Chapter Thirty-eight

Wilder had known it was too good to be true, but that hadn't stopped him wishing it would never end. He could have danced with Thea forever, content to hold her in his arms and watch the smile bloom across her face.

But now, they stood in the cramped cellar of the Singing Hare along with Wren, Torj, Anya, Vernich, Drue and Talemir, looking at the bloodied prisoner. The former King of Harenth had been bound in heavy chains and fastened to an iron hook in the stone wall, but he didn't look to be attempting escape any time soon.

‘He started talking?' Wilder asked with a glance at Vernich.

The Bloodletter nodded. ‘Not that it made much sense.'

‘I trust you weren't too heavy-handed with your questioning?'

Vernich made a noise of disgust. ‘I've done enough interrogations to know when a man's about to break. This one's already broken, by the looks of things.'

‘What do you mean?' Thea demanded.

Vernich's brows shot up, but he didn't berate her like he would have done in the past. Instead, he answered: ‘My guess is that your little lightning trick might have been a bit much for an already addled mind.'

‘Already addled?' Wilder prompted.

Artos made a garbled noise from beneath his chains, muttering something about his daughter.

‘Surely he knows we'd never hurt an innocent woman?' Drue said from the shadows.

‘Perhaps it's best he doesn't know that,' Vernich countered with a growl.

Anya stepped into the torchlight. ‘He might very well mean me. The Daughter of Darkness and all…'

Artos flinched at the sight of her.

‘Remember me?' Anya breathed, stalking closer to the former king, the man who had robbed her of her childhood, her family, her kingdom.

Artos squirmed, recoiling from Anya's advance, the chains rattling around him.

‘I think he remembers,' she whispered, to no one in particular, her voice taunting, cruel. ‘You remember forcing a scythe into a little girl's hand and throwing her to the wraiths, don't you, Majesty? You remember dividing the world in two by banishing the women warriors of Thezmarr, don't you?'

Artos rasped for air as though Anya had her hand around his throat.

She didn't.

‘What's wrong with him?' Anya demanded. ‘I want him to have his wits when I tear him apart.'

‘Something's not right,' Thea addressed her sister. ‘He was not like this when we captured him. This wasn't us. Has he been poisoned?'

‘Not a chance,' Vernich said forcefully. ‘Your winged ranger and I haven't left him alone for a second. He's been given nothing but water by our own hands.'

The former king's head lolled to the side before he burst into a fit of manic laughter.

At the edge of the group, Wilder saw Wren jump at the abrupt noise, her hand flying to grip the arm of the Bear Slayer beside her. But Wilder's attention was drawn back to Artos' cackling. The sound was completely unhinged: a cacophony of high-pitched shrieks, his eyes streaming tears, wide with an utterly unsettling intensity, his face contorted in a disturbing blend of madness and ecstasy.

A shiver crept down Wilder's spine at the sinister spectacle. ‘What the fuck…?'

Artos' demeanour changed again, his expression tightening into one of terror. He let out a scream, raw and ragged, trying to scramble away from something they couldn't see, his chains rattling.

‘Please,' he rasped desperately; the first word he'd directly spoken to them since they'd all been down in the cellar. He screamed again, the noise sharp enough to force Wilder's hands to his ears.

And then Artos was laughing once more, deranged, garbled noises bursting from him sporadically.

‘What the fuck is wrong with him?' Thea said, looking from the madman before them to the rest of the group, a crease forming between her brows.

It was Wren who approached the prisoner, crouching before him and studying his array of expressions. ‘I think something is happening with his empath magic,' she muttered, more to herself than to anyone else. ‘He's experiencing various emotions to the extreme… Can't you feel it?'

Artos looked right through her and keeled over as much as the chains would allow, his body seeming to crumple under the weight of all he was feeling, convulsing as uncontrollable sobs took hold. Guttural moans of anguish broke from his lips as tears tracked down his twisted face and snot dripped from his nose.

Wilder had never seen anything like it. The seamless transition between such opposing emotions was eerie, and the air around them was thick with palpable dread. Whatever this was, it wasn't good.

‘Someone gag him,' came Anya's cold voice.

‘No,' Wren said. ‘We don't want him to choke.'

‘Speak for yourself,' Vernich growled.

Wren stood, meeting the Bloodletter's gaze with a fierce stare of her own. ‘We don't want him to choke, yet. We haven't got the information we need. Once we have that, he can choke, he can hang, you can split him in half with your sword for all I care. But first, I need to consult Farissa.'

Wilder had never seen Vernich look abashed; in fact, the expression was positively bizarre on him, but to everyone's shock, the Warsword dipped his head in agreement and moved out of Wren's way, motioning for her to pass.

‘Thank you,' she said curtly before turning to Anya and Talemir. ‘There might be something we can concoct to clear his mind, something to bring him back down from whatever mania this is. Only then will you get any answers from him.'

‘How long?' Anya asked bluntly.

‘Like I said, I'll need to consult Farissa,' Wren replied with a note of impatience.

‘Go,' Talemir told her, stepping in. ‘Send word down with one of the others as soon as you know more.'

Without another word, Wren climbed the stairs, the trapdoor opening and then closing behind her with a soft thud.

Cool air swept in at Wilder's side as Thea moved across the cellar to Anya. She didn't reach to touch her, but her voice was soft when she asked: ‘Are you alright?'

The eldest Embervale sister stared down at their prisoner with nothing but loathing and contempt in her stormy gaze. ‘I could watch him die a thousand deaths and still not be satisfied.'

‘Wren will figure it out,' Thea said. ‘And once we have what we need from him —'

‘Then he'll be sent to Aveum for trial,' Anya cut her off.

‘There was no other way,' Thea spoke gently. ‘We needed Reyna's alliance.'

‘Doesn't mean I have to like it,' Anya muttered.

‘No, it doesn't.'

‘Doesn't mean you can't rough him up along the way,' Talemir offered.

‘That will be the least of it,' Anya said darkly.

Wilder ran his hands through his hair and suppressed a heavy sigh. It was hard to believe that only moments ago they had all been upstairs, swept away by the revelry of music and liquor.

‘You should all go back up,' he said. ‘Get some food, get some rest. It feels like it's going to be a long night. I'll guard the prisoner.'

Torj seated himself on a nearby barrel. ‘As will I.'

Vernich took up a place by the king without a word, making his stance clear.

Wilder's gaze sought Talemir's. ‘Well?'

The Shadow Prince nodded and made for the stairs, Drue close behind him.

Thea came to Wilder. ‘I should —'

‘Be with your sisters,' he finished for her. ‘I know. Go.'

Thea smiled. Rising to her toes, she brushed a kiss against his lips, warm and firm, the promise of more to come, and Wilder couldn't help but draw her closer and deepen the kiss, claiming her mouth with his —

Vernich made a noise of disgust.

Reluctantly, Wilder broke away from her, and Thea went to the stairs, making an offensive gesture to the Bloodletter on the way.

When everyone but the original trio of Warswords was gone, Wilder faced Artos, who was weeping in the corner.

‘What a fucking mess.' Vernich shook his head in disgust.

‘For once, I agree,' Wilder replied.

Torj laughed. ‘It only took a full-scale war for us to all see eye to eye.'

Scanning the room, Wilder went to one of the surrounding shelves and pulled out a bottle. ‘Better late than never.'

‘Don't go braiding my hair just yet,' Vernich said.

Figuring Everard wouldn't mind if they helped themselves, Wilder uncorked the wine and took a swig straight from the bottle. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all. He handed it over to Torj, who took it gratefully.

With a jolt, Wilder realised that the last time the three Warswords had been alone together it had been at his own request, when he'd returned to Thezmarr after years of slaying monsters on his own. He said as much to the others now.

‘Did you know back then?' Torj asked him.

Wilder raised a brow. ‘That the midrealms were going to shit? I suspected. There were more and more wraiths coming through the Veil, no matter how many I killed. Other monsters too… There was something in the air, even then. But did I know that this would happen?' He flicked his gaze to Artos. ‘Did I know that he was the puppet master behind it all? No.'

Torj passed the wine back and Wilder took another drink, letting the red cherry taste wash over his tongue and down his throat before offering it to Vernich.

The Bloodletter shook his head. ‘That shit's too fancy for me,' he said, before eyeing up the cowering former king again. ‘He was always a slimy bastard. Never liked him.'

‘You don't like anyone,' Wilder pointed out.

Vernich snorted. ‘Nor did you, until a few years ago.'

‘True.'

The three of them stared at Artos for a moment, Wilder's mind taking him back to the various encounters he'd had with the King of Harenth. Jokes aside, there had always been something off about the monarch, something that they'd all been blind to over the years, but that nagged at them all the same.

‘Thought we were done for during that battle,' Vernich said, to Wilder's surprise.

Torj made a noise of agreement. ‘Several times.'

Wilder nodded. ‘We were at a disadvantage from the start. Not just in numbers, but the discord throughout our own units. It never makes for a strong front.'

‘The fall of Delmira was like that,' Vernich told them.

For a second, Wilder stared at him, having long forgotten that it was indeed that battle where Vernich had earnt the name the Bloodletter. Even in the tiny village of Kilgrave, the children had grown up hearing stories of his courage, his ruthlessness, of the rivers of blood he'd spilt in the heather.

Wilder marvelled at the fact that they'd never spoken of it before. But then, they'd rarely seen each other in Wilder's earlier Warsword years. It hadn't been until Osiris reinstated the tradition of apprentices that they'd been forced into one another's company. Then there had been the incident with Kipp, Thea and Seb, and Wilder had nearly killed the Bloodletter with his bare hands. It had hardly been the right circumstance for reminiscing about battles long past.

‘What happened?' Wilder asked now.

Vernich groaned and held his hand out for the wine. ‘Give me that.'

Wilder passed it over and Vernich took a long slug with a grimace. ‘Where's the fucking fire extract when you need it?'

Wilder could have laughed at that. Of course Vernich drank fire extract —

A sudden scream from the king pierced the air, only to be abruptly silenced as a block of wood struck the back of Artos' head, knocking him unconscious.

Vernich dropped the timber and drank again before noting Wilder and Torj's stares. ‘What?' he said, nonplussed. ‘They didn't say we couldn't shut him up by other means.'

Wilder did laugh at that. ‘True enough.'

‘The battle of Delmira?' Torj prompted.

Vernich took another gulp of the wine before passing it to the Bear Slayer. ‘As I said, similar in disadvantages to the one we just had… What we didn't realise at the time was that he –' Vernich jerked his thumb towards Artos. ‘– had been using his empath abilities to create discord among the people, long before there was any sign of trouble. When the wraiths and reapers struck, Delmira's armed forces were already sceptical of their rulers' loyalty to the midrealms. There was infighting between those who stood firmly behind Queen Brigh and King Soren, and those who were convinced that they were leading their people towards the darkness. Even the frontline wasn't united. It was bad… Friend turning on friend mid-battle… The losses were catastrophic. On that field in Aveum yesterday, it felt much the same.'

‘The losses were almost as bad, though I don't think we've got the final count yet,' Torj said.

‘It's too soon,' Wilder replied. ‘We'll lose more to injuries… Bodies will be found, if the snow ever melts.'

Vernich grunted. ‘It's fucking grim.'

A dark laugh bubbled out of Wilder. ‘Isn't that what I said to you on the cliffs when I first got back? It's always grim news.'

‘So you did,' Vernich huffed.

‘Did anyone tell you that your apprentice is dead?' Wilder asked the Bloodletter bluntly. He wished he could have been there to see Thea snap Sebastos Barlowe's neck. Even now, when he thought of the Guardian, his blood boiled. The bastard had caused pain to so many people Wilder cared about, and he'd threatened to rape Thea. A quick death wasn't punishment enough for that.

‘No,' Vernich said. ‘And he wasn't my apprentice, not after all that shit at Notos. I got rid of him, or tried to, at least. Spineless prick if I ever did see one.'

Torj looked up from where he'd started cleaning his war hammer. ‘Why'd you choose him, then?'

‘Didn't. Owed his uncle a favour. He made it clear there was only one option.'

Wilder shook his head in disbelief. ‘Who the fuck is this bastard's uncle? That he has so much sway?'

Vernich frowned. ‘You don't know?'

‘Evidently not.'

‘Osiris. Osiris is – or was – his uncle.'

The revelation sent Wilder reeling. Osiris? The Guild Master? How could they not have known?

Torj had much the same reaction. ‘You're kidding! We were always told it was someone of influence, but… Fuck, it makes a lot of sense now.'

Vernich merely grunted again.

Torj looked from him to Wilder. ‘So you're saying that I'm the only one out of all of us who actually got to choose my apprentice.'

Vernich saluted him with the bottle. ‘Congratu-fucking-lations. You lucky bastard.'

‘Turned out alright for me in the end,' Wilder said with a grin.

Commotion sounded from above, and moments later, a beam of light shone down as the trapdoor opened. The stairs groaned as the usual suspects descended: Talemir, Drue, Adrienne, Cal, Kipp, Farissa, Wren, Anya and lastly, Thea, who closed the door above them and seated herself on the steps.

‘What's the verdict?' Torj asked, his gaze finding Wren instantly.

The alchemist strode forward and crouched before the unconscious prisoner.

‘What'd you do to him?' Anya demanded.

Vernich merely shrugged. ‘Nothing permanent.'

‘He was making a racket, to be fair,' Torj added.

Wren was shaking her head. ‘I figured this would be the state we'd find him in,' she said, digging through her pockets and producing a small jar of smelling salts, holding them under Artos' nose. She wafted the chemical compound back and forth beneath his nostrils for a moment, before a loud gasp echoed through the cellar.

The former king looked around the room, his chin trembling, once again on the brink of an emotional breakdown.

Wren moved swiftly. She uncorked a tiny vial of something and yanked Artos' head back by his hair, pouring the concoction directly into his mouth. Bound in chains, he could do nothing but twist his head, but apparently, Wren's grip was vice-like and she held him in place until he swallowed the tonic.

‘It shouldn't take more than a few minutes,' she told them, at last releasing the prisoner and placing the cork back in the vial.

‘So it was as you thought?' Wilder asked, watching Artos blink slowly as he took in his chains and then the faces around him.

‘He should be able to tell us himself soon,' Wren replied.

Sure enough, Artos' green eyes cleared, and he took a trembling breath. He shifted, as though despite the chains, a weight had been cast off his shoulders.

‘Welcome back,' Anya taunted as she stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with vows of violence as her hand curled around the grip of her scythe. ‘Overwhelmed yourself with your own magic, did you?'

Artos' lips moved, but no sound came out before he closed them again.

‘You're going to have to do a lot better than that,' Anya chastised him, as though he were no more than a child who'd misbehaved, but there was no mistaking the threat lacing her words. She placed the point of her scythe just above his eye, applying enough pressure that a bead of blood soon appeared beneath the steel. ‘I thought I might give you one to match mine… How does that sound, Your Majesty?'

‘I – I…' he stammered.

‘I didn't quite catch that,' Anya taunted.

The tension in the room was palpable. Wilder wasn't sure what would happen once Anya started carving into his flesh, if anyone would stop her —

‘My daughter,' Artos croaked.

‘She's safe,' Anya told him without hesitation, despite the fact that none of them knew where the princess was. ‘But it's unlikely you'll ever see her again.'

‘Please,' he rasped. ‘I'll tell you anything.'

Anya clicked her tongue in frustration. ‘Just like that? I thought we were going to have a little fun first, Majesty.' She dragged her blade ever so lightly down his face, not quite breaking the skin, but enough to leave a raised red mark in its wake. ‘You like this sort of fun, from what I've heard.'

‘No, no!' he begged. ‘I'll tell you whatever you want to know.'

Anger flashed in Anya's gaze. It was clear she hadn't wanted this to be easy, that she wanted a reason to work him over, to spill his blood.

‘Where are the rheguld reaper lairs?' she demanded. ‘I want to know every location where they congregate, where their legions of wraiths are camped. And I want to know the main hub, the one where the king reaper resides.'

Artos recoiled from the tip of her blade as much as the chains would allow. ‘They will have a new lair by now…'

Thea jumped down from the steps and came to stand beside her sister. ‘What are you fucking talking about?'

The former King of Harenth looked strangely sad. ‘He intended to welcome them in as soon as —'

The trapdoor banged open above them, and Dratos ran down the stairs, breathless. ‘The battle for Aveum was a diversion,' he said, gripping the sword at his belt. ‘Osiris has welcomed the reapers into Thezmarr. The fortress has fallen.'