slashed and lunged at the archers positioned twenty feet above them on the walls. The arrows had bounced off the clay hides of the golems; if they’d realized they were being shot at, they gave no sign as they harried the men until they fell, before crushing their skulls into the earth.
There was blood on the Sleeping Prince’s golden tunic and he wiped at it, smearing it across the velvet. His face darkened and in response to his mood the golems swung their clubs and stamped, their movements agitated. He stalked past them, striding along the path that led through the outbuildings, through the kitchen gardens to the castle that loomed up ahead of him.
Then, impossibly, a horn split the night apart. He spun back towards the Water Gate and broke into a run, the lumbering footsteps of the golems behind him. On the ground a white-faced guard, clearly not as dead as he ought to be, was breathing frantically into a horn, his eyes bulging with each blast. The Sleeping Prince plunged one of his swords into the man’s chest, the blow stopping his heart, and the horn, in its tracks.
But it was too late. As he turned back to the castle, he saw lights flaring in windows that had been dark moments before. He heard new horns sounding the alarm, heard the shouts of men, and he sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled a sheaf of parchment and a writing stick from it. Frowning thoughtfully, he scribbled some words, then tore the paper in two. He gestured to the golems and they each held out a hand, allowing him to place the torn parchment on their palms. For a moment it rested on the surface. Then the clay-flesh turned liquid and the paper sank into it, reforming around it until the paper was concealed within. The shouts became louder, closer, and the whip-thud of arrows began to pierce the air.
The Sleeping Prince sighed. Then he and his golems began to walk silently towards the commotion. The Sleeping Prince swung his swords and smiled.
In the Great Hall of Lormere castle, the king of Lormere stood in pale cream breeches and a billowing white shirt, the laces of his boots uneven, watching the Sleeping Prince warily. The Sleeping Prince in turn eyed his opponent, his head angled with curiosity, his own clothes now torn and soaked red, his beautiful hair tainted with gore. His eyes burned in his blood-splattered face, fixed upon the king. Behind him lay piles of bodies: soldiers, and guards, and any servant who had been foolish enough to try to defend their king, sprawled like broken toys across the stone floor. He’d left a trail of corpses marking a macabre path, beginning at the Water Gate and winding through the gardens and hallways to here, where the battle would climax.
On the opposite side of the Great Hall, near the door leading to the royal solar, lay one of the golems, inanimate. Its arm had been severed by a lucky guard, weakening the alchemy controlling it, giving a second guard the chance to remove its head. In a fit of delicious irony, it had crushed its destroyer as it toppled in a final act of retribution. The second golem stood in the doorway of the Great Hall, waiting for any final guards who had yet to join the fray.
There were none.
The king held something in his hands: a metal disc on a chain, which he brandished at the Sleeping Prince as though it were a gift. The Sleeping Prince smiled indulgently.
“If we could talk,” the king said urgently, his face pale, his hair a frenzy of dark curls around it.
“No talk, Merek of Lormere,” the Sleeping Prince said, his smooth, calm voice a contrast to his maniacal smile. “Your men are all dead. Your castle and kingdom are mine. The only words I’ll hear from you are your pleas for mercy.”
Merek’s dark eyes flashed. “I assure you, you won’t,” he said. “I won’t die begging.” Then he lunged.
The Sleeping Prince stepped to the side and raised one of his swords, arcing it through the air until it found its sheath in the unprotected breast of the new Lormerian king.
King Merek made a soft sound of surprise, turning his eyes to the Sleeping Prince, his disbelief childlike. Then those same eyes fluttered closed and he slumped to the ground. The Sleeping Prince watched him, his expression unreadable.
He stepped over the king’s body and crossed the hall,