Page 78 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
Roleck smiled. “So good to see you again, young prince.”
It was the fourth time he had encountered Roleck in battle. The previous three times, Tyghan had killed him—as much as you can kill the dead. The thing about the restless dead was, they still held on to every one of the vanities they’d had while living, pride foremost among them. Roleck loved being recognized, so the details of his face never changed, even if his body did. Being recognized made him feel like the ultimate victor—even over his past defeats. He would always come back, and he loved to remind Tyghan of that fact, showing off the power he still possessed with a few jabs of magic, but it always came back to the blunt force of swords and spears. There was something satisfying and certain about controlling the forged elements.
Roleck liked to prolong their encounters, circling, dipping, and rising. It bought him time to recall his visit to Tyghan in the middle of the night, when he had wandered through Tyghan’s mind like a landlord, staking a claim to every secret room within, and this time was no different. “How did it feel, Tyghan, to have me sifting through your thoughts? Powerless? Violated?”
Maybe Roleck brought that question up repeatedly because he knew Tyghan was still scarred with the memory. He had flinched the first time Roleck taunted him, still raw and sick with the encounter, but since then Tyghan had learned to bury his emotion. Today his expression remained unaffected. “Not so powerless. I easily cast you out. You were the weakest of them all.”
Roleck ignored the dig, boasting about his thick, muscled shoulders instead. “And look at the new body I fashioned. What do you think?” Roleck crowed like a rooster as his long arms viciously swiped the scythe toward Tyghan again.
Even though the faces remained the same, the bodies did change. This one was grotesquely muscled and misproportioned, Roleck’s head looking tiny atop the thick neck.
“Impressive,” Tyghan answered.
Roleck still knew mockery when he heard it, and his ire surged. “There’s a body waiting for you,” he growled as he maneuvered around Tyghan, trying to find an advantage. “One day you’ll be fighting beside me.”
Tyghan had had enough of Roleck’s banter. He swept the sharp tip of his sword across the hyagen’s throat and, on his backswing, charged forward. In a vicious swipe, he parted Roleck’s small head from his neck, sending both rider and beast plunging to the ground.
He looked down at the crumpled, bloody bodies.
Fighting beside you?“Not today.”
He searched the ramparts for another familiar adversary but didn’t see Braegor’s distinctive red hair below, nor had he encountered him yet in battle. Braegor was another of the restless dead who came with every wave of attacks, even more persistent than Roleck, usually hunting down Tyghan and his officers first.
Tyghan circled through the air, surveying where he was needed next, but the battle was waning. The first casualties were the restless dead who didn’t make it through the web of lightning. Their charred corpses had fallen to the ground like fried locusts. Some of the other restless had fled, with knights in pursuit. The remainder had been killed in battle—or were about to be.
A skirmish still hovered past the back side of the maze. Melizan and Cosette were taking on three last attackers, skillfully beating them back. Melizan paused for a heartbeat to allow one to advance, and when he did, Cosette surged upward, skewering him tail to neck like a roasted duck. The other two turned in retreat, with Melizan and Cosette in close pursuit. The attackers wouldn’t make it more than a few hundred yards. His sister and Cosette were a formidable team.Dangerous, as Melizan liked to remind him.
He circled around, making sure no one else needed him. This was the first time a squadron had dared to venture deep into the heart of Danu. What prompted this attack? Kormick’s warning not to challenge him at the Choosing Ceremony was clear. As the date drew close, did he think Tyghan needed a reminder of his strength? Wasn’t holding his brother hostage assurance enough? Or did he suspect something? Kormick always denied he had anything to do with the restless dead, preferring to play the virtuous but maligned ruler, one more than worthy to rule Elphame. And yet every kingdom that defied him had borne the brunt of their attacks until they conceded to Kormick’s demands.
Tyghan patted August’s neck. “Let’s go down.” As August banked, Tyghan spotted Cully propped up against a pillar of the observation deck, his chest soaked with blood. Madame Chastain and Eris knelt at his side, furiously working on him. A nudge from Tyghan’s knee sent August into a nosedive.
As soon as he reached the ground, Tyghan jumped from August and ran to Cully, dropping to his knees beside him. “What happened?”
Madame Chastain sighed and sat back on her feet. “Not to worry. Bleeding’s stopped now. He’ll be fine.”
“Fine, Tygh,” Cully repeated, a sloppy grin on his face. “You heard her. Jogged left when I should have jogged right. But the bugger’s dead. I won in the end.”
“Fine, except for the mess you’ve made of my robe,” Madame Chastain said, looking at the spurts of blood trailing across her lap. “And look at the mess you’ve made of the counselor.”
Eris’s crisp white tunic was equally soaked with blood. “Stop talking,” Eris told Cully. “Save your energy. A pallet’s on the way for you.”
Madame Chastain glanced at Tyghan, her eyes and the subtle shake of her head saying what her words concealed—it was close. They almost lost him. Elven were quick, usually able to avoid injury entirely, but they were bleeders.
Tyghan nodded. “Any other casualties?” he asked as he scanned the grounds.
“Two archers. Cut clean in half from behind. There was no saving them,” the High Witch answered.
Tyghan’s nostrils flared, suspecting Braegor as their killer. Just as in life, it was his specialty—stealth and stalking. He was there somewhere, hopefully dead on a rampart.
“Other than that,” the witch added, noting Tyghan’s bleeding thigh, “there are some claws to be dug out and slashes to be mended.” She eyed Cully with an accusing stare. “And of course, potions to prepare to restore buckets of lost blood.”
Cully sat forward, ignoring Eris’s order to be quiet, or perhaps too woozy to remember it. His head wobbled unsteadily. “I can walk. Keats is missing. Glennis said she saw her run toward the maze. That’s where I was going when—”
He fell back, fainting, just as his pallet arrived.
Missing? Keats was missing?
Tyghan turned, looking at the maze. His temples pounded.
