A little closer. She lowered her arm, letting the blade fall into her palm.
“Oh, don’t be difficult,” the bearded man groaned. “We’re doing you a service. Do you really want to go through life with a face like that?”
Iltis sprang to his feet with a roar, sword scraping free of his scabbard, the tall man swivelling towards him, bow fully drawn. Lyrna glimpsed a narrow handsome face, drawn in hate.
It was her finest throw, the knife tumbling in a perfect arc to take him in the throat, the bowstring snapping as he fell, the arrow lost to the grass. Iltis charged towards the stocky man but could only manage a few steps before stumbling to the ground with a yell of agonised frustration. Lyrna rushed towards him as the stocky man closed, taking the sword from his limp grasp and swinging it two-handed. The steel rang against the axe blade and something smacked across her face, sending her sprawling.
“What a hard head you have, Highness,” the stocky man observed, flexing his fingers and stepping closer. “Perhaps I’ll have it mounted.”
He grinned as he hefted his axe, then blanched as something looped over his head and tightened about his neck. His shout choked to a crack as he was jerked from his feet, eyes bulging, the axe falling from his grasp as he clutched at the rope. Lyrna got to her feet, spitting blood, seeing a muscular, curly-haired young man dragging the stocky assassin away. The young man gathered the rope with quick, skilful jerks of his brawny arms, the stocky man’s feet drumming the earth as he was drawn backwards. When he had the assassin at his feet the young man placed a boot on his neck and tightened the rope further, his face like a mask the whole while. The stocky man’s choking rasps faded after a few seconds.
Lyrna went to Iltis, finding him pale from blood loss and barely conscious. “My thanks, soldier,” she told the muscular young man as he approached. “Please, my lord needs a healer . . .”
She frowned when he didn’t respond, moving towards her without pause, his face still absent any expression. “What . . . ?”
He moved too fast for her to dodge away, large powerful hands gripping her shoulders and drawing her close. She stared into his eyes as they roamed over her scars, seeing only a blank sense of purpose. “Hurt,” he said and enfolded her in his arms, crushing her against the hard muscle of his chest.
And she burned.