Gild (The Plated Prisoner 1)

Purple and gold clash in an explosion of metallic clangs.

Red comes next, in violent splatters.

I hear the short shouts. The swords meeting in vicious swipes. And the abruptness of it acts like a shock to the brain, dredging up memories as my past and present meet.

Fighting is too close and too loud, and I’m sprawled on the ground just like I was on a different day, during a different fight.

A fight under a yellow moon, its shape like a fingernail scratching at a dark sky. Ten years ago, when raiders came to the tiny town where I was living. Raiders doing what they do—taking. Taking everything that didn’t belong to them. Money, livestock, grain—women.

The sound of swords clashing again is like a gruesome melody, the sound prompting my mind of a tavern song that I’ve played on my harp.

They pillaged the village,

They burned the sterns.

They hail to no king,

But they’ll bow for a ring.

The silly lyrics play in my head as I slap my hands over my ears. My mind wavers from then to now, from there to here, as I start to scramble backward, aiming for the wall. If I can just stay low and get to the wall, then I can get to the door, and if I can get to the door, I can—

A body suddenly falls on top of me, making my chin slam to the ground hard enough that I see stars. With a grunt at the heavy weight pinning me, it takes me a frantic moment of shoving and rolling to get the person off, only to realize that he is very, very dead.

Before I can really take in the fact that he no longer has a head, I’m suddenly dragged up to my feet. My ears are ringing, the stupid song still playing, as a blade is shoved against my throat.

“You fucking bastard!” King Fulke shouts beside my ear, jostling me in his hold.

I whimper as his erratic movements make the dagger dig down too far, his hands unsteady as a shallow scratch is cut in. “You think you’re so clever. You want to kill me?” he snarls. “Then I’m taking your gilded bitch with me.”

It’s a surreal feeling, to have Death breathing down your neck. In this case, Death is Fulke, and his hot exhale slithers down my spine like spilled wine, dampening my skin with slick fear. His hand clenches onto the hilt of the dagger so tightly that the blade shakes, the tremble making it dig deeper into my skin, making blood gather there.

There are eight men lying on the floor or slumped over tables, their red life pooling beneath them, falling out of gaping wounds. I blink at the puddles, like it’s just paint, and all of this is just a bad dream playing out right alongside that macabre tune.

r /> Except it’s not.

All of Fulke’s men, including the messenger, are dead, along with three of Midas’s guards.

The other two of Midas’s guards stand at his side protectively, their sharp golden blades stained crimson. The wind howls outside, hail hurling at the glass of the window.

Midas looks at me with something indistinguishable in his eyes, while mine are probably wide with shock, shock and horror.

I squeeze my eyes tight, because I don’t want to see what happens next. I don’t want to watch their reactions as my throat is cut open.

Die. I’m going to die.

As soon as my eyes are closed, the blade presses in, like it’s cornering me, trapping me, fulfilling Fulke’s savage threat to take my life. I suck in one last breath of air and hold it in my lungs, bracing myself, willing the breath not to leave me.

But before the sharpened edge can cut any deeper, Fulke’s body lurches, and I’m suddenly being wrenched to the side by a grip on my arm as the king’s form slams to the ground on his side, jerking violently at my feet. I look down in shock at the sword stuck all the way through him from back to front.

Whipping my head to the right, I see Digby. Digby, who I’d forgotten was even in the room. Holding me up with his steady grip on my arm, blood splattered on his face, his sword missing from his scabbard.

At the sound of a horrible gurgle, I look back down at Fulke where he writhes. His hands come up, touching the sword where it’s coming out of his chest. His mouth opens and shuts without words, blood lining his lips. He grips the blade, slicing his palms into ribbons as he holds it tight, as if he wants to strangle it into submission.

He dies like that, with both hands clenching the golden weapon, mouth sneering like a curse was left on it, one that would damn us all to hell.

Midas stands across the room with his other two guards, all eyes on King Fulke as his chest gets stuck on his last gurgling exhale. My vision tunnels on it, on the deep red blood bubbling out of the wound, slow as syrup.

The shakes hit me first. Then it’s the tunnel vision.