Page 5 of Their Witch Bride

Arlys clears his throat. “If we’re talking about finest specimens, mine was the winner there.”

“You made that prize up!” I accuse.

Suddenly, every hair on my body stands on end, and my breathing slows as my senses stretch out. We pull our horses to a halt, all of us aware that something is wrong, and look behind us, expecting a trick from the witches. To our shock, we see monsters racing toward us through the passage. Three sickly-green ogrish things with sharp teeth and sharp claws.

We’re off our horses in an instant, shifting into our wolf forms. We race past our men as they stop their horses, realizing that something’s wrong. I leap right onto the chest of one of the ogres and bite down into his shoulder as hard as I can, even though I’d been aiming for the throat. The creature screams, and blood fills my mouth.

I see Arlys get thrown, but he leaps off the ground and right back onto the beast. I’m trying to adjust, to reach his throat, when he makes a terrible wailing sound and seems to shrink beneath me. Something’s wrong. Jumping off, a whine slips from my throat as he continues to wail and… melt.

Fuck. That’s what’s happening. He’s melting. The other ogres are too.

I turn to see Queen Keeva Stone and two of her fellow witches with their hands outstretched. Their magic is melting the ogres into puddles before us. I can feel the ogres’ pain in their screams, but the sound becomes more gurgled until they’re nothing more than puddles of flesh, organs, and bones.

There are stories, far too many stories, of the ways the witches have killed our kind for more than a century. Being melted to death was among those stories, but our soldiers rarely talked about it. Now, I know why.

I shift back into my human self and rise from the ground, my two best friends beside me.

Queen Keeva Stone couldn’t be more than five feet tall, with a petite frame and jet-black hair. If she weren’t a witch, maybe one of our kind might find her exotic look attractive, but there’s nothing attractive about this woman. From the first time I met her, I sensed nothing but a dark soul, someone capable of cruelty, someone who enjoys what they do.

She smiles at me, and it sends a chill right down my spine. “It’s all taken care of, boys.”

Maybe she wants us to thank them, but we don’t. I would’ve rather killed the ogres in a fair battle. It might have ended in some injuries for me, but it’d be something I was proud of. Unlike that.

She and the women head back to their horses. We follow slowly after. Our men are silent, probably thinking of all the loved ones they lost to the battles with the witches and just how painfully those loved ones died.

Back on my horse, I look at my best friends. “And we’re going to be married to one of them,” I whisper softly.

The anger in Drogo’s face is impossible to ignore. “Not for long.”

THREE

Tara

It’s been a few days since my embarrassing moment with Edna. I’m not sure if she’s told anyone about it yet, but that’s the least of my problems. Today is a really important day. And I’m absolutely terrified about what’s going to happen, based on my terrible handle on my magic.

Which is why, even though my mom banned me from seeing the blacksmith while she’s gone, I’d come here anyway. I desperately needed someone to talk to before I went crazy.

“Princess Tara, what’s got you so down?” Baldemar, the blacksmith, asks as I lean against the wall, kicking the same rock back and forth with my foot. He’s clutching molten hot metal with his forging tongs, putting it back on the anvil and hammering the crap out of it every few seconds before studying it again.

He’s got that intense look in his eyes, the one he always gets when he’s working. I study him, trying not to notice that he’s aging and frail. His gray hair seems to be thinning on a daily basis, but he’s got it trimmed nearly down to his scalp, so it’s only noticeable in the front. Every time he strikes the sword on the anvil, the muscles on his huge arms strain and a vein in his neck leaps, speaking of his many years working hard as a blacksmith. Everything about him is familiar and comfortable, like my father, even though he’s changed so much from when I was a young child.

“Princess Tara?” he repeats, stopping his work and staring back at me.

I sigh, remembering his question. “I just sometimes wish I could figure out the key to making my magic work. To being someone… useful to my people.”

Baldemar holds up the metal, and nods to me. He’s a human, incapable of any magic, so when he makes special blades, I’m the only one who can help. I guess the other witches could try Metal Magic, but they wouldn’t stoop that low.

Speak to me, metal.

Every muscle is relaxed as I reach my hands out, focusing on the yellow glowing metal. I instinctually stretch one of my hands out, shaping the sword in the air into the length and size it’s supposed to be. I slash two fingers upward and sharpen one end of the sword, then do it again for the other side.

What do you wish to be, metal? You can be anything. I pause and listen for a moment. The blade whispers to me in a soft voice. It’s not quite words, and yet, I know exactly what it’s saying. A picture forms in my mind of a powerful sword meant for strong hands. A sword destined to be used in battle. Then, my fingers move in a flurry, engraving the sword with symbols and designs.

For a moment, the symbols glow with golden and silver light, shining brighter than the forge. My chest swells as I sense the blade’s pride. This is it. This is what it was meant to be.

My hand drops. I smile.

Baldemar gazes at the sword I just made, rotating the blade to make the letters shimmer more brightly, marveling at the artwork etched into the metal. “What will it do?”

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