His long strides ate ground. While not as bulky or muscular as some soldiers, Yarif had speed on his side.
His foot hit a patch of ice… down he went, the only thing saving him from his attacker’s blade.
Then the attacker went down on the ice, sword flying from his hand.
Yarif rolled on top, punching the man in the face. The attacker wasn’t wearing armor, just hide clothing, far too nice and well-fitting to belong to a common thief.
The man lashed out with a gloved fist. Yarif dodged, scrambling toward the sword. The man crashed down on Yarif’s back—right over the healing wounds.
Yarif screamed and bucked, in pain, in fear, in desperation. The heavier attacker pinned him to the ground. Yarif opened his cloak and, in one lightning-fast motion, rolled out from under the crushing weight, leaving his cloak behind.
His back burned, but he had no time to think about that now. He scrambled toward the sword. When his hand closed on the hilt, he spun face up. The man was on him again, shoving a hand under Yarif’s chin while fighting for the sword.
Pain! Yarif squirmed, doing his best to reach for his boot knife. Too far away. He patted the man’s midsection, feeling hardened steel.Yes! A knife! Please let this work!
He wrenched the knife from its scabbard, then plunged the blade into the man’s side. Hot blood poured over Yarif’s hand.
The man shrieked, trying to get away without giving up his purchase on the sword. Yarif yanked out the knife just as his grip on the sword failed.
The man grinned. Raising the sword.
Yarif jammed the blade into the man’s exposed throat.
The man’s eyes went wide, mouth open in an “O” of shock. He grabbed at the blade, rolling away, then thrashed, blood staining the snow. The thrashing subsided to jerking, then stillness.
The man lay dead and unblinking in the snow.
“Yarif! Are you all right?” Draylon limped toward him, blood dripping into the snow behind him.
“You’re hurt!” Yarif jumped to his feet, running to Draylon.
Draylon shook his head. “Just a scratch, but they’re dead.” He glanced down at the man lying with a knife in his throat. “Come. Let’s get inside before more show up.”
Together, they darted toward the keep while their guards searched the grounds.
Niam met them halfway, with six guards at his back. Right, no point in secrecy now. Someone knew Yarif and Draylon were here.
Someone who didn’t want them to leave. At least, not alive.
Niam motioned the guards forward, then knelt next to Yarif’s kill. “This is one of Whreyn’s men. He’s not in uniform, but I recognize him. How dare he violate the sanctity of my keep.” He rose and kicked at the sword. “That’s a fine, well-maintained sword, so I doubt stolen.”
Rufe appeared out of the trees a moment later. “Draylon! Yarif! Are you hurt?”
Yarif shook his head, sucking in air, trying to slow his wildly beating heart. “No. I’m fine.” Foolish for daring to walk the grounds, though.
“What happened?” Niam demanded. “Why weren’t you in the keep?”
Thankfully, Draylon answered, “Nera assured us that posted sentries kept the grounds safe. We were walking, then an archer shot at us. From over that way.” He pointed toward the trees.
Rufe nodded. Hand on his sword, he sprinted in that direction.
“Get back to the keep,” Niam ordered, eyeing the blood dripping from Draylon’s glove. “Clean up. Let Mother see to your injuries. I’ll be back later.” He charged after Rufe.
“Your Majesty, stop!” one of the guards yelled. All six sprinted after Niam, while the ones assigned to Yarif herded him and Draylon toward the keep.
“I need to go with them.” Draylon watched Rufe and Niam disappear into the trees. He deflated. “But I also must see you to safety, and I dare not defy an ally as powerful as Niam."
A horse whinnied from the woods.
