Page 23 of The Last of the Dark Lords

Jelenna had her bow out and was scanning for enemies. I tried to reach for mine, but the pain from the movement made me feel like I was going to faint. I clenched my core, trying to hold on. If I lost consciousness, I’d be no good to anyone.

I heard the sound of galloping horses behind us. It must have been Cyrus rushing to catch up. Had he seen whoever it was that ambushed us?

“Manod, take care of Skye.” Cyrus’ voice was tense, like he was genuinely worried about losing me. Or the treaty. He didn’t want to lose the treaty.

He stepped out in front of us, and ran his finger along the obsidian circlet resting on his brow. What had been a lifeless, gray-black ornament sprang to life, with orange fire forming the shape of a full crown above the black stone.

There was a tugging on my right side, and I turned. Manod was inspecting the wound, which was too far back for me to see. But from his expression, it didn’t look good.

“We need to get you down from the horse. I have to get the arrow out before I can mend you.”

There was something about dying from an arrow wound that felt correct.

Manod tried again. “I need to help you down.”

My eyes drifted beyond Manod to where Cyrus stood. The crown on his head pulsed with the light of a thousand burning embers. When he spoke, it was with a deep authority that was almost supernatural, far from the tinny sarcasm I’d become accustomed to.

“I am Cyrus, Lord of Ashfuror. Come forth, citizens of Fyr.”

There was a long moment of absolute silence. Not even the birds and rodents made a sound. Finally, people began to appear from behind the rocky protrusions surrounding the road. They were dressed in tattered clothing, and they were uniformly gaunt. They moved toward us in tentative, skittish steps.

Jelenna took in a sharp breath. The wood creaked as it stretched when she drew her bow.

“Stay.” Cyrus held up his hand to her. There was a gasp, and what could only be the clacking of her bow and arrow falling to the packed ground. I knew if I turned to see what had happened, the pain would only worsen. I kept my eyes trained on my betrothed.

“Please, Skye…” The desperation sounded in Manod’s voice as he tugged on my arm, trying to get me to dismount, but I had to watch. Cyrus’ power and authority demanded that.

A scrawny young man stepped forward to speak. His clothes were dirty and ragged, and his face was covered in a patchy beard. He could not have been more than seventeen.

He fell to his knees in front of us. “My Lord Cyrus. We saw the bows of the two on horseback. They were of Greatfalls make. We couldn’t take any chances.”

The man glanced in my direction, then locked his eyes on the earth at his feet. I fought through the fog of pain, trying to understand what he meant. Yes, we came from Greatfalls. Why would that prompt them to attack?

“How long ago?” Cyrus’ voice rang with authority, but I didn’t understand. What was he asking?

“Three weeks, Lord. A company of raiders from Greatfalls rode through our town up ahead, killing our guards and stealing horses and provisions. Since then, we’ve been patrolling the road, worried they would come back.”

I felt Manod grow restless at my side, pulling on me once more, but I pushed him off. The wound hurt, but this was too important.

“Who led them?” Cyrus’ voice was cold.

“A tall, sneering man. Blonde, roughly thirty years of age. He wore a cape that was embroidered in gold. He killed the first guard with his rapier.”

I gasped at his words, and the inhale caused a stabbing pain to shoot through my side. I was unable to hold back a whimper. Cyrus turned to me, concern written on his face. The man continued to speak as he stared at the ground.

“Lord, the man killed our mayor in cold blood. We’ve already lost so many of the elders to the drought. There’s no one left to lead us. There’s no one to tell us how to survive.”

It couldn’t be possible. Someone had taken Archers out in a raiding party without my knowledge? Vazzart help me, from the description I knew there was only one person it could be. My brother. Athard. And according to this man, he was a murderer.

I tried again to speak, to ask questions, to ease the dread in my heart, but still nothing would come. There was a tug and a sudden burst of pain, a thousand times worse than before, as if my whole body was on fire. I screamed as the world went white.

Chapter 7

“Will he make it?”

A familiar voice cut through the cozy fog of my sleep. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out, but my eyelids were heavy and weighed down. It would take too much effort to open them.

“He will, through no fault of his own.” That one was different: rough, older, annoyed. “If he hadn’t pushed me away and he’d let me work on him, it wouldn’t have been so touch and go.”

---