His gaze snagged on the lantern. A desperate gambit. But his only gambit.
Aldric dove. His fingers brushed the handle and slipped, sweaty palms failing him. The lantern wobbled, threatening to tip harmlessly.
With a roar of frustration, he slammed his shoulder into the table leg. The wood splintered. The table collapsed, sending the lantern smashing against the canvas wall.
Glass shattered. Oil erupted. Flame wooshed to life, a hungry orange beast that raced up the fabric in a heartbeat.
Heat, instantaneous and blistering, scorched the skin of his face. Smoke filled the small space, thick and suffocating.
He had to move. Now.
Dropping to his stomach, Aldric crawled. His limbs felt made of water, his lungs seizing with every shallow breath of the acrid air. Above him, the burning roof sagged, raining sparks onto his back. Scorching through his shirt.
He didn’t look back to see if the Arathian was burning, too. He could hear the heavy, wet thud of boots following him. The monster wasn’t stopping.
Aldric clawed at the dirt, dragging himself beneath the hem of the tent wall just as the structure groaned and collapsed inward. A wave of intense heat washed over his legs, searing the skin of his calves.
He bit back a scream, kicking wildly to free himself from the burning canvas, and rolled out into the gray pre-dawn light.
Cold air hit him like a physical blow. He lay there for a second, gasping, retching soot, his body screaming in protest. The fire roared behind him—a pyre for the dead thrall.
He hoped.
He forced himself up. His knees shook violently. Sharp stones sliced into his bare feet as he staggered forward…and nearly pitched headlong into the maw of a beast.
A varhound. Massive. White as winter and stained withfresh blood.
Aldric scrambled backward, his heel catching a rock, sending him crashing down to his elbows. The beast lowered its head, lips peeling back to reveal rows of glistening death. It lunged.
A sharp whistle sliced the air—a command.
The hound skidded, snapped its jaws inches from Aldric’s face, then turned and bounded away into the smoke-choked chaos of the camp.
Aldric didn’t question his luck. He didn’t breathe. He just scrambled to his feet, adrenaline the only thing keeping him upright.
A hand seized his shoulder from behind.
Aldric reacted on pure instinct. He spun, snarling, putting his weight into a feral swing aimed at the stranger’s gut.
“Easy, Your Majesty!”
The blow was caught. A strong grip immobilized his wrist.
Aldric blinked, the red haze clearing.
Calix.
And behind him, Rakon and Leif. His Sons. They were soaking wet, reeking of the sea and mud, their armor dull and dark to hide them in the gloom.
Relief hit Aldric so hard his vision grayed. He swayed, his legs finally giving up, but Rakon was there, catching him by the arm to hold him upright.
Joy burned bright in his chest. His men were here. They were still alive.
But fury burned hotter.
“You,” Aldric rasped, glaring up at Calix. “Yousworeto me.”
Calix winced. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I tried to convince the boys to leave you for dead, but I was overruled.”
