Dornar didn’t bother to respond. He simply drew his sword, the men behind him following his lead.
“No!” Mathos ignored Dornar and turned to the men. “You are Blues! This is the queen’s ship. The Nephilim are the queen’s allies—just look at her flag. If you fight now, it will be treason. And you must know that you can’t win.”
There was an unhappy rumble from the men, quickly quelled as Dornar glared back at the Blues. “Weare fighting for the queen,” he told them.
“That is a lie.” Jeremiel called from beside Cassiel. “I’m the truth seeker on this vessel, and I’m telling you that we support the true queen, Lucilla, daughter of Geraint, the son of Bar-Aloys, who on her coronation will be Lucilla the First, Defender of Brythoria.”
The Blues shuffled, discomfited, but Dornar ignored them completely and strode back to take position on the brigantine’s quarterdeck, calling loudly, “Grappling hooks… fire!”
Mathos didn’t know what Dornar was thinking. His bid to brazen it out made no sense. But he had no time to consider it in the storm of flying ropes and the loud, grinding crunch as the two ships collided.
Within seconds, they were swarmed, the Blues flooding over the side of the ship only to crash uselessly against the lethal discipline of the Nephilim.
The thunder of battle surrounded him. Swords clanged, crossbow bolts flew, men and women screamed and died as the deck grew slippery with blood.
He fought one and then two desperate Blues as the ships ground closer together in a haze of splintering wood and shrapnel. He knocked the first unconscious with a vicious backhand with his sword pommel and then beat the other to his knees with a flurry of brutal slashes as his beast poured out his rage and loss.
And then, almost as quickly as it started, it was over. He had a new cut bleeding down his cheek and a Blue kneeling dazedly in front of him.
It wasn’t nearly enough.
He needed the fight. Needed to roar and bleed and lose himself in battle. Needed to utterly exhaust himself. But everywhere the Blues were laying down their arms.
He breathed hard, forcing the beast back down. Forcing himself to accept that the fight was over. Forcing himself to take stock.
It was a victory. But he couldn’t see the Lord High Chancellor.
“Find Dornar!” He sped frantically, searching through the slowly clearing dust. Checking the faces of the dead and the captured Blues.
Nothing.
He leaped across the narrow gap onto the brigantine to see the tremulous captain kneeling and begging, hurrying to explain that he was not responsible for chasing them down. That his ship had been requisitioned by the Lord High Chancellor. That he would never have even followed them if he’d had a choice.
But where was Dornar? Fuck. His beast rolled over heavily. Something was wrong.
Mathos started to run, Jeremiel and Val catching up behind him, and together they searched the ship. Soon they were joined by a squad of Nephilim who helped them pull it apart as the captain moaned and complained bitterly at the damage to his ship and the loss of life around him.
Mathos hunted through cabins and in the galley, looking in storage and behind trunks as his heart beat heavily in his ears. Forcing himself to slow. To search thoroughly and carefully.
One by one, the cabins were cleared. And slowly he had to face what he already knew. Dornar had attacked them—sacrificing his men and the ship he’d taken—as a distraction.
By the time they returned to the deck, the two ships were sailing side by side through the estuary toward Kaerlud under Cassiel’s stern command. But Dornar was gone.
The Lord High Chancellor hadn’t been making one last desperate stand. No, he had betrayed the men under his command to their deaths so that he could escape.
Mathos had sent Lucy away. And now Dornar was free to follow her.
He had to warn her. Warn Tristan. Thank the gods she would be in the palace soon. She would be surrounded by guards; they would keep her safe.
His beast growled viciously at the idea of other guards watching over her, but for once it didn’t bother to comment.
Chapter Twenty-One
They flew downthe hill at a gallop, Lucilla’s long dress streaming out behind her as the proud stallions thundered toward Kaerlud. Warriors carried rippling banners of Nephilim white and gold and Brythorian midnight blue, flying side by side.
People came out of their homes to watch, at first silent and suspicious, but slowly gaining interest.
Lucilla’s heart lifted as she saw them. Children and old people, young couples, working men and women. These were her people. They were the people that she would take up the throne for. The people she would spend her life trying to be worthy of.
