Page 47 of This Midsummer Heart
No one steals from my queen.
We arrive in the midst of chaos.
Boughs crack as the trees seem to come to life, swarming the unsuspecting merchant caravan already beset by two dozen of the bandits. I had no idea there were so many of them—until I realize that the warriors coming from the trees aren’t dressed like the northerners from the Cursed Kingdoms.
Nor are those fully armored warriors leaping from the “merchant caravans” actual merchants.
We’ve just walked into an ambush.Of the bandits.
I have to admit, humans are cleverer than I thought. This is a trap worthy of the fae.
Before Titaine can stop me, I race out from under the reach of her glamour, joining the battle the moment I spot familiar faces in the fray: There are the two women in the quartet who attacked me—and there is that giant blonde man, as tall as I am. Yet as I draw my glittering sword to engage them in combat, I cannot help but feel disappointed that Vargus is not among them. These bandits must’ve split off somewhere, the better to plunder more of the Western Cross’s roads.
And then I see him. Their leader. The one whose boot I can still feel on my face, even as I slip my hand into the gaudy basket hilt of Daegris Silverbeard’s plundered broadsword. Vargus wields an axe in each hand, hewing armored enemies as if they wear silk.
“I’ve got her!” Titaine calls. “Auberon!”
My stomach flips, and I almost lose concentration as I catch up to one of the bandits, pulling her off one of the soldiers. Where is Titaine? I have no time to find her as another hulking northern male slices at me with an axe. I am suddenly grateful for the Silverbeard’s broadsword and its reach.
Battle comes all too naturally to me, even with a perfectly honed blade instead of a blunted one. I turn, slice, turn, moving from one obstacle to the next, hoping for a glimpse of Titaine.
I needn’t have worried. A blinding white light brings the clash to a sudden halt. When I can see again, half our enemies—andtheirenemies—lie writhing on the ground. Titaine stands in the center of them all, Giselda’s reins in hand, her face serene as they rub at their eyes and clutch at their stomachs, moaning as if the light delivered a devastating blow. And I think it has. Most of the humans are temporarily blinded, even if they weren’t hit by Titaine’s sun magic.
My lady of the sun is extraordinary.
My pride and relief turn to icy fear in an instant as I see the giant blonde rogue raising a sword as heavy as the one I wield. It’s aimed atTitaine.
I am too far away to reach her. I cannot stop what is about to happen.
I open my mouth to yell a warning instead—and then there’s a sickening crunch as Giselda kicks out, catching the hulking bandit in the chest. Even such a large man can fly through the air, fragile and mortal in the end.
Hooves gallop towards me, but I don’t take my eyes off their leader. Vargus will pay for what he’s done. And hewillreturn my dagger. Because I can swallow the humiliation, the loss of time, money and supplies. I can even brush past the pain they dealt me; my wounds were healed back in Mircose and Nerania Wood. But what I will not suffer is that he dared to take my father’s dagger. The Blade of Hedril is mine.
That dagger belongs to the kings of dark elves. I won’t leave without it.
The broadsword from Daegris rests lightly in my hand, the blade shining with the silver remnants of an enchantment. Vargus notices its soft glow, his eyes widening—but he isn’t so easily deterred. He comes at me with a wild cry, but this time, I’m ready for him.
I am a warrior king. No chaos, no era, no pains and slights of age will rob me of that. My warrior’s spirit lives on, even as my body weakens.
I will fight this man to the death.
I feint, then slash, but he is quick for a mortal. He slices my forearm as the ornamental butt of my sword meets his temple—it works just as well as a plain one. I grit my teeth against the pain, the blood flowing freely.
He staggers back, momentarily stunned—but not long enough for me to land a blow.
“Auberon!” Titaine calls.
I barely register her voice. There is only this fight, only that dagger in his hand that does not belong there.
I am king here. Not him.
Again, we collide. I take a punch to the gut that sends spittle flying through the air as he drives the Blade of Hedril forward, into my shoulder this time. I bite down on the urge to cry out, turning the pain into a low growl that causes Vargus to narrow his eyes. As if he is just now realizing he is not fighting another human mortal.
I score a hit across his thigh as I work to free myself from my own dagger. Unlike the stab wound in my shoulder, the slash I leave him with is too superficial to matter. But no blade cuts like the dagger of the dark elven kings. Even my mail breaks apart, admitting the point of the blade.
Blood pours down my chest, hot and dark.
Inwardly, I’m seething.Do you not know your master? You are my blade, and the blade of my father and father’s father before him!Am I fallen so low that it no longer recognizes me? Did my ambush and defeat make me unworthy of this, too?
