Crown of Blood and Ruin: A romantic fairy tale fantasy (The Broken Kingdoms #3)(2)

Patrons in the alehouse screamed. Some reached for weapons. They didn’t live long. A few gaped at Frey, even smiled with a touch of victory. As I rose from my seat, Tor, Mattis, and Brant handled the rest of the trade crew, shoving them onto their knees, knives at their throats.
Ari let out a breath of relief when he released the illusion over my features.
I adjusted the cuffs of my jacket and went to the trader’s side. His brow was limned in sweat, his skin pallid. Blood blossomed over the table, mingling with spilled ale.
He winced at the darkness in my eyes, the points of my ears. I stroked a finger down the edge of the battle axe, and lowered into a crouch, hand on the back of his neck.
“I should apologize. You see, I haven’t been entirely truthful about our meet.” I dropped the weight of my hand on the handle of the axe cutting into his knuckles. The trader groaned and closed his eyes. “First, though, I feel I should clear up some of the more atrocious rumors about me. I don’t bed daughters. I’m wholly satisfied with one daughter of Timoran. You would understand if you saw her, Herr, I assure you. Truly beautiful and frightening all at once—”
“Perhaps we could move this along. These sods think they can break free, and it’s rather irritating,” Ari said, grinning. The traders in my men’s grip struggled and tried to reach for weapons sheathed on belts.
“Forgive me,” I said with a blithe look at my trader. “When I start to speak about Elise, I tend to go on and on.”
“Who are you?” he choked out.
“You came to trade with the king, did you not? As I said, he—I—do not wish to trade with you. But I will be taking your haul.”
Perhaps the loss of blood and fingers drew out a bit of madness in the trader. He laughed, and spittle tangled in his wiry beard. “You’re mad. Your k-king will slaughter you f-for this.”
I turned a bemused look to Tor. “He keeps saying my king. Oh, I think I understand.” My eyes narrowed. “You must be talking about the false king. So like Calder to keep up with his game of pretend.”
“F-false king?”
I stood and leaned my lips close to his ear. “You came to my land with the intent to trade magic, to trade my people. To me, you have practically declared war.” I nodded at Tor. “Kill them.”
It happened swiftly. Knives and daggers cut into the trade crew; the lead trader jolted at each thud against the pungent floorboards. With less care than I could’ve given, I ripped the axe off his slaughtered hand. The trader cried out, curling over the table. He trembled.
“I let you live today,” I said. “You’re welcome. When the Ravenspire guards come—and they will—to bring you before the false king, I do hope you give him my best wishes. Tell him King Valen Ferus is coming. And again, I do so appreciate his trade. His caravans have been incredibly useful to the true people of the land.”
The trader stared at me with a heady fear. There was a bit of satisfaction that came from such a look. One I reveled in each time we did this. For months we’d attacked Calder’s trade, cutting him at the knees, weakening him.
With a quick gesture, I signaled at my men to leave. Brant dropped a linen cloth near the trader, clapped him on the shoulder, and left him with the mangy bandage. The ravens would come for the man, they’d take him to Calder. Either the boy king would kill him, or . . . no, odds were Calder’s temper would demand the trader be killed.
Outside Frey and Mattis worked on freeing the serfs. I stripped the damn waistcoat from my shoulders. Never would I understand why Timorans found comfort in these clothes.
Mattis tossed me my second battle axe, grinning. “Well done, My King.”
Laughter rang into the night. Some folk were clearly not from Timoran and their blood from bruised and battered bodies held a pungent scent of cloying rot. Alvers. Magic folk from a distant kingdom. I grinned, imagining Junius, our Alver friend, would be pleased to know we’d found her people and snatched them back from Ravenspire.
“Frey? Frey!” A deep, throaty voice called over the others.
Frey dropped his sword, a broken smile carved over his lips. He sprinted through the messy crowd and collided with another man dressed in rags. More eyes fell to my guard; they whispered his name. Then again, this was Frey’s township. His home. A place where Ravenspire had destroyed and robbed its people. Killed its women, its children, enslaved its men.
“King Valen,” he’d said weeks ago. “I have a request of a personal nature.”
“Personal as in?”
“Call it revenge.”
The call to vengeance was all too familiar to me. I’d nodded. “What is it?”
“I want to liberate my folk, my brother. Then, I want to slaughter those who have kept him prisoner for two turns.”
He’d given a few details. Explained how the Ettans in the southern townships fought for Old Etta, for my family. They were killed and traded for their rebellion. They would be yet another caravan we could take from Calder. But more, Frey had tracked this particular trader with this particular haul.
When his brother, who shared nearly identical features, pulled back from his embrace, clasping Frey’s face between his palms, an ache pierced my chest. Strange how the joy of brothers reunited soured my stomach.
Frey had saved his brother; I had abandoned mine.
“You’ve been freed by King Valen Ferus,” Tor shouted over the laughter. Voices hushed at once; only a few mutters with my name carried on the wind. “We stand with magic folk. All magic. We stand to take back this land.”