Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  At the kitchen door, a cook with an apron smeared in pig’s blood stepped out, his carving knife clutched in a fist.

  And so it went. The whole world fell silent, the travelers and merchants and weary nobodies going round-eyed at the brewing conflict. Six other men stood around the tavern, some on the stairs, some coming in from the yard. Armed and monstrous, big enough to put a lick of fear in anyone. Even an immortal.

  Dom snapped his head back, looking to Sarn. Hoping she saw, hoping she knew.

  The assassin wore her mask again, features still and unreadable, cold and unmoving as stone. She unfastened her cloak, letting it drop. Her whip coiled on one hip, the curved sword and daggers at the other. Her pouches of tricks ran along her belt. She met his gaze with that familiar, lethal flicker in her eyes.

  Corayne tried to shrink back in her seat but found nowhere to go. She looked to Dom, and a plan already spun in his mind, a simple one: Get her out of here.

  “I’m telling you the truth, Sigil.” Methodic, Sarn began unspooling her whip, her eyes passing from the bounty hunter to the men gathering behind her. “The realm of Allward faces destruction. And I need you to help me save it.”

  “You should listen to her,” Dom heard himself rumble, drawing up to his full six-and-a-half-foot height. Next to Sigil, it only gave him a few inches, but he used them well.

  She sneered up at him, taking in his sword. “You’re going soft, Amhara. Never knew you to need a bodyguard.”

  Dom braced his fingers on the sword hilt. His grip closed. “I am Prince Domacridhan of Iona, a son of Glorian Lost. I guard no one but the Realm’s Hope.”

  “This is a waste of time, Sigil,” Sarn sighed, drawing her dagger.

  The bounty hunter faltered, only for a second, running her teeth over her lips.

  “An immortal?” she said, looking to her hired thugs. “That sounds like even odds.”

  Finally, Sarn stood. Next to her, Charlon did the same, the glint of steel wedged between his knuckles. Their chairs fell to the ground with a clatter.

  Corayne pressed herself into the corner, her throat bobbing over the collar of her cloak. She balanced between fear and fascination.

  Dom sucked in a fortifying breath. I just hope I am not stabbed again, he thought, catching the first blow of a hammer-hard fist. The thug behind him yelped as the immortal’s grip crushed his hand, snapping finger bones like dry twigs. He struck again, jabbing the man in the throat, leaving him writhing on the floor, gasping for air. That’s one of you sorted.

  He went for Sigil next, but the bearded bears caught him around the middle, heaving with all their strength. All three went toppling to the floor, crashing through a bit of wall little more than thin wood and paint. Dom caught a glance of a naked couple in the adjoining bedroom, both of them shouting. Instinctively, he muttered an apology, only to have one of the bears put an arm around his throat. The thug squeezed, intending to crush his windpipe. It was a bit uncomfortable, and Dom forced himself to stand, lifting the man clear off the floor. He elected not to draw his sword and threw an elbow instead, catching the man in the center of his chest. The bone cracked under his force. Another.

  In the common room, the other occupants of the tavern fled or joined in, some with ale in hand. One very old, very toothless man attempted to bash Sigil with a pewter tankard, but she swatted him off. Meanwhile, Sarn wound her whip around the ankles of another thug, using it to pull him off his feet. Her dagger was a snake fang, striking swift and lethal. Blood sprayed across her face while more stained Charlon’s hands. He didn’t have his hand ax, only a finger blade, a tiny triangle of steel. He punched with his fist, sinking the sharp edge into the cook’s eye. Charlon helped him slide to the floor, his lips moving quickly as he spoke a prayer in Madrentine.

  The thugs were brutish, but poorly trained. Men who got what they wanted by standing tall and looking gruff. Only their number stood in the way, as did Sigil, who was easily worth the remaining five of them.

  Sarn’s whip lashed out again, this time wrapping around Sigil’s armored forearm. The bounty hunter smiled her ruthless grin and pulled, dragging the assassin into her grasp. Sarn slid over the floor, her boots slick on the spilled ale, the momentum carrying her forward too quickly. She smiled too, using Sigil’s pull to her advantage. With the whip still in hand, she snapped back, leaping, both booted feet coming off the floor. They caught Sigil in the jaw, her head cracking to the side as boot met skull. Dom winced. She’s either dead or out cold.

  Sigil of the Temurijon was neither.

  She rolled her shoulders, spitting blood, her teeth painted a gruesome red. “Good to see you, Sarn,” she snarled, tossing the whip away.

  Sarn rolled into a crouch, one hand braced against the floorboards, the other raised like a scorpion’s stinger, her dagger bronze and bloody. The black powder around her eyes smeared, running like dark tears.

  Dom doubted Sorasa Sarn had ever shed a tear in her life.

  “And you, Sigil.”

  Before he could wade between them, a thug lunged at Corayne, still pressed against the wall. Dom threw the table clear out of the corner, sending cups spilling and rolling.

  Valtik let the brawl break around her, unbothered as she sipped her ale.

  The thug reached and Corayne lashed out, her long knife in hand, cutting in wild arcs as she tried to scramble away. A starburst of fear flared in Dom’s chest, only for a moment, before he caught the thug by the neck and tossed him to the floor.

  The wild noise of the tavern was a storm, thundering with the rumble of breaking bones and furniture, cracking with the lightning of a shriek or a yelp or a cackle. Sigil and Sarn danced, each landing blows, but never enough to incapacitate the other. They had a familiarity. They knew weaknesses and strengths, and played to both. Sarn was quicker, more agile, but no match for Sigil’s brute force. They circled, Sigil pressing toward Charlon, and Sarn keeping her at bay. The priest spent most of the brawl praying, going from body to body, with little regard for the chaos around him.

  “I think they’re enjoying this,” Corayne gasped, safely tucked under Dom’s arm. She watched as Sarn dodged a plate. In the corner, Valtik clapped her hands, delighted.

  “We don’t have time for Sarn’s amusement,” Dom rumbled. He glared over the common room, brawl-battered, the hearth spitting smoke, the tables smashed, the barkeep cowering among his barrels, his patrons jeering along or using the opportunity to settle old scores.

  Three of Sigil’s hired men remained, advancing on Charlon. They were white-faced, with thick necks and stupid eyes, each holding a hand ax.

  Dom gritted his teeth. Sarn is still occupied, Valtik is useless, Corayne can barely swing a blade, and Andry is somehow sleeping through everything. With a sigh, he pushed Corayne to Valtik and set to ending this mess of an evening.

  He did not enjoy violence. It was the skill, the challenge, the graceful arc of steel, the strategic dance in mind and body that drew Dom to fighting. In Iona, in the training yards, that was more than reason enough. There was artistry to it. Out in the Ward, there was purpose: blood spilled for a reason, and not spilled often. But then he’d seen more blood in the last year than he had in centuries, and it sickened him. He made their defeats quick, and he made them gentle.

  The first received a single good blow to the head, which snuffed him out like a blown candle. The second lost the ability to stand, his knee dislocated. The third Dom caught around the throat, holding his arms at an angle, until his eyes slid shut and his heartbeat slowed.

  “Enough,” Dom growled as the thug slid to the floor with a limp thud. “Enough.”

  The rest of the tavern shrank away from the blond-haired, green-eyed behemoth in their midst. Some froze mid-grapple, fists raised and collars grabbed. The thugs still living groaned on the floor, inching away like worms.

  Sigil and Sarn took no notice, the latter wrapped around the former, trying to squeeze the life out of the bounty hunter with her thighs. Sigil laughed, sei
zing Sarn around the waist, and threw her into the wreckage. Sarn landed hard, a hiss of pain smoking through her teeth.

  Then Sigil was up against the outer wall, all stone, no give, Dom’s forearm braced against her throat, under her chin. He stared into her face, all his thoughts narrowing to one.

  “Enough,” he said again, unyielding, even when she kicked him over and over.

  Her face began to purple as he cut off her air, pressing harder.

  Still on the floor, moving slowly, Sarn raised her head.

  “I’m willing to trade, Sigil,” she said. Though they had won, the bounty hunter and her thugs incapacitated beyond measure, there was defeat in Sarn’s voice.

  It sent a shudder through Dom and surprised the Temur wolf.

  But it worked.

  The bounty hunter gave a nod, as much as she could. Her legs dropped, her arms went slack. Dom stepped away, letting her find her feet. Her hand flew to her throat and she gasped, sucking down air. Her sharp eyes darted to Charlon, his stained fingers drawing holy symbols in the air over the cook, then to Sarn.

  Sigil swallowed hard. “Let’s talk.”

  In her chair, Valtik cackled, first in Jydi, and then in the common tongue they all knew. “Hammer and nail, the Companions are now seven, wind and gail, bound for hell or bound for heaven.”

  By now Dom was well accustomed to the witch’s rantings, but he felt a shudder up his spine all the same.

  The footsteps on the stairs were light, well balanced, barely a brush of feet. Dom turned to see Andry leaning down, his jaw slack and eyes puffy. He looked over the hurricane that was once the tavern.

  “What did I miss?”

  25

  TEARS OF A GODDESS

  Erida

  Erida expected nightmares. Some judgment, from the gods or her inner self. Remorse or regret for her choice. This was not just a marriage, but an alliance with a man she could not trust. But she had seen Taristan’s skin, cut by blade, healed in seconds. She had read the harried reports of her best scouts, their descriptions of his army like none other upon the Ward. And the hunters of the fleet had sent word as well. Monsters spotted in the Long Sea, creatures not seen for centuries, better suited to myth or the pages of a children’s book. Everything Taristan had promised, the gifts of the Spindles, had come to fruition. What she desired was in her grasp, closer by the second, with every Spindle torn.

  And the guilt never came.

  The Queen slept soundly, without nightmare or dream. Even on the road, when rest was usually difficult. She found herself reinvigorated every morning she awoke in her tent or carriage. It was oddly easy to keep moving, and her convoy’s pace reflected her ambitious manner.

  Autumn crept closer, the heat of summer breaking when they left the lowlands. Green hills rose as the procession climbed out of the fertile valley of the Great Lion, heading east. A fresh north wind rode the landscape, carrying the smell of pine from the Castlewood. It would be colder still at the Madrentine border, the winds angled by the mountains.

  The final morning was crisp. Erida took advantage of it, electing to ride her horse rather than shutter herself up in the massive but stifling carriage. The cold air made her alert as a falcon, the hood of her emerald velvet cloak thrown back, her gloved hands tight on the oiled leather reins.

  While some of her ladies were just as happy to escape their rolling box, a few grumbled, their voices low behind their hands. Erida heard them anyway, well accustomed to eavesdropping. She listened from her saddle, keeping her eyes on the Cor road ahead.

  “The Queen sets a quicker pace than most armies,” Margit Harrsing, one of Lady Bella’s many nieces, chittered to her companions. Fiora Velfi, the daughter of a Siscarian duke, hmm-hmmed in her high voice, in neither agreement nor contradiction. The dark-haired young woman was better suited to intrigue than the rest, raised in the royal villa at Lecorra, a pit of vipers. She very rarely, if ever, gave her true opinion on anything.

  The fourteen-year-old Countess Herzer, with ringlet curls as stupid as her instincts, didn’t bother to check her tone. “Her Majesty is eager to see her husband again,” she said, sending a smattering of laughter through the ladies. “I think it’s romantic.”

  A tongue of fire went down Erida’s spine. She kept straight and still, but her lips pressed to nothing, her teeth clenched behind them, as she weighed her options. A woman in love is a woman in weakness, not to mention far from the truth, she thought. It won’t do for my ladies, and by extension my court, to think their queen reduced to a simpering, starry-eyed girl trailing after the first man to touch her.

  But it is not useless either. Taristan stands in a precarious position. My favor keeps him steady, keeps him important. And that helps me maintain control over him, at the end of it all.

  She elected not to answer, in either direction. Countess Herzer meant to be heard and wanted to draw a response. Erida of Galland would not give her the satisfaction. There was too much else at stake to be drawn into small-minded games.

  Besides, she had not missed the way the ladies seemed to whisper about Taristan. Their conversations varied, assessing everything from his appearance to his stoic manner, but always returned to the way he had seemingly bewitched the Queen, winning her hand at first sight. For reasons you cannot fathom. It was frustrating, but ultimately, she was glad for their ignorance. And their expectations. It made her endeavors easier, if no one expected them of her.

  The border with Madrence loomed, somewhere over the forested hills and down into another river valley. Erida imagined it like the lines on her map, starkly drawn, with a row of Gallish castles built up along the river, her soldiers strung between them like ropes of pearl. Their lines had held for years, the border country precarious, a stack of dry kindling that needed only a few sparks to burst into flame. Erida carried that candle with her now, ready to set all alight.

  Madrence was a soft country made strong by flanking mountains and gentle neighbors. Siscaria cared only about its storied history, looking inward for glory, while Calidon kept to itself, hemmed within its own mountains and deep glens. Galland needed only reach out, now that the timing was right. Push south to the sea, storm the castles and the capital with such speed and force that their aging king could not help but surrender. Such a victory had not been won in decades, not since her grandfather’s time. Erida pictured raising the Lion over the Madrentine shores, at every palace and castle. How the people will love me then.

  Taristan’s letter rode inside the lacings of her riding habit, the parchment brushing against her bare skin so Erida might not forget it. As if she could ever do such a thing. The jagged writing was like a scar, the ink burning her fingers as his hands had burned her skin.

  We ride for your shifting borderlands. Ronin leads us to a hill with a broken castle, its slopes overgrown with thorns. Find me there.

  The message had come only two weeks after he left, dispatched with speed.

  No wonder my ladies talk, Erida admitted to herself. It took me only hours to follow.

  The Queen blamed her haste on the hunger that lived in her, and in every ruler of Galland. The want for conquest, for more.

  It rose in her with every mile forward, ravenous and all-

  consuming.

  Castle Vergon was a ruin, her walls and towers having collapsed two decades prior. Her stones were grown over with moss, and a young forest sprung up in her halls, roots climbing through cellars and dungeons. After weeks on the road, Erida was glad to see the hollow wreck of the castle, her remaining walls black against the blue sky, the hill crowned in thorns. Like the rest of the hulking line of Gallish fortresses, she guarded the valley of the Rose River, called the Riverosse across the border. Erida smiled at the silhouette, knowing that Castle Herlin and Castle Lotha were twin shadows, one at either end of the horizon. Their front was unbroken now, her strength gathered.

  With more to be unleashed.

  She had seen this border only once, accompanying her father on a campaign
when she was a child. He had won a great victory near the Rose’s north branch, claiming a valuable pass into Calidon. Erida remembered that it had been winter, the air freezing on her cheeks as the wind blew sharp off the Watchful, where raiders prowled. This was different, in every respect. The air was crisp but warm enough for light clothing. The army waiting was her own to command. Her father was dead and gone. The battle was not yet won, a victory unseen.

  But close enough to taste.

  The Third Legion held the border always, ten thousand soldiers honed and perfected by years on tempestuous ground. The First had recently joined them, doubling their number. It was as if a city had sprung up overnight, the tents clustered in the shadows of the castles, hiding most from any spies across the river. While Madrence knew that Erida’s army was amassing its force, they could not know to what extent, not without sneaking across the river and risking Galland’s wrath. A caught scout was cause enough for war, if utilized properly. The smaller country would not give Erida another reason to fight. She had enough already.

  Erida thought of Lord Thornwall and his words in the council chamber, when he’d given her his measure of the Madrentine campaign. It felt like looking back across a canyon. As if her life were split in two: before Taristan’s proposal, his promise, her choice—and after.

  They turned from Cor road at the last moment they could, maneuvering the Queen’s great procession off the wide, ancient byway and onto rockier ground. The shadow of Vergon fell over them, but Erida did not feel its cold. She smiled up at the ruined castle and slid gracefully from horseback.

  Taristan was nowhere in sight at the base of the hill, nor on the narrow path cut through the thorns to Vergon above. His own guard, a detachment of grizzled soldiers from the Ascal garrison, busied themselves with widening the thorn path. They hacked at the bloomless vines with swords and axes, making more of a mess.

  When she approached, they jumped to attention, each man freezing in place. Their captain was easy to pick out, a green-edged cloak over his shoulder.