Well of the Damned - By K.C. May Page 0,6

in the wet dirt. The impact sent a spray of water, pebbles and mud outward. The onlookers shielded their faces with their arms just as the gush of water drenched them. The onslaught ended as quickly as it had started. Mud and rocks settled, and all was still again on the mountain slope.

Everyone cheered. Hands patted Gavin’s shoulder and back, and grasped his arm to help him stand.

“By the gods, did you see that?” someone exclaimed.

“You saved our lives,” said another.

“That was the most excitement I’ve had in three months,” Gavin said. He grinned broadly, standing there wet from head to toe and speckled with bits of earth. In his hand, Aldras Gar vibrated like the fading gong of a bell. He missed times like this — working hard, saving people, and showing off for the ladies.

“I’ve never seen such a thing!” one woman said.

“My first glimpse at your magic. It was a marvel!” another exclaimed.

“My liege,” a man said, “are you injured?”

Gavin snorted. Falling on his arse in the mud wasn’t quite enough to hurt him, though he understood their concern. He was the first king in more than two hundred years, and nobody wanted to bury him before he sired an heir. “I’m fine. Anyone get hurt?”

Assured that all had returned to normal, Gavin resheathed his sword and went to inspect their work. A few of the sandbags had taken a beating and spilled their guts into the river, but for the most part, the bank was holding. “Let’s patch this up and move on to the next spot.”

“Your Grace,” someone called.

Gavin flinched, realizing that meant him. It was going to take him a while to get used to answering to the various titles people gave him, though he supposed he preferred majesty and grace to ’ranter. If he heard that denigration ever again, he would be wearing someone’s teeth around his wrist.

A rider, hunched under his cloak, trotted towards him, splashing through the mud and puddles and waving an arm. “Your Grace, Lord Dawnpiper asked me to find you. He requests you return to the palace straight away.”

Chapter 4

“Cirang Deathsblade. Get up. The lordover wants to see you,” the warden said. He unlocked and opened the cell door. Over his red and black uniform, he wore a dripping wet, leather cloak. Behind him stood a guard, similarly dressed, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade as if Tyr had the strength to attack and flee.

“So soon? And I was just getting comfortable.” Tyr’d been in this gaol cell for nearly three months without being questioned as the chancellor’d promised, but the warden just stared at him blankly. There was no sport in taunting a man too stupid to know he was being taunted.

Though the rain’s incessant drumming on the roof irritated the ears and made him long for a single moment of silence, the worst part was when it had started soaking into the rear wall of his cell. A puddle had appeared at the junction of the floor and wall and had grown to cover almost a third of the cell.

Tyr avoided stepping in it when he stood. Though he’d be walking in the rain shortly, he took care to keep the dry area dry, in case he had to come back after his hearing. Of course, it wouldn’t be long before the entire gaol was flooded and he’d have no dry spot to stand on.

The warden had told him he was the king’s prisoner, yet every time Tyr asked for an audience with Kinshield, he was told the king was busy with important matters and couldn’t be bothered with the likes of her. “Is he taking me to the king?”

“You can ask him yourself.” The warden tossed Tyr a wet cloth, followed by a bundle of white fabric. “Clean yourself up, and then put that on.”

Tyr dropped the gown to the ground, where it began to soak up water. “I’m not wearing that. Not for the lordover, not for the king, not for anyone.” Despite the body having female parts, Sithral Tyr had always been a man, and he would dress as one. Even she wouldn’t have submitted to it. The last time she’d worn a gown was before she’d joined the Viragon Sisterhood when she was fourteen.

“The Lordover Tern has more traditional values,” he said. “The meeting’ll go better for you if you do.”

Cirang had met the man before, and Tyr knew from her memories the warden spoke truly, but he stood

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