Page 11 of The Sun King's Noon

The final male witch—beefy, broad-armed—tackled Richard to the ground, knocking the air from Richard’s lungs. With a roar, the witch raised his dagger high?—

And faltered, uncertainty crossing his features.

Not a fighter then. Or perhaps, simply instructed not to harm the king.

Richard seized the advantage. He kicked up, leveraging his core, and sent the dagger flying, before wrapping his legs around the witch’s neck. The witch gagged, hands scrabbling. Richard crossed his ankles behind the man’s head and heaved his thighs closer together.

But the female witch was sprinting past them, straight towards Briony.

“No!” Richard released the man and scrambled up.

But before the woman could reach Briony, she collided into another invisible barrier, this one shielding Briony from all sides in the corner. The woman whirled around and screamed at the sorcerer.

“You fool! Release it!”

“No.” The sorcerer’s voice was barely audible. “You—you said you wouldn’t hurt the child.”

“Release it! Her blood must be?—”

Richard was upon her. He rammed her against the barrier, jerked out the dagger in her shoulder and thrust it into her throat. She choked, blood bubbling from her lips.

One left.

“Brother!” Briony shrieked. “Behind you!”

He spun around, and the beefy witch—saliva hanging from his mouth—lunged. The dagger slashed across Richard’s chest, but he grabbed the man’s wrist and struck it against his knee, forcing the blade to drop. The witch dove after it, but Richard grappled him to the ground. Sand billowed around them as he straddled the man and smashed his fist down.

Crunch.

Again.

Crunch.

Again.

The witch’s nose crushed. His cheekbone caved. His eyeball popped out of his skull.

Richard kept punching. Blood splattered his knuckles, his face, his hair. Not even the thought of keeping a witch alive for information stopped the urge to kill, kill,kill.

Danger lurked around his sister. He would end it entirely.

Bones splintered until the man’s face was nothing but a pulpy, unrecognisable mesh of flesh and shattered teeth.

Richard stopped, chest heaving, his fist dripping red.

Finished.

Slowly, he rose to his feet and retrieved his dagger. He was vaguely aware that the soldiers no longer beat at the box. They gaped instead, their jaws dropped.

Richard grimaced at the taste of copper permeating his tongue. Grit clung to the sweat along his jaw. Blood—too much blood—slicked his palms and soaked into his once turquoise tunic. A string of something pale dangled from the cuff of his doublet. Breathing hard, he scraped back his sopping fringe.

Across the box, the sorcerer slumped in the corner. His face was pinched with strain, and the pinkish glow in his eyes was flickering.

Richard cocked his head. “Drop the barrier.”

The sorcerer shivered. “I?—”

“Do not make me ask twice.”