Page 75 of The King's Man 1

Aklos loose the ropes holding the boat to the pier, and I rush towards them. The vines on the cliff are unravelling faster than they’re being replaced. I shove my way through, the gap between the boat and the pier steadily growing.

“Jump,” the boatman calls, “and you’ll be another man we leave behind.”

I don’t care. I’ll find us a dinghy—anything that can float.

“Can one man be worth it?”

I jump, landing hard on the wooden pier. Quin might be difficult, proud, frustrating, but he came here and risked his life to save these villagers. He’sstillhere, giving us time to get away.

I haul myself up on aching legs, and leap back onto my horse.

Quin is still in his saddle, arms trembling with effort as he channels vivid, crackling energy. His magic clings desperately to the massive cliff, barely holding back the bulging dam. The closer I ride, the more detail I get: Quin sagging under the weight of his spell, sweat dribbling down the back of his neck, the overpowering scent of fatigue. Tendril after tendril, shrinking. Water sluices down the crack and thuds to the ground, splashes misting over him.

My horse whinnies as I slow to his side. Quin’s head quirks a fraction in my direction, but otherwise he is motionless, unaffected. His eyes are closed, his breathing steady under the torrent of magic running through him. “Why are you here?”

“The villagers have been evacuated. We need to find a way—”

The ground jerks sharply, spooking the horses. Quin’s rears upwards, breaking the connection of his spell; he hastens to regain control. His magic sticks to the rockface, but it’s dimming. “Quick!” He turns his mount, and I whisk mine into a frenzied retreat alongside him.

An ominous CRACK splits the air, and I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder. Water surges from the dam like a pack of beasts bent on devouring all life, spitting chunks of rock ahead of it. It chases us, giant twisting waves, pounding down on the earth with a deafening roar.

No way to outrun it.

Quin’s horse swerves sharply, nearly unseating him as water surges beneath us, lifting our steeds off the ground. In an instant, he’s out of the saddle, his body colliding with mine, dragging me into the violent current. Panic surges through me, and I cling to him.

The world becomes a chaotic swirl. I choke, the icy flood filling my lungs as the current drags us down. But then a blinding light bursts around us—Quin’s magic, forming a protective bubble that evades the flood’s deadly grip. We sink to the ground, Quin atop me, eyes closed in concentration as his magic anchors itself, leaving a dome to protect us. My unsteady breaths skate over his shoulder, and my fingers dig into his waist as water rushes over the dome, vicious and treacherous with debris.

Quin’s spell braces against it, but each impact shudders through his body. Another tree glances off the dome, and he hisses.

The shimmering curve of protection. The faint thrum of magic pressing close around us. I’ve experienced a shield like this before. When I’d been with Prince Nicostratus in the woods, about to be buried in falling branches, too slow to jump out of the way, he’d cast a dome just like this one. The same quick action. The same glow. The same defiance against the forces of nature.

It was the first time I’d felt protected. And now... I was being protected again.

Quin’s bitten-back pain calls me to my senses; carefully, I roll him off me and check his pulse.

“I’m... fine.”

He unclenches his eyes, slowly. His palms press against the ground, magic pulsing from them—his connection to the dome.

I stubbornly drag my fingers between flattened grass and his clammy skin to more deeply read his condition. He’s expending his spiritual reserves. Not only is it exhausting work, but it’s also excruciating. Magic is forced from the deepest nerve endings. The blockage in his leg is throbbing. I wince. “How are you still... anyone else would have passed out already.”

“I’m not anyone else.”

“The arrogance. You wear it like a crown.”

“Some would say I was born with it.” He grunts as a carriage bowls into our shelter.

I call up my last remnants of cloves, capsaicin, feverfew—not nearly enough—remove his boot, and force the pain-relief spell through the acupoints in his sole.

Quin’s breathing eases slightly, and he stubbornly pushes himself into a sitting position, resting against the dome wall. The glow in his hands shifts up over his shoulders and down his back. His tight, grimacing gaze holds mine. “Why did you come back?”

“You thought I’d leave you behind?”

“How did you imagine you could help?” Quin’s voice is low, but it quakes with effort.

I grimace. “Taking action is better than dreaming for a miracle.”

“My own teachings used against me.” He laughs, but it turns into a hiss as his magic falters and a shudder ripples through the dome.

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