The soldiers charged past Yarif, helms hiding much of their faces. The attackers ran, limped, and hobbled away, some dragging half-dead comrades.
More Glendoran soldiers filled the pass, cutting off both exits. The only other escapes were a sheer mountain face on one side and a drop on the other.
Illa had boasted that a man she’d thrown off the cliff two seasons ago still hadn’t hit bottom.
No matter which direction the attackers took, they met their fate at the end of a sword or at the mercy of the mountain.
Glendor was part of the empire. They shouldn’t be here.
One by one, the enemy fell until all that remained standing between the lines of soldiers was a very much worse for the wear Draylon, Yarif, and a single remaining loyal member of their escort.
The rest had become more gifts for Mother Mountain.
The Glendoran soldiers had captured three of the attackers, including the leader. Those attackers couldn’t be allowed to live and tell of having seen enemy soldiers on Delletinian land.
A man wearing a commander’s badge came forward, approaching Draylon. “King Draylon Aravaid, King Consort Yarif Aravaid. You are under arrest by order of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Soland Aravaid.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Draylonleanedcloseenoughto a wide-eyed, panting Yarif to say, “It’s okay. I think.”
Commander Vihaan approached, but unlike at their earlier meeting, he didn’t smile. He spoke Cormiran, a language Yarif hadn’t yet admitted to knowing. “King Draylon, you are under arrest by order of the emperor for defying orders and jeopardizing our tentative relationship with a foreign power. You will come with me, either of your own free will or by force, but make no mistake. You will come. I am to deliver you to the emperor at Renvalle.”
If only Draylon could get word to Rufe or King Niam. What else could he do? Draylon nodded, lowering his sword, and turned to Yarif. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Blood welled on Yarif’s biceps, soaking his tunic’s sleeve. He should’ve had decent armor, although perhaps none would suit his fighting style.
“Take their weapons,” Vihaan ordered.
Draylon didn’t fight. How could he, vastly outnumbered and this time by seasoned fighters, some he might have trained himself? “Surrender your weapons,” Draylon said to Yarif in Renvallian, “and ask our friend to stand down.”
Yarif placed his two swords on the ground, then spoke quietly to the guard. One guard. They’d left Niam’s keep with six. The loss of the two brothers hurt, as they’d shown their allegiance to the end.
“You are to follow us back to camp.” Vihaan scowled. “Once there, we’ll talk.”
At least that much sounded promising.
“Now, we must go before we’re caught on this side of the border.” Vihaan eyed the forbidding mountains ahead.
“What about them?” Draylon nodded toward the guard and the remaining attackers.
“Your guard has shown loyalty to you and will be treated as your retainer until we reach camp, where he’ll be released. As for the other three.” Vihaan scowled at the prisoners. “They are no longer your problem, but rest assured, they will be questioned. Are either of you hurt?”
The softness of Vihaan’s tone gave some reassurance that he might be amenable to talking.
Draylon cataloged his hurts. “Only minor.” He turned toward Yarif, who stared at him blankly for a moment.
Before collapsing.
Draylon shrugged off Vihaan’s restraining hand and sank down into the snow with Yarif cradled in his arms. “Yarif! What is wrong? Are you hurt? Answer me, please!”
Yarif lay still, though the fog of his breath told Draylon he yet lived.
“Give him here,” Vihaan ordered.
Draylon reached for a sword he no longer had, his recently healed shoulder in agony.
Vihaan said more softly, “We have a healer. Let him see.”
