Page 1 of Mated to the Alien Warlord

Nothingcomparedtowalkingthrough my camp on the eve of a battle. Anticipation hung thickly in the air. Tomorrow, males would learn what they were made of. It didn't matter if this was their first or hundredth battle, each one challenged a male differently, taught a warrior what true bravery was.

Tomorrow would be no exception.

It was impossible to predict who would react how. The youngling sitting by the campfire with the green tinge to his face? He might be the one saving the day with his bravery, and Forgore, the older warrior who just smacked him upside the head, might be the one running. Not that I thought Forgore to be a runner, not for a moment, but I had seen it happen to others.

"The warriors seem in good spirits." Myrca, my second-in-command, observed.

"They know tomorrow's victory will be ours," I asserted.

"What is Fionbyr thinking, rebelling against our khazar?" Myrca shook his head. "Many good males will die tomorrow, and for what?"

"The greed in a male's heart is for him alone to know," I stated one of our proven proverbs, but agreed with Myrca. Many males would uselessly die tomorrow. They wouldn't die to defend Thyre from the threat of Udruns from the inland or Vandalls from the sea. Nyck, they would die fighting for their warlord's greed to become khazar. A title Fionbyr had no claim to.

And yet, he dared challenge Khazar Gryck. He had sowed unrest in his domain and his neighbor's by claiming his mother was a descendant of the great Khazar Domuryx, a claim he could not support with anything other than the dying words of an old lady whose mind had been addled by fever.

As if my thoughts had summoned him, Gryck emerged from his tent, his eyes searching the groups of warriors until they met mine. He raised a hand in greeting.

"Looks like our khazar wants a word." I nudged Myrca and together we made our way over the trampled grass and followed Gryck as he retreated into his tent.

A dirty, exhausted looking warrior stood by a fire basin, warming the hand not holding a cup of grog—hot water with strong alcohol and honey. In a corner sat, to my surprise, a human. The man was older and dressed in finery but appeared as road weary as the warrior.

During wartimes like these, formalities to our khazar fell mostly to the wayside. It was impractical to salute our khazar every time we saw him, which had been often during the past weeks. Instead, I bowed my head slightly in deference. "Khazar?"

Gryck ran his hand over his long, black hair, which was held together like all of ours by a thick braid, the symbol of a khazar and a warlord. "This scout just brought dire news," Gryck explained, waving his hand between the Thyre warrior and the human.

I inclined my head, indicating I was listening, while my body tensed. News, especially dire news on the eve of a battle, was never a good sign.

"KingHelmut of the human outpost Steppenfort," the scout pointed at the human. He didn't need to shake his head for me to gather what he thought of the audacious human calling himself akingon our lands. Not even us warlords, who would have been within our rights to call ourselves kings, did so. It was an affront to our khazar.

Steppenfort was the largest human outpost on Thyre, having grown between the boundaries of Warlords Fionbyr's and Grobhan's domains into a rich trading post. So large that it was nearly as big as our main cities.

King Helmut rose. He was tall for a human and well-muscled, not a match for a Thyre, but he would give any Thyre warrior a good fight.

"I owe tythe—taxes—to Warlord Fionbyr," he began. "He offered to let me bring a war party to the battle tomorrow in exchange for three years' worth of tythe."

Myrca whistled low between his teeth. Three years' worth of tythe was a lot of credits and resources. If King Helmut was to keep those for himself, his settlement could grow exponentially.

"You are siding with a traitor then?" Myrca spat. "Don't forget you owe tythe to Khazar Gryck as well, he is your khazar too."

"Not if Fionbyr wins the day tomorrow," Helmut said slyly.

"How many warriors did you bring?" I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

"It doesn't matter, humans are no match for Thyres," Myrca bragged.

He was right, but given Gryck's solemn face and Helmut's postering, I sensed he brought more to the table than Myrca could imagine. Even a flock of birds could change the outcome of a battle if one could strategically employ them. A hundred human warriors could create enough of a distraction to cause our warriors to lose.

Helmut's gaze met mine, ignoring Myrca, having already shrewdly assessed that I was the warlord, not Myrca, even though Gryck hadn't introduced us. "Five hundred warriors and horses," Helmut stated without glowering.

Myrca was too much of a warrior to pale at the news, but he was visibly shaken by it.

Five hundred warriors could indeed make a big enough difference tomorrow, no matter if they were mere humans.

"Then why are you here?" I asked. "And not at your camp, celebrating your coming victory?"

Helmut put his cup down and sighed wearily. "As you pointed out before, Khazar Gryck is our khazar as well, and we swore fealty to him just like we did to Fionbyr."

"If you are conflicted in your loyalties, there is your khazar," I pointed out, because when it came to loyalty, our khazar stood on the top rung. It was him this human owed fealty to, not Fionbyr.

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