The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (35 page)

Her ears pricked. Yes, someone was treading quietly towards the tent. Halting. Crouching. Her nostrils widened, breathing in the scent. Male. And she smelled blood. Fresh blood.

Innis shifted fully into Justen and moved backwards on her bedroll. Where was the prince?

She found his ear, bent her head. “Harkeld,” she whispered.

The prince jerked awake, inhaling sharply. Innis laid her hand over his mouth. “There’s someone outside,” she breathed in his ear.

He tensed.

“When he opens the flap, give us light. And make lots of noise. Wake everyone.”

Innis removed her hand. She crouched on the bedroll, searching for her sword. Where was it? She always left it unsheathed at night...

There
. She lifted it carefully, silently.

The prince sat up alongside her, a movement she felt rather than heard.

Innis breathed shallowly, gripping the sword, straining to hear, her attention focused on the tent flap. If the man was Fithian, he’d kill her before she could wield the sword.
Then I’ll be a lion
.

The sort of lion Justen would be, large and male.

The tent flap rustled faintly. A sliver of moonlight shone into the tent.

Innis gripped the sword more tightly. She gathered her magic, feeling it sting over her skin.

The sliver of moonlight widened. A dark shape crouched in the entrance.

Flames burst into life on Prince Harkeld’s hand, illuminating the tent and the stranger. Innis saw a startled face, wide eyes reflecting the firelight, red hair.

She opened her mouth to yell.

The man pushed his shoulders inside the tent. A throwing star gleamed in his hand.

Innis dropped the sword and launched herself forward, shifting shape so fast it hurt. The yell in her throat came out as a roar.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

J
USTEN IS A
witch?

Shock held Harkeld frozen for an instant, a shout trapped in his throat.

Justen’s charge knocked the man backwards. Assassin and lion disappeared into the darkness.

Justen’s a witch?

Harkeld grabbed Justen’s sword, scrambled over the remains of the armsman’s clothes, and burst out of the tent, yelling at the top of his voice. He threw his magic at the campfire, making it tower high, casting light as bright as day over the camp.

Man and lion fought in the mud. He saw a booted leg kicking, saw the flash of a blade, saw dagger-sharp teeth sink into a pale throat.

The struggle ceased abruptly.

Around him, tent flaps burst open, witches scrambling out with swords in their hands. The lion lifted its huge head. The white teeth ran with blood. Blood stained the heavy mane.

Harkeld stopped yelling.

The silence was total. Shocked.

“Get down!” Cora snapped. “You’re a target!” She turned and shouted orders. Witches changed shape, wolves bounded into the dark, an owl launched into the sky.

Harkeld crouched, gripping the sword, scanning the campsite. His gaze kept returning to the lion standing over the Fithian’s body.

That lion was Justen.
Justen
.

Cora and Katlen and Rand surrounded him, facing outwards, swords bared. “What happened?” Cora asked.

Harkeld swallowed, found his voice. “Justen heard something. He woke me. It was the man we saw at Lvotnic.”
And then Justen turned into a lion and killed him
. Justen. A witch.

His head still rang with the shock of it. He peered past Katlen’s legs, looking for the lion. It no longer stood over the body. He watched the animal pad across to a tent and thrust its head inside.

The lion changed shape, becoming Justen. The armsman crawled into the tent. A moment later he backed out, his expression grim. “Frane’s dead.”

Justen’s mouth and chin were bloody. A cut scored across his ribs, trickling blood. The armsman’s eyes found him, crouching behind the witches like a coward. “You all right?”

Harkeld stood.

“Get down,” Cora said. “There may be more of them.”

“But—”

“Get
down
.”

Harkeld crouched again, anger burning his cheeks.

“Justen, get up in the sky,” Cora said. “See if you can find Gerit. He was on watch.”

The armsman nodded, changed into an owl, flapped upwards. Harkeld followed the bird’s ascent. A witch. Rage rushed into his chest, hot and acrid.

A silver wolf loped into the firelight and changed shape. “Definitely only one scent,” Petrus said. “Leads up to the forest, then west. At a guess, he walked from the woodcutters’ camp. You want us to follow it all the way back?”

Harkeld straightened from his crouch.

“Tell Ebril to follow it back a few miles, just to be sure. You look for Gerit. He must be somewhere.”

Petrus nodded and shifted into wolf shape again. He vanished into the darkness.

Harkeld shouldered past Katlen and walked to his tent. He ducked inside. Justen’s torn clothes were strewn across his bedroll. He found the armsman’s—no, the lying
witch’s
—scabbard and sheathed the sword he’d been gripping. He grabbed his own sword and his boots and backed out of the tent.

“I’ve found Gerit!” someone yelled.

Harkeld jammed his feet into his boots and followed Rand and Cora and Katlen, jogging in the direction of the yell. Away from the campfire, it was difficult to see. He lit his palm, the flames pushing back the darkness.

It was Hew who’d shouted. The shapeshifter was pale-faced, close to tears.

“Let me see,” Rand said, hurrying forward. “I might be able to... Ah....” He halted.

Cora halted too. “Is he...?”

“Yes. I’m afraid so.”

The body lay behind a tree stump. Harkeld stepped past Cora.

For a moment he saw nothing. Was this a joke? There was no pale, naked corpse in the mud—and then he saw the owl, an arrow piercing its breast: Gerit.

A wolf loped up and shifted into Petrus. The witch went down on one knee beside the dead bird.

“Why didn’t he change shape when he died?” Harkeld asked, confused.

“You can’t shift once you’re dead.” Petrus’s voice was harsh.

Cora touched his elbow. “Come back to the fire.”

Harkeld glanced at the dead owl one more time, and followed Cora back to the camp. The fire still roared into the sky, blisteringly hot. He sent his magic out to it, tempering the flames to a warm orange-red bonfire.

The Fithian lay where Justen had killed him, blood puddling on the ground. Cora walked across to the body. “What happened to Gerit is what shapeshifters fear most,” she said, looking down at the assassin. The man’s spine gleamed whitely at the back of his ripped-open throat. “And Frane...” Grief spasmed across her face. “His first mission.”

Two more to add to the list of those who’ve died for me
.

Harkeld looked away. “I’ll get the shovels.”

B
Y DAWN, THEY’D
dug graves for Frane and Gerit. The assassin didn’t get one. They loaded his body onto a packhorse and Rand took it into the dark forest to dump it.

Harkeld helped lay Frane in his grave.
He’s no older than me.
He looked away, grimacing. Movement caught his eye: Rand, trudging back towards them, leading the packhorse.

Cora placed Gerit in the hole they’d dug for him.

Harkeld stared down, frowning. That limp, dead bird was Gerit? Gerit, with his bristling eyebrows and bristling beard and bristling temper?

He understood why the witches were so distressed. Gerit would go to the All-Mother as an owl, not a man.

Harkeld scooped mud into the hole. A couple of shovelfuls and it was done. The smallness of the grave was disturbing. He hadn’t liked Gerit, but the man had deserved to die in his own body.

And Gerit didn’t like me, but he died for me. Or because of me. Or both.

Harkeld grimaced again, looked away.

Cora spoke the words committing Gerit and Frane to the All-Mother’s care. They ate a silent breakfast, while Ebril wheeled in the sky above them. Harkeld looked around for Innis, but couldn’t see her. She must be flying further distant.

In his dream, she’d heard something and left him. Had his sleeping mind heard Gerit’s dying screech? Or footsteps outside the tents? Whatever it had been, he hadn’t woken.

But Justen had woken.

Justen. Who’d pretended to be his friend. Whom he’d trusted. Justen, who was a rutting
witch
.

Harkeld put down his bowl, rose to his feet, and walked across to his tent. He hauled out the bedrolls and blankets and the armsman’s torn clothes and began wrenching the stakes out of the ground.

The Fithian must have been planning to kill everyone, tent by tent.
And then cut me up at his leisure
. Head and hands in a sack. Blood in a flask. And now, as the sun rose, the man would have been strolling back to the woodcutters’ camp, whistling, counting the number of new tattoos his night’s killing had won him and planning what to do with the bounty.

But for Justen, it might have worked.

Justen. Pretending not to be a witch.

Harkeld hissed between his teeth. He rolled up the tent, hefted it on his shoulder, and carried it to the picketed horses. He set to work loading the packhorses. Rand joined him, then Petrus and Katlen and Hew.

They’d
known Justen was a witch.

Harkeld saddled his horse. The events of the morning jostled in his head. Everything had sharp edges. The shock of the assassin, the shock of Justen, the deaths. He shook his head and tried to focus on one thing. Not the gleam of the throwing star in firelight, not the assassin lying dead with his throat ripped out, not the bedraggled owl’s corpse, but Justen’s roar as he shifted into a lion.

Anger boiled up in his chest. Justen had lied to him. The friendship he’d valued wasn’t real. Harkeld tightened the girth with a jerk.
He played me for a fool.

“Flin?”

Harkeld stiffened. The voice was Justen’s.

He turned to face the armsman.

“Can we talk, please?” Justen gestured towards the fire.

Harkeld didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the request. Anger pressed against his ribcage. He knew he should thank Justen. The armsman had saved his life this morning. “You lied to me. You’re a witch.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“I
trusted
you, you whoreson.” He took a step towards Justen, his fists clenched. “I thought you were my friend.”

“I am.”

The lie—on top of everything that had happened that morning—was too much. Harkeld’s anger boiled over. He swung at Justen.

The armsman went down like a tree being felled.

“Whoreson!”

Harkeld spun round. Petrus came at him, face suffused with rage.

“Stop it! Both of you!” The voice was Cora’s, cutting the air as sharply as a whip.

Rand caught Petrus’s elbow, swinging him away. “Get back to the horses.”

For a moment Harkeld thought Petrus would disobey—then the young witch shrugged Rand’s hand off and turned back to the packhorses, glowering.

Rand strode past Harkeld and crouched at Justen’s side. The armsman stirred, groaned, blinked dazedly.

Cora hurried up. She flicked a glance at Harkeld and crouched too. “Is he all right?”

“Broken jaw and concussion,” Rand said. “It’s a clean break, easy to fix, but the concussion will take a bit of work.”

“How long?”

Rand shrugged. “Give us an hour?”

Cora nodded and stood. She turned to Harkeld, twitched her plait over her shoulder, and put her hands on her hips. Her plain, mild face was grimmer than Harkeld had ever seen it. “I know that this morning has been stressful.” Her voice was curt. “But I will not tolerate fighting. Is that understood?”