As soon as the Queen’s bedroom door clicked shut, he targeted the guards by the entrance, hitting them in their throats. Then he hit the two by the door. The guy on the left swatted at his neck as if he’d been bitten.
“What the...?” The first guard held a dart between his finger and thumb, showing it to his partner.
The gig was up. Valek dropped to the ground and spun. He threw his last two darts at the men by the window.
“Hey!” one of them yelled, pointing to Valek.
The others drew their swords and advanced. Valek stood in the middle of a tightening circle, hoping the sleeping potion would kick in before they skewered him.
The King rushed into the room, his face ashen. “Help me! The Queen is...” He stopped, taking in the situation.
The guards paused. “Orders, my lord?”
“Did you kill my Queen?”
“Yes,” Valek said.
“Kill him,” the King ordered.
Only one tactic worked when encircled. Valek lunged at the weakest point—the first man he’d hit. The blasted potion finally started to affect the big brute. Valek knocked him down and grabbed the man’s sword.
Deflecting the other blades, Valek remained on the defensive while he waited for them to be overcome. The King urged them on. Valek ducked and dodged, earning more than a few cuts before they all collapsed to the ground.
“Are they all dead, too?” the King asked in an icy monotone.
“No. They don’t deserve to die.” Valek wiped blood from his eyes. A cut on his forehead stung.
“And I deserve to die? You’re not the first to think this, nor will you be the last. Who sent you? That young brat from the diamond mines?”
“You sent me.” Keeping a firm grip on the sword, Valek stepped over one of the fallen guards.
He laughed. It was a harsh sound. “In that case, you’re fired.”
“Nice try, but you set me on this path. You are responsible for your own death.” He moved closer.
“I’m sure you have a sob story, but I don’t care. And unless you’re a master-level magician, you soon won’t care, either. Death has a way of eliminating all your problems just like that.” The King snapped his fingers.
A bubble of stickiness enveloped Valek. It pressed on his face as if trying to suffocate him. Probably was—the King was known to strangle his enemies with his power because he didn’t wish to get his hands dirty. Valek pushed through the magic, advancing on the King.
The King of Ixia frowned. The air around Valek turned to sludge. Drawing a breath took effort; stepping forward was like wading through thick syrup. It was difficult to move, but not impossible. Two more strides and the King would be within striking distance of his sword.
The first gleam of fear shone in the King’s eyes as he bent to retrieve a sword from one of his men. If the King had any skills with the weapon, Valek might be in trouble. Hard enough to walk through the magical mire... He couldn’t imagine fighting in it.
Another push forward and Valek reached the strike zone. The King of Ixia slid into a defensive position and raised his sword. Not good. However, Valek would not let this man walk away from this fight. As he had said to Hedda five years ago, if his last breath was one second after the King’s he’d die a happy man.
Determined, Valek summoned all his energy and attacked. The King blocked and they launched into a back-and-forth exchange of strikes and blocks. The thin metal rapiers sang with the contact. The monarch knew how to handle a blade and Valek had trained with mostly thicker, heavier swords, which required more muscle than speed. Valek’s parries went too wide, leaving his middle exposed. Plus the sticky air dragged at his arms and legs.
The King of Ixia took full advantage of Valek’s clunky style. With a flick of his wrist, the tip of his blade snaked past Valek’s defenses and cut a path up Valek’s right arm. Sharp pain registered for a moment, but he was too busy dodging the King’s next lunge to dwell on it. More cuts followed. Blood soaked his sleeves.
Then Valek miscalculated a strike and parried too late. The tip of the King’s blade pierced his flesh near his left hip. Valek gasped as his body jerked. It felt as if he’d run full speed into the edge of a desk. Shock waves rippled through him, sending a cold skittery pulse to his extremities.
The King smirked as he drew back. “You have enough magic to counter mine. It’s a shame the same can’t be said for your fighting skills. Is there anything you’d like to confess before I kill you? I hear it can be quite...cathartic.”
There was no way in hell this corrupt son of a bitch would live to see daylight. Valek envisioned his brothers. Imagining their ghosts standing here watching the fight, he drew strength from them and, it seemed, also advice. Vincent bared his teeth and made a stabbing motion. Valek returned his attention to the task at hand. The pain faded as he focused on what he’d worked so hard for.
“I do have a confession,” Valek said. “I’m not a magician. I’m an assassin.” Valek threw the sword down and pulled his knives—one for each hand. “I just forgot for a moment.”
He surprised a laugh from the King. Then Valek attacked, and the King was no longer smiling. Even with magic pressing down on him, he kept a quick pace, forcing the King to backpedal. The man doggedly blocked the knives.
As the fight continued, sweat ran down the King’s face as his responses slowed. Using magic appeared to be as draining as resisting it. The heaviness around Valek disappeared at the same time the King launched an energetic counteroffensive. The man was smart to concentrate his strength on his sword. Too bad for him that Valek’s knife-fighting skills had been honed by five years of practice.