“That we are,” Gordon replied.
The door to the building swung open, permitting the exit of four men, all with swords at their hips. The men marched out to the roadside; three halting just behind the one who had to be their leader, whatever his rank.
The man on the battlements continued to talk as if it were normal for armed men to approach barely armoured travellers. “We were expecting you yesterday, your highness.”
“Nae one here sent any kind of message,” Gordon said.
A thread of unease wove its way through Darshan’s gut. Did that mean what he thought it did? Had Queen Fiona sent word ahead? What of at their backs? Could they expect to be beset upon by guards ordered to drag Hamish back to the castle?
“You might nae have, your highness,” said the guard at the fore. He was a broad-shouldered man, with a thick streak of white through his black beard. “But we’ve an order from her majesty.”
“What order?” Hamish snapped.
Bitterness coated Darshan’s tongue. Of course she had sent an order to detain her son. Even out here, she wasn’t content with letting Hamish be.
“The one that specifically mentions him.” The leader pointed directly at Darshan. “The Udynean ambassador. Dinnae think you can disguise him with a change of clothes.”
“And what does me mum want with him?” Gordon demanded.
“Naething much.” The guard clasped his hands at his belt. His beard was thinner than the others and did nothing to hide the smugness tightening his smile. “Just a wee escort back to Mullhind.”
Darshan straightened in the saddle. “Forgive my ignorance, but am I under arrest?”
The guard shook his head. “But you should be,” he growled. “The corruption of a prince is treason.”
Hamish rolled his eyes and sighed. “Nae this again,” he muttered. “He hasnae corrupted me.”
“And I can hardly be committing treason when I am not Tirglasian,” Darshan added. “Nor is Queen Fiona my monarch.”
One of the other guards—the one with a bushy grey beard that made up for the lack of hair atop his head—nudged their leader. “This is what I’ve been saying for years. Do away with the hunts and the world goes to shit. Some traditions shouldnae be allowed to die. Did she specify alive?”
Their leader shook his head. He raised his hand in a clear signal.
“Now wait a minute,” Gordon said.
Pain lanced through Darshan’s chest. He slumped in the saddle, his breathing suddenly a strain.
“What the—?” someone exclaimed.
“Stand down!” That was Gordon, no mistaking the authority in his voice.
Through the sudden wash of tears blurring his sight, the fletching of an arrow danced on the edge of his vision. The shaft grated against his ribs with every shallow huff of air.
Already, his healing magic rushed to repair the wound. It couldn’t do a thorough job with the blasted arrow still in him, but it would staunch most of the bleeding and dull the pain.
“Dar!”
‘Mish. Darshan clutched the arrow shaft. He had to get the bloody thing out.
“Nae.” Hamish’s hand landed on Darshan’s shoulder, helping him stay upright atop the horse. “Dinnae try to pull it out. We’ll—”
The hiss of another arrow flew by, leaving a sharp pain in his shoulder. A mere graze in comparison to the fire still blazing in his chest.
Hamish cursed and jerked his mare back, causing the horse to rear. He appeared uninjured. That could change with the next arrow.
Darshan snapped his head up, his focus settling on the men still up on the battlements. One man stood closer to the edge, his bow drawn full. You.
A blast of air was enough to tip the man off the top of the tower. He hit the ground with a crunch.
“He’s a fecking spellster?” someone bellowed. “Naebody told us he was a spellster!”
“Forward men!” roared their leader, drawing his broadsword. “He cannae take all of us. Avenge your fallen comrade!”
“Halt!” Gordon commanded, even as he swung his horse about to put the full length of the steed in their path. “You cannae do this!”
The men barrelled straight past him, heedless to his words. Animalistic growls and grunts escaped their bared teeth.
Darshan pulled on his pony’s reins, urging Warrior back as fast as his hooves could take them. What had he done to deserve their ire? To deserve death?
The leader reached Darshan first.
Darshan jerked the pony to the side. Warrior staggered back, his rear legs sliding and giving. His rump hit the ground. The impact jolted right through Darshan and sent a fresh flare of fire through his chest.
The man swung his sword up, the arc clearly aiming for Warrior.
Not the pony! A shield flickered to life before him even as Warrior screamed and fought to right himself.
The man’s blade struck and, mercifully, bounced off the shield.
Zurron leapt onto the leader’s back before the guard could recover. The elf wrapped his wiry arm around the old man’s neck. The guard flailed wildly, then with less force until he finally collapsed.
Warrior continued to kick and thrash beneath Darshan. The pony rolled to one side, throwing him to the ground as it regained its footing.
“Grab him!” Gordon bellowed, the command sending Sean galloping after the pony.
“You bastard!” another voice roared from atop the tower. It was all the warning Darshan got before arrows hit the ground near his head.
Without looking, Darshan flung a bolt of lightning in the direction of the battlements. The crack of shattering stone rumbled alongside the muffled boom of thunder.
No more arrows answered his attack.
The grunt of fighting filled his ears. The others, Zurron and the two brothers, fought to keep the three men on the ground from closing on Darshan. But even with the latter not using lethal force, they were armoured and all bearing broadswords. Whereas Darshan’s companions carried nothing bigger than hunting knives. Neither side seemed at all willing to mortally injure the other, but if they didn’t restrain the guards soon, Darshan was certain he would wake up dead.
“Filthy elf!” one of the men snarled, throwing Zurron to the ground. The guard
