“Run,” my captive—Roiven?—answers, his voice choked. “Get out of here. Now.”
He’s Enchanted to protect me. And he’ll have to kill his own people if I tell him to. Maybe that’s why he looked afraid they were here. Not afraid at what I would do tothem, but at what I would makehimdo to them.
It wouldn’t be a bad way to even the fight.
“He’s Enchanted,” one hisses.
“Run,” Roiven bellows at them.
I should make him kill them. But hearing the raw desperation in his voice, it feels too cruel.
“Go to the stairwellnow,” I order. “Stay there until I’m done.Don’tfight.Don’twatch.”
He stumbles back.
“Please, let them go,” Roiven begs. I ignore him.
“Avreen! There’s a knight!” One of the archers yells, chin tilted up like she’s talking to someone on the floor above.
“She isn’t inside yet!” The other archer answers.
The first one—the one with the torch—gets his sword up just in time to block mine. But he isn’t good enough. My sword swings in an arc and rams through his gut.
“Please,” Roiven begs again, his voice distorted. He’s already around the corner on the stairs, because he has no choice, but he can no doubt hear what’s happening.
One of the other witches lunges at me, two daggers drawn. I’m outnumbered. I yank my sword free from the first man and dodge the daggers. Lights suddenly sparkle at the corners of the room, a weak attempt at illusion magic to distract me. If this is the best they’ve got, these witches have no power at all compared to their king.
“I… I will doanything,” Roiven cries, as if I couldn’t already command him. As if it would make a difference.
I run through one of the archers.
“Window,” the other archer screams, and the two remaining witches turn to run toward it.
They’re not faster than my sword. I cut through the one holding the daggers. The last archer turns, drawing another arrow, aimed right at my heart.
I spin to the side and hack into her neck, making the death as quick as possible. And that’s all of them.
I stand in the middle of the hall, chest heaving, feeling oddly heavy even though I know they’re witches. With a sigh, I bend to check they’re really dead. The first one I gutted needs a mercy killing, so I slice his throat.
I walk back to the stairwell. The Witch King kneels on the landing, head bowed, one arm braced against the wall. His breath sounds like it’s jerking out of him, until I realize he’s sobbing quietly.
These people came to the Bluff and destroyed the enchantment. They’re my enemies—my people’s enemies—and I had no choice. I couldn’t very well let them live.
“For what little it’s worth, witch, I am sorry you had to listen.”Roiven doesn’t give any indication he’s heard me. “They came here. I had no choice.”
“You could have let them run,” he rasps. “I letyourpeople run.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Five lived, out of over two hundred. I just killed four.”
“I should have made sure you were dead.”
I bend to inspect the arrow buried into Roiven’s arm. He tenses away as I near him, but he doesn’t stand up. Thank the gods, the shot missed the enchantment lines covering his skin, burying into uninked flesh.
The arrow isn’t deep. From the bolts I saw spilling out of the dead archer’s quiver, the arrowhead is narrow, not barbed. It’ll still be a bloody mess to dig out and I don’t know enough about field medicine to try doing it myself unless I have to. He hisses as I prod around the base of the wound.
I return to the short hallway and cut a strip of cloth from one of the archer’s long tunics.
