Page 49 of WarBride

“Shakh,” I growl as pain shoots through my forearm, pinching my flesh like constricting cords, though there’s nothing there save my leather bracer. I wish Elydark were here with me. My licorneir moved beyond the range of the spire again once the battle was complete. Not before he gave me a long, warning stare, however. He does not approve of my recent choices, no more than Kildorath or any of my people do. I don’t really blame them; I don’t approve of myself. But I’m in this far now, I might as well forge on until I find the other side. Save the sister if possible. Get them both out of here, away from the Grimspire and Ruvaen’s folk. Make certain they are safe.

Then away with all speed, back to where I belong. To my own kind, my own realm. My own dark path.

Something sharp strikes my cheek, a glancing blow. Startled, I put up a hand and turn to the whirring blur darting past my face. I narrow my eyes. Snatching out with one hand, I wrap my fingers around the small angry glow of a pixie, caging it in my grasp. It screeches and curses, trying to break free. I hold it up to peer into its tiny, furious little face. It’s long upper lip rolls back to show its gnashing teeth.

“What’s this, Pompkin?” I demand with a growl. “I pay you well for information, and you reciprocate by pelting me with pebbles?”

“No more than you deserve!” a piping little voice shrieks back. “I am a warrior of the mighty Hopdiddle Clan, yet you treat me like a common page!Fetch this, carry that, find me a juicy tidbit of gossip.Disgraceful!”

“You took the payment,” I point out dryly. I’d handed over a scrap of human writing on a piece of parchment torn from an old ledger book years ago. Worthless to anyone save a pixie. They cannot resist the written word however they can get their grubby little hands on it. They believe if they ingest it, the power captured in those words will be transferred to them. Foolishcreatures, but useful when motivated. “You owe me. Come now, out with it, Pompkin. What did you hear about the other human warbride? Is she still here at the Grimspire?”

The pixie curses me soundly, but that’s common courtesy among its kind. It finishes by spitting at my eye, missing by a foot. Then it sighs and stops fluttering its wings, settling into my grasp. “Fine,” it admits at last. “There was another human female sold at last night’s auction. To Ravagol.”

My blood runs cold. I recognize that name: it belongs to a warrior who serves under Lord Dormaris of Lunulyr. Neither titled nor wealthy, Ravagol makes his living by sheer brutality, serving as his master’s prized attack dog.

I’ve known all along that whoever spent his hard-earned coin on a warbride wasn’t going to be the kind of man who should ever lay hands on a woman. But Ravagol? He is a beast. Unlike Lurodos, he never bothers to disguise his monstrous aspect with glamours, but proudly displays all the outward signs of his twisted soul. Though he has profited well off every war he’s been in, no fae woman would willingly accept him as her husband. If he was ever to take a wife, this is the only way—by force and by cruelty. I suspect he’s done it before. And will likely do it again.

I shake my head slowly, breathing out a curse. If only I could convince my own impetuous warbride not to pursue this matter further. She’s not going to like what she finds.

I release the pixie, who spits at me one more time before flitting off. Just then the tent flap moves, andshesteps out. My bride. This stranger now clad in the traditional garments of my people.

I catch my breath. The gown is simple enough. The sturdy blue cloth fits her figure well without constraint. Tooled leather sleeves crisscross over her upper arms and her exposed collarbone, and a series of intricate belts wrap her trim waist. The skirt is long, full, and slitted to the hips on both sides toreveal the tightly wrapped trousers and soft boots underneath. She’s braided her hair back from her face but left the long waves loose across her shoulders.

She is . . . beautiful. There is no other word more worthy, more suited to her. Somehow, seeing her like this—covered and modest, not a single tantalizing glimpse of gratuitous skin revealed—only calls to mind more vividly the softness and sweetness of her naked form.

“What?” she demands. And I realize I’ve been staring at her for some moments unspeaking.

I force myself to look into her brown eyes. “Zylnala,” I say, my voice thick in my throat, “allow me to escort you to the town of Cramaer. It is a half-day’s ride from the Ashryn Shrine. You should find help there among your own kind.”

She blinks. Then her stern brow crumples. Bravely she manages to steel herself, to fight back a sudden onrush of tears. “Have you had news then? Is my sister dead?”

I don’t like to tell her. I don’t want her to know the truth. Because whatever we discover, it will surely break her. “I don’t know,” I answer at last, truthfully. “She might be, but . . .”

The girl pulls herself up straight. Her hand goes to rest on the hilt of the knife I gave her, strapped in its sheath to her belt. “Take me to her,” she demands. “Now.”

*****

The Lunulyr encampment stands on the north side of the Grimspire, set apart from the Noxaurians, but still near enough to benefit from the spire’s influence. The tents are all constructed of deep blue silk which, when combined with a thick atmosphere of oily smoke, gives the impression of falling dusk, though it is still only midday.

Dormaris’s pavilion stands in the center, not so large as Ruvaen’s, but impressive in its own right, structured like a five-pointed star. I have spent little time with the Lunulyrian lord,but rumors aplenty have reached my ears. It is said he joined Ruvaen’s struggle against the humans simply to indulge his own curiosity. As a connoisseur of warfare, he sought to educate himself on how humans conduct their wars. He is not a brute like Lurodos, but a scholar and a sportsman. In many ways he is the more dangerous of the two. I should not like to cross him.

“When we stand before Dormaris,” I whisper to my warbride as she trots to keep up with my long stride through the orderly rows of blue-silk tents, “let me do the talking. He is a subtle man and will twist your words and your will in a heartbeat if you do not stay on your guard. It would be best if you did not attract his attention at all.”

She shoots me a nervous glance. “Is he the man who bought Aurae then?”

Aurae. Her sister. Strange that I should know her name and not the name of this woman at my side.

“No,” I answer. “That man is one of Dormaris’s warriors.”

“Why do we not go straight to him then?”

“That would be a mistake. The man in question, Ravagol, is an unpredictable savage. But Dormaris is reasonable. He might be persuaded to help us.”

Her pursed lips communicate her displeasure, but she trusts me enough to swallow her protests as we come to a stop outside the large pavilion. Dormaris’s family crest—a crossed sword and battleax on a bloodred field—flutters overhead. I sent word in advance of my coming, and his guards, recognizing me, do not hesitate to step inside and alert their master to my arrival. I subtly move to position myself in front of the girl, assuming a wide stance that could easily turn into a defensive crouch if needed. My few interactions with Dormaris over the years have been courteous enough. But I’m not a fool. I know better than to relax my guard around a man like him.

The pavilion curtain swings back; Dormaris himself steps forth. He is obliged to duck, for he stands over seven feet tall, and the coiled black horns sprouting from his forehead only add to his great height. He wears a wine-red robe, open in the front to reveal the chiseled body of a warrior. Hair the same color as his garment flows down his shoulders, braided and ornamented with small bones and skulls. The effect should be barbaric, but instead, he looks strangely refined. Almost kingly, one might say.

His sharp, golden-eyed gaze passes over me to fix on the girl half-hidden behind me. Something flares in the depths of his pupils. Something I don’t like. I shift my stance, moving to shield her. She grabs my arm, however, and peers around me, determined not to be blocked. Her fingers are tense and tight against my skin.

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