The Damned King

Book 3: The Eidyn Saga

by Justin Lee Anderson

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Dark Fantasy

Synopsis

The revolution continues in the thrilling third novel of Justin Lee Anderson’s epic Eidyn Saga, perfect for fans of Anthony Ryan and David Gemmell.

The eternal light keeping demons at bay has been extinguished and Eidyn’s last bastion is under brutal siege. Aranok and his allies draw the final battle lines as the war for the kingdom nears its end. With death threatening from every shadow and truth itself at stake, Eidyn’s defenders must put aside their grudges and come together. But is it possible to save everyone when some prefer the lie?

“An eclectic cast of characters traverse a war-ravaged kingdom as Anderson's cleverly constructed plot winds its way towards a truly unexpected denouement. Rich in action and intrigue, this fantasy adventure with a Scottish flavor is sure to please fans of David Gemmell.” – Anthony Ryan, New York Times bestselling author​

For more from Justin Lee Anderson, check out:

The Lost War
The Bitter Crown

Release date: August 19, 2025

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 480

Sample

I sit back down and place the old boy’s mug in front of him, a dribble of foam sliding down the side. His eyes glint with a mix of excitement and intoxication. He’s less careful now. Less fearful. The beer has bolstered him. He’s forgotten that he should be scared.

“Slàinte mhath.” He raises the drink and knocks it gently against my own before dousing his dirty moustache in foam.

He’s yet to tell me his name, I realise. And it’s too late to ask. We’ve been chatting for too long. Asking would be awkward. Forced. Suspicious. So I leave it. He’ll tell me or he won’t. It doesn’t matter.

Having knocked back at least half the mug in one drawn-out swallow, he clunks the mug back down and smiles gratefully. “So, where were we?” His eyes go to the dark ceiling as if looking for a record of all he’s told me so far. “Aranok, Allandria, Samily and Mynygogg had to get out of Dun Eidyn, right? But Auldun was still full of Dead and Aranok had made a mess of the Crosscauseway to hold them off when they were fighting the big lizard demon the night before.

“So Aranok—’cause he’s got his memory back proper now—he uses his magic to pull a whole new bridge out the water! Just grows it right from the mud at the bottom of the Nor Loch! Can you imagine?” He raises his arms reverentially, eyes wide, as if seeing the thing happen in my place. “Something, right?”

“Something,” I agree, and lift my drink.

“So they get to Auldun, but the Crosscauseway gets wrecked in the process, ’cause the new bridge unsettled the ground, like. That’s why it collapsed. Nowt to do wi’ age, like they say.” He says the last sentence in a dramatic hush, as though revealing a great secret. But I’ve seen Auldun. Seen the destruction, and what’s been made of it. I’ve heard more stories about what happened there than I can count, including variations on this one. When I don’t offer him the wonder he’s hoping for, he seems to take it as a challenge.

“Now, they’re in a hurry to get back to Traverlyn, since Rasa was going there before going to Janaeus, and if she does that, he’ll ken they’ve been snooping into things and…” He opens his hands, as if the threat is clear.

“So they make it out of Auldun, find their horses back at the White Hart and ride. Hard. Barely sleeping; chased by demons. They make it in a few days. But too late.

“Rasa and Meristan—who’s no a monk, by the way, but a White Thorn; the White Thorn, only he doesnae ken it—have ridden off for Haven that morning. So they sort out a few folk’s memories—mainly Nirea’s, who it turns out is no just an old pirate, but the queen.”

A long pause and he takes another drink. He wants to see my astonishment. I raise an eyebrow, frown and nod slowly. The couple to our right are deep in conversation about the price of meat. Complaining. The man lowers his voice when he realises we’ve stopped speaking. Glances at us uncomfortably. The old boy’s oblivious. Licks his teeth, preparing for what’s coming.

“They also get one of Aranok’s old masters: Balaban, who helped them before, aye? And he works out who must’ve killed Conifax, because there’s a master called Rotan, who isnae a master at all! So they chuck him in the gaol.” He leans in and says the next bit under his breath. “Though Aranok would have killed him, given the chance. Right?”

“I can see that,” I agree. He smiles. Leans back. Eyes now roam the room, but not in a suspicious way. Like he’s just… sizing up the place. As if it belongs to him, and all these folk are his guests.

“Anyway, they’re in a hurry to get after the others, but they’re knackered, so they also get the principal of the university, Keft, who’s an energy draoidh. He gives Aranok and Samily the energy to keep on.

“Now, up ahead, Meristan and Rasa arrive at Lestalric, because, see, before they left, your boy Rotan had slipped them a letter—said it was from Keft—to deliver to the Baroness de Lestalric on their way to the Nor Loch ferry. Course, it wasnae that at all.

“Truth was, the baroness was Shayella, the necromancer from the Hellfire Club, who’d been fighting the war with Janaeus and Anhel Weyr. Meristan wakes up in the night and finds Rasa’s missing, and when he goes searching for her, he finds Shayella in the basement, wi’ her daughter—who’s Dead. Like, no dead dead, y’know: Dead. Not dead. And they’ve got the old messenger, Darginn Argyll, strapped to a board wi’ his legs cut off.”

His face turns serious. Grave. As if he’s not sure he can say what’s coming next. But the hesitation passes quickly. “She’d been feeding him to the girl. Keep her from rotting. Did you know that was a thing they could do?”

“I didn’t,” I answer. And I feel a moment of repulsion. It’s not just blasphemous, but… inhuman. If it’s true.

“Aye. But thankfully, Aranok and Samily had a warning about all this, from a wee stable boy back in Traverlyn. So him and Samily show up and between the three of them—after Aranok gives Meristan his memory back—they kill a load of Dead and take Shayella and her daughter. They find Rasa inside one o’ them Thakhati cocoons, and Samily turns her body back to normal, but she doesnae wake up. Oh, and Samily also heals the messenger! But… the boy’s a mess up here.” He taps his head. Nods knowingly.

“Next day, they all head back to Traverlyn, and on the way, Aranok gets a story out of Shayella. Turns out she went bad after some local bairns drowned her daughter for being a ‘witch,’ which she wasnae. Her ma was draoidh, but no her. Drowned her. And nothing came of it. I mean, what could they do? Gaol a bunch of kids? Or their parents? But that drove her mad, see. Losing her wee girl like that. Which is why she brought her back. And for a’ that, she started the Blackening. Used to live in Lepertoun, see? Started it there.

“So all that means that suddenly Aranok’s protecting her, right? ’Cause he feels guilty about her daughter dying, and him and Mynygogg not having done enough to change things for draoidhs. Which means, when they get back to Traverlyn…” A dramatic pause, as if he wants me to finish his sentence. “Massive fight. Aranok, Allandria, Mynygogg and Nirea all get into it, ’cause Aranok says he won’t let them kill her, and Mynygogg says they should do, just for what she’s done, but also because it might cure the Blackening—though they’re no sure about that.

“In the end, Allandria takes Aranok’s side despite the fact Nirea’s asked her to be the new queen’s envoy. It’s a mess. But they work it out. Aranok insists he can get the heart of devastation off Janaeus if he pretends to still be under the spell, and Mynygogg sends Nirea with him. They also take a master called Dialla, who’s another energy draoidh, and Darginn Argyll, who’s from Haven.

“At the same time, Mynygogg and Allandria head for the Reiver Lands, ’cause the king reckons they need peace with the Reiver council to stop that becoming another war. Meristan travels with them, ’cause he’s going to Baile Airneach to get the White Thorns onside. And Samily’s remembered that a landlord in Dail Ruigh said something about a memory draoidh, so she and Rasa, who they sorted out with the help of another master, go to look for them.”

He stops for another large drink and takes a deep breath as if steeling himself before diving in again. As he does, I realise the couple at the next table haven’t spoken a word to each other in a while. She gives him a surreptitious look. They’ve been listening. Do I need to worry about that? If they suddenly get up to leave, maybe we need to do something. For the moment, I let the old boy carry on.

“So, I’ll take them one at a time, right?”

I nod. “Sensible.”

“Aranok and his lot get to Greytoun in the middle of a big party for the lairds, and on the way in, he manages to clear the memory of the head of the kingsguard, boy called Leondar, who’s out guarding the gate for some reason. Aranok, Nirea and Dialla go into the party, and Aranok gets Janaeus alone. He’s all for pretending he’s under the spell still, but Janaeus already knows he’s not. He’s figured it out. But turns out, he was actually trying to be helpful by stopping the war, and somehow Aranok convinces him to help put everything back. Because the big news is… the relic’s gone. After using it, Janaeus says he destroyed it—chucked it in the sea. So they can’t use that to clear everyone’s memories. But still, Aranok’s got Janaeus on their side.

“Except, when he goes back out, Nirea doesnae believe him. Or at least, she doesnae believe Janaeus. And she and Mynygogg had their own plan. She orders Dialla to kill Janaeus. Which she does, right there in the room. And, well… that goes straight to Hell. Absolute shitstorm. Massive fight. Couple of draoidhs, loads of demon guards, because Anhel Weyr’s in the castle too. Several folk killed, but the three of them get away with help from Leondar. They run back to Darginn Argyll’s house—where Aranok lays into Nirea for killing Janaeus. She says Janaeus was probably lying, and he’s already sent them into a trap that killed Glorbad. They’re properly at each other’s throats.

“But before they run from Haven, ’cause every guard in the town’s after them now, Aranok reckons they have to try to get the head messenger onside. So three of them—Aranok, Nirea and Darginn—go to see Madu at Havenport. And they tell her everything. But…”

Another raised finger. A new reveal is coming.

“That’s a mistake. Because she’s been working with Janaeus! And she tricks them into giving up their only memory charm, which she chucks in the sea. Then she tells them that if she dies, she’s got contracts with assassins that’ll kill folk they love!” He opens his hands, eyes wide. “What do they do?

“Turns out, they don’t get a choice, because when Darginn realises she sent him to Shayella, knowing what would happen to him, he goes mental and all but cuts off her head.

“So they run from Haven, along with Darginn’s whole family. Nirea agrees to take them all back to Traverlyn, except Aranok insists he’s going to Mournside to warn his family. Now they’re properly in the shite, right? Because they’ve not got the relic or a memory charm. So on the way home, Aranok literally digs up his old friend Korvin to get the charm he was buried with.” Another deep breath, and he lets it out slowly to demonstrate how dramatic I should find that. In fairness, it sounds bloody awful.

“Anyway, that means when he gets back to his folks, he can not only warn them about these assassins, but clear their memories too. And his mum’s fine, but his dad—doesnae go well. Refuses to believe Aranok. Reckons he’s the one under a spell, right? And when Aranok just forces the charm on him, he goes mental. Chucks Aranok out the house, the whole lot.

“As it happens, there’s a messenger setting up in Mourning Square. He announces that Anhel Weyr has taken the throne and blamed Aranok for killing Janaeus, along with every laird at that party—who somehow ended up burned to death.”

He’s implying King Anhel Weyr murdered the Lairds’ Council. I glance right. The couple still aren’t talking.

“So Aranok realises things are even worse than he thought, and heads back for Traverlyn. So that’s that story. The others are shorter.”

I sincerely hope so.

“First of all, Mynygogg, Allandria and Meristan run into a fight between soldiers and some Reiver spies on the way south. They try to intervene, but it goes to Hell anyway, and folk die on both sides. But Meristan has stood with the Reivers, along with another Thorn that was originally with the soldiers, and that’s a problem. So the two of them ride off for Baile Airneach in a hurry. And ’cause they helped them, the Reivers agree to take Allandria and Mynygogg to Calcheugh, to see the Reiver council. When they get there, though, it’s no a meeting that’s waiting for them, but a trial! Mynygogg’s to be tried for breaking their peace treaty. In the end, the council votes three to three, meaning trial by combat. But when Mynygogg offers to sacrifice himself to prevent any more killing, the council chief changes his mind and agrees to give Mynygogg a chance to take back Eidyn.

“Meanwhile, Meristan gets back to Baile Airneach and manages to somehow convince them he’s not just a monk, but while he’s there, a load of soldiers show up from Gardille, intent on arresting them. Meristan tells them that he’s on a secret mission from the king—though he doesnae say which king.” The old boy gives a sly wink. “So the general leaves, saying he’ll be back if that’s no true. Meristan sends folk out to gather other Thorns, so he can take as many as he can back to Traverlyn before the general finds out he’s no exactly telling the truth and comes back!

“And finally… Samily and Rasa. They manage to track down the memory draoidh in Dail Ruigh eventually—a woman called Quellaria. She doesnae want to help, but they basically tie her up and force her to come with them.”

He sits back and stretches, as if he’s been wrestling this mad tale from his chest, and his shoulders have taken the strain. I’ve all but lost track of half of it, and I’m more concerned with the couple next to us. I’m going to have to deal with them. Just need to decide how. And when. After the old boy lets out a creak like a rusty well handle, he settles in and slugs back another big gulp of beer. A raised eyebrow tells me it’s almost time for another. But first, he launches back into the story.

“So everyone’s headed back for Traverlyn. Nirea gets there first, followed by Aranok. When he arrives… massive fight. He’s still angry; she’s not budging. Then Mynygogg and Allandria get back and there’s more arguing about what to do with Shayella. Aranok’s adamant they can’t kill her. Then Samily and Rasa get back and… it gets proper messy. Because they’ve discovered that the Thakhati outside Traverlyn have been turning the Blackened into more Thakhati. And Samily is not happy they let that happen. So she goes to kill Shayella herself, but Aranok arrives just as she does it, and he attacks her! Samily beats him using her time skill but cuts off his hands in the process. Then Allandria shows up, makes her restore Aranok’s hands and takes him off. He’s an absolute mess.

“Good news, though: Killing Shayella has ended the Blackening! That’s how it really went away.

“But Samily’s been reminded of all the Blackened on the Auld Road that now need help, and of course, there’s Vastin, who’s been in the hospital all along! Thanks to a neat trick Master Balaban cooks up, they manage to transfer the curse from Morienne—the woman from Lepertoun—to Samily, making her immune to the Blackening, so she can heal Vastin and all the other Blackened. So she heads off to do that with Morienne and Dialla.

“But then, another twist.” The last drops of beer are drained, and the hollow thunk of the empty mug back on the table is a little louder than before. He licks his lips clean, wipes his beard with the back of his hand. “While Aranok’s laid up, guards report that Rotan, the boy who killed Conifax, has been murdered—by Aranok! Allandria and Mynygogg talk to him, and Aranok realises what must have happened: Anhel Weyr’s got an illusionist assassin in Traverlyn!

“Now, here’s the important thing. The only reason Traverlyn’s been safe from the Thakhati—’cause they die in sunlight, right?—is this giant sphere on top of Traverlyn Kirk that Conifax had set up to store sun all day and let it out at night. Sunspire, they called it. Since Conifax died and Aranok was away, a wee student had been keeping it going, and, well, guess who else had been killed by the assassin?

“And it’s getting dark.”

He slaps his hands down on the table, and seems to surprise himself with the bang. The woman beside us chokes on a giggle and the man urgently picks up his drink to hide a smile.

It is a problem.

The old boy looks about and hunches forward, leaning on crossed arms. He probably thinks he’s whispering when he says:

“You surely want to hear the rest now, right?”

It began in silence.

The whisper of a crackling fire. The hush of the twilight breeze. The hammer of Aranok’s heart.

They waited in the vast, heavy quiet of inevitability.

No words of camaraderie. No encouraging smiles.

Just the coming dark.

Traverlyn was not made for a siege. Its people were academics, medics, artists and musicians. Many were elderly, or young. The bulk of the population were still hurriedly evacuating to inns, the hospital or the university. Anywhere they could huddle together against the horror.

But what they had were draoidhs.

Aranok, Keft, Opiassa, Macwin and a few other masters, as well as some senior students. Three more physic draoidhs. Six more nature.

Aranok’s skin itched with the energy boost Keft had given him to burn the opium out of his system. He clenched and unclenched fists, shuffled from foot to foot. Allandria put a calming hand on his arm. With an illusionist assassin in Traverlyn, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight.

But there was no conversation. No easy banter. Nothing to say.

Hells, how they could have done with Dialla, Samily and Rasa. But there was every chance that was why Anhel’s assassin had struck. Because they were gone. Because Aranok was crippled.

They’d discussed, in the bare twilight hours, mounting a major defence here at the southern road into town—of summoning the Guard, digging a pit, setting shield walls. None of it would have worked. The Thakhati would not fight like an army. They were a swarm. They would come from every angle. Hunt like wolves. They could handle a few. Small numbers. But if what Rasa had told Mynygogg was right, that there were hundreds, maybe thousands, waiting in the trees…

They’d harvested the Blackened. He didn’t have time to think on that now. How all those people he’d thought waiting to be saved were gone. How Shay’s death had meant nothing for them. They were already lost.

The nature draoidhs could try to keep them out, using the natural wall that surrounded the town to hold and entrap them, but there weren’t enough of them to defend the whole perimeter. That too was a doomed strategy.

Instead, the Guard were sent to organise the evacuation. Get everyone off the streets. Lamplighters were roused for the first time in weeks, asked to set not only torches, but bonfires anywhere they could be made. They needed as much light, as much flame as the town could muster. As much energy.

Their only hope was not to win, but to survive. Come morning, come sunrise, the Thakhati would be forced back into cocoons. But standing there, watching the last of the purple sky fade to black, morning felt like another country.

When the last light dipped below the horizon, the chattering began. Like stone screaming in hunger. Like death.

“Are we really doing this?” Allandria whispered.

“We are.” Aranok tried to sound reassuring. The truth was, some of the fourteen gathered on that little hillock would be dead by sunup. But this tactic, mad as it had sounded when he’d come up with it, was going to give them their best chance. “Everybody ready?”

Keft’s face was ashen, but he nodded silently, staring across the open field.

“As I’ll ever be,” said Macwin, with a smile that seemed a little too genuine. Others made noises of agreement. Opiassa slapped one of her giant pauldrons. The physic draoidhs stood at least seven foot tall and about as wide, each carrying a war hammer too large for any normal human to bear. They, at least, were prepared for battle. Opiassa took her role as head of security seriously. Apparently, she’d had the outsize armour and weapons forged during the Hellfire War. It glinted in the firelight like virgin snow.

They were ready. They had to be.

Aranok turned to Macwin. “All right. Let them in.”

The nature draoidh raised his arms, and the enormous wall of trees, bushes and vines parted like a theatrical curtain, exposing a pitch-black void. For a moment, the chattering slowed—curious. Wary.

Then it burst to a crescendo as a wave of grey claws came shrieking through the gap.

My God.

“Draw them in, but keep them back!” Aranok already needed to shout over the havoc.

Allandria nocked an arrow. “That makes no sense.”

“I know.”

Two new walls of trees grew toward them on either side of the Thakhati horde, funnelling them toward the draoidhs. It only served to heighten their frenzy. Aranok felt his guts twist in horror as they came roaring across the grass. Nobody could stand in the face of that carnage and not feel their certainty shudder beneath them. They had to slow but not stop the flood.

“Sgàineadh!” Aranok raised his arms wide as a trench opened before them and Thakhati poured in.

Screeching, furious, they rolled into the pit, clambering over each other to reach their prey. One crawled up over the edge and was met with a blow from a war hammer that all but took its head off. It sunk back into the morass, which only increased in frenzy as they ripped the wounded demon apart. Another breached the lip and got the same. Several were trying to climb the tree walls now, but vines twisted and contorted to hold them down. Still they poured through the gate. Easily hundreds. Could already be a thousand. Rasa hadn’t exaggerated.

The pit was filling. In moments, they’d start pouring out and into the town.

“Keft! Now!” Aranok called.

A burst of energy from the principal punched the Thakhati back, shattering them into each other. They tussled amongst themselves briefly, paused and came again.

“Balla na talamh!” The near edge of the pit rose from the earth, trapping those trying to climb out. For now.

“Opiassa!” Aranok pointed to each side. The four physic draoidhs split, each pair taking a side to patrol against Thakhati making it out of the pit.

Allandria pointed to the gate in the natural wall. “Fucking Hell, they’re still coming.”

They were. And they needed all of them. But God in Hell, they weren’t slowing.

The morass closed in again, pushed by the sheer pressure of numbers. They were in less of a hurry, but still they came, grating, snarling.

A cry, from somewhere in the middle. High-pitched. Painful enough it made Aranok lift his hands to his ears. And they all stopped. No more frenzy. Barely a sound at all beyond the scrape of their skin against itself. They crouched, all down on their six limbs, except one.

One stood proud of the simmering fury, upper arms raised. A leader? They’d seen behaviour like this before, but not on this scale.

“Does that look like…?” Allandria left the question hanging.

“A general,” Aranok finished. “Creag.” He tore a chunk of rock from the wall and hurled it at the leader. The monster screamed again and a wave of Thakhati raised before him, taking the hit—crushed under it.

Fuck.

The general lifted its arms wide. Another screech—and the horde parted like liquid. They made en masse for the side trees, clambering up the new walls that penned them in.

“Envoy!” Macwin called. “We can’t hold them all!”

He was right. They were beginning to break over the pit wall too. Opiassa’s physics were in danger of being overrun. It had to be now.

“Right. Stand close.” The others pulled in tight around him. “Colbh talmhainn.” A pillar of earth rose beneath them, lifting them up just as a pair of Thakhati were scrambling close. Keft punched them back with a burst of energy. The pillar took them up twenty feet. Well above the reach of the Thakhati. But they would just go on past, into the town. They were still pouring through the gap. It wasn’t all of them. But Aranok had waited as long as he could.

He lifted his hand high. “Cover your eyes!

“Spreadhadh!”

The sunstone exploded in light. Thakhati screamed.

“God almighty!” Allandria yelled over the noise of the dying things. It was the awful sound of rage and death, of creatures cursing their gods, whatever twisted nightmares they might be.

In a moment, it was done. The field before them was a smoking mass of singed stone. But still—there was movement. Here and there, a wriggle, a shudder of limbs. Some had survived, shielded by the bodies of others. And in the distance, in the dark: chattering.

“Macwin, close it!” Aranok ordered.

The draoidh gestured and the gate he’d opened in the tree wall stitched itself together, shutting what was left of the monsters outside. For now.

He pointed to the field of corpses. “Opiassa! Finish them!” The physic master gave a gesture of salute. Aranok dropped the earth wall back into the pit, crushing anything left alive inside, he hoped. It didn’t quite give the physic draoidhs a solid footing to cross, but they didn’t need it. Each of them made the leap across with what seemed relative ease, and stalked the field, hammering the life out of anything that moved.

Aranok lowered the pillar back down. “That was it. That was our one shot.” He held out the dead sunstone. “Now it’s a street fight.”

“Who the fuck are you!?”

Nirea pinned the woman to the red brick wall, forearm across her neck, wary of her hands.

“For God’s sake, put Brode down!” Egretta tugged at her arm. “She can’t answer if you’re choking her!”

Brode? The name wasn’t familiar. The woman had smiled at her. Said “Hello again, Majesty” and reached into her apron.

It was the again that did it. A pretence at familiarity. She did not know this woman.

Mynygogg had burst into their chamber what seemed like minutes ago but must have been an hour. Maybe two. Raving. Manic. He couldn’t explain himself until, in what seemed more like desperation than love, he’d kissed her passionately. She’d thought his mind lost until he explained what Aranok had claimed—that Rotan’s murderer was an illusionist assassin. Mynygogg had to be sure she was herself, and safe, which was sweet. His first thought had been to find her. Even as king, his instincts were for Nirea.

That had been minor succour when they realised the sunspire had not begun to shine as the light faded over Traverlyn. At first, it had seemed so normal. The sun sinking into the trees as dusk settled like a blanket of peace. It was when she reached for a candle, she’d realised.

It should not be dark.

Fretting over the assassin was lost to absolute panic over the Thakhati outside town. Aranok had sent a runner with news that the student maintaining the sunspire had also been murdered—and she had no reason to suspect him of that. They were formulating a plan to defend the hospital when this woman had approached her.

Anyone could be an assassin now. Anyone.

But that didn’t mean everyone. Egretta was insistent that the woman was innocent. Nirea relaxed her arm, allowing the medic to take a breath. “Please, Majesty,” she panted, “I only brought this.” A tear trickled down her nose. “I thought you may need more.”

From the apron, Brode produced a small tub, and Nirea remembered. This was the woman who’d brought lotion for Quellaria’s wrists. She’d been so distracted, so focused on Quell that she’d barely looked the woman in the eye. Gods, she’d handled this badly. She was jumpy. Paranoid.

Fuck!

“I’m sorry, I…” What could she say? They couldn’t go around announcing that they knew about an illusionist assassin to every medic in the building—one of them could be the very person they were worried about. And then the assassin would be warned. More careful. “There is a lot happening.” That would have to do. For now, they needed to secure the hospital. She released Brode completely, stroking her shoulder in passing, as if that would make a difference. The assassin was only looking for them, probably. They’d killed Rotan and the draoidh girl. She couldn’t think who else would be a target now. Just her, Gogg, Aranok and Allandria, likely. They might be after the book too. The thing that would help prove the truth. Maybe.

She’d told Egretta, though. The senior medic needed to know there could be an assassin in her hospital. She knew her staff. Would know if one of them behaved oddly. She’d just had to make sure that the old matron was herself, first. A brief conversation, quizzing her over their arrival and the events she’d been witness to since was enough. The two of them were working together to organise the staff and patients, while Gogg went with Leondar to help people get inside. It was a large building, but solid. It could, perhaps, keep out the Thakhati. More so than many of the houses in Traverlyn.

They had so little time.

Brode wiped her eye, bowed and backed away. Nirea had done nothing for her reputation as a benevolent queen. In fact, it was the second time she’d treated Brode badly, and the woman had deserved neither. A problem for later. The more immediate problem was Egretta’s fucking stupid plan.

“We can’t put all the patients in the lecture hall.”

Egretta frowned. “Not all, obviously. Some cannot be moved and—”

“No,” Nirea cut her off. “They stay where they are. We lock their rooms.”

The medic’s eyes opened in a mix of ire and surprise. “I can’t take care of them all if we can’t move around the building!”

The central lecture hall was where much of the hospital’s teaching occurred. It was the biggest single room