The Bastard (Darling #2) [complete]

Chapter Thirty

T H E   R E B E L S had continued to multiply as the king's charge fought them.

Where are they all coming from? Thatcher exasperatedly asked as he fought for his life.

He was running his horse through barricades of rebels as he swung his sword down at them, slicing several repeatedly and hearing their screams of pain. Feeling his sword cut through human flesh was not something he was used to, and he didn't think he'd ever find himself getting used to it. The feeling of it was grainy, almost, and way too incomprehensible for his brain to make sense of it.

After running through a barricade enough, he somehow found the courage to dismount from his horse to fight on his feet.

"What have I gotten myself into?!" he exclaimed as he brought his sword up to block a blow from an oncoming rebel.

The sound of metal clashing blended in with the other fights happening around him. Battle cries, grunts, and moanings of pain were drowning his ears. He came out on the excursion for one purpose only: to kill his father for all of his wrong-doings. Instead, he found himself in the middle of what appeared to be a war.

Thatcher was definitely not trained well enough for situations like that, and again, he only felt as if his father was to blame for not offering him the proper training.

He transported himself back into his fencing lessons. Although his sword was a lot heavier than the wooden tool used in practice, metal and all, it seemed to help him fight against his opponent better.

His opponent couldn't get more points than him.

King James would disapprove.

His opponent could not kill him.

Not before he killed the king first.

The several first steps and strikes the rebel made, Thatcher studied. It was a technique his instructor offered him. Oftentimes, the opponent would have telltale signs of when they are to strike. They would sometimes step forward before they striked, or would wind up backwards for far too long before they striked.

The crowned prince defended himself from death as he studied. For some odd reason, perhaps a lack of training, the rebel hopped a little before he slashed at the crowned prince. He found humor in the hop, because the rebel was so large and wore scary - or what was supposed to be scary - warpaint.

A big tough man... Hopping before making a move on his opponent... Like a little, innocent bunny.

He thought of taunting the rebel as he'd often done with his instructor and other students who he often studied with, but he quickly dismissed the thought - just as soon as it appeared in his head.

The rebel was not a friend. They were out for blood. The king's charge could not allow that. Thatcher would not allow that. If both King James and Thatcher died at the rebel attack - the trap he saw coming a mile away - then Dane would become king.