Warrior Witch (The Malediction Trilogy #3)(53)

With each question, he leaned closer, until the final one brought us almost nose to nose.

“He’s protecting Trianon,” I said. “We are going after the Duke because he’s an easier target.”

“Folly,” the King snarled. “Kill the Duke and Roland will be free to slaughter at will, which he is sure to do. Capture the Duke, and he will only order the boy to rescue him. This plan of yours is rife with flaws, and not one my son would ever agree to without more cause and justification than you’ve provided.”

“The Winter Queen sent a dragon to attack Trianon – the city needs to be protected.”

He grimaced as though my words were utter lunacy. “Tristan’s two clowns are quite capable of managing whatever that meddlesome trickster sends their way, and he knows it. Winter is…”

I shifted uneasily, and the King noticed, hissing out a breath between his teeth.

“Ah. Winter is the problem. That’s why he remains within the iron ring of the Regent’s castle.” He stared through me, eyes shifting as he thought. “What has she done to him?”

“Nothing.” I was afraid to say more, knowing he’d pick the truth out of whatever lies I spun. He was too intelligent. Too experienced with deception. A true mastermind of manipulation.

His gaze shifted to the spear in his hand. “The sluag.” His fist clenched around the steel. “A life-debt.”

I tensed and then swore silently for giving myself away. Not that it mattered – he knew.

“And what does that thrice-damned frigid bitch want from my son?”

His jaw tightened and the metal of the spear groaned, bending under his grip. I’d seen him irritated before. Angry, even. But nothing like this.

“We don’t know.” My voice shook. “She told me she wanted to meet with him to discuss an alliance. It’s why I’m disguised.”

Thibault’s jaw tightened. “No. No, he must not agree to that. You need to go back to Trianon. Tell Tristan to stay put behind those walls. I’ll…” He grimaced. “I’ll deal with Roland.”

“Do you know what it is she wants?”

“I have my suspicions.”

But before he could elaborate, a slithering sound reached our ears, and the troll-lights at the end of the row flickered, then went out. I went very still like a rabbit that’s scented a fox; but the King straightened, eyes searching and head cocked, listening. Hunting.

“Three,” he murmured. “No, four.”

Four sluag. My hands and feet went cold, my pulse thundering in my ears. I’d never heard of sluag hunting together, but why else would they converge like this? Unless someone had sent them…

The magic encasing Martin dissolved, and I mouthed, “Sluag,” at him. He nodded once, and picked up his discarded spear. The tip of the weapon trembled.

Barooom. One of the sluag called out; then another answered, Barooom.

“I hear you,” the King said, then he lifted his arms. The bookcases around us shot back, row after row sliding away as though they weighed nothing, their momentum carrying them even as the sluag’s power melted away the King’s. Several of them toppled, and a squeal of pain rang in my ears as one of the creatures was crushed.

We stood in the middle of a large empty space, devoid of anything but the books that had fallen off the shelves, the only light that which hovered over the two trolls. But it was flickering.

The King picked up a volume and glanced at the title. “Tax law.” He smiled, and the book burst into flame, first the silver of magic, but then the yellow and red of natural fire took over. A shadow moved between two fallen shelves, and their balls of light winked out.

Martin stepped closer to me, twitching with every shiver of motion in the shadows, but the King seemed unaffected. Unafraid. Lighting several more books on fire, he tossed them in a circle around us, creating a perimeter of flame.

A stinger flashed out from the darkness, whipping toward the King’s face, but he batted it aside with his spear and laughed. “You’ll have to do better than that, vermin.”

The sluag shrieked and lunged, its white bulk surging toward the troll even as I sensed motion behind us. I screamed a warning, but the King was already moving.

With impossible speed, he launched the spear in his hands at the first sluag, the force of the blow driving the point through its maw and out the other side. Whirling, he snatched the weapon Martin clutched, and slammed it into the body of the creature attacking from the rear, catching the fleshly stalk of its stinger and wrenching it from its throat.

The sluag writhed, slimy body slamming back and forth in its death throes, but he calmly approached it and pulled the weapon from its flesh with a nauseating slurp.

The flames were burning low, their paper fuel nearly exhausted, and I watched their glow diminish with growing trepidation. There was a third – I could hear it moving through the stacks – and not even the King of the trolls could see in the dark. The building shuddered, and a cloud of dust rolled over us as part of a wall tumbled in, the calls of at least two more sluag audible over the smash of rock hitting the marble floor.

“When I give the word, Martin,” Thibault murmured, gaze tracking the sluag’s progress, “I want you to take Cécile and run.”

“Where, Your Grace?” The librarian’s voice was surprisingly steady considering how tight his grip was on my arm.