The Kings Man Read Free

feeding us again before we disembark –’
    ‘Listen to him. Thinks himself a markiz.’
    Garzik wished Byren was here. One good thump – that’d teach the lout to keep his mouth shut.
    ‘You’re not helping, Feo...’ Mitrovan protested, but there was no conviction in his voice.
    It made the scribe look weak and made Garzik appear cowardly by association. The men Garzik had grown up with would’ve had no patience with someone like Feo. His father despised...
    He had a flash of the Old Dove hanging off their front door, pinned by a lance. Bile rose in Garzik’s throat. His father was dead, cruelly murdered. He could not imagine life without the iron-willed old man.
    But... he’d better get used to it.
    If he was a Merofynian captive, that meant Byren had not retaken Dovecote.
    Had Byren saved his sister? What of Orrie? One thing was certain – his brother would never let Byren be taken, not while he lived. Orrade was honourable to the bone.
    Another flash of memory. Kiri on the stairs, a knife through his eye. Silly, brave Kiri, trying to avenge the hound’s death.
    Freezing Sylion! He’d failed to light the beacon. He’d failed Byren.
    Garzik gasped in horror.
    ‘Don’t move about. Give your head time to settle,’ Mitrovan advised, mistaking his gasp for one of pain. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
    Shame silenced him.
    ‘Don’t worry.’ The scribe squeezed Garzik’s shoulder. ‘It’ll come back to you. With a head blow like that, it’s not unusual to –’
    ‘So you’re a healer now?’ Feo sneered.
    Anger bubbled up in Garzik. Merofynians had killed his father, ransacked their home, raped his sister, captured the kingsheir and, for all he knew, Byren and Orrade were dead – yet all this lout could think about was scoring points off the scribe. It was too much. ‘If you haven’t got anything useful to say, I’ll thank you to keep your tongue between your teeth.’
    It was his father talking, and the moment the words left his mouth, he knew they were a mistake.
    In the stunned silence that followed his outburst, he tried to think of a way to mend things, but came up blank.
    With a curse, Feo lunged for him. Hands closed on Garzik’s throat. Feo shook him. Weak as a day-old kitten, he couldn’t fight back.
    Head thumping into the wall, Garzik fought to breathe; managed a gulp of air, as a stream of vile obscenities hit him, carried on putrid breath.
    Mitrovan tried to pry Feo’s hands off him. ‘Leave him be. He’s just a lad, a foolish lad.’
    As they fought over him, Garzik’s head hit the wall for the fourth time. It was too much. He threw up all over them. Not that there was a lot in his stomach. They both released him. The smell made Garzik gag and bile burned his throat again.
    ‘You little bastard!’ A calloused palm slammed into his head, stinging his ear and toppling him sideways.
    He must have blacked out, because the next time things made sense Mitrovan was wiping his face with a scrap of damp cloth.
    With consciousness came the horror of his failure. Freezing Sylion, may the god of heartless winter take him, he’d failed Byren. How could he ever go home?
    He had no home. The invaders had claimed it.
    ‘You’ve made an enemy of Feo. He’ll take pleasure in causing trouble for us now.’ The scribe spoke in a desperate whisper, voice breathy with fear. ‘You’ll get us both killed. You mustn’t talk back, lad. Do you understand?’
    Garzik nodded because Mitrovan needed him to, and sat up gingerly. As long as he didn’t move his head too quickly, he could fight the nausea and dizziness. As for pain, a slap or a beating was nothing new to him. But in the past, he’d always earned the rebuke. Captain Blackwing used to despair of teaching him sense. He’d been too busy dreaming of becoming a great warrior like Byren to listen.
    But Captain Blackwing would never have struck an injured man or a woman. He was a warrior, not a bully. You knew where you stood with a man like