The Prince's Bargain

by K. M. Shea

  Myth shook off her gurgling captor and fled, meeting Arvel at the halfway point.

  She could hear the piercing whistles of the Honor Guard—Thad was calling for help—as she set her back to Arvel’s.

  The man she had elbowed was still recovering, but at least two dozen men emerged from the shadows of the hall.

  “Arvel,” Myth whispered as a chill climbed up her back. “What do we do?”

  “We try to hold out until help comes.” Arvel offered Myth a dagger, but he didn’t take his eyes off the men, who started circling them.

  Myth glanced from the brigands to the balcony of the second floor, and was relieved to see no one lurked there.

  He’s right. We can survive this. Myth wasn’t actually certain if it was true, but she was going to make it be so.

  Something big slammed into the Celebration Hall doors, and the entire doorway buckled.

  The men closest to the entrance jumped and gazed at it as the doors rattled with impact, their panels creaking ominously.

  “Don’t just stand there—reinforce it!”

  The swordsmen Arvel had evaded rushed to reinforce the door, pushing heavy furniture in front of it.

  It was then that Myth spotted a man standing with his back to the windows of the Celebration Hall, his features cast in shadows.

  Arvel’s expression was unreadable, but his voice was hard when he spoke. “Haven’t you had enough punishment yet?”

  Lord Julyan laughed as he took his time approaching them, stopping at the ring his men created around them. “I’m hurt, Arvel. You won’t even call me uncle anymore?” He fixed his grip on the hilt of his bared sword, which seemed to glow in the dull afternoon light, and smiled brightly.

  Arvel narrowed his eyes. “Not when you’re contemplating my murder.”

  “Ahh, yes. Well, you have forced my hand. But it doesn’t have to end in blood, as long as you revoke the punishment you’ve inflicted on our family.”

  Myth gripped the borrowed dagger and watched the men slowly closing ranks around her and Arvel.

  Like the assailants in the gardens, they were masked—except for Lord Julyan—and they were armed with short swords, although a third of them had spears.

  Spears, a weapon made so the fighter can keep their distance. They planned for Arvel’s skill with the dagger.

  “The Fultons deserved the sentence. If I had my way, I’d strip you of your title,” Arvel bluntly said.

  Lord Julyan shrugged. “I don’t deny we deserve it, but I still take offense to it. You’ve cut off our only livelihood.”

  “You’re still free to trade locally.”

  “Locally? There’s no money in that,” Lord Julyan sneered. “And it’s a pitiful market—nothing can come of it. There’s no way to use it.”

  “And that’s the crux, is it?” Arvel tilted his head, listening as the doors bulged from the Honor Guards’ onslaught. “You want power, but you’ve proven yourself unworthy. I’m determined that you won’t have it.”

  “You can be as determined as you like,” Lord Julyan said. “But you’ll also be dead.”

  Arvel raised an eyebrow. “At least I’d take you and the festering family down with me.”

  Myth wanted to elbow Arvel for the gruesome thought, but she didn’t want to risk distracting him, and the air was so tense she wasn’t sure she could have moved if she wanted to.

  “True,” Lord Julyan blithely agreed. “And she’ll fall with you.” He raised his sword, using it to point at Myth.

  Ah. He is using the High Elf sword that was on display in his house, Myth noticed with a fuzzy sort of detachment as she studied the sword pointed at her.

  The wing-like adornments forged around the hilt were very distinctive, and though she wasn’t close enough to read the inscription on the blade, she recognized the Elvish script and the symbols High Elves used in their magic.

  Arvel stiffened. When he moved closer to her, briefly brushing against her, she could feel the tensed bunch of his muscles. “She’s a translator and an elf,” he said. “She’s innocent in this.”

  Lord Julyan smirked. “Hardly. I know it was she who fetched my private ledgers.”

  He peered in her direction, seeming to expect a reply.

  Thankfully, while Myth’s knees were starting to shake, she was able to speak with a shocking amount of calmness. “You were the one foolish enough to leave records of your illegal activities out in the open.”

  Lord Julyan peeled his lips back in an angry sneer.

  “She has a point,” Arvel added.

  “You…” Lord Julyan growled.

  He was interrupted when one of the men reinforcing the door yelped in surprise as a battle ax bit through the wood.

  Thad and his men had managed to crack the door with whatever they were using as a battering ram. Now they were making short work of the door, ripping it apart with a surprising amount of speed.

  “We can’t hold them back—” The man standing closest to the door cut off with a squeak when an Honor Guard reached through, grabbed him by the neck, and then rammed his head into the door. The brigand went slack and toppled to the floor as Thad and his men opened up a hole wide enough to crawl through.

  Arvel relaxed minutely, and it occurred to Myth that his gruesome taunt had been all for the sake of stalling.

  It must have dawned on Lord Julyan, too. He cursed and gestured again with his sword, swinging the massive weapon around with a surprising amount of ease. “Get the prince—subdue him!”

  His shouts were barely audible over Thad, who hadn’t stopped blowing his Honor Guard whistle.

  Lord Julyan’s henchmen surged forward, swords and spears extended.

  Arvel threw his daggers, striking the men in vital spots so they fell with shouts and gurgles of pain.

  Myth, using her borrowed dagger, swung out at any of the attackers that tried to make a grab for her, and she and Arvel continuously circled as Arvel tried to protect her.

  It was impressive how fast Arvel was able to strike, moving at a blurred speed. In the span of a breath he threw one dagger—taking down a brigand—then struck out at an enemy that was lunging for Myth, stabbing him in the side before kicking him in the face and sending him to the ground with a crack.

  However, all too soon, he ran out of his daggers. When one of the henchmen with a spear jabbed at him, he was forced to evade.

  Myth’s heart pounded in her throat as she watched Arvel, scared beyond words for his life.

  Arvel, casually dodging, seemed not to share her fear. “Try to hold on. She’s coming!”

  She? Myth wondered.

  At that moment, the hairs on the back of Myth’s neck stood on end, and the air seemed almost electric.

  Somewhere outside a large cat screamed, its roar so fierce it made even Lord Julyan look back at the windows.

  The doors on the far side of the room glowed white hot before disappearing in a pulse of magic, so obliterated that not even a sliver remained.

  Princess Gwendafyn stepped through the gaping hole, looking vastly different from usual.

  Magic glowed at her feet, and she held a sword that was wrapped with lightning. The sword shed electric sparks and hissed and popped as she adjusted her grip on its hilt and smiled.

  The brigands closest to her fled, but Princess Gwendafyn was on them in an instant, laying waste to them as her sword sang.

  Behind her trailed her grizzled companion. Today he was wearing chainmail and a tunic—which again was emblazoned with Gwendafyn and Benjimir’s emblem.

  The man caught sight of Arvel and chucked a brown canvas roll.

  Arvel caught it and snapped his wrist, unrolling it with a flourish. Inside the canvas roll was a complete set of throwing daggers, neatly organized.

  Arvel yanked several blades free and chucked them, downing an enemy with every dagger he tossed.

  Myth stuck to ducking and evading whenever one of the attackers tried to make a grab for her.

  One actua
lly managed to grab her wrist. Myth—remembering the way Arvel had cut at their attacker’s arm during the Fultons’ first attempt—twisted her wrist in his grip so she could skewer her borrowed dagger and slice up the side of his arm.

  Another brigand jumped at her, and then a shadow passed across the windows of the Celebration Hall.

  A pane of glass shattered, and—blessedly—the brigand swung around to face the window.

  Myth smiled when she saw Lady Tari standing on the windowsill with Sius, his tail twitching back and forth. Blades made of light ran down the elven lady’s arms, following the curves of her muscle.

  “Sius,” Lady Tari purred. “Go have some fun.”

  The snow cat leapt off the windowsill, the claws of his massive paws extended.

  “Stand your ground,” Lord Julyan yelled as his men fled the feline.

  Thad, having dismantled the door with a war ax, pushed aside the settee that the rogues had been using to bar the doorway. “Rally to the crown prince!”

  Honor Guards shouted war cries as they moved in, marching in a square formation as they fought their way to Arvel and Myth.

  We just might make it out of this.

  Arvel was a whirlwind of movement, cutting, slicing, and jabbing with his daggers.

  Myth concentrated on staying out of his way, well aware she was the biggest liability and was no help at all. She tried to edge in the direction of the swarming Honor Guards while ducking enemies.

  Unfortunately, two converged on her at once. One of them grabbed her by the wrists while the other plucked her dagger from her hand.

  They held her for only a moment before Arvel rammed into the one holding her wrists, and lightning enveloped the second man, making him fall with a scream.

  “Did they hurt you?” Arvel shouted over the pandemonium.

  Myth shook her head. “I’m fine.”

  I hate being so useless!

  Arvel was off before he could respond, flicking one of his borrowed daggers at an incoming brigand, and lashing out at the turned back of another.

  Myth saw a path open up between Arvel and the Honor Guards.

  If I can get to them, Arvel can stop worrying about me.

  She ran, jumping a few fallen enemies. Her heart pounded in her chest as she reached the halfway point.

  Almost there…

  And then Lord Julyan stepped in front of her.

  “Don’t move,” he shouted. “Or I’ll kill her.” There was an unsettling light in his eyes as he rested the point of his sword just over Myth’s heart.

  Arvel skidded to a stop. He was so close, Myth might have been able to touch him if she reached back, but she didn’t dare with the sword hovering precariously over her chest.

  Slowly, the fighting subsided as Princess Gwendafyn, the Honor Guards, and Lady Tari realized what was going on.

  “If you even scratch her, you’ll never leave this room alive,” Arvel snarled.

  “Call off your guards. And all of you, step back,” Lord Julyan said.

  No one moved.

  “Do it!” he yelled.

  Arvel exchanged looks with Thad and nodded.

  Thad made a few gestures, and he and his men slowly backed up.

  Lord Julyan rolled his eyes to the side. “You as well, Princess.”

  Princess Gwendafyn’s eyes were narrowed. “You can’t think you’re going to get away with this.”

  “I think I can.” Lord Julyan’s smile seemed unhinged, and his eyes were bloodshot. “In fact, I think you’ll escort me through the palace, and I will leave here unhindered.”

  Lady Tari narrowed her eyes, and her blades of light shone brightly on her arms as Sius growled at her feet. “You’re mad if you think we’re letting you go anywhere.”

  “Then the translator dies.” Lord Julyan jerked the sword up so it pressed into the skin of Myth’s neck.

  Myth inhaled deeply, but only blinked when she felt the cold steel against her windpipe.

  Arvel bared his teeth in a silent snarl and clenched his hands into fists. “Fall back to the boundary of the room.”

  “Are you sure?” Princess Gwendafyn idly twirled her sword and glanced up at the balcony.

  Arvel didn’t follow her gaze, but he glanced to Thad, who nodded again.

  “Yes,” Arvel said. “Move slowly.”

  The Honor Guards backed up reluctantly—each step they took was small and begrudging, but Lord Julyan’s smile grew the farther they went.

  The vengeful lord turned his attention to Myth and jostled his sword. “Once they reach the walls, you will walk with me, Translator.”

  “Don’t hurt her!” Arvel seethed.

  Lord Julyan scoffed at him. “If I hurt her, it is your fault for not giving in to my demands.”

  Myth kept her hands pressed into her sides even as her palms grew sweaty. Sluggishly, she lowered her gaze from Lord Julyan’s fever-bright eyes to the elven blade stretched between them. This close, she could read the inscription that ornamented the blade, picking out recognizable words in Elvish, and a few of the symbols she’d managed to translate from the High Elf book on magic that she’d found.

  As I thought, it’s the one that was on display in his town house. A true High Elf artifact. Seeing it this close, I know it must be illegally obtained or stolen given the potency of the magic laced into the blade.

  She flicked her eyes up to Lord Julyan.

  Which shows how stupid he is to possess a magic High Elf sword. Their weapons thirst for blood on a mild day, but anything forged with High Elf magic is a double edged blade, willing to harm anyone as long as the right words are spoken. Wait…

  Lord Julyan lifted his chin up and smiled arrogantly when everyone—from Lady Tari and Sius to Arvel and the Honor Guards—stood with their backs to the walls. “Now, move, Translator.”

  Myth stared at the sword, a solution dawning on her.

  She wasn’t interested in fighting—it had never occurred to her to pick up anything besides a book.

  But the library had burned. And Lord Julyan was actively seeking to kill Arvel.

  For that reason alone, I’m willing to spill his blood on my hands.

  “Why do you just stand there? Move!” Lord Julyan jostled the blade, slicing the delicate skin of Myth’s neck.

  Arvel and Thad stirred, but Myth didn’t flinch.

  She glanced at the symbols on the sword, saw the rune for flames, then smiled. She spoke, the unfamiliar word dropping from her lips. But although her throat and tongue moved, the sound that came from her mouth was warped, the magic in it twisting sound itself so the word sounded like the angry roar of fire.

  The High Elf sword exploded into green flames, crackling with power and magic.

  Lord Julyan screamed as the magic engulfed his hand, eating through his gloves and the sleeve of his jacket, burrowing deep into his skin.

  The stench of burned flesh filled the air, and he dropped the sword, but it never touched the ground.

  Myth held out her hand and spoke the second High Elf rune she recognized on the blade, the one that meant return.

  Again, the magic in the command twisted the sound as it rolled off her tongue, turning it into a high-pitched keening.

  The sword blinked out of existence midfall, then reappeared in her hand. The cold touch of its metal hilt was foreign and unfamiliar, but the weapon was as light as a feather. With astounding ease, Myth raised it to point at Lord Julyan’s chest.

  “It seems no one warned you, Lord Julyan, about the dangers of using a High Elf blade…particularly when its directions for use are inscribed on the blade itself,” Myth said dryly. She smiled, then once again uttered the rune for fire.

  Lord Julyan screamed as the sword shed green sparks that burst into more green flames.

  He turned on his heel to run, and nearly impaled himself on Princess Gwendafyn’s sword. “Going somewhere?” she snarled.

  “He is,” Lady Tari purred as she appeared at Lord Julyan’s open side, her giant s
now cat hungrily licking his chops. “To his death.”

  “No, no! You’re just elves!” Lord Julyan snarled. “Too soft to do anything!”

  “I disagree, Lord Julyan.” Arvel had bridged the span between him and Myth in what felt like a blink and settled his hand on her lower back. “They’re too noble to strike first. But when they move, they’ll make sure it’s the last thing you see. Surrender. Or die.”

  When Lord Julyan scoffed, Arvel pointed up.

  Sometime during Lord Julyan’s tirade, Prince Benjimir and Sir Arion had brought what looked like three squads of Honor Guards onto the second-floor balcony of the hall. Each guard held a bow with an arrow—glinting in the dim light—nocked and aimed at the Calnorian lord.

  “It’s over,” Arvel said.

  Lord Julyan’s face became a mask of fury, and he lunged at Myth.

  Arvel moved like quicksilver, flicking a dagger so it struck Lord Julyan, piercing the hand that was already burned by the High Elf sword.

  Lord Julyan crumpled to the ground with a cry, and in an instant Princess Gwendafyn rested the edge of her sword on the back of his neck.

  That was all Myth had the chance to see before Arvel scooped her up, hugging her from behind.

  20

  Myth flung the High Elf blade away so she didn’t risk injuring Arvel with it, then struggled to turn around in his grasp.

  The Honor Guards were exchanging shouts as they surrounded Lord Julyan’s men, taking their weapons as their fellow guards standing in the balcony watched with their still-drawn bows.

  “You’re safe,” Arvel murmured as he embraced her. “You’re not hurt.”

  Myth opened her mouth with the intention of telling him that she very obviously knew she wasn’t hurt, before it dawned on her that Arvel wasn’t actually telling her that, as much as he was reassuring himself.

  “Yes,” she gently said. “I’m unharmed. Everything’s fine.”

  It wasn’t until he hugged her tighter, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, that something in her dislodged, and the tight ball of fear she’d been holding in shifted to something closer to shock.

  Her fingers shook as she grabbed the lapels of Arvel’s favorite chocolate-brown jacket, holding tight so she remained upright.