Non-Heir (The Black Mage 0.5)(14)

“Darren—”

All his life he’d faced a monster that won; these monsters weren’t the way it would end. Not them, and not his father.

Darren wasn’t afraid.

The boy took off, splaying dirt as his boots hit the slope, kicking up roots and pebbles as he slid down the steep ravine, fighting to keep hold of his bow.

It was times like this he wished he didn’t feel pain. His arm throbbed each time he hit a bit of brush.

The mutt beat him to the man. Darren hadn’t expected it to follow; the little dog was half the size of his brother’s hound.

When they reached the base, two of the wolves were tearing into the knight’s mare several yards away. The boy jerked his gaze away, feeling a pinch in his throat.

Sir Chadwick was on the ground, rivulets of blood dripping down his face as he struggled to stand, a blade shaking in his fists.

The shaggy dog growled and leaped, catching the nearest wolf off-guard as it ripped a bloody trail from its throat.

The wolves were circling the knight, getting closer as their barks took on an excited pitch. They didn’t even notice the boy and his mutt.

The next great animal leaped, and Darren’s first arrow missed.

The boy drew another, cursing Sir Audric’s insistence that he kept his sword in the training grounds, and let loose not a second too soon. Fire burned down the length of his wrist.

The wolf went down with an arrow to its side, letting loose a keening wail that had the others on guard.

The remaining six lunged, two at the boy and four for the knight.

Panic hit the boy’s chest like a kick to the ribs, but there was something much worse than fear, and that was cowardice.

Darren fired the final arrow with surer hands, but it missed. He dove forward with only the stave as a weapon. He brandished it like a staff, swinging and stabbing out any way he could.

But a stave wasn’t a sword. His cuts weren’t bringing enough pain to keep the predators at bay.

The boy was halfway through a swing when the second animal surged. Darren lost control of his aim as his boot caught on a pile of loose dirt.

He stumbled.

Dust plumed around him in a haze as he struggled to his knees, coughing and spewing blood. The stave dropped from his hands.

Two rows of teeth tore a jagged line down Darren’s bandaged arm, and the boy roared. At the same moment, the mutt let out a bark as a wolf’s teeth caught it’s shoulder.

The wolves were going to kill them both.

Darren could hear the dog’s whimpering cry as something hard and sharp tore into his already injured flesh.

No.

A hero was better than this. And so was the boy.

Sheer will overcame his pain, and the boy took hold of that control. He reined it in and grabbed the stave, swinging hard.

Darren would fight. Again and again. Hard. He threw out as much concentrated weight as he could. The wolf went down. The prince’s arms burned and his shoulder was on fire. His injured arm felt like someone had submerged it in needles and ice. But the boy kept on.

And so did the mutt. With a writhing twist, the dog broke free of the wolf’s teeth and ripped a bloody trail across the predator’s neck, dripping scarlet from its snout.

The wolf collapsed just as Darren reached the mutt’s side.

And then the two made their way to the knight.

The man shared a look with his saviors, but there was no time for thanks.

They aligned back-to-back with the mutt standing guard between them. The man had taken out one on his own.

Only four wolves remained.

It wasn’t impossible odds.

Swisssssh.

Down went the nearest wolf. Someone’s arrow must have caught it from above. Blayne? Darren didn’t have time to check as the three predators lunged.

The knight swung as did the boy; the mutt caught the next by the neck.

Howls and snarls ripped the air as blood sprayed out across the forest floor.

There was a roar in Darren’s ears, and he couldn’t hear his pulse. He was fighting just to keep the closest animal at bay. So. Close. But he was dizzy, and it was growing harder just to stand. His thrusts were weaker each time.

Spots danced before his eyes. He blinked and cursed as he narrowly avoided a row of teeth.

And then all at once, his world was shrouded in violet. The commotion dimmed as the boy dropped to his knees. He could hear shouts from up above, but they were too distant to make out.

Am I dying?

Darren couldn’t hear the wolves anymore. He shut his eyes.

“Your highness,” Sir Chadwick gasped, “we’ve been saved.”

They were enclosed in an amethyst globe. A shield of magic. The wolves were dead just beyond it.

The boy looked up.

And then he saw him.

Up ahead on the ledge were his father and Blayne and the rest of the Crown’s personal regiment. At the front of the line, with ebony hands raised toward the sky with magic hovering above his palms like a fire of violet sparks, was a middle-aged man. The infamous Black Mage, Lord Marius. On one of his ears was a single golden hoop that glittered against the dying light from above. He wore the infamous black robe of the Combat faction, and his shield had just saved their lives.



Later, when they asked him what happened, the boy lied.

Sir Chadwick had opened his mouth to… lie? Tell the truth? Darren would never know. He cut the man off with an explanation of his own.