Free The Betrayed by Igor Ljubuncic Page B

sword pressed against his belly. Boris side-stepped, never lowering his crossbow, until he stood at his comrade’s side.
    “Put that boy down!” the matriarch shrieked.
    “Give us coin and food!” Sedric growled like an animal. A bestial glow lit his eyes.
    “Murderer, you have sworn an oath,” the woman spoke.
    “What do you say, Boris? We take our chances? What about this convent?”
    “So many fine young girls,” the other soldier agreed, leering.
    Ewan tottered forward, a man in delirium. Bojan stood, weeping. Step by step, Ewan made his way toward the two soldiers. As he registered in their vision, Boris turned, leveling the crossbow at his chest.
    “That’s far enough, boy,” he warned.
    Ewan heard him as if his head was submerged in a bucket of water. The world felt like a cube of frosted bone marrow. It jittered and wobbled, solid lines coalescing into blurred shadows. The young brother retched again, but never stopped moving.
    He felt the tip of the crossbow touch his skin, just below the rib cage.
    “Let…go…of…that…kid,” Ewan intoned, every word a slow, mad agony.
    “You have one second to get the fuck away from me, or I’ll shoot you,” Boris whispered.
    Ewan did not move. The crossbow sang. There was a loud crack, like hammer hitting wood. Bojan shrieked. Adrian cursed. The women were running forward. Duvall was running away.
    Then, the world stopped.
    As one, the spectators all froze in their tracks, staring at Ewan. The crossbow bolt had splintered into a thousands slivers, some falling like sawdust, others lodged in the ruined fabric of his robe. Inside one of the rents, the mangled tip was a wad of black iron, pressed against Ewan’s skin. With a sucking sound, the tip detached, like a mollusk pulling off a pier, and fell to the ground. There was a coin-sized ruddiness on Ewan’s ghostly pale skin, but not a drop of blood or a flake of shredded skin.
    Ewan’s arm came up in a wide arc, hitting Boris on the side of his head. Lobbed by his own teeth, Boris flew, turned over in the air, and collapsed a full ten paces away. Blood gushed from his ears.
    Ewan stood there, his arm raised.
    Then, he collapsed as the world lost its monochrome madness and became black.

CHAPTER 9
     
    K ing Vlad the Fifth was not going to let anyone best him. He owed his perfection to his sire, King Vlad the Fourth, who had taught him to be the best in everything. When he was five, his father had taken him to see executions to harden his resolve. He had been beaten every day, regardless of what he’d done, to instill a good measure of humility and prudence in his skin. They would pepper his tongue and pour onion juice into his eyes and let small embers cool on the skin of his belly to make him immune to pain. He had slept with cloves of garlic stuck up his nose to make him invulnerable to disease.
    As the direct result of his flawless education, he was the smartest man in the kingdom. He was also the toughest and the bravest, too.
    He always won the jousting tournaments and archery contents during the Spring Festival. Maidens all over the realm swooned at the mere mention of his name. He had whole chambers decorated with mirrors so he could bask in the resplendence of his immaculate image.
    He was definitely not going to allow Eracians and Caytoreans to best him in matters of war.
    News of hostilities had reached him on a swift rider earlier that morning. He was furious that they had decided to go to an all-out war without inviting him.
    “I’m going to kill them all!” he shouted.
    “Yes, dear,” his wife said.
    “How dare they start a war without me!” he continued.
    “Shame on them,” his wife added. She sat by the fireplace, knitting.
    King Vlad walked about the large royal bedchamber, fretful and restless like a beast in a cage, naked except for a crown on his head and a sword in his arms. His wife, Olga, ignored him, knitting a light winter tunic.
    King Vlad paused, adjusting the crown on his