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Joss ventured down the hill, coming to a rocky shore where the river was rushing past. Stepping across some boulders that made a footpath, she looked around and found nothing but trees and water, the blue sky reflected off the passing current.
Dropping to her knees, she unscrewed the cap and bent over, dipping the canteen into the water, which instantly filled. Placing the cap back on, she had just gotten to her feet when she looked up and found a man staring at her a short distance off the rocky shoreline. Her face slowly fell, seeing immediately who it was.
“You should have let me help you,” Master Greyson called out, strolling forward.
Joss took in a sharp breath, facing her mistake. She had completely forgotten about him. She was used to being around people who despised her, so his attitude was nothing she hadn’t dealt with before, which was exactly why she brushed it off, discarding it completely. But now, she had to give in to her embarrassment of seeing that he had the upper hand. The sound of the river would drown out any chance of calling for help. Callan might hear them, but the attack would already be underway.
Facing the inevitable, Joss picked her way across the boulders, keeping an eye on the fellow executioner who moved along with her. “I gather you were the one who told the patrol about us?” she called out, keeping her pace slow and deliberate while hoping someone else could hear her.
“It’s a very nice reward they’re offering.” Master Greyson smiled, as if they were old friends. “I followed behind to make sure of it, but then I found the patrol empty-handed. That’s when I realized a greater reward was to be had.”
“And what’s that?” Joss asked, eyeing the hill, hoping their voices would somehow be overheard.
“A pardon.”
Joss stopped, reaching the rocky shore. The words halted her, that same desire igniting in her chest.
“For saving the Prince Royal, I’ll be pardoned from my duties.” Master Greyson raised his arms, as if he was already exalted, his smile enlarging. “I’ll be free. I just need you to get the hell out of my way.”
Joss stared at him, not sure what to do. He stopped just in the way of her making a run for it, and she cursed herself for not bringing a weapon, something she knew better than to do. “I wouldn’t be in the way,” she corrected, though she couldn’t lie to herself that the jealousy of being pardoned, even as an idea, was breathing down her neck.
“It’s easier if one executioner helps him,” Master Greyson began to explain, as if she were a child. “The likelihood of being pardoned is greater if there aren’t two of us. And to be frank, you don’t deserve it. Your family is an embarrassment, between your sister being a witch and that brother of yours who got himself killed for being unable to execute properly—not to mention that other one who ran off. Sounds like he had the better idea.” He laughed then, seeing how her face was hardening. “With all that and breaking our oath, your family doesn’t deserve it. Me, on the other hand, I’ll finally be granted the freedom my family is rightfully owed.”
Her pulse pounded in her ears, the anger rising. Let’s get this over with, a voice whispered to her, causing her feet to move. Her vision narrowed, much like it did when Elora Tansy was underneath her boot heel, that same anger coming back. Not very often did she let her anger lead her into action, but Henrik’s captors were an exception. Master Greyson would have to be another one.
Master Greyson strolled forward, in position to grab her if she tried to dart around him. Not hesitating, Joss walked up to him and swung, the edge of the canteen striking him in the neck. The executioner staggered back, coughing, allowing Joss an opening to run. But as she moved, his hand snatched her wrist, yanking her off balance. The rocks under her feet shifted at the sudden jerk and she fell to her knees. He jerked her around, and she swung again, using the canteen to hit him repeatedly, snapping his head to the side with each blow. She got a good couple strikes in before he lunged at her, throwing her backwards onto the ground, the canteen slipping from her hand.
While Joss was stronger than he thought, years of wielding an ax giving her a certain amount of strength most women didn’t have, Master Greyson was still stronger. He had been in plenty of fights, had swung an ax years before Joss was even born. All of it had helped give him the upper hand when he was able—after several attempts and taking a few hits to his face—to use one hand to clasp her throat.
“You don’t think someone has tried all this before?” he snarled with a laugh, spitting out blood while his other hand dug into his pocket, producing a small vial with red liquid in it.
Seeing the vile, Joss felt the panic rising, her body thrashing as she tried to free herself.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” Master Greyson grinned. “Made this one just for you.”
Joss tried to scream as she clawed at him, his grip never lessening.
“Say ‘hi’ to your father for me.” He used his teeth to uncork the vial. His other hand was suddenly on her mouth, squeezing her cheeks, making her lips part. Joss gritted her teeth, seething and hissing as she pulled at his hand, tried to hit and scratch at his arm, his head, anything.
Pouring the liquid into her mouth, Master Greyson tossed the vial and used his free fist to punch her in the side. The sudden hit caused Joss to involuntarily gasp, her mouth opening, the red liquid flowing down her throat. At first she choked, coughing, and as he held her down, she could feel the liquid moving into her stomach.
“There, there,” he sang, chuckling as he pretended to soothe her. Then he heard something, and looking up, his face twisted into a morphed version of shock and disgust. He flung himself up onto his feet, releasing Joss who rolled over, coughing.
“You’re too late,” the executioner laughed as Henrik charged him, too busy running to grab his dagger as he shoved Master Greyson backwards to keep him away from Joss.
“What did you do?!” Henrik demanded as Callan came forward from behind.
Grabbing Henrik by the shoulder, Callan directed him to Joss without breaking eye contact with Master Greyson. “Go check on her,” he instructed while approaching the deathsman.
Henrik glared at the deathsman but did what he was told, running over and finding Joss had rolled over onto her side, sticking her fingers down her throat and trying to vomit. “What’s wrong?” he asked, seeing how hard she was breathing, the veins in her neck becoming pronounced. When he forced her to look at him, he found her pupils were dilated, the whites of her eyes turning pink.
“Charcoal,” she choked out.
Henrik’s mind narrowed in on that word, and suddenly he was up and running, almost barreling into Aric who had just reached them, crossbow in hand. “What’s happened?” he asked as Henrik brushed past him.
“She’s been poisoned!” Henrik yelled as he raced up the hill.
The words hit him as he ran to Joss, dropping his crossbow and kneeling at her side, watching as she tried to dry heave. By how she was laying, he half-held her, moving her hair away from her face that matted against her cheek from sweat. That's when he saw the veins in her neck, the way she was breathing, her body convulsing in trying to get air in.
"No," he was mumbling, rejecting the idea that she was dying as he pulled her into his arms, looking down into her face. Her eyes were bloodshot, enhancing her honey-gold stare that would have looked beautiful under different circumstances. He watched helplessly as she clawed at her chest, and that’s when he saw how red her knuckles were, as if she had struck something.
“I’m right here, Jocelyn. Don’t you dare die on me,” Aric begged her, not knowing how to help. Poison had never been his forte, and at that moment he wished he had paid more attention to the art so he could have counteracted it somehow.
As he kept talking to her, impatiently waiting for Henrik, he glanced at Callan who was stalking the man who had been following them. Aric noticed how the side of the man's face was marred with scratches and red welts, and he put the pieces together. The man spit out blood, and Aric knew it was from when Joss hit him, hard enough it might have dislodged a tooth or caused him to bite his cheek.
Good girl, he commended, proud of the woman who was dying in his arms.
“I’m a better asset,” Master Greyson explained, taking a step back, a gesture caused by Callan’s aggressiveness as he continued toward him. “All I ask is that you pardon me. Pardon me, Your Highness, and I’ll help you get home.”
“You want a pardon? After what you’ve done?” Callan questioned, coming out low and sharp.
“Believe me, Your Highness. I did her a favor.” Master Greyson smiled, and for a second Aric wanted to tear that smile off his face with his own hands.
But even Aric didn’t see it coming: Callan’s fist collided right into Master Greyson’s jaw, snapping his head to the side and causing the man to collapse. The whole act had been perfect, and Aric winced at how good that blow was, impressed by the delivery. Dazed, Master Greyson grabbed something from behind his back, and as he drew the revolver up, Callan was right there, striking him in the forearm before backhanding him in the face. The gun fell from his grasp as the man fell backwards, Callan kicking the gun away and standing over the man who was moaning where he lay.
Aric was pulled by the scene, his own adrenaline pumping until Henrik appeared, reminding him of where he was needed.
Grabbing the canteen that was dropped, Henrik knelt next to Joss, unscrewing the lid and setting it next to him. He then proceeded to unbundle the wrapping around a small glass jar, revealing black powder inside. Aric watched him work as he poured the black powder into the canteen, shaking it vigorously to mix it.
“Lift her up. I need her to drink this,” Henrik explained.
Aric reached around Joss and lifted her, cradling her in his arms, which was difficult given how much she was jerking around, having a hard time breathing.
As Henrik poured the contents into Joss’s mouth, who half-gulped, half-choked it down, Aric heard a sharp crack split the air. His eyes diverted to Callan, finding to his dismay how hard—and often—he was hitting the man. His back was to them as he crouched down, one fist holding up the man by his collar while the other kept hitting him. Aric wasn’t sure when he picked up the rock, or how many of those punches included it.
Joss coughed in his arms, pulling his attention back to her. “Is she going to be okay?” he asked Henrik, who looked just as worried.
“Hopefully,” he stated, though Aric caught his hands shaking as he put the lids back on the canteen and jar. “It’s what we use when we come across poison victims. It works but it varies on how long it can take. She may be fine in a couple hours; may be sick for a couple days. I don’t know what he used, so it’s a guess.”
“But she’ll live.” Aric narrowed his eyes on the lad, needing reassurance.
Henrik nodded profusely. “Yeah, she will. We haven’t lost anyone yet with this treatment.”
Aric's shoulders sagged, the tension releasing. He looked down on Joss, her body shivering as sweat beaded along her forehead. Her eyes were closed and she was still wheezing a bit, but the choking and gasping had died down. “What was that stuff?” Aric asked above the grunts and yells of Callan, who was still pounding away in the background. He caught a glimpse of him, seeing a mess was being made, blood starting to splatter now.
“It’s charcoal that’s been treated by extreme heat and then powderized,” Henrik explained as he looked over his shoulder, realizing what was happening. “We—we made some that we gave to our neighbor, Hodgson, who gave it back to us for the journey.”
“I remember him,” Aric replied, recalling the man who had interrupted their dinner, back when Joss was the one caring for Aric. It was the same night he realized he was falling for her, a night that wouldn’t be easily forgotten.
Not wanting to be consumed by those memories, Aric followed Henrik’s gaze, finding Callan had stopped at last, sitting back on his heels exhausted. Even in the distance, they saw the blood all over the rocks.
Looking down on Joss, he wiped some of the sweat from her brow while gently saying, “Here, take her. I’ll go see what damage has been done.”
Sliding Joss into Henrik’s arms, Aric gave her one last sympathetic look before standing up and making his way to Callan, picking up the forgotten revolver as he went.
Blood was everywhere as Aric approached, finding a mangled corpse instead of a beaten man. Callan remained on his heels, covered in blood and breathing deeply from the exertion. The rock had dropped from his hand, blood dripping from his fingers.
“Is she okay?” Callan’s voice spoke up, almost relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted.
“She will be.” Aric crouched down onto one knee, assessing how fast it had all escalated. He had seen worse, he had to admit that. While he was a little leery of how far the prince could take things, he couldn’t lie to himself that he was glad to see that the man lying dead in front of him had been given a slow death.
“I better clean up,” Callan spoke up, coming to his feet. Aric remained where he was, watching as the prince strolled to a boulder that was at the edge of the river. He bent over and splashed the cold water on his face, gasping from the chill as he began to scrub the blood off his face and clothes.
Aric’s gaze then fell back on Joss and Henrik, finding that Joss was sitting up on her own now, pulling herself back together despite still looking ill. His eyes shifted back to Callan and then down to the body.
This death wasn’t about justice; it was passion-driven. Rage, even. He had lost himself to it, a buildup of something that unleashed itself on the man who was now just exposed bone and muscle and blood.
And Aric had a nagging suspicion that it was only a matter of time before the lost prince would lose it again.
