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  “Probably just a rabbit or a cat on a late night hunt,” suggested Lorne. He’d drawn his horse up directly behind Raneth, creating a barrier using himself and Raneth to protect Cray from whatever was spooking Blacky in the woods. “We should keep moving. It’s not likely anything’s going to happen. It’s not like we’re...” He cleared his throat.

  “Escorting my father?” finished Cray, with his eyebrows raised.

  Lorne cleared his throat again. “Uh… Yeah, Your Majesty… Sorry.”

  Something’s not right. “You’re right though, Lorne,” said Raneth, smiling, as he reached under his royal official top and withdrew the Bayre talisman from his neck. The silver talisman felt colder than it should against his skin. A dragon curled into an S-shape, the talisman had taken his father’s blood-gift form upon Raneth’s birth, with its diamond clamped between the dragon’s teeth. Its diamond turned red and started to blink. Lifting his gaze, Raneth found Cray looking back at him worriedly; the king knew more than most about the Bayre talismans. “We need to keep moving,” ordered Raneth. “Moving targets are safer targets. Let’s go, Blacky.” He urged his horse into a gallop and they charged ahead of Cray and the other royal official, passing the end of Little Wood. The path of beaten grass between it and Brown Buzzard Village continued, grey in the early night’s grasp.

  “NOW!”

  What in Giften’s soil? Raneth looked back towards the woods, spotting the glint of something metal between two trees. He drew his sword and wheeled his horse around as screams ripped into the air between him and the others. People were between him, Cray and Lorne. Barely visible except for their speed giving them away against their surroundings, the sharp edges of their swords and the clear humanoid way they ran breaking what little calm Raneth could see in the growing dark. Where are they coming from? I just rode through that grass! “Blacky, move.” Blacky surged forwards, aiming towards Cray at Raneth’s touch. No warning. This is too… orchestrated. Raneth swept his sword towards the legs of the first shrieking attacker he drew close to. Their warcry turned into a pained shriek as their legs gave way under them. “Cray! Go home!” The thud of Blacky’s hooves under him gave the royal official comfort as they sped towards Cray. His blade sliced into the back of another attacker, yanking Raneth’s arm back. Ow. His shoulder throbbed, but Raneth aimed again, not bothering to circle back for the one he’d maimed. Aiming for the back of the legs, his sword knocked the next attacker over as Blacky shrieked and pitched forwards.

  Raneth yelled as he flew through the air, losing his sword. He smashed into the ground hard, dirt flinging into the air around him, creating a hazy brown smokescreen that only worsened visibility. Blacky. Raneth rolled, hearing the thud of footsteps coming towards him from behind. Blacky was shrieking in alarm and pain. Get Blacky. Get the advantage. Raneth climbed to his feet, shoving on the chest of a man charging at him. He ducked as another joined the fray, their blade sweeping over Raneth’s head. This isn’t how I want to die. Raneth backstepped, twirling to avoid another’s sword. Where are they coming from? Raneth yelled the king’s name.

  “Here!”

  Thank goodness for training. Cray’s voice assured Raneth that the king was safe, at least for the moment, and that he was nearer to the palace than Raneth was. The royal official dodged several blows as he reached Blacky. His horse’s front was half buried in what appeared to be a tunnel opening. Eastern Barbarians? Blacky’s pained cries were softening but there were hands reaching out from under him, trying to create space between the horse and the edge of the tunnel. Giften’s sodding soil. Pausing to kick a man between the legs, Raneth swept a hand down Blacky’s neck. “You’re a good boy.” He spun to the side and grabbed an attacker’s reaching arm, yanking their sword from their hand. He turned and sliced the blade into Blacky’s chest, ending the horse’s pain and panic. “Sorry, Blacky.”

  Spinning around, Raneth sliced the blade into its owner before yanking it free and looking around. The attackers were huddled into three groups — the ones nearest Raneth, another still nearer but to Raneth’s left, and a group that was surrounding Cray and Lorne. Raneth’s knees almost buckled as a woman jumped onto his back and wrapped an arm around his neck. No way, woman! He dropped his sword and crashed to his back, hard. His unwanted passenger grunted but tightened her grip on his neck. Raneth coughed, but slammed his hands onto the ground either side of them. White tendrils of mist slid from his hands, smashing through the ground and propelling them onto their feet. Icicles dug into the woman’s back as she let go. Raneth yanked his backup blade from his boot and smashed it into the foot of an approaching attacker. As he wrenched it free, he caught sight of the man’s face. He doesn’t look like an Eastern Barbarian. He looks Giften. Army training?

  “Raneth! Form!” ordered Cray.

  Looking towards the yell, Raneth watched as Lorne fell, an arrow jutting from the man’s neck. “Cray! Run home! Now!” Sweeping his hands in front of him, Raneth concentrated on his Common Gift of Ice. A surge of white mist flung from his hands, icicles forming within it before he curled the mist around the men and women encroaching upon Cray. Cray sliced his blade through one of the men as the others nearest him screamed, icicles slicing out from the white mist as it dissipated, slicing into the enemies’ backs. Cray took the opportunity to kill a few more quickly than he would have been able to otherwise. Atta boy, Cray.

  Raneth grunted and fell as a weight smashed into his side, followed by another. The familiar claw of pain ripped through his side as a third weight thudded into him. Crossbow bolts. The shafts barely stood out from his torso. Dammit. A new attacker rushed at him, screaming as he rose his sword above his head, aiming for Raneth’s. “I don’t bloody think so.” Raneth shoved his palm out. White mist burst from his palm and smashed into the man’s face, solidifying into a solid sheet of ice. The attacker’s advance jerked to a stop and he dropped his sword. Raneth watched for a nanosecond as the man clawed at the ice on his face. Satisfied, Raneth rolled onto his feet and looked for Cray, clenching his teeth as the bolts in his side made his body scream. There you are. He dodged another attack and sprinted towards Cray. The king wasn’t running. “What part of run don’t you understand!”

  “I’m surrounded, Raneth!”

  “Fine.” Raneth flung a few more icicles before thinking of his blood-gift self. Thank goodness for family blood. The feathers came first, flicking out from his skin, white everywhere except for his chest and arms. His chest speckled with white and red feathers, Raneth spotted as one attacker saw and hesitated. He grabbed a blade off the ground and sliced it into the man’s gut. The Bayre grunted as the muscles along his frame started to twist and grow, a few becoming smaller even as his hips yanked into a different position, pitching him forwards onto misshapen hands. The wings burst from his back as bone, the skin rippling into place between them with feathers racing across it. A boot smashed into Raneth’s temple, knocking him sideways. He glared up at the owner as they kicked out again. Raneth’s eyes twinged, the blue irises replaced with gold, and the pupil turned into an angry cat’s wide sphere.

  “This one’s the Bayre!” screamed the attacker as his foot connected with Raneth’s side. Larger than before, his side was that of a lion’s, covered in white feathers, but the boot connected with one of the crossbow bolts. Raneth recoiled even as the last of his transformation into his griffin-self completed.

  “Kill him then! Quick!” yelled a woman’s voice over the quieting roar of the attackers.

  I don’t think so. Climbing to his four lion paws, the griffin snarled at the man before launching onto him, his yellow beak ripping into the soft flesh at the front of the man’s neck. The griffin yanked back, warm blood splashing his face and beak. Raneth spat out the man’s flesh and looked for the king. Raneth spotted him and raced towards Cray, but paused as someone launched themselves onto his back and folded wings. Excuse me? Raneth grabbed the man’s arm and yanked him off. He grabbed the back of their neck and shook them side to side. W
hen he heard their neck crack, he let go and sped forwards as someone grabbed his right wing. He jerked to a stop. Ow. He turned, claws out, and thumped his paw into the woman’s face. She crumpled to the ground. The thunk of a crossbow firing caught Raneth’s ears. He looked towards Little Wood, spotting the attacker almost instantly. There you are. He glanced back at Cray. He was holding his own for the moment, swinging his bloodied blade and slicing into those nearest him the first chance he got. At least King Nicodemus made sure Cray was a good fighter. Charging towards the crossbowman, the griffin jumped to the side to avoid a crossbow bolt but hissed as it struck his right wing. And now I can’t fly. Thanks so much. Raneth reached the attacker and smiled in his mind as the attacker flung the crossbow down and rose his arms in front of his face.

  “Please, don’t—”

  Raneth grabbed his arm, yanking him into the open and shook him until the shoulder popped out of the joint. Flinging the man to the ground, Raneth spun on silent paws to look towards Cray. A man had the king in a bear hug and a woman was yanking the sword from the king’s hand. No. Raneth ran towards them but slowed as blood filled his beak. He swallowed but more replaced it. Raneth looked at his side. Formed then ran with those bolts in me. As if recognising he had looked at his side, his paws gave way under him, and a human hand trailed along his feathers.

  “Sleep and reform, little griffin,” uttered a woman as she stepped into his blurring side vision.

  No.

  “Sleep.”

  The griffin’s eyes closed.

  Chapter Two

  Aldora

  The Dagger Bearer frowned as the knocker clattered against the front door of Nanny Nook’s home. She glanced at her father and her once-nanny; Isadore knelt beside the hidden entrance to the village refuge. Nook’s new bathtub rested near it, and a dented opening mechanism was in Isadore’s hand. Aldora’s childhood nanny leaned against the wall.

  “I’ll get it,” said Aldora, walking out of the rebuilt downstairs bathroom and down the entrance corridor. She pulled open the door.

  A royal messenger. The purple blazer and matching undershirt of the king’s messengers had become a common sight in the village since the attack ten months ago. Aldora’s right hand slipped to the magic artefact nestled against her hip. “Is everything—”

  “Dagger Bearer, right?” interrupted the tall blond. A horse stood behind her, grazing on the flowerbed in the front garden. “I’m a big fan, but I thought you lived at 11 High Street?”

  “I do. The...” She paused.

  Not supposed to tell somebody from outside the village where the refuge entrances are, she reminded herself.

  “My father and I are just helping the lady that lives here with something.” It was technically true — Nanny Nook’s new bathtub had damaged the opening mechanism for the refuge entrance. Aldora smiled up at the messenger before running a hand over her brown hair, flicking a stubborn strand back behind an ear. “Do you need Haethowine, the village leader?”

  “You or him. I tried finding you first.” The messenger tapped the pass-me-down messenger relay bracelet that Cray outfitted his messengers with, and then she pulled a small brown file from her horse’s saddlebag. “This is for you and Mr Sairnot. A suspected murderer has been in the area and may hide here for a bit. Just a professional reminder from His Majesty to be on the lookout for anything not quite normal.”

  Aldora’s brown eyes inspected a nearby rooftop, where two men were slipping tiles into place on a newly rebuilt house. “Normal is still being defined around here since the attack.”

  The messenger flushed. “Of course. I’m sorry. That was dumb of me.” She gestured to the file as Aldora flicked it open to the first page. “Everything you and the village leader need to know is in that. It’s pretty up to date for a change, considering how busy the royal officials are right now.”

  Aldora tapped the edge of the top sheet where an inked stamp had struck it. “99RB2922. That’s Royal Official Raneth Bayre, isn’t it? My friend from the Quest. Is he OK?”

  The messenger nodded. “Just saw him a little while ago. He’s doing alright. He’s just been recalled. I’d have come here sooner but my messenger relay must be acting up; twice it changed its mind where you were and sent me directly opposite.”

  Aldora opted not to explain she’d likely been below ground as the messenger neared, checking that the rebuilding work wasn’t causing structural damage to the refuge as her father inspected the broken door mechanism. “Why would Cray recall him?” she asked instead. “Has Raneth done something wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” confessed the messenger. “I just deliver the orders.” She pointed at her horse over her shoulder. “I’d love to get to know you a little, but I need to head over to my next target.” She lifted from under her shirt a gaggle of metal tags hanging near her collarbones and picked through them before pressing one to her bracelet. A small blue glowing triangle pointed towards the east. “And he’s at least a few miles out from here.”

  “Thanks for telling me what you know about Raneth.” Aldora hugged the file to her chest. “I haven’t seen him for a while. He keeps missing our dinners.”

  “You’re dating?”

  Why does everyone jump to that? Aldora roughly shook her head. “Not yet.” But hopefully in the next year or so. She watched the messenger leave before shutting the door and turning around, finding her father and the retired nanny looking back at her. “There’s a suspected murderer in the area.”

  Her father swore.

  Chapter Three

  Raneth

  His throat burned, and his eyes felt glued at the lashes. Raneth forced open his eyes, the night’s cold touch pinching at the exposed skin of his throat. He swallowed and grimaced at the tangy taste of vomit. I’ve been sick? He rolled onto his back and sat up. His vision wavered, the sharpness spinning in and out of focus and his brain feeling as if it were bobbing on rough waves in his skull. Raneth clenched his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands against them. Hang on. I was my gift-self. Opening his eyes once more, the royal official listened more closely to his surroundings. The soft swish of grass greeted him, but the only breathing he could hear was the harshness of his own. He spat out a mouthful of spit and the remaining residue of his puke, and pain rippled up his side and deeper into his gut. Almost hesitantly, Raneth glanced down, noticing the dark brown his blue-splodged trousers had gone where his blood and the splatter of others’ had changed the colour. He fingered two of the crossbow bolts in his torso, hissing through his teeth as the burning intensified and made the back of his knees feel weak. Cray. Cray was here. He frowned as he slowly climbed to his feet, catching his balance with a hand as his vision rocked back and forth. Giften’s sodding soil. He wiped the long sleeve of his navy top against his nose, mouth and chin, wiping away the vomity slime. “Cray?” His voice cracked, and Raneth clenched his eyes tightly shut as he tried to clear the fog that settled like a spider’s web over his mind. “Cray?” He tripped over a partially severed leg and swept his gaze to the owner’s face. Not Cray. The barest hint of the moon was shining now, illuminating what remained. Lorne’s body lay near his equally dead horse but Raneth couldn’t see Cray’s body. He reached for his wounded side as he stumbled over nothing. Gritting his teeth, a cold gnawing wormed into his gut, as if a dragon were chewing on him. Cray’s not here.

  He lifted a fist to his mouth as a wave of nausea rippled through him. He swallowed before lifting his gaze in the direction of the royal palace. There was a woman here. He turned, looking for any sign of the blurry memory he had of the woman he had seen when his paws had given way under him. A shiver ran down his spine as he remembered her touch, her slender fingers sliding across his griffin’s hips, back and to his shoulder. She told me to sleep. And I did. Was that an MIR attack? Was magic here? Is that why I feel sick? Although his Common Gift of Ice and his blood-gift were invaluable to his duties as a royal official, being one of the few afflicted with a secondary normal gift
— his gift-dreams of possible dangers and outcomes — meant suffering an allergy to the magic of casters under the age of two hundred when it wasn’t gift magic. Some sufferers of MIR — magic interference resistance — had a little give on the exact age of magic but Raneth’s was steadfast, which he’d found out the hard way. Why would a sorceress want Cray? He walked towards the nearest mouth of a tunnel, identifying that the way the attackers had grouped during the ambush was because of where they opened. One was to the south of the palace, a few metres to the side of the second that Blacky had fallen into. A third tunnel stood between Raneth and the palace. This was orchestrated. He exhaled, wincing as the movement upset the three bolts in his side. I need to get these seen to. He knelt and peered into the tunnel; there were wooden beams along the sides, and a few smooth planks of wood visible in the dirt where the attackers’ feet would be. Right out of the Barbaric East’s war training. Whoever they were, they’d need some experience with the skirmishes.

  He reached into the tunnel, feeling one of the side planks holding the walls of the tunnel up. Sturdy, he noted as it held firm to his touch. How long have these been here? Looking at the grass around the tunnel entrance, Raneth inspected the ground for signs of where the survivors had gone. The earth was still dry and very few indicators warned of the attackers’ movements, but a few slight impressions of the very back of heels suggested none had come back into this particular tunnel. Turning his gaze to the other two, Raneth clenched his eyes shut as his eyeballs felt as if they were swimming in water. Ruddy MIR. He counted to three before opening them, his gaze already directed to the other tunnels. I don’t want to go back over there, he thought reluctantly, feeling his side twinging just from the idea of walking that way. He climbed to his feet, gritting his teeth as his knees quivered. Palace. Get medical help and report what happened. Form as soon as I can in the morning so I can speed up the healing and find Cray.