Crush the King

by Jennifer Estep

  Maximus studied him with cold, dispassionate eyes, then stepped up and kicked him again. And then again, and then again . . .

  The Mortan king kicked his guard over and over, viciously driving his boot into the other man’s chest, arms, legs, even his face. The guard’s nose broke with a loud, audible crack that rang across the terrace like a clap of thunder announcing the full extent of Maximus’s rage.

  That sound snapped me out of my shock, and I started forward to do . . . something, but Sullivan grabbed my arm.

  “You can’t stop it,” he whispered. “That’s his guard, not yours.”

  Guilt flooded my body, but he was right. I couldn’t intervene, and neither could anyone else.

  Everyone fell silent, and the only sounds were the steady thud-thud-thud of Maximus’s boot and the guard’s sharp, answering cries of pain. No one said anything, and no one moved to intervene. In less than a minute, it was over, and the guard lay dying on the terrace, struggling to breathe and choking to death on his own blood.

  Maximus finally stopped his brutal assault and stared down at the guard with the same dispassionate expression as before, as though he were looking at a cut of meat in a butcher’s shop instead of his fellow countryman. Then the king snapped up his hand and blasted the guard with his cold lightning.

  Maximus was far stronger in his magic than Mercer was. The guard’s head snapped back, and he didn’t make another sound as the cold lightning zipped over and then froze his body. Brittle bits of ice flaked off his now-purple skin, and the chilly stench of his frostbitten flesh filled the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Driscol clamp his hand over his mouth, as though trying to keep from vomiting at the horrible sight.

  Maximus focused on the second guard, who was still kneeling on the terrace. The second man hadn’t moved a muscle while Maximus had beaten and frozen his compatriot, but his left eye was involuntarily twitching in a nervous, jumpy rhythm, and the stench of his fear poured out of his pores, right along with his sour, nervous sweat. He thought the king was going to execute him too.

  Maximus snapped his fingers. “Get up.”

  The second guard swallowed, but he did as commanded. That twitch in his eye picked up speed, and the rest of his body trembled in time to the quick beat.

  “Return to camp, get on your strix, and find my fucking pets. Every last one of them,” Maximus hissed in a low, dangerous voice. “Failure is unacceptable. Do you understand?”

  The guard opened his mouth to answer, but not so much as a squeak of agreement escaped his lips.

  “Do you understand?” Each word Maximus said was as sharp as a dagger slicing through the air.

  The guard still couldn’t bring himself to speak, so he bobbed his head instead.

  “Then why are you still standing here?” Maximus snarled.

  The instant the king finished speaking, the guard stepped over his fellow guard’s body, sprinted across the terrace, and ran down the bleacher steps as fast as he could.

  The quick, staccato rhythm of the guard’s frantic footsteps faded away, and that tense, heavy silence dropped over the terrace again. Maximus seemed completely unconcerned by the silence and the shocked stares, and he sat back down in his seat as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  He glanced over at Nox and Maeven, but they both looked back at him with blank expressions. Neither one of them said a word or moved a muscle, but I could smell their worry and fear. They didn’t want to be the next victim of his wrath.

  Maximus glanced around the rest of the terrace. Eon, Ruri, Cisco, Zariza, Heinrich. The other royals were regarding him with a mix of disgust and wariness, and the ogre on Zariza’s neck was baring its teeth. Driscol still had his hand clamped over his mouth, although Seraphine seemed as calm as ever.

  Everyone knew about Maximus’s capacity for cruelty, something that he had reinforced by slaughtering the strix and drinking its blood at the ball. But killing one’s own guard at such a public event was something that just wasn’t done, not even among the most vicious royals. Everyone was staring at Maximus as if they had just now realized there was a rabid animal in their midst, instead of a reasonable, rational king.

  I was glad that Serilda and I had been able to free the creatures, but more guilt filled me at the fact that my thwarting the king’s scheme had cost an innocent man his life.

  As if he could hear my dark thoughts, Maximus turned his cold gaze to me. I didn’t know what he saw in my face. Disgust, probably, mixed with anger and guilt over the guard’s death, but his eyes narrowed, and the scent of his rage intensified, so hot and strong that it felt like my nose was on fire. Maximus knew that I was the reason he’d lost his precious pets.

  And he wasn’t the only one. Maeven also frowned at me, but I lifted my chin and stared back at the Mortan king. Now was not the time to show any sign of dread, doubt, or especially weakness.

  I was still holding a bag of cornucopia, so I grabbed a cluster, popped it into my mouth, and crunched down on it. Even though the sweet treat now tasted like blood and ash, I popped another cluster into my mouth and chewed and swallowed it before I spoke.

  “Problems?” I drawled.

  Maximus’s jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed even more. But after a few seconds, his tight features relaxed into a thin smile. “Nothing that can’t be fixed. I always have contingency plans in place, in case things go wrong.”

  Contingency plans? What could he possibly have or do to replace the loss of all those strixes and their magic? Maybe Sullivan was right. Maybe Maximus had more strixes or even another caladrius stashed somewhere in the Mortan camp.

  Maximus crooked his finger at Nox, who stepped forward. The two of them started speaking in low voices, with Maeven hovering nearby. The rest of the royals and nobles slowly returned to their own conversations, although everyone kept shooting wary looks at both Maximus and me.

  I lowered the bag of cornucopia to my side. I’d lost my appetite for it, and the last few pieces I’d eaten had already soured in my stomach. I might have won this battle, but Maximus already had something planned for the next round between us, and I couldn’t help but think that his next attack would be something far more vicious than what he’d just done to his own guard.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Maximus got to his feet and announced that he was returning to the Mortan camp to prepare for tonight’s ball. The Mortan king didn’t glance at me as he swept down the bleacher steps, but sour, sweaty eagerness rolled off him in waves. He was already putting his next scheme against me into motion.

  Nox and the rest of the Mortans followed him, but Maeven stopped and looked at Leonidas. The boy started to go over to his mother, but she shook her head the tiniest bit, telling him to stay put.

  Maeven had probably realized that Leonidas was the one who’d told me about the strixes in the Mortan camp. No doubt Maximus would come to the same conclusion sooner or later, and he might take his anger out on the boy the same way he had on the guard, whose frozen, bloody body was still lying on the terrace.

  Leonidas’s face fell, but he stayed still.

  Maeven smiled at him, then stared at me. Her eyes narrowed in a clear warning. Take good care of her son—or else.

  I smirked back at her. Of course I would never hurt the boy, but she didn’t need to know that.

  Maeven stared at me a moment longer, then left the terrace.

  One by one, the other royals and their contingents also departed, until my friends and I were the only ones on the terrace. Sullivan, Serilda, and Auster gathered around me, and Xenia remained with us as well.

  “You certainly made Maximus angry,” Xenia said, eyeing the guard’s body.

  “Maybe too angry,” Auster said in a low, worried voice. “There’s no telling what he might do now.”

  “I know,” I replied. “But at the very least, Serilda and I cut off his supply of magic. Maximus won’t be able to have more strixes brought here before the Regalia ends tomorrow. So hope
fully I’ve derailed at least some of his plans for me and Bellona.”

  “And what about your plans for him?” Sullivan asked. “Did you see or hear anything in the Mortan camp that would help us kill him?”

  Serilda shook her head. “No. His tent was too well guarded to approach, and he’ll increase security at the camp now, along with his own personal guard.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, trying to reassure my friends. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll find a way to stop him before the Regalia ends.”

  Despite my strong, confident tone, I didn’t really believe my words, and neither did my friends. So far Maximus seemed to be untouchable, and we were running out of time to find a weakness that would let us destroy him. Of course, I could still implement the idea I’d had back at Seven Spire about how to kill the king, but I didn’t want to do that unless I had no other options.

  Either way, there was nothing else to do here, so we left the terrace and headed down to the arena floor, where Paloma and Cho were waiting for us.

  I laughed, ran over, and hugged Paloma tight. “I’m so proud of you!”

  She returned my hug, then drew back. “For kicking the ass of a royal piece of Morricone scum and winning the tournament? Of course you should be proud of me.” Her voice might be matter-of-fact, but she was grinning, as was the ogre face on her neck.

  “Not just for that,” I said. “But for morphing in front of everyone. I know how hard that was for you.”

  Paloma’s grin dimmed a bit, and the glassy sheen of tears filled her eyes. “I did it for my mother,” she said in a low voice. “She always told me to be proud that I was a morph, an ogre, and I wanted to honor her.”

  “You know, you’ve never told me her name. What was it?” I made it seem like a casual question, but it was far more important than she knew, and so many things could change, depending on her answer.

  Paloma plucked her mace off her belt and swung it through the air. “Amira,” she said in a soft voice. “Her name was Amira.”

  Even though I’d been expecting—hoping—for that answer, shock still blasted through me. That was the same name as Xenia’s daughter. Could Paloma’s mother and Xenia’s daughter be the same person? But that would mean . . . that would mean . . .

  Paloma was Xenia’s granddaughter.

  As soon as the thought occurred to me, I realized it had to be true. There were just too many coincidences in their family histories, including how Paloma’s mother and Xenia’s daughter had both vanished without a trace. Plus, Zariza had said that Paloma reminded her of Amira, and I’d noticed myself how similar Paloma’s morph mark was to Xenia’s. But there was only one way to be sure, and that was to tell both my friends my suspicions.

  “Is something wrong?” Paloma asked. “You have a really strange look on your face.”

  “I need to tell you something.” I sucked in a breath. “It’s about—”

  “Paloma! Congratulations! I knew you could do it!” Auster stepped forward.

  “Of course she did it,” Xenia said, coming up to them. “She’s an ogre morph.”

  Her voice had the same matter-of-fact tone that Paloma’s always did, and the ogre on her neck grinned at the one on Paloma’s throat. Golden amber eyes, bronze skin, razor-sharp teeth. The two morph marks were almost identical, except for the coppery hair that curled around the one on Xenia’s neck, versus the blond hair on Paloma’s mark. But the resemblance between them, as well as Xenia and Paloma themselves, became more and more obvious the longer I looked at all four of them.

  I opened my mouth again, but Serilda and Sullivan came forward, also congratulating Paloma.

  Seeing the wide grin on Paloma’s face, as well as the one of her inner ogre, made me bite back my words. My friend had just won the biggest bout of her life, and I would let her fully enjoy her victory with no worries or distractions. I would tell her my suspicions later, when she was out of the spotlight and had more time to process them.

  “Evie? Are you crying?” Cho asked, walking over to me.

  Serilda had given him one of the bags of cornucopia she had bought, and he popped a cluster into his mouth and crunched down on it. Cho sighed with happiness.

  I wiped the tears out of the corners of my eyes. “Just a little bit.”

  He frowned. “Why? Paloma won. You should be smiling and laughing, not crying.”

  “Don’t worry. These are happy tears.”

  And they were happy tears—not only for Paloma’s victory, but for the secret I planned on telling her and the gift I hoped it would be for both her and Xenia.

  Cho held out his bag to me. “Well, if you really want to be happy, then you should have some cornucopia. It always makes me feel better.” He winked at me.

  I laughed and popped a cluster into my mouth. He was right. It did make me feel a little better.

  * * *

  We stayed in the arena celebrating Paloma’s victory for the next half hour. We would have stayed even longer, but my friends and I had to get ready for tonight’s ball. So we all congratulated Paloma a final time, then left the arena together.

  To the casual observer, we probably appeared happy and relaxed as we crossed the plaza, walked down the steps, and made our way back to the waterfront. But everyone kept their hands on their weapons, and we all kept glancing around, searching for danger.

  Auster was right. I had enraged Maximus, and he could strike out again at any time. But no assassins rushed out of the crowd to try to kill us, and we made it back to the Perseverance Bridge without incident.

  Auster stopped and spoke to the guards at the end of the bridge. “Any problems? Has anyone unusual or suspicious gone over to the Bellonan side of the river?”

  One of the guards shook his head. “No, sir. Just folks celebrating Paloma’s victory.”

  He grinned at her, and a faint blush stained my friend’s cheeks. She might be a Black Swan gladiator, but winning the Tournament of Champions came with a whole new level of attention, and people had been calling out, grinning, and waving at her during our trek across the island.

  Auster questioned that guard and the others, but they hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary, other than the raucous celebrations from the Bellonans. So we stepped onto the bridge and headed back to camp.

  The others relaxed a bit, thinking we were more or less safe now that we were off the island, but I kept glancing around, more and more cold dread trickling through my body.

  I felt like we were being watched. At least, more so than usual. Everyone was always watching me, and now they were watching Paloma too. Still, my unease grew stronger and stronger the farther we walked along the bridge.

  “Something wrong, highness?” Sullivan asked. “You’ve gone quiet.”

  I shook my head. “Just tired, I guess.”

  We were about halfway across the bridge when the hot, caustic stench of magic filled my nose. And not just a little magic—far more magic than I had sensed during the Regalia so far, even among the strixes and the caladrius in the Mortan camp.

  I stopped in the center of the bridge and looked around, searching for the source of the magic and all the danger it represented. No one used that much magic unless they were trying to kill someone else, and I was betting that the person they wanted dead was me.

  The Mortans were definitely here—but where?

  I glanced around, but they weren’t on the bridge ahead of us, and they weren’t rushing up behind us either. I even craned my neck up, searching the sky, but I didn’t see anyone riding a strix.

  “Where are they?” I said, still looking around. “Where the fuck are they?”

  “Evie?” Paloma asked. “What are you muttering about?”

  I started to answer her when a flash of bright purple lightning caught my eye. I whirled to the right, and I finally realized where the Mortans were—and where they had been hiding all along.

  The seemingly empty ship, the one I’d noticed when we’d walked across the bridge before, wasn’t empty
anymore. Now more than a dozen people stood on the deck, all facing this direction. And the ship itself had been sailed closer to the Bellonan bridge, although it was anchored off to the side of the span and was still several hundred feet away from our current position.

  I squinted into the sun, desperately hoping I had just imagined that flash of lightning—but I hadn’t.

  Every single person on the ship’s deck had their arms lifted out to their sides, and powerful purple lightning was streaking up out of their hands and gathering in the sky above like a bright electrified spiderweb.

  And that was just the beginning.

  In seconds, storm clouds had rushed in all around the lightning, and the dark, ominous mass cloaked the island and cast everything in an eerie, purplish shadow. The wind picked up, howling around us like a pack of greywolves, and more and more lightning blasted up out of the magiers’ hands and sizzled in the sky. The eerie purple streaks matched the power glowing in the magiers’ eyes.

  The members of the Bastard Brigade had finally shown themselves.

  But those weren’t just magiers on the ship—they were weather magiers, and they were all working together to create one massive, deadly storm.

  The water in the harbor started to pitch, buck, and heave in time to the howling wind. One particularly large wave arced over the bridge railing and crashed down on the flagstones, soaking me to the bone. I gasped at the shock of the cold water and swiped my wet hair out of my eyes. When I could focus again, I realized just how much worse things had gotten in the space of those few seconds.

  The weather magiers had quit sending their power up into the sky and were now moving their hands in unison. An instant later, a single enormous bolt of purple lightning streaked down and slammed into the harbor off to my right, in between their ship and where my friends and I were standing on the bridge. The resulting concussive boom was so loud that I couldn’t hear myself think for several seconds.

  But I could clearly see the water rising in the distance.