Warcry

threatening him from behind. Then a cloaked figure leaped at the Xyian and bore him down, daggers flashing.
    Then Durst heaved the crystal sword over his head, threatening Heath.
    Atira’s heart stopped. She was too far, too far—
    Keir moved, drawing his own blade, and blocked the attack. The crystal sword shattered with a ringing sound.
    “Stop, stop!” the Archbishop was crying out, but no one heeded. The two acolytes were scrambling to get out of the way.
    Eln was kneeling at Othur’s side. “I’ll see to him,” the tall healer snapped.
    Heath stood, his face contorted with rage, his hands covered in his father’s blood. He pulled his sword and dagger.
    Durst turned and fled into the melee.
    Heath followed.
    Atira looked at Keir, who stood before the throne, both swords drawn. He gave her a nod; he and Prest and Rafe would guard the Warprize.
    Atira launched herself after Heath.

    THE FIGHTING RAGED THROUGHOUT THE THRONE room. Heath watched Durst weave his way through the mass of warriors, headed for the main doors. Fear made the man faster than Heath had expected, but Heath’s rage fueled his own legs.
    Bodies sprawled on the white marble floor, forcing Heath to watch his footing as he ran. He caught a glimpse of Lanfer but was past the man before he could do more than lift a sword. Lanfer was not his target.
    The Herald stepped into the door, his face twisted in anger as Durst approached. The frail man swung his staff at Durst. Durst ducked and the staff cracked against the doorway.
    Durst paused long enough to push Kendrick into Heath’s path, and then he was off, running toward the main doors.
    Heath caught the Herald and twisted around him, leaving him clinging to the doorjamb. He paused just long enough to make sure the old man was steady on his feet before continuing on. He ran down the corridor, past the startled faces of the guards, and burst out into the courtyard.
    The area was awash with people frantically trying to mount and flee. Ladies in their finery were running for the gates. Heath stopped, sucking in deep breaths, looking—
    Durst was off to the left, trying to mount a panicked horse. He had one foot in the stirrup, hopping around, trying to draw himself up.
    Heath sheathed his sword, keeping his dagger out. He strode over, grabbed Durst by the collar and yanked him back.
    Durst fell, sprawling on the cobblestones, staring up at Heath. “Do it,” he panted, his breath harsh. “Kill me.”
    Heath gestured for two of the guards, who came running at his command. He heaved Durst up to his knees. “Bind him,” Heath commanded. He looked off to the gate in the castle wall. The gates remained closed. “Let no one through,” he called out over the milling crowd.
    One of the guards in the tower lifted a hand in acknowledgment.
    Durst looked up, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. “Kill me, damn you.”
    “You’ll die at the Queen’s command, and no other,” Heath said as Durst was dragged to his feet and bound. “But I pray . . .” Heath leaned in to stare at Durst, “I pray it is by my hand.” He gestured to the guards. “Bring him.”
    They hauled him back through the hall, Heath leading the way. The panic was starting to subside; even here, bodies were sprawled out, with the guards seeing to the wounded.
    Detros came up, his face grim. “The fight didn’t last long, but there’s damage enough done. The Archbishop is down.”
    “That priest we sequestered,” Heath said. “Send for him. I need to—”
    “You need to see to your father, lad,” Detros said sorrowfully. “I’ll see to this for now.”
    Heath grabbed Durst’s tunic and dragged the man through the double doors.
    The throne room was filled with the moans of the injured, and some of the castle guards had a group of lords on their knees in the center of the room. Heath threw Durst in with them before he let himself look at the dais.
    His father lay there, propped up in Keir’s arms, Lara and his mother kneeling at his side. A part of Heath noted that Eln was tending to the downed Archbishop. Crystal shards cracked underfoot, but Heath paid them no mind. All he cared for was his father.
    Prest, Rafe, Amyu, and Yveni stood guard over them all, their swords still drawn.
    Lara lifted her tearstained face to Heath as he knelt next to her. She’d wadded up a corner of the mantle and was pressing it to his father’s chest.
    Heath met her gaze as his mother sobbed. Lara shook her head slightly.
    “My