Page 14 of The Queen and the Half-blood
“Skaal!” The chief-enforcer’s tone was sharp. “Back!”
Reluctantly, the fae hound obeyed, and Alar turned, resuming his journey through the camp.
Warriors watched as he passed, curious gazes tracking him. They were trying to decide who he was. Later, they’d discover that ‘The Half-blood’ had walked amongst them, but for the moment, they were mystified.
“Walk faster,” the chief-enforcer growled, “Or I’ll wedge my boot up your arse.”
Alar glanced over his shoulder, meeting mac Brochan’s hard blue gaze. He’d heard of this big, tattooed man and the fae hound that followed him—few in Albia hadn’t. He’d once hunted and killed Shee for the High King and now served Talorc mac Brude’s daughter. “Am I making you nervous?”
“No, you’re pissing me off.”
“It’s not my fault your dog likes me.”
“Shut your mouth, Half-blood,” the captain added tersely. “You’ve said enough for tonight.”
Alar smirked. “Eavesdropping, were you?”
Of course, these two pricks had been standing right outside the tent while he’d been speaking to the High Queen. They’d listened to every word.
“He insulted our High Queen,” mac Tav muttered. “Maybe we should rough him up a bit.”
Mac Brochan cracked his knuckles. “Don’t tempt me.”
Alar’s smile didn’t slip, although his instincts sharpened at the threat in the chief-enforcer’s voice. Shifting his attention ahead once more, he slowed his stride further, hands flexing at his sides. “You’d attack an unarmed man?”
Mac Brochan shoved Alar between the shoulder blades. “Keep moving.”
They reached the edge of the camp, where mist wreathed around the warded perimeter. Druidic magic hung heavily in the air here, and the pungent scent of ash and pine filled Alar’s nostrils. As he walked through the wards, his skin prickled, the tattoo on his chest warming as it responded to earth magic.
Ignoring the sensation, he turned then to face his escort. The chief-enforcer held out his twin fighting daggers, which he sheathed, one over each shoulder, with deft, practiced movements.
“Slither away now.” The captain raked a gaze over Alar. “And don’t bother returning.”
Alar took a step backward, his attention shifting to mac Brochan. “I won’t need to,” he replied softly. “Because you’ll come looking forme.”
The chief-enforcer’s features pinched at this, while the captain spat on the ground between them.
Unbothered, Alar turned away. Years, he’d prepared for this moment—and now his time had come. Finally, justice was about to be served. For him. And for the wulvers. He then walked off, covering the ground in long, easy strides. All the while though, he was aware of stares digging into his back. The skin between his shoulder blades itched in response.
Moments later, he entered the woods that fringed the northern edge of the High Queen’s camped army, his boots sinking into peaty soil. He wove his way through the trees, his keen eyesight picking out the dark outlines of twisted oaks, birches, and pines frosted in the light of the waxing crescent moon. It was a still night, eerily so, and he caught movement out of the corner of his eye as he walked. These woods weren’t slumbering tonight. Ever since the Shee had occupied the North, the faerie creatures that roamed Albia had been more active.
He spied deep claw marks scored upon the trunk of one of the birches then and stopped to examine them. Reaching out, he rubbed a finger over where sap oozed onto the silvery bark. A shiver tickled his spine, and he glanced around. Moonlight filtered through the branches overhead, yet the shadows were deep. Anything could be lurking there. Watching. Waiting.
He moved on then, his right hand lifting to the hilt of the blade jutting at his shoulder. And as he walked, he kept a sharp eye upon his surroundings. Presently, he came to a small glade where a burn trickled over mossy rocks.
Lyall and Dolph were waiting for him there. His brothers. Two large wulvers—shaggy wolf heads on rangy men’s bodies—their eyes glowed gold in the light of the torches they held. Lyallwas the bigger of the two, with a thick black and grey ruff above his shoulders. Dolph, his mate, was smaller and lithe, with a coat the hue of weathered oak.
“Well?” Lyall rumbled.
“The seed has been sown.”
“The queen didn’t swoon at your proposal then?” Dolph crossed arms corded with ropey muscle across his chest, where heavy knife belts had been strapped. Unlike most of the faerie creatures that inhabited Albia, wulvers could tolerate iron. Over the long age since they’d been cast out of Sheehallion, whatever faerie magic they’d once possessed had been lost. These days, wulvers had more in common with the Marav than the Shee—a fact Lara’s father had wished to ignore.
Alar halted before them. “No … although you knew she likely wouldn’t. She’s proud.” He paused then. “She thinks herself too good for me.”
Lyall snorted. “She’s no better than any of us.”
“That’s right, brother,” Alar replied before shrugging. “However, her imperious manner is merely a shield … in reality she’s isolated … and desperate.”
