Page 10 of The Sun King's Noon

A crash sounded at the box’s right wall as Kaelen drove his shoulder into it again. He was close enough now for Richard to see the panic in his face. Elara and Corwin were by him. Elara blasted the barrier with fire, but the flames only crawled along the wall and spilled away. Corwin tried to smash the wall with his mace, but his powerful blow made no dent.

Briony trembled. “B-Brother. I-I can fight.”

The witches’ eyes darted to the girl—hungry, eager.

They were here for her.

Richard shrugged off his ceremonial cloak and shoved the heavy fabric into Briony’s arms. “Get to the farthest corner and keep your eyes closed.”

She didn’t reply, but he heard her footsteps scuttling away.

Richard retrieved his dagger and hooked it against his belt before rolling his wrist and bringing his sword to level.

“Your first mistake was bringing this to my doorstep.” He slid a foot behind him, carving a groove in the sand. “Your second mistake was trapping me in here with you.”

The witches’ steps stuttered, and they exchanged nervous glances.

“Your third and final mistake”—Richard bared his teeth in a grin—“was targeting one who belongs to me.”

He raised his sword and uttered the last words with a coldness that made the witches flinch.

“Pray that your deaths are swift.”

CHAPTER 5

In truth, the witches’ greatest mistake lay in misjudging him.

It had been years since he last partook in jousts and tournaments, yielding his position to Corwin instead. And after he’d ascended the throne, leading troops to border skirmishes and dealing with monster intrusions had become matters to delegate. He trained less with the sword too, occupied with mountains of paperwork and endless meetings.

But a lifetime of training did not vanish in two years of mild underuse.

And he’d dragged his siblings home too many times for his body to forget now.

Richard sprinted towards the nearest male witch, feet skimming the sand. His sword swept in a clean arc, cleaving through the neck. Blood jetted out. The witch’s head lolled, attached by a thread of sinew, before the body crumpled.

Four left.

A woman rushed Richard from the side with her dagger angled at his face.

Another mistake. He whipped his sword up to sever her arm at the elbow. Daggers needed close quarters to be effective. A sword not only offered reach but also moved faster, its bladearcing with the slightest pivot of his wrist. And his sword—theking’ssword—was sharper than most.

The woman collapsed to her knees, shrieking, clutching her spurting stump. Richard slammed his sword down onto her neck, cutting off a scream mid-note. Her head rolled free before her body joined her compatriot’s.

Three left.

The witch with a branch—hovering near the sorcerer—barked a spell. An invisible force wrenched Richard’s sword from his grip. It flew upward, clattering against the box’s ceiling.

There was no time to mourn its loss. One of the male witches—a scrawny fellow with long hair—was running towards Briony’s hunched form. She watched him approach with terror, holding up Richard’s robes as though they could act as a shield. Behind her, Elara was thumping the barrier, her flames fanning the corner uselessly.

Richard moved fast, boots pounding the yard as he drew the dagger. He slid to a stop in front of the long-haired witch, ducked beneath a sweeping strike, and drove the dagger into the man’s belly.

The witch gasped, his body spasming, and Richard ripped the dagger downward. The cut opened him from ribs to navel, and his guts spilled in a slick tumble. The man keened and clutched at himself, before Richard slit his throat. He fell with a gurgle.

Two left.

The female witch had opened her mouth, a spell forming on her tongue. Richard hurled the dagger, and she urgently spat another spell. The dagger veered off course, embedding itself in her shoulder, and she buckled with a scream.

Still two left.