answering my call. Every floor must be checked. Every level must be purged.
I take my first step up the monastery stairs, sword still slick with blood. There is no point cleaning it now.
Voices shout, and four more of the spear-wielding Queen’s Army charge down the stairwell. There’s confidence in their faces. They think having the high ground will give them the advantage, that I will be frail without my magic.
They’re wrong.
The chant of their charge turns to a scream as I lunge at the first, the stairway only wide enough for one abreast. I throw him over my shoulder, and he clatters down the stairs, neck snapping at an odd angle.
The one behind stands horrified for a single second, but I am unbothered. Guts spill from his stomach with his jaw still dropped. The third turns to flee, and the kill is easy enough through his back.
The next level is a long hall, much of the same, waiting soldiers. But these men have heard the screams from below. And fear makes them sloppy.
I’m barely breathing hard as I walk up to the next floor.
This one is a narrow walkway with a single wooden door. Muffled voices sound behind it, cries of terror. Sword tight in my palm, I shove through.
Acolytes huddle among brooms and dusters. One, no more than a child, clutches a young fae woman, eyes closed as if to anticipate a strike. “Leave,” I say. They tremble, like shivering blades of grass. “Now!”
Scrambling, they stagger down the stairs, over the blood and carnage.
I don’t look back.
Queen’s Army swarm the staircase of the next level, and the room beyond it. These soldiers know who I am. The word has spread, and the hiss of matronslayer, of creedbreaker, rings in the air. Rings in the air until their throats are slit.
I ascend with only superficial wounds. Glimpsing out a window, I’d say I’m more than halfway up.
The Queen’s Army may have been trained to fight since birth, but none of them have seen combat. Have any of them taken a life before? Do they understand the precise force required on a blade to penetrate a man's flesh? Have they ever made a wrong move and caused the tip to become wedged between two ribs?