Page 17 of The Brute and the Blade

8

Grok

Days Later

The Great Hall thrums with a strange mix of revelry and mourning, the air thick with the copper tang of blood, the musk of sweat, and the bittersweet scent of firewine. My clan fills the cavernous space, their faces a patchwork of fierce grins and solemn frowns, fresh scars and tear-stained cheeks.

We have won a great victory today, driving back the human incursion at our borders with steel and fury and the unbreakable will of the mountain itself. But that victory came at a cost, as all such triumphs do. Too many empty seats at the feast tables, too many pyres yet to be lit, too many goodbyes still unsaid.

I sit at the head of the high table, my own wounds throbbing beneath my bloodstained furs, the weight of my fallen warriors heavy on my shoulders. I should be mourning with my people, offering comfort and raising toasts to the glorious dead.

But all I can think about, all I can see, all I can feel...is her.

Lily. My fierce little human, my sly and silver-tongued Red Blade. The woman who I thought of as I fought my enemies, thinking of her, wishing she was by my side on the battlefield. I could see her by my side one day, as the visions showed me, roaring her defiance at our enemies even as they sought to cut her down.

She sits beside me now, her slight form nearly swallowed by the massive throne, her eyes darting warily around the hall as if expecting an attack at any moment. And perhaps she's right to be on guard.

For I can feel the weight of hostile stares, hear the low and angry mutters rippling through the crowd like a poisonous tide. They don't understand, my people. They look at Lily and see only a human, a weakling, an enemy. They don't see what I see—a warrior, a survivor, a spirit as indomitable and unyielding as the mountain itself.

My mate. My match. My destiny.

I reach for my tankard, my movements slow and deliberate, each flex of muscle and stretch of sinew an effort through the bone-deep ache of exhaustion. But even that small action sends a fresh jolt of pain lancing through my side, my wounds screaming protest at being so callously ignored.

Lily notices my grimace, her eyes widening in concern. "You're hurt," she murmurs, her voice low and urgent beneath the din of the hall. "Grok, you need to rest, to heal. Let me help you back to your chambers..."

She half-rises as if to assist me, her small hand falling to my forearm in a gesture of support. But before she can complete the motion, a huge fist slams down on the table before us, rattling platters and toppling tankards with the force of its impact.

"You forget your place, human," snarls Marak, one of my most belligerent and bull-headed captains. His eyes are flinty with rage and disgust as they rake over Lily's slight form, his lip curling in a sneer of pure contempt.

"You don't touch the warlord, you mewling sow. You don't help him, you don't command him, and you sure as fuck don't belong at this table or in that throne. You're nothing but a prisoner, a toy, a piece of fuckmeat for the chief to amuse himself with until he tires of your stringy thighs and tosses you to the wolves."

A roar of agreement goes up from the assembled warriors at his words, fists and tankards pounding on tables in a raucous, threatening beat. I can feel the hostility swelling like a cresting wave, the bloodlust and battle fever seeking a new outlet now that our true enemies have been driven back.

And what better target than the lone human in their midst, the outsider, the upstart female who dares to claim a place at their warlord's side?

Lily has gone pale and still beside me, her eyes huge in her bloodless face. But to her credit, she does not cower or look to me for protection. She lifts her chin and stares Marak down, defiance sparking in those moss-green depths.

"I am not nothing," she says quietly, each word falling like a stone into the churning sea of anger seething around us. "I am Lily Thornwood, the Red Blade. I have fought and bled for my people. I have been captured by your warlord, but I remain unbroken. You can not cow me, captain. You can not break me. I. Am. Not. Yours.”

Something deep in my chest snarls in savage approval of her words, her courage, the steely strength in that slender frame. This. This is why I claimed her, why I chose her, why I will fight to the death to keep her.

She is a true daughter of the mountain, my Lily, as much as any warrior in this hall. And I will make sure they all see it, all acknowledge it...

Before this night is through.

Ignoring the screaming agony of my wounds, the creaking protest of my battle-weary muscles, I surge to my feet, towering over the assembly like a massive shadowed pillar. Silence ripples outward from my sudden movement, every eye snapping to me, wide and wary and waiting.

"You forget yourself, Marak," I rumble, my voice low and lethally soft. "You forget to whom you speak, and in what manner. Tell me...do you wish to challenge me for leadership of this clan? Do you think to wrest the title of warlord from my bloody hands and spit on the traditions of our people?"

Marak goes still, his eyes widening as the full implication of my words sinks in. To insult the warlord's chosen female, to question his judgment in such a way...it is tantamount to a declaration of war, a direct assault on my strength and right to rule.

And there is only one way such challenges can be met.

"N-no, my lord," he stammers, taking an involuntary step back. "I would never presume to?—"

"And yet you have," I cut him off, my eyes hard as chips of flint. "You have insulted she who I have claimed as my own, questioned my authority before the entire clan. There must be an accounting, Marak. A reckoning. In blood and pain and the spilled entrails of defiance."

I stalk towards him, each step slow and deliberate, the promise of violence crackling from my frame like heat lightning. The crowd parts before me, scrambling back with the ingrained deference of those who know their place in the pecking order.

---