Page 163 of The Queens and the Kings
“Well?” barked Old Man. “Are you on your knees or are you with us?”
The sailor appraised them, nose in the air and eyes slitted, as if he couldn’t see. Arrogance stained his tone. “Aren’t you that old guy with the soldats, or something?”
Old Man growled through his teeth. He lifted a wooden bludgeon with knobby ends and crimson stains from previous fights. “Or something,” he hissed.
Einar moved like lightning. In two strides, he had the left sailor in a headlock, fended off a clumsy advance from the sailor on the right. Henrik had his hands on the shoulders of the middle sailor, knee lifted to crunch him in the gut and rob his breath, when something hard slammed into his chest. With anoomphof air rushing free, Henrik doubled over. His entire body locked.
An unexpected sucker punch was nothing new, but whatever hit him was total paralysis. His ribs turned to shards of ice, spreading in a crawl. He collapsed to his knees, unable to gasp. Old Man, advancing from behind, made a strange “Nnnnnguh,” noise and dropped like a sack of coconuts.
Einar shoved the now-unconscious left sailor into the right sailor, knocking both over. The middle sailor held something with a muted glow, like a prism in front of a candle. Einar leaped for him, springing like a cat. Henrik watched from the ground, every fruitless attempt to breathe resulting in narrow vision. A chill ran rampant through his veins.
The sailor dodged Einar’s attack, but fumbled for the glowing rainbow in his hands. It dropped and skittered across the stones. Strangethump, thump, thumpnoises issued as it rolled, flinging misty clouds in a circle overhead. The gauzy mist vanished when it settled. Einar grabbed the sailor’s head and slammed it into the cobblestones. He stilled.
Henrik wrestled his white-hot panic. A frozen sleeve constricted his chest, as if someone wrapped him in a binder. He couldn’t wiggle his arms, his toes, or his face. Air. He neededairand he needed it now. Black clouded the edge of his vision.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Mental gymnastics wasted his energy, so he forced his brain off the mental struggle. Relaxing was impossible. The icy power had slipped all the way into his bloodstream and took over. Arvid materialized from the night, cuffing the rising first sailor on the head. He collapsed. All three lay prostrate.
“Slam Old Man in the back!” Einar shouted, leaping over bodies to Henrik’s side. “Now!”
Next to Henrik, Old Man writhed. Cheeks red, neck bulging, sweat popping along his forehead. His frenetic movements slowed. Darkness washed along the edges of Henrik’s vision, tightening his sight to a hazy dot in the middle.
A firm thump hit the middle of his spine. Henrik jolted from the painful, unexpected impact. The paralysis broke.
Ice flowed away from him, replaced from the magma-like heat of his blood as it re-perfused his veins. Breath unlocked. He gasped in a great, heaving, shuddering breath that tripled to the bottom of his lungs.
Seconds later, Old Man did the same.
For a long moment, Henrik lay on the ground, gasping like a fish. His head ached as the chill bled away and prickling issued down his skin. Arvid crouched at his side on one knee.
“Henrik?”
“Fine.”
He smacked Henrik’s shoulder. “Take your time.” He moved to Old Man. Einar stood over the arcane item, flipped it over with his toe. He nudged it in a circle, brow scrunched.
“Demmed arcane device,” he called. “Pedr told me about these. They’re concentrated arcane, I guess you could say. It’s a . . . stone. The arcane inside of it sends a paralyzing cold. If you don’t counter it with something physically stronger, you’ll suffocate.”
“How’d you know what to do?” Arvid asked.
“Pedr. He’s—” He stopped short, eyes on Old Man, and finished with, “Different.” Henrik pushed his arms beneath him and shoved up. The pain subsided along his rib cage and spine, but ached along the inside of his skull.
“Who is the arcane from?” Henrik asked, raspy.
“No idea,” Einar murmured. “But if I had to guess, I’d say the Arcanist of Souls. Had a rainbow again, remember? Just like His Glory on the mainland.” He met Henrik’s questioning gaze. “If it is, this isn’t good. Pedr says the Arcanist of Souls is the most ruthless. If His Glory has giventhatarcane to sailors . . .”
Henrik swallowed the rising disgust. “We’ll figure it out.”
Old Man slumped, breathing hard. As he shook his head, his eyes rolled back. Arvid caught him before his head slammed into the ground. He kept a hand on his chest. “Regular breathing,” Arvid stated. “He’ll be fine, but he can’t go with us. We’ll leave him.”
Henrik frowned.
“He’d want it,” Einar countered as Arvid pulled Old Man out of line of sight, near the wall along which they’d crept. Einar studied the road. Shouts rolled from the marketplace, growing with strength and volume. Einar lifted his chin toward it. “I think we have some more trouble on our hands, and I’m not letting His Glory slip away from judgment day.”
