Free Princess of the Sword by Lynn Kurland

spell hardened around him.

    He realized that time was indeed running out for him. And all for a bloody ridiculous game of chess where he’d been too stupid to recognize where the true danger lay. He would have shaken his head, but that was now quite impossible, so instead, he did what he’d done countless times in places where he’d been out of his depth: he took the best breath he could and stilled his mind. He calmly and very deliberately gave thought to the tangle and how he might best unravel it.

    Almost without thinking, he put his hand on the simplest spell of binding he could, something a village sorcerer would have taught an apprentice on the first day.

    And then he reversed it.

    Nothing happened. He started to repeat the words, then he noticed a tiny crack appearing in Droch’s spell. It took rather longer than he would have liked for that crack to deepen, but once it had, there was no stopping the damage. Fractures in Droch’s spell raced from Miach’s initial break outward so quickly, Miach couldn’t follow them. He caught sight of Droch’s expression of shock as his spell shattered right there in front of him—in spite of his efforts to stop it.

    And whilst Droch was otherwise occupied, Miach leapt forward and shoved one of his mages, sending him skidding to a halt just out of reach of the black king. The black king crackled loudly as he turned his head to look back over his shoulder along the same gray diagonal the white mage now threatened. His steward stood behind him, frozen in place, wearing a look of horror on his face. There was now no escape for either of them.

    Miach leaned over with his hands on his thighs, gasping for breath. He lifted his head and saw Droch gaping in surprise at his king who was now in check. The game was now over except for final formalities.

    Droch reached out suddenly and tore the sword from his knight’s scabbard. He thrust it through his own king’s heart with a vicious curse.

    The black king fell to his knees, clutching his chest. Then he looked up at Miach.

    His soulless eyes were full of tears.

    Miach suspected those were tears of relief. He watched as Droch’s king fell over onto the board. Droch jerked the sword free, then glared at Miach. Miach straightened.

    “An hour,” he said, drawing in a great lungful of air and not feeling the least bit inclined to complain about the sour taste of it.

    Droch crossed the board, kicking one of his dead pawns out of the way, and stopped just in front of Miach.

    “Someday,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Someday, Mochriadhemiach, you will find yourself alone, perhaps unwell, perhaps careless. You will find things do not go so well for you then.”

    Miach inclined his head just the slightest bit. “I’m certain you would be grieved at such a day.”

    Droch looked around Miach and glared at a lad standing nervously nearby. “One hour. You mark the time and mark it well, else you’ll answer to me.” He turned back to Miach. “I won’t forget this.”

    Miach imagined he wouldn’t. He watched Droch spin on his heel and stalk off, then looked at the carnage around him. He walked over to the black king. He was no longer frozen, but he was most certainly dead. The rest of the black pieces lay on the ground, lifeless. Perhaps there had never been any hope for them. Miach turned to look at his own king. The man looked about himself, as if he’d just woken from a terrible nightmare. He flexed his fingers, then swung his arms a bit. His gaze came to rest on Miach and he frowned.

    “Who are you, lad?”

    Miach walked over to him and made him a low bow. “Mochriadhemiach of Neroche, Your Majesty.”

    “I have you to thank for my life, apparently.”

    Miach managed a weary smile. “Nay, King Uallach, you fought well, as did your men. And your queen.”

    Uallach looked at him. “You know me?”

    “Of course, Your Grace. Your fame extends far beyond the bounds of your own land.”

    The king