Page 45 of WarBride

He screams. The sound echoes from the deepest reaches of his corrupted soul, as though issuing from hell itself. He drops his guard, battle rage momentarily frozen in shock. I wrench myother blade from his grasp. This time when I strike, my blow drives home—up under the ribs, straight into his heart.

A death gasp bursts in his lungs, spattering bile across my chest. He heaves my own sword against me one last time. I avoid the blow and kick him in the face, knocking him over backwards. Lurodos hits the ground, convulsing. Drowning in his own blood. Or rather drowning in the demon’s blood which pulses in his veins. He spits a geyser of black. His one remaining eye widens, dark and rolling. Somehow, though I cannot see the pupil, it communicates pure, raw terror. As though here, in his final gasping moments, he gazes into the abyss which is his doom.

Then, with a last hideous rattle of breath, he dies.

Profound silence envelops the arena. The onlookers stare down in shock at what has taken place. I step back from my enemy’s corpse, wipe blood from my forehead, and grimace at the pain which suddenly makes itself felt across various parts of my body. Then I turn my face to the scaffold.

Ruvaen stands, having sprung from his seat. He looks down, open-mouthed and smiling. Meeting my eye, he lets out a whoop of triumph, then sweeps his arm and declares to all those watching: “Behold, Tanatar’s chosen champion!”

The Noxaurians erupt in cheers. What do they care that it was their own man, their brother-in-arms, their fearless leader, who just died gruesomely before their eyes? Blood has been spilt, and they have relished the spilling. So they cheer for me in their awful voices. A chant of,“Half-breed! Half-breed! Half-breed!”echoes in my ears.

I turn from them, disgust curling my lip. My gaze seeks out my warbride. She too has risen from her chair and stands close to the edge of the scaffold, staring down at me. Wind pulls at her hair and whips back her slitted skirt, revealing her naked thigh and the empty sheath strapped there.

She meets my gaze. Just for a moment that stern line of her brow relaxes into a smile.

And the breath is stolen from my lungs.

15

ILSEVEL

“You may make use of my private pavilion for the rest of the morning,” Prince Ruvaen says as, fingers pinching into my upper arm, he drags me back across the encampment, through the cheering throng of men and monsters. “Tell my good friend Taar how pleased I am with his efforts. Then stitch him up and find a way to thank him for saving your life.”

He casts me an insinuating grin with this last statement, even as he pushes aside the pavilion flap. I want to slap him or claw his eyes out. Something in the prince’s expression tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking. His grin only grows as he releases my arm and sweeps a mocking bow. “Lady Ragnataarthane,” he purrs.

I glare at him, trying to summon all the hatred in my soul. This fae is the reason for all the death and destruction across my kingdom. This fae is the reason my own life has been so disrupted. If I hadn’t already tossed my secret knife to Taar, I’m sure I could find a good use for it right here, right now.

But I did toss that knife. I am helpless as a kitten before this tiger of a man. He knows it. And he enjoys the knowledge.

Determined not to let him cow me, I lift my chin, narrow my eyes. Then, without a word of acknowledgement, I slip into the pavilion and the warm darkness within. To my great relief, Ruvaen doesn’t follow. He drops the flap. Instantly the silencing spells take effect, blocking out the ongoing roar of enthusiasm from the fae horde.

I stop short, shoulders stiff, arms straight, my fists gripping handfuls of silken skirts. Then, with a long exhale of breath, I let my body slump, insofar as this tight-laced corset will allow me. Oh gods. He survived. My captor, my enemy, my bridegroom . . . he survived. And my life is spared. For the time being at least.

All the tension I’ve been holding tight as a bowstring releases for an instant in a single, choking sob. I catch myself before a second sob escapes, however. I cannot come undone. Not now. All those images of gore and violence play out behind my eyelids. I force them back and draw a deep, steadying breath. I must stay strong. For just a little longer. Just until I find my sister and get us out of here.

The pavilion is empty—no sign of Taar. But he’s on his way, I’m sure of it. And will he expect me to . . . to celebrate his victory? To offer the congratulations Ruvaen implied? I’m not certain which I fear more: the idea that my champion will demand something of me or the idea that he will simply dismiss me out of hand.

I pace back and forth in front of the low fire. There are no chairs to sit on, as those were carried out to the platform for the prince’s use. The only other place to sit is the bed, and . . . I won’t even look that way. Not now. Now is not the time to remember the heat of his breath against my skin. Now is not the time to remember how my blood leaped in my veins, how my body erupted with sensation.

My hand strays to the empty sheath strapped to my thigh. The weight of the knife had steadied me, offered me some small comfort amidst the chaos. Now even that is gone. The world has lost all semblance of reason. I’m caught in a wave of confusion, churning and relentless, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep my head above water.

The tent flap moves. I whirl, and my traitorous heart leaps in my throat at the sight of the tall, dark figure in the opening. “Warlord!” I gasp.

He stops just inside. Firelight glints in the depths of his black eyes as he lifts his heavy head and looks at me.“Zylnala,” he rumbles.

He steps into the pavilion, dropping the tent flap and once more blocking out the sounds from outside. For a heart-stopping instant, I wonder if he’s going to take me in his blood-spattered, mud-crusted arms. Heat surges in my veins, either with hope or fear, I do not know. If he reaches for me now, would I resist?

But he doesn’t. He passes by me without a word or a look and goes to the cupboard from which he fetched food and drink the night before. A little rifling, and he grabs a bottle and what looks like a stack of fine linen napkins. These he carries back to the bed. He sits on the edge, heedless of the stains he’s leaving on the velvet blankets and furs. Pulling off his bracers, he tosses them aside and starts to remove the pauldrons.

“Let me help with that,” I blurt and step forward. The long slit of my gown parts, revealing the full length of my leg. I hastily move to cover myself.

Taar pauses. I don’t know if he even sees me, his face is so purposefully averted. But somehow I sense awareness in him. Like a chord of dark song, pitched too low for human perception, but humming in his soul. For the space of ten heartbeats, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he lifts his head, gazing up at me cautiously. “I do not need assistance.”

I swallow, my throat tight and dry. “Let me help you all the same,” I manage and, moving a little more carefully so as not to expose myself more than necessary, I go to him. My fingers shake as I unstrap the pauldrons and ease them off his shoulders, and I try to convince myself that I don’t notice every time I accidentally brush his sweat-glistening skin. Why am Iso aware of him? The heat of him, the largeness of him. The smell of him, that reek of mud and blood and victory that makes something in my lower stomach flutter. This is not what I want.

Turning away, I place the heavy pauldrons to one side. When I face him again, I make certain my expression is cool. “Well,” I say, folding my arms, “after all your hemming and hawing, you made short work of that business.”

Taar gives me a look. I flush, wondering if this was an inappropriate remark considering a man’s life was just brutally ended. But then he says, “I should have found an excuse to do that a long time ago.” His voice growls in the deepest hollows of his chest. “The worlds are better off without a creature like Lurodos in them.”

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