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Beside us, my brother writhed in his shadowy bonds. Like Fenyx on the wall of the dungeon in Camelot where Draven had held him.
Draven slowly nodded.
“Let me do this for you now. Finish him. So we can find my sister.”
Lorion writhed harder, squirming and twisting against the black coils.
I knew what he would say if I were to release him, unstop his mouth. He would call us cowards. Say Draven owed him a fight—single combat to the death. He would demand honorable terms. He who had been so dishonorable.
And if he lost to Draven, he would behave just as Daegen had. He would crawl through the earth on his hands and knees if he had to, and he would not stop coming. None of them would. Until they had reached me, finished me. All to gain the honor of returning to our father with my head in their hands.
So there would be no more speeches.
I had no need for Lorion’s words.
We owed him nothing. Nothing.
The only one we owed lay dead in the field already.
We owed Gawain revenge.
Lorion’s golden spear had slipped from his fingers. Now it lay gleaming in the grass beside him.
Draven picked it up, then planted his feet firmly in the earth.
The spear’s blade glinted menacingly.
I watched as Draven lifted the spear, his muscles rippling beneath his tunic, his eyes locking onto my brother’s face.
Then with a powerful rotation of his torso, he released the spear.
It hurtled forward and found its mark, lodging itself in Lorion’s chest with ruthless efficiency.
Then, to my surprise, Draven leaned forward and wrenched the spear out again.
It dripped with my brother’s heart blood as he held it in both hands, then he shifted his weight, brought the weapon against his knee, and tensed his muscles.
The spear bent and snapped with a loud crack.
I stared in shock as Draven tossed the jagged halves of the weapon aside without ceremony.
“Only gilded wood after all,” he observed as he walked away from the broken spear and the dead fae general lying dead in the grass.
I gave my brother one last glance.
Lorion le Fay. Long may he lie forgotten. The insects would have him. He would lie unburied. Decaying and festering until the worms devoured his flesh and left his bones polished and white.
“It wasn’t the spear.” I couldn’t keep the disappointment from my voice.
Draven shook his head. “Not the one.”
“How did you know?”
“I had no idea. Not until it broke.”
The refugee camp was in turmoil as we entered.
Above the camp, a red fog hung in patches, casting an eerie canopy of light.
