Page 9 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

He leaps forward in a bound impossible for any mortal man and swipes the iron blade across the throat of the captain. Blood spills from his neck, a river of crimson, as he slides from his horse. One foot remains in the stirrup, and I flinch as his animal panics and bolts, dragging the captain’s limp body across the grass.

Where a dozen men once crowded around us, now five remain. Three still stand their ground, holding their horses’ reins tight, wielding their useless blades. The other two have realized their best chance at survival is fleeing.

He deals with the bravest first.

“Ruskin, don’t!” I shout, but he’s like a storm of death, ripping men from their saddles and throwing them under their terrified horses, pinning them to the ground with their own swords. I might as well be shouting my request to the stars for all he heeds me. When the men in front of us are dead, he vanishes into the brush in the direction of the fleeing soldiers. There’s a distant, bone-chilling shout, then silence.

“Nora,” Dad says, his hand clutching my arm, his voice shaking with fear. “We have to get out of here before he comes back.”

“It’s all right, Dad,” I say miserably. I can’t meet his eyes. “He won’t hurt us.”

Even as the man I fell in love with brutally murders around us, I know this to be true. I might not know how Ruskin feels about me leaving Faerie without a word of goodbye, I might be frustratingly in the dark when it comes to the secrets he’s keeping from me, but I’m certain of this much. Even if I didn’t hold his true name, and therefore the ultimate protection against his wrath, I don’t believe he would ever lift a hand to me after what we’ve shared.

That doesn’t mean he’s not a monster, though.

Dad only gapes at me as Ruskin appears again between a copse of trees. His yellow eyes are fixed upon me for the first time since he appeared. Though the rest of his face is a mask of deadly calm, his eyes are burning with an emotion I can’t name.

“Hello, Eleanor,” he says. His black coat of roses is barely ruffled, though a troop of dead men lies scattered around us. There’s a splash of blood on his hand, though, its wetness catching the light. He sees me looking at it and glances down, then wipes it away with a casual flick of his wrist.

His nonchalance makes me aware of the anger I’ve been holding at bay.

“You didn’t have to kill them,” I yell, my voice bouncing off the surrounding trees.

I’m aware of Dad gripping my arm tighter, afraid of what my aggression will provoke. But I want to provoke him, I realize. I want to rip that maddening mask of indifference right off his face.

Ruskin simply raises an eyebrow.

“I think I did.”

“Why?” I bite back. “Have you not had your fill of bloodshed today, is that it? Just had a violent itch that needed scratching?”

“What do you think those soldiers would have done if I’d left any of them alive, hmm?” he asks, and his voice has an edge to it that tells me I’ve succeeded in annoying him. I’d feel good about that, if I wasn’t struggling to answer his question.

“Well, they…”

“They would’ve gone straight back to their master and told him that the rumors are true, and the Gold Weaver he’s still hunting is indeed back—close to the house where she lives, if he wishes to destroy it. In the village where she was raised, if he wants to burn it to the ground in petty spite.”

I swallow, picturing how relentless Albrecht would be if he knew for certain I was out here, somewhere, in Styrland. These men had just been responding to the same vague sightings that had brought them to Dad, I assume. But those who saw me today, with Ruskin, would now be convinced I was back. If any of them had lived to tell the tale, that is.

“You have magic,” I say sourly, but the conviction has faded from my voice. “You could’ve found another way.”

“None as foolproof as this,” he says firmly, gesturing to the bodies around him.

I feel sick and what’s worse is I know it’s not just a reaction to the violence. When I look at Ruskin—his proud face lifted to meet my gaze—I still see a person I want and desire—even now, even with traces of blood still lingering on his hands—but my longing for him is so tainted with hurt and suspicion it feels toxic, churning up my insides like a poison.

“Come on, Dad,” I say, picking up the reins and tugging on them. “Let’s go home.”

Parsley jerks into motion and the cart trundles along the road.

“Do I not even get a thank you?” Ruskin falls into step beside the cart, his long strides easily keeping him abreast of it.

“For what? I didn’t ask you to come.” I find I don’t even care to know how he found us at just the right moment. Certainly not by chance, yet for once I feel no urge to know the answer. Not when my mind keeps replaying the betrayal that drove me away from him in the first place. He knew Mom, he knew I was her daughter when we first met, and yet he hid all of that, deliberately. Not even a ghost with her face could force him to tell me. I want to scream about it, I want to demand the truth. Now, when I’ve had some distance to help build up my defenses against him—against my feelings for him—I feel ready for it.

Yet it’s not fair to do it in front of Dad. Not when I don’t know for sure what answer I’ll get in return.

“Why are you here anyway?” I ask instead.

Ruskin’s stare is almost unbearable, the intensity of it making me feel ready to crumble.

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