Page 13 of WarBride

I signal, and my company comes to a standstill. “We make camp here,” I declare, looking back across the weary faces of my men and women. Twenty set out from the Hidden City with me to answer Ruvaen’s call to arms; only twelve remain. The death mage’s spells took three of them in quick succession once the fighting began, but that was not the worst of it.

No, the worst were those crimson cloaks. Those cursed mages, who did not fight like mages at all. Not once did any of them summon a spell but met our attack with swords and ferocious bloodthirst. We cut them down, one after the other, and yet . . . I shudder as the memory plays through my head. They rose up again. Time after time, like waves hitting the shore. And each time they rose, they were quicker, stronger, more deadly. Worse still, they knew our fighting style, knew every secret, anticipated every move. In the end I could do nothing but order my people to retreat . . . even as I, seeing the mage gallop back up the temple road, chased after in hard pursuit. I was determined not to lose him, not to lose the chance to claim that talisman. I was ready and willing to risk everything.

But I was not prepared for what I met within those temple grounds.

A face flashes through my mind’s eye: Shanaera. Dead. As dead as she was three years ago, when I drove my own blade through her abdomen and left her in the field of battle. And yet she stood before me. Looked me in the eye.

“Surprise.”Her voice whispers once more in the back of my head.

But that couldn’t have been real. It must have been some spell, some Miphates enchantment, which caught me and warped my perceptions. Mage Artoris must have whispered an incantation while I was distracted binding his hands. He filled my head with these hideous images. It’s the only explanation I can accept.

I grit my teeth, forcing my attention back to the present. “Kildorath,” I call to my second in command. “Ashika.”

They have already dismounted and begun the process of erecting our field tents. Their licorneir both carry the remains of fallen comrades, sewn into their cloaks for the journey home. They turn at the sound of my call, faces full of oldbattle wounds and recent loss. Kildorath’s expression is fierce, Ashika’s solemn.

“Leave your licorneir and come with me,” I say, dismounting Elydark. “We will make our report to Ruvaen.”

Both riders turn at once to their mounts, reluctant to be parted. Elydark also touches his soft nose to my chest.Vellar,he speaks into my head,let me come with you.

But I know too well what will happen once he gets near to that spire. The draw of magic will lure him, and though I trust the bond we share, I don’t care to have it tested.Stay, my friend,I tell him, running a hand down his neck beneath the sheen of his long mane.Stay and watch over the others. They are suffering and will need your presence to give them confidence.

Elydark casts his gaze across the remaining licorneir. We managed to catch and subdue three of the heart-torn beasts in hopes they might be saved. The others fled into the night, stricken with grief. Their riders dead, they will not last long in the human world, are likely already faded to whisps of memory and sorrow.

I will care for them,Elydark says and meets my gaze.You may depend on me.

His eyes are ageless and endless, windows into the eternity of the realm from which he springs. But they are also familiar. I trust no other in this life as I trust my licorneir. I stroke his nose again, then turn to beckon Kildorath and Ashika. Without another word, we make for the Grimspire.

The grounds surrounding the great white structure are crowded with Noxaurians and mercenary forces from across the Eledrian Realms, whom Prince Ruvaen hired to assist in his ongoing assault on these lands. I and my crew are one such mercenary force, sworn to serve the Prince of Night temporarily, to our mutual benefit. There was a time when the fae would not have treated with my kind. I was more than a little surprisedwhen the prince showed up on the edge of my land one day and proposed the alliance. We quickly discovered a natural alignment of interests, however. Though I am king of my own people, I humbled myself for their sakes and swore service to the prince until such a time as my oath is fulfilled.

I’ve had plenty of opportunity over the years to regret that oath. While Ruvaen himself has proven a fair and judicious lord, he is too often surrounded by faithless monsters seeking only to further their own rapacious ends. Monsters like Lurodos.

I meet the Noxaurian warlord at the base of the spire. We have avoided each other since last night’s attack; I would have been just as happy to never set eyes on the man again, if I’m honest. Streaks of dried virulium still stain his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. He smiles at the sight of me, showing bloody teeth. “Well now, if it isn’t our half-breed king,” he says, and offers a mocking bow. “Did your men manage a bit of fun last night, or did my lot hog the choicest pickings?”

His rabble absolutely decimated the temple and left it a pile of burning ruin, a gigantic pyre for the fallen priests’ corpses. While I am no friend of humans, the utter brutality of the act leaves me sickened.

Silently vowing to stick my knife in his throat if the gods ever grant me the opportunity, I merely nod and enter the spire, my two warriors swift on my heels. Lurodos chuckles and falls into step behind. We mount the spiral steps to the upper chamber where Ruvaen awaits our report. A human slave, all long face and downcast eyes, opens the door for our entrance, announcing softly: “Master, King Taarthalor and Lord Lurodos have arrived.”

Ruvaen stands across the room before a tall window, overlooking the campsite below. His back is to us, and with his long white hair and silvery robes, he might well be a statue standing there in the glow of a single glowingincantisorb, whichhovers in the center of the high ceiling. The orb light flickers in the depths of vivid violet eyes, when he turns to look at us as we step through the door. Those eyes are sharp, shrewd, never missing any opportunity that might chance to reveal itself. Though Ruvaen is but a prince, he has ruled in Noxaur for many turns of the cycle now. His father is not dead—beyond that, no one knows. Ruvaen keeps his secrets and keeps them well.

He eyes me with interest now, reading truth in my face no matter how carefully I mask each emotion. He waits until I, my two followers, Lurodos, and his three brutes all stand before him before speaking. “So,” he says, “after all this—after all the information and resources and outpouring of magic I’ve provided—the two of you have failed to apprehend Mage Artoris.”

Lurodos crosses his arms over his enormous chest. “It’s thisibrildianking of yours. He was too meek and mild at the last, unwilling to give his men the virulium and take out the mage’s defenses in one fell swoop.”

Ruvaen turns sharply to me. “Is this true?”

I meet his gaze coldly. “I will not give my people virulium unless I have no other choice.”

Lurodos throws back his head and laughs outright. “Shakh-less half-breed! What, are our Noxaurian ways too much for your delicate constitutions? There was a time you Licornyn weren’t so squeamish.”

My jaw grinds hard enough to shatter stone. It’s true—not many years ago, virulium was passed among the ranks of my riders. I was, for the most part, resistant to using it myself, knowing as I did the source from which the venom springs. But I did not prevent others from dosing in the heat of battle, and could not deny the results when we claimed victory after victory. It is possible, if I had allowed my men to use it last night, we would not have lost so many to the death mages.

But I vividly remember what it felt like to drive my sword into Shanaera’s gut.

I remember the startled look in her eyes, even through the black madness, even through the streaked tears.

I remember weeping, useless apologies spilling from my lips, even as I lowered her body to the ground in the midst of that battlefield.

She had turned on her own. She was slaughtering our people. The demonic brew got the better of her, and she could no longer discern friend from foe. I had no choice but to take her down. Though in truth, I’d lost her already. Whatever Shanaera once was had been devoured by virulium long before my blade pierced her flesh.

---