Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Another hacking blow from the girl. Merik parried, but his back was against his cabin. Worse, the world was angling sharply left, and the ship was in that pausing stillness between heaves.

The girl used that inertia, and by the Wells, she was fast. One slash became two. Three. Four—

But there. The ship lurched the other way, and her knees wobbled. She had to widen her stance before unfurling her next attack.

Merik was ready. When her blade swung high, he ducked low. Her sword thunked into the wall, and Merik tackled her. Yet the instant she was over his shoulder, her fists hammered into his kidneys. Into his spine.

His grip loosened, and the ship rocked. He felt his balance go. She’d hit the deck headfirst.

So he tapped into his Windwitchery. Air gusted beneath the girl, flinging her torso high and returning Merik’s balance … until she wrestled fully upright onto his shoulder and kneed him in the ribs.

He doubled over—he couldn’t help it. Planks zoomed toward his face.

His magic exploded. In a cyclone of power, he and the domna blasted off the deck. They spun. They tumbled. The world blurred until they were above the masts. Wind whipped around them, under them. Safiya hardly seemed to notice how high they were.

Merik tried to control the power beneath his skin. In his lungs. But there was no denying that the girl awakened this rage inside him. His witchery no longer responded to him but to her.

Her fist launched at Merik’s face. He had just enough time to block it before her foot hooked behind his ankle. She whipped him backward—her body spinning with his until they were upside down. Until all he saw was sailcloth and rigging and Safiya’s fists thrashing in.

Merik countered, but he pushed too hard—or maybe his witchery did. Either way, she went twirling out and away from the sails. Then she left Merik’s winds entirely and plummeted, headfirst, toward a hundred gaping sailors.

Merik thrust a magicked wind beneath her, propelling her back his way. Flipping her—and himself—right side up. The ocean and the rigging streamed through his vision.

Then Safiya kicked him. Right in the gut.

His breath thundered out. His magic choked off.

He and the domna fell.

Merik had just enough time to angle his body beneath her and think, This will hurt, when his back hit the deck.

No … that wasn’t the deck. That was a swirl of wind. Kullen was slowing their speed, before—

Merik slammed onto the wood with a brain-rattling crack! The girl toppled onto him, crushing his lungs and ribs.

Despite the pain and the shock, Merik took his chance while he had it. He hooked his knees into hers and flipped her beneath him. Then he planted his hands on either side of her head and glared down. “Are you finished?”

Her chest heaved. Her cheeks were sunset red, but her eyes were gleaming and sharp. “Never,” she panted. “Not until you go ashore.”

“Then I will put you in chains.” Merik shifted as if to rise, but she clutched his shirt and yanked. His elbows caved; he fell flat against her, noses almost touching.

“You don’t … fight fair.” Her ribs bowed into his with each gasping breath. “Fight me … again. Without magic.”

“Did I hurt your pride?” He chuckled roughly and dipped his mouth toward her ear. His nose grazed down her cheek. “Even without my winds,” he whispered, “you would lose.”

Before she could respond, Merik rolled off her and shoved to his feet. “Take her below and chain her!”

Safiya tried to scramble up, but two sailors—men from Merik’s original, loyal crew—were already upon her. She wrestled and roared, but when Kullen stepped stonily to her side, she stopped fighting—although she didn’t stop shouting. “I hope you burn in hell! Your first mate and your crew—I hope you all burn!”

Merik turned away, pretending not to hear. Not to care. But the truth was, he did hear and he did care.

TWENTY-ONE

It took Aeduan mere minutes to get Emperor Henrick to hire him, but any time saved was lost while getting his new companion, the foppish Prince Leopold—as well as eight Hell-Bard escorts—out of the palace.

Two hours after leaving the Doge’s personal office, Aeduan finally found himself jogging beside Leopold’s carriage and heading to the Southern Wharf District. Traffic was dense. People had come from all corners of Veñaza City to see “the Doge’s burned-down palace.” Or to see, as most people referred to it, “what the thrice-damned fire-eating Marstoks had done.”

Aeduan had no idea how that rumor had started, but he suspected it had been started. Perhaps a loudmouthed palace guard had blabbed or some war-hungry diplomat had intentionally let the rumor slip. Either way, animosities for the Marstoks were high as Aeduan jogged the streets and bridges of Veñaza City—a bad sign for the Twenty Year Truce renewal—and everything about the situation felt guided. Strategized. Someone wanted Marstok as the enemy.

Aeduan filed that away to tell his father.

He also filed away the fact that, of the eight Hell-Bards in Leopold’s employ, only the commander was still breathing normally inside his helm after two blocks of jogging.

So much for an elite fighting force.

Then again, Aeduan was shamefully exhausted himself by the time Leopold’s carriage clattered into the Southern Wharf District, where the Cartorran warships creaked.

It was almost evening—and Aeduan’s newly healed muscles burned from the exertion, his fresh skin was overheated from the crowded streets, and his old scars wept blood once more—which meant his only clean shirt was now stained through.