Page 388 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

Chapter 3

Boris woke with the dawn, as was his habit. The war might be over for the moment, but old habits died harder than a Bisseni berserker. His wife Vica lay asleep beside him, and little Lida was curled up in her cradle in the corner. A reminder of who he fought for and why he spent so long away – protecting his wife and child, as well as all the wives and children in his father's kingdom. They deserved to sleep safely in their beds, too.

His men, camped in the fields outside Rostov, would be awake. He'd made it a habit to break his fast while walking through the camp, exchanging words with not just his knights but their men, too. He could do that this morning, and still have time to return to the house and have breakfast with Vica when she woke.

Boris dressed, not bothering to put on his armour today. What danger had he to fear here at home?

The camp bustled with activity, quite the opposite of his quiet home. A rider galloped past him, headed for the command tent in the centre. Instinct made Boris change course to follow the lathered horse. Whatever tidings the man carried, they must be urgent.

When he reached the command tent, both horse and rider had gone, but a pensive Sir Cyril stood in conference with several other knights, frowning at the missive in Cyril's hand.

"Well met, Your Highness," Sir Cyril called, spotting him first.

The other knights merely bowed and made way for him.

Boris nodded at the paper. "What news?"

The knights eyed each other, none wanting to speak the ill words aloud.

Cyril sighed. "Prince Yaroslav sends word from the north. Your father has succumbed to his illness, and your brother now sits upon the throne."

Grief caught Boris's heart in its mailed fist. "My father is dead?"

"It seems so, Your Highness. Your brother Sviatopolk is king now."

Boris started in surprise. "Sviatopolk? But I thought…"

Boris had never truly thought about which of his father's sons would take the throne upon his father's death, but for his father to name his bastard son Sviatopolk as his heir over any of his legitimate offspring seemed more than a little strange. As the oldest legitimate son, coming home from a successful military campaign, surely Boris himself would be the better choice.

Not that he wanted a throne. No, he wanted his father on the throne, so he could tell him about the campaign.

Now that tale would go untold.

"Your brother Yaroslav sent you a gift, the fruit of a successful hunt in the far north. A small token of his affection and loyalty, he says." Cyril gestured, and one of his men held out a bulky package.

Boris had no choice but to take it, and, with all eyes upon him, open it, too.

Creamy white fur spilled out, lined with lambswool. It was at once the most beautiful and the most impractical cloak Boris had ever seen. In battle, it would turn from white to red in a day, and then to black and rust after that. This was a cloak for court.

"Prince Yaroslav is coming south, to join his forces with yours so that he might set the rightful king upon the throne," Cyril said.

The rightful king was the heir his father had chosen.

Had Father really chosen Sviatopolk to be king?

"We will fight beside you, Your Majesty," Sir Cyril said, dropping to one knee. The other knights did the same.

Boris shook his head and gestured for them to get up. "I'm your prince, not your king. I will not go to war against my brother, if he is my father's chosen heir. My father was a good and wise king, and he would have made his choice with as much wisdom and forethought as any other decision he made. I must ride for Prislav immediately, to see my new king and offer him my allegiance."

"We will ride with you, Your Highness," Cyril said.

Once again, Boris shook his head. "I shall go alone. King or not, Sviatopolk is my brother. We are family. If my father chose him as king, then I am honour-bound to serve him as I served my father. As are we all. I have no need of an army at my back to speak to my brother, even if he is now my king."

"Your Highness…" Cyril was too loyal a man to say the words, but his expression said he had grave misgivings about this course of action.

Bur Boris was decided. "Send the men home to their families. We will not campaign again before spring, unless the king orders otherwise."

"Yes, Your Highness."

The knights dispersed, leaving Boris to shake his head and sigh. He'd hoped for more than a night in Vica's arms – perhaps enough nights to sire a son – but it was not to be. He was a prince first, and a husband second. First he must serve his king and his kingdom, and then he might spend a quiet winter with his wife and daughter.

Home would still be here when he returned from court.

Nodding to himself, Boris trudged home to don his travelling clothes once more.

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