Or so his mah had told him.
The perfect place to disappear.
A clattering of approaching hooves grew louder outside. Unusual for the hour. Niko threw on trousers and a shirt and leaned against the wall, catching a glimpse of the mounted group out the window.
Six riders gathered outside, blazing torches in hand. Two were dismounting. No armor or insignia, but only palace guards rode horses like theirs.
A thumping sounded on the cottage door, threatening to break it off its hinges. “Open up!”
If Niko ran out the back, they’d spot him. Running implied guilt. If he stood his ground, denied knowing anything, they might get rough, but they wouldn’t want to risk waking the village and would eventually leave. There was no reason to suspect Niko had harbored the prince. He was just a lowly blacksmith.
Niko grabbed his sword and headed downstairs. He rested the blade against the wall and unlatched the front door.
“Nikolas Yazdan?” The man standing on the step looked to be no older than Niko. He’d probably fought elves in the war, maybe seen the same things Niko had. A small scar marked his chin, either put there by a razor or an escape from their enemies’ bigger blades.
“Yes?”
Scar’s expression remained flat, most uninterested. “We’ve been sent from the palace. We have some questions. Can we come in?” There was nothing friendly in the way he asked. The words were hollow.
“Can’t this wait ’til morning?”
“No.”
“I think it can. Come back at dawn.” Niko closed the door, but Scar’s hand shot out, blocking it.
“Don’t make this difficult, Yazdan,” he leered, leaning in. “Just let us in and nobody gets hurt.”
The remaining riders dismounted. Six on one. Niko’s sword would even the odds. He stepped back and reached for the blade.
The door flew in. Niko snatched for his sword, used his own momentum to fall against the wall out of reach, and swung the blade toward Scar’s lunging figure. Clashing metal sang, the impact shuddering up Niko’s arm. The man sneered, coming in hot and fast. He swung his shortsword high. Niko ducked, and the blade slammed into the back of the armchair Vasili had been resting in just the night before.
More men spilled into the cottage. Guards, they had to be, but dressed lightly, quick and easier to attack.
Panic tried to trip Niko’s thoughts. He buried it beneath a rising anger.
They’d brought their flaming torches with them.
Firelight danced, painting the walls with moving shadows.
One of them plunged his torch against the tired old chair by the fireplace.
“Don’t!”
Too late. Fire quickly licked up the weathered upholstery.
A sword pommel struck Niko’s jaw. In a blink, he was on his knees. Fingers locked in his hair and yanked him back to his feet. Fire rippled up the cottage walls. It could still be saved. All his work, all the time invested… It wasn’t too late.
Niko roared and whirled blindly, lashing out with the sword. Its edge caught one of them, making him wail. Niko slammed his head back, hitting the man who held him. He grunted, grip loosening, and Niko thrust his elbow back, meeting something soft. The man oomphed over. Niko slammed the blade handle into the side of his face, smashing bones.
Heat and light surged overhead.
No, no, no… He couldn’t stop it now.
A fist landed on Niko’s lower back. Black, searing heat scorched up his spine. He barked a cry and dropped to his knees again.
“Courtesy of King Amir!” Scar hissed in his ear. Fingers wrapped around his throat. “Where’s Vasili?”
Gods, there were too many of them, and the fire, it was out of control like it had been at the palace.
“Where’s Vasili, huh?” The grip tightened—squeezed.
Niko dropped his sword and dug his fingers into those choking him. His chest burned like the fire surrounding them. His heart pounded hot and loud in his ears—he couldn’t answer anyway.
Scar suddenly let go.
Niko fell forward, gulping and spluttering air.
“Where is he?!”
His sword. On the floor to his right. Fire reflected along its blade. He reached forward, stretching his fingers toward the handle.
A kick dug into his side, ripping air from his lungs. Niko rolled, clutching to consciousness even as his head throbbed.
Fire boiled across the ceiling and dripped down the walls. He coughed hard, choking on smoke.
“Not much of a butcher now, are you?” Scar grinned. Smoke—darker than that filling the cottage—swam across his wide, bloodshot eyes. There and gone again. Possessed.
He straddled Niko and grabbed his throat again. “You’re going to tell me where Vasili is, and then I’m going to take you back to King Amir. How does that sound, butcher?”
Couldn’t he see the fire? Wasn’t it burning his skin? His eyes streamed, his face flushed with heat and sweat, but he leered at Niko as though there was no fire. Perhaps in his madness, all he cared about was following Amir’s orders.
Niko’s scrabbling fingers wrapped around his sword’s handle, and he thrust the sword into Scar’s waist, plunging it through, beneath his ribs, and out his other side. Scar’s hold still clamped hard and his smile stayed. Didn’t the bastard know he had a sword in his middle?! Then his manic grin stuttered, his body reacting to the blade through his guts. Blood bubbled from his lips. Finally, his grip on Niko’s throat eased.
Niko yanked the blade free and kicked the man backward, straight into a wall of flame. Fire rushed up his clothes, devouring him and his screams in seconds.
Blistering heat scorched Niko’s arms and face. He rolled onto his front, staying low, beneath the smoke, and crawled forward—sword in hand—toward the doorway.
Guards waited outside. One lunged, grabbed him by the arm, and hauled him away from the cottage. They’d burned his cottage, his home, the only damn thing he’d had left in this wretched world. Rage and dismay flipped into a state far more deadly.
Niko dropped his sword, lurched off his back foot, tackled the guard to the ground, clamped his head in both hands, and slammed his skull down, feeling it crack like an egg. The guard’s bladder let go, wetting Niko’s thigh.
Instinct pulled him back, made him turn at just the right time to duck a blade’s swing. Niko punched the bastard in his weight-bearing knee. Bone popped, snapping into an odd angle, and the man screamed as he went down. It required no thought to take the guard’s shortsword and slash open his throat. He knew, like he’d known at the front, that he had to kill or be killed. And killing came so damn easily.
Too soon, the guards stopped coming. Niko stood in the street, watching his life burn, while Amir’s palace guards lay bloody and motionless at his feet.
Fire roared from his cottage, spewing from windows and spiraling from the roof, spitting hot embers into the night sky.
His home burned like the palace.
Amir would pay for this.
They’d all fucking pay for this.
He switched the stolen shortsword to his right hand, grabbed a second fallen blade and walked away from the flames toward a horse brought by the guards. Mounting up, he dug his heels in, kicked the animal into a screaming gallop, and doubled down, racing along the same road Vasili had taken hours before.