Page 80 of The Queen’s Bodyguard

He knew from firsthand experience that a long fight was a losing one. The best way to kill was to dispatch the enemy as soon as possible. He had seconds, twenty seconds at the most, and he knew he needed to cut that down to far less if he wanted to get out alive. So, right from the start the fight was desperate, and it only became more so each time their weapons connected, when a fighter collided with a wall or the ground. The air was full of the sharp scent of adrenaline and the sound of echoing war cries and growls.

The first real spray of blood speckled the wall as Argos slashed the short spear across Pyre’s white shirt in a streak of red, the weapon knocked off its course to her heart only by her stinger. The smell of blood did nothing but electrify his prey drive.

He would finish this. Now.

When he blocked her next attack, he charged forward, too, shoving her to the ground. If he was cut in that exchange he didn’t notice, stabbing his blade downward, coming inches from slicing open her face before her stingers blocked the knife’s path.

Pyre yelled something at her maids and guards, but it must not have been for help, because the few of them who had begun to move forward backed away. For a moment they struggled, but Argos had Pyre’s stingers pinned in a way that could only mean checkmate. They were crossed in an X over her face, pressing ever closer. If Argos won the battle of strength, her own stingers would gouge her face. And if she retracted them, his blade would finish her. Her only choice was to shove him back, gain some leverage, and his blade would break before Argos would let that happen.

“I know what you believe,” Pyre growled. “But this isn’t the way to get what you want.”

“How do you know what I want?” Argos growled back. Damn, this woman was strong. He had to get to it quickly if he didn’t want to run out of strength.

“Justice.” She glanced at his blade, moving ever closer. She let out a desperate yell and pushed against the knife, gaining a few more inches of safety. “Peace between our people. I’m sure Boada would tell you, this is not the way to get it. And Theora would not appreciate being thrown back into war.”

“Good thing they’re not here.”

Argos settled his weight into the weapon, and Pyre’s own stinger pressed a bloody diagonal path from her brow to her opposite cheek, tearing into her jaw as she turned her face away.

Even so, Pyre managed to hook her foot around his leg, slapping Argos onto his back.

By then they were both spent, panting as Pyre shifted away and guards took her place. Argos felt bruising pain in his side like a metal rod being jabbed into him, but he knew the feel of a blade attempting to penetrate his armor.

He was surrounded, stingers all around. They shifted in formation, drawing closer. Argos didn’t try to escape. The guards didn’t attack, only held him captive. Any attempt to attack or get away right now was pointless.

Pyre crouched down to get closer, letting out a heavy sigh as she shook her head. “I suppose I can’t blame Theora for trying.”

Argos wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he said nothing. He wasn’t escaping this alive, he knew that much. And if it had been him alone, he would go down with a fight, take his loss honorably.

But all he could think about was Theora.

“My wife had nothing to do with it,” he said.

“Your wife?” she asked with a raise of her brow. “Or your assignment?”

Argos almost laughed, as irrational as it felt. Of course, Pyre would understand how obvious it looked—a queen suddenly having affection for a massive, skilled fighter just before meeting with the enemy wasn’t the most common occurrence in modern society.

But then, neither was a decorated general becoming queen. She’d clearly come prepared, with her own guards disguised as maids. She didn’t trust Theora, either. Perhaps they were alike, in that way.

But then, Pyre was the one who’d started the war in the first place, wasn’t she?

Pyre stood, accepting a cloth dampened in some sort of strong-smelling medicine from one of her handmaidens—one of the six who couldn’t fight—and pressing it to the wound on her face. “Argos, Argos, Argos…” She secured the cloth with a strap and sighed, taking a moment to crack her neck, stretch her back. “Are you a tea drinker? I think we need some tea for this.”

Argos stared at her, searching for some sort of evidence that she might be joking.

But Pyre’s guards did indeed keep their stingers trained on him while her maids brought out large pillows and a tray of tea. Pyre set one of the pillows on the ground across from him, easing herself down onto it. One of the maids held out a ridiculously small teacup to Argos on a long tray. She was terrified, the tray shaking as she trembled, and he took the cup quickly so that she wouldn’t trigger his prey drive. The cup felt even more ridiculous in his large hand.

“No ringblitz?” Argos asked, not bothering with any attempt to sound civil.

“Ringblitz. Poison. Tools for those who can’t fight for themselves.” Pyre blew on her tea. “If I wanted to kill you, Argos, I would do it with my bare hands.”

Argos hesitated, sniffing the brew. Chamomile. Honey, lemon, vanilla. But there was an edge of something…medicinal. Still, Pyre was drinking hers, and both cups smelled the same to him, so he took a sip. It was surprisingly good, though that was strange to admit. The entire situation was beyond strange.

Nothing, at the moment, made any sense.

“I presume,” said Pyre, “that we don’t have much productive time with you without your ‘wife’ present, so let’s agree to be honest with each other, shall we? You’re Theora’s husband as much as half my guards are handmaidens. Neither one of us trusts the other, that much is obvious.”

Argos glanced at one of the stingers still pointed at his temple. “Yeah. You started a war.”