REECA and RHYS TORLIN, misfit siblings of the Narfalk royal family, have to escape when Reeca is accused of murdering the Queen. On the run, the siblings dodge soldiers from city to city until one misstep leads them into another trap. Now, they have...
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Rhys swung his blade, drawing blood but not enough to kill. He ducked, rolled, and lunged until his muscles burned and his inexperience in fighting in cramped spaces or with any melee weapons showed. The soldiers all had years of training under their belt while most of the miners had were years of swinging pickaxes against walls of stone.
"Korr! Where were the others?" Rhys yelled into the fray, diving from another sword being swung towards his neck. "There were fewer with you here!"
A grunt and a clang later, Korr's garbled voice echoed in the dim light. "I sent them ahead!" he said. "Those who could fight were left!"
Rhys swept his gaze around. Past the flickering light from the torches thrown to the ground which weren't still snuffed, he counted at least ten miners still swinging their pickaxes around. There were at least twice the number of soldiers. It'd be impossible to deal with them especially if the miners couldn't strike to kill.
"Where's Nornel?" Rhys asked. It was getting harder and harder to weave through the mess of arms, swinging blades, and stomping feet without getting mauled by accident. It's a miracle nobody had hit their comrades yet. "Have him lead everyone to exist. Focus on running. I can deal with the soldiers from the rear!"
"Got it, Rhys!" Nornel's weak voice floated through the crowd. "Everybody, run! We'll keep these turds off your backs! Go! The others should have made it there!"
More boots scratched against the dusty floors. Thankfully, there wasn't any groundwater breaking through the bedrock. Otherwise, they would have another problem to deal with. They didn't need the ground to be slick with mud, not when it was supposed to be sloping up.
Rhys gritted his teeth. Just a few more distances and they'd be free. Ilphar could eat the dust they'd shake off their soles after all this. With newfound strength, Rhys dove into the chaos once again. His blade glinted in the harsh orange light as he helped a man with nothing but a blunt stick. The pickaxe's head must have broken off. Rhys drove his leg into the soldier's stomach and pushed the miner forward. "Go," he whispered. The miner appeared to have understood. He gave Rhys a quick nod before scuffling away and disappearing into the darkness beyond.
Korr sent two more miners in the same direction before a sword slashed across his back. A cry died somewhere in Rhys's throat. He lunged forward with half a mind, slashing his dagger against the soldier's wrist. The sword clattered to the ground just as Korr fell forward on his knees. "Korr! Get a hold of yourself, man!" Rhys screamed. He raised his dagger to block another sword aimed for them.
"Aye, in a while," Korr grumbled, pressing a hand against his wound. Magic curled from his fingertips, seeping into his skin. "Just need to catch my breath, lad."
Rhys rolled aside, running his dagger against another soldier's ankle. More screams of pain and clicks of tongue in annoyance rang in the tunnel. He scrambled back when another whish of metal sped for him. A hand closed around his arm and pulled him away.
