“Look at that, Sergeant,” another chortled, “I think he wants to dance.”
Yarif pretended not to understand the Cormiran the savages spoke.
“I’ll give him a dance.” The one called Sergeant assumed a pose possibly useful on a battlefield but not very practical in the confines of a castle corridor.
Yarif’s ancestors peered down from gilded frames. Judging, perhaps? Or waiting for the end of the family line?
One man came at Yarif from the side. Yarif spun, ramming his weapon’s hilt into the bastard’s face. The man dropped his sword, staggering backward. Yarif kicked out a booted foot, catching the beast’s arm against the wall with a satisfying crunch. The man howled.
The sergeant took the opportunity to strike. Yarif barely lifted his blade in time. The clash of swords sent shockwaves up his arm. He crossed blades with the sergeant again and again—gaining ground, losing ground. The. Enemy. Would. Not. Win!
Yarif faked left. The sergeant lunged to ward off the blow, letting Yarif attack from below, driving his rapier through the gap between breastplate and shoulder scale. Yes! The man grunted but didn’t go down. He’d lost the use of his sword arm, though.
Now to take down the last two as quickly as the first.
“Come closer, and I’ll gut you like a fish,” Yarif spat in Renvallian, watching to see if any of the men understood. He tried again, “Your mother is a flea-ridden river whore.” No reaction.
He stood in the hallway outside the door to his rooms. Inside, the twins and their governess should be accessing the hidden passageway inside the walls. No harm must come to them. Holding off the enemy to let them escape might be Yarif’s final act, but by the deities, he’d not fail in this.
One soldier stood to the side, cradling a broken arm. Thank whatever deity for Captain Unger instructing Yarif in using knives, a rapier, and hand-to-hand fighting, despite Yarif’s parents’ complaints that a second son needed no such training. Not when they’d no intention of installing him in the military.
The sergeant held a cloth to his skewered shoulder.
In addition to fighting, Captain Unger had taught where to find chinks in armor. Yarif mouthed a silent thanks to his old mentor.
Three more soldiers approached from down the hall, all in red and blue, holding a sedate pace. Not charging. Only a few more moments and the children should be safe. May the God of Darkness grant Yarif a noble end.
One of the newcomers stepped forward, sword at his hip, hands splayed in surrender. His bearing spoke of authority, as did the swirling gold insignia on his uniform. Captain. No one else in the corridor ranked above sergeant. A bit young for captain’s gold, with the dark hair and eyes typical of some parts of Cormira.
Blood marred his clothing, and a rolled sleeve exposed blood trickling down his fingers from a nearly clotted gash on his forearm. A tattoo covered one wrist.
By the way he walked and held himself, the captain wore a hidden leg sheath in addition to the sword, also typical of Cormira. The other soldiers represented a mix of lands, speaking at least a smattering of Cormiran.
None had yet spoke Renvallian.
“I’m Captain Rufe Ferund of His Imperial Majesty’s army.” The captain spoke in a clipped Cormiran accent, keeping his deep tones low. With his gravelly voice, “soothing” wasn’t a possibility. “We have no wish to harm you. The castle has fallen, and you’ve nowhere to go. You can surrender, or face the consequences. Either way, this kingdom and all within are under the authority of His Imperial Majesty Soland Aravaid.”
So the clanging bells earlier had told of Father’s death.
Yarif schooled the terror from his features. He twisted his face into a mask of confusion, tipping his head to the side and saying in Renvallian, “I don’t understand.” No need to show his hand by displaying familiarity with the invaders’ language. The soldiers already revealed a few interesting tidbits, thinking Yarif couldn’t understand.
The captain repeated what he’d said in Renvallian, only getting a few pronunciations wrong.
“My father is dead.” Yarif’s heart clenched briefly, all the sorrow he’d spare for a man who’d brought the entire country to ruin through greedy ambition.
“Yes, Your Highness.” Something much like sympathy lurked in the captain’s deep brown gaze. Cleaned up, he might appear handsome—if he weren’t holding so many lives in his hands. And if he wasn’t a Cormiran murderer. How many of Yarif’s countrymen had this butcher slain today?
At least the conquerors acknowledged Yarif’s position. “What of my older brother?” Even as the question left his lips, the truth of the matter seemed clear: Yarif had no older brother.
“I’m afraid he’s dead as well, Your Highness. He refused to surrender.”
Sounded like the stubborn oaf. Unfortunately, the king and heir dying left Yarif in the uncomfortable position of being next in the line of succession to the Renvallian throne.
A throne he’d no desire to ever sit upon. Now Yarif stood between the throne and someone else’s aspirations, which meant he’d likely lose his life for something he didn’t even want. His very existence could be a threat, and he’d no desire to be someone’s pawn in a political game.
Why had his father forbidden him to take Adrina and Emile to safety when Cormira began marching toward Renvalle?
Yarif couldn’t run—but he could send the children somewhere safe. He’d do whatever became necessary to defend his people. Was the queen still alive? If so, he’d wager good money she’d yet to consider her offspring.
