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Then there it was. The broken statue Governess Agnes had spoken of. It was an old king of Norland whose eternal face had crumbled away. He shoved at the slab of stone, and it rumbled aside, echoing the underground.
He set down his torch and continued onward, squeezing through the secret passageway and into the heart of Winslowe Castle. As Edrick made his way through the tunnel, he could feel the chill of the underground crypts receding and the air growing warmer. The narrow passageway had rough, damp walls that seemed to go on forever. The light was almost nonexistent. One hand slid along the wet wall, feeling his way through.
After what felt like an eternity, he emerged from the tunnel and found himself in the great hall. Women tended to wounded soldiers from wall to wall. Edrick walked through the injured and dying, scanning the faces of the women, sure he’d find Blanchette Winslowe among them.
He scowled in dismay. He didn’t see her pale, pert features—only nurses and nuns from some village who’d come to pray upon the dead and dying.
She’s a tyrant and a liar like her father. She never cared a hair for healing. She’d only used it as a ruse to escape…
He scowled again, remembering the day she’d led good Sir Royce into the woods, fooling them all.
He crossed the hall with quickened steps and entered the gallery. Moments later, he disappeared into the darkness of the corridors with no one the wiser.
* * *
Rowan’s sword burst through the chain mail like a knife through butter. He pulled his steel out of the dead man’s chest, absently thinking how grateful he was that the arrow hadn’t injured his sword-yielding shoulder instead of his forearm. His mind sank back to that night… to chasing Blanchette through the woods… how his heart had nearly stopped when he found her pinned against that tree.
Keep your focus.
Jonas fought beside him, taking down their enemies with grace. He watched with a wistful pride as he dodged a soldier’s axe, deflected a blow from another, and put an end to them both with a thrust and spinning slash.
Rowan and his men stormed the battering ram; the assault interrupted the heave beautifully as Rowan’s sword found its way into the separation of the man’s greaves. In nearly the same breath, the dagger he’d pounded out not long ago thrust into the slit in a second man’s visor and through his eye.
Rain pattered against his helm.
Lightning illuminated the chaos.
Thunder boomed. It was so loud he could feel it in his bones.
Yet the clash of swords dominated the world. Rowan ducked and tumbled, evading a burst of arrows from a line of archers. He wondered how many of those arrows were from his own men perched on the battlements. He and Jonas fought side by side; it was like a dance as they covered for each other and swung around in a tight, unified circle.
A stream ran along the side of the castle like a winding snake. A knight in full plate armor charged at Rowan. He shoved him back into the water and watched him sink.
An attack came from his left. Rowan was ready for it, expertly parrying the blow and counterattacking with a riposte. The soldier staggered backward. Seeing the opening, Rowan pressed his advantage, unleashing a series of feints and cuts.
Rowan delivered the decisive blow with one last swing—his sword slicing through the air and striking off his opponent’s head.
Two well-armored soldiers advanced on him. Rowan stumbled back again, still recovering from the previous assault, eyeing the Demrovian sigil on their plate breastplates of entwined twin salamanders set on fire. Each man yielded swords and shields. They moved like liquid gold—sleek and skilled. Determined and, above all, patient.
They were true warriors.
The taller of the two advanced, his sword front-facing. Rowan blocked his hacking blow and spun around. The clash of steel rang out, the prospect of death balanced on every stroke. The smaller knight blocked Rowan’s strike with his shield while the other flew forward, his sword clanging against Rowan’s helm.
Rowan seized the opening to jab his sword forward and through the knight’s neck. The second it took for him to regroup was all it took. The other fighter raised his sword, aiming for the opening in his visor. But before he dealt the killing blow, a point of a longsword burst out of his neck.
Jonas nodded at Rowan, a grin spread across his unhelmed, boyish face.
Then a sword took him in the head. The attacker withdrew the weapon, leaving a bubbling hole where the steel just was. “Rowan,” Jonas murmured. Blood streamed from his squire’s lips. Rowan heard an unearthly cry emerge from somewhere deep inside himself. He watched Jonas fall to the ground, his glazed eyes staring up at him.
Where Jonas was a moment ago stood Huntley. And he wore a smile.
Blood speckled his face and wavy blond hair. He held a dagger in one hand and a shortsword in the other. Mockingly, he bowed to Rowan before raising his blades and settling into a side stance. Jonas’s brains and blood dripped from the shortsword’s point. Rain struck them both and blurred the world around them.
Rowan exhaled a steadying breath. Suddenly, his longsword felt twenty pounds heavier, and the plate and chain he was so used to wearing was crushing.
“Well met, Rowan Dietrich,” Huntley said lightly. One hand was on his hip holding his dagger. “A friend of yours, I take it?”
The battle seemed to hush, leaving only them two in the world. Absently, Rowan cut down a soldier who advanced from his left. His eyes never parted from Huntley’s. As Rowan stalked forward, Huntley moved with surprising grace and lightness. Mail or plate didn’t burden him. Instead, moss-green, boiled leather covered him from head to toe.
