Anthony Ryan - Tower Lord

“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.