Darshan struggled to sit up, to keep a solid shield around himself. His chest was ablaze and bleeding despite his magic’s frantic attempts to staunch the flow. He could feel the strength draining from him with the attempt, clouding his sight, slowing his movements.
“Nae!” Hamish screamed.
The cry pierced through the swiftly descending fog of Darshan’s mind in time for him to register the sword bearing down on him.
Unbridled terror overrode his senses. Darshan flung up his hand.
Raw magic flowed from his fingertips. Wild and deadly, it followed only instinctual command, rushing at the guard.
Wisps of smoke and heat encapsulated the man, searing the flesh from his bones. Greasy smoke filled the air. The sickening stench of charred meat invaded Darshan’s nostrils, fuelling his wrath.
His magic carried onwards, heeding the most basic of thoughts. These guards wanted him dead. Never mind that nobody harmed those of the Mhanek and breathed for long, this had clearly been personal. He wasn’t about to give them a chance to regroup for a second attempt.
Under his command, the wind gained speed and power. It bowled the two princes off the ground, brushing them aside and tearing the remaining attackers from the earth in one almighty blast.
The guards slammed against the tower. There they remained, pinned by glistening shards of ice and the shimmering forms of broken magical constructs Darshan hadn’t the focus to craft in full. The guards screamed, their agony echoing into the forest.
Only once the pressure crushed the breath from their bodies did they fall silent.
And still, Darshan held them in place. Waiting. Pushing them harder against the tower until the stone surrounding them began to crack.
By the time he thought to stop, the men were as limp as corpses.
Darshan lay there, panting and shaking. He had ordered quite a number of deaths as vris Mhanek, but they had all been through the usual method of contracted assassinations. He hadn’t actually killed anyone since his early teens. “Are they dead?”
Gordon scrambled to his feet. He knelt beside the guards, checking one and then the other, before nodding. “Aye, they’ve passed on to the Goddess’ bosom.”
Darshan didn’t know if the man had actually whispered or if the fall had also affected his senses. Nevertheless, he shook his head. “Not them,” he wheezed. He already knew his magic had done a thorough job if not with its usual finesse. The sting of it sang through the air. “The others.” He pointed at the shattered battlements, his arm trembling.
He had only meant to scare the archers into hiding, but there was no hint of anyone up there. Not even a cautious arrow launched his way. Not that he wished there was. He rather doubted his ability to do more than sit here. A shield dense enough to stop an arrow was out of the question.
One by one, his companions turned their attention to the battlements. They waited in silence for someone to poke their head over the edge. Nothing.
Darshan eyed the windows, hopeful of spying a glimmer of light, a darker form within the shadows. But the arrow slits were designed to keep those within unseen.
“I’ll go see,” Gordon offered. Slipping his hunting knife free of its sheath, he strode into the tower. It wouldn’t be much use against something like the broadswords these guards had used, but the men inside had been very particular about avoiding doing any harm to their princes.
“I’ll secure the horses,” Zurron offered, already backing up to where the majority of their mounts stood under the trees on the opposite side of the road. At least none had sought to follow Warrior or Sean.
Darshan inched himself into a seating position. He felt along the shaft jutting from his chest, surprised to find it still whole. At least the arrow hadn’t appeared to have moved too far.
Hamish knelt beside him. He clapped one steadying hand on Darshan’s shoulder. “Is it as bad as it looks?”
How could it not be? Just what sort of injuries had his lover witnessed to think an arrow in the chest might not be all bad? “A little,” he admitted. The shaft was deep and grated against his ribs with every movement of his chest. Now he was able to focus a little more on what his magic had healed, it seemed that his shortness of breath had been due to a nicked lung. Had it been just a little bit further to the left? Well, then he most certainly wouldn’t have be sitting here chatting. “I am sorry you witnessed that. It is not usual for me to—”
Hamish stilled him with a drawn out, sibilant hush. “How about we get you patched up?” One side of his mouth twitched into a nervous smile. “Then you can apologise if you still think it necessary.” He slipped an arm beneath Darshan’s shoulder, preparing to lift him.
Darshan batted away the man’s hands. “I can heal this readily enough once I get the arrow out.” Judging by the other arrows scattered about, removal would likely require pushing the head through to the other side. He rather doubted he had been struck by the only arrow without a barbed tip.
His lover’s lips flattened. The knowledge of what needed to be done seemed to dull his eyes. “That’s going to hurt. A lot.”
“I do not doubt it.” Likely more than the arrow’s initial entry, if past experience with such an injury was anything to go by. “But I cannot repair the damage unless it is removed.”
“Then let’s at least get these clothes off you.” Hamish grasped the arrow and, with a quick warning nod, snapped off a large chunk of the shaft.
Shrugging out of the overcoat was easily done, once his belt was released. The shirts were a little trickier, requiring Hamish’s assistance in manoeuvring the fabric around the arrow shaft as well as having his lover pull each one over Darshan’s head. Each shift and
