by Aldrea Alien
Far from innocent, I see. That was a mild relief. He would certainly need to work on not falling apart every time his lover touched him though, especially if he was to have Hamish join him in Minamist. It would be all too easy for the Crystal Court to exploit such a weakness.
Hamish’s warm breath gusted against Darshan’s neck as he gave freedom one last attempt. “You’re nae even trying now,” he murmured, the words thick and hoarse. He nuzzled that dear little spot just below Darshan’s ear, freeing an embarrassingly whimpering moan. “You didnae happen to bring your bottle of oil along for the journey, did you?”
“No?” He’d been told essentials only. If his shaving equipment and kohl failed to meet the criteria, what made his lover think a bottle of oil would’ve?
Hamish stepped back, letting Darshan slip to the ground.
A twinge of disappointment struck him in the chest. How he wished he could say otherwise, if only to dispel the sudden absence of Hamish’s touch, but to speak anything beyond the truth would be a ridiculous stance to take. “I did not believe you would be comfortable enough to attempt sex in a tent with others so near, especially your brother.” He rather doubted he could perform under such circumstances, let alone expect his lover to be ready for it. “And the thought of having sex in the wilderness is not one I have given much contemplation to. Ever.”
“Ever?” Hamish echoed, snickering. “I cannae believe I just found something you’ve nae done that I have.”
“You have had sex in a forest?” Darshan blurted, realising the foolishness of such a statement when he had very nearly emptied himself into his drawers only moments before.
His lover shrugged as if it was the most common thing in the world for a man to be intimate in the wilderness. “Near the edge of one, sure. That’s what me brother was alluding to. We were meant to be hunting and—”
“Let me guess.” Darshan rubbed his back. The bruised flesh and abraded skin had mended almost as soon as it happened, but all that healing magic layered over itself itched something fierce. “The only prey he stuck was you?”
“He had me arse naked up over a log as soon as we realised we both fancied men.” His brows lowered as his gaze slid downward. “Are you all right?”
The concern slathering that question curved his lips. “Quite fine.” He wasn’t against being manhandled over an object, so long as there wasn’t anything to dig or scratch him. “I must admit, over a log sounds like several types of uncomfortable.”
Hamish grinned. “A little, but I was an impatient lad of eighteen years. You remember your late teens, right?”
“Rather fondly in parts,” he murmured. Like that time he had engaged in a masked orgy. His stewards had found him draped over a marble statue of the wine goddess, Madaara, being filled at both ends by a pair of well-built men whilst a third fellated him. “Not so much in others. And there are a few I still cannot recall clearly.” How he must’ve run his father’s lackeys ragged as they scrambled to cover up whatever escapade had taken his fancy at the time. They were likely relieved he’d mellowed with the years.
His lover snickered. “I can imagine.”
Darshan hummed to himself, considering the options laid before him. “If you desire it, we do not require oil to have a little fun.”
“To be honest, I prefer when it’s involved.”
“As do I.” Why else would he have insisted on using it? “But that was not quite what I meant.” He slunk up against his lover, gliding his hand across Hamish’s groin.
“A hand job?” His mouth twisted, pursing and not in the slightest bit impressed. “If I wanted that, I could do it meself.”
“Such insolence,” Darshan murmured. As if he’d offer something so mundane as that. He focused on the flesh directly below his hand, sending a soft vibrating pulse through his fingertips.
Those sapphiric eyes widened, then rolled back. “All right,” he said on the wings of a moan. “I cannae do it like that.”
“I am afraid that, if you want more, you shall have to wait.” Darshan ducked to gather up his share of the fallen wood. “We really should head back, they will be expecting our return. Surely, you do not want them to catch you with your trousers at your ankles, do you?”
“You bloody tease,” Hamish muttered. Nevertheless, he followed suit in gathering up his share of the wood before leading the way back to camp.
Darshan tugged his cloak tighter around him, although the new clothes aided a fair bit in staving off the chill that had settled in his fingers and face. Last night had been the warmest one he had experienced since arriving here.
Nevertheless, he rather wished he was still abed, wrapped in his lover’s arms as well as their blankets.
Like the previous morning, they had broken camp with the rising sun and made for the road. Their group couldn’t have been placidly travelling along for more than an hour when they came upon a squat tower standing proudly at an intersection. By the battlements and thin windows, it had to be a guard’s outpost. Was it an occupied one?
Darshan peered at the battlements. He couldn’t spot anyone. Perhaps this was a relic of old borders from back when the clans fought for every scrap of land. His companions certainly had a complete lack of care about them. If it was occupied, it was clearly manned by allies.
His attention turned to the road. Whilst both routes were equally as wide, the one leading straight ahead had the smoothness of excessive use. Whereas the left was pitted with water-filled ruts and holes.
Gordon turned off to the left, giving barely a glance at the tower as they rode on by.
“Who goes?” a voice bellowed from somewhere up above before a white-haired head poked over the battlements. “Identify yourselves.”
Gordon swung his horse about, grinning up at where the voice had come from. “I think your eyesight’s failing you if you cannae recognise us.”
More of the white-haired head poked over the brickwork, along with the heads of two other guards who seemed to be equally as grey-haired as each other. “Prince Gordon? Ah and Prince Hamish, I see. Off to the cloister, your highnesses?”
“That we are,” Gordon replied.
The door to the building swung open, permitting the exit of four men, all with swords at their hips. The men marched out to the roadside; three halting just behind the one who had to be their leader, whatever his rank.
The man on the battlements continued to talk as if it were normal for armed men to approach barely armoured travellers. “We were expecting you yesterday, your highness.”
“Nae one here sent any kind of message,” Gordon said.
A thread of unease wove its way through Darshan’s gut. Did that mean what he thought it did? Had Queen Fiona sent word ahead? What of at their backs? Could they expect to be beset upon by guards ordered to drag Hamish back to the castle?
“You might nae have, your highness,” said the guard at the fore. He was a broad-shouldered man, with a thick streak of white through his black beard. “But we’ve an order from her majesty.”
“What order?” Hamish snapped.
Bitterness coated Darshan’s tongue. Of course she had sent an order to detain her son. Even out here, she wasn’t content with letting Hamish be.
“The one that specifically mentions him.” The leader pointed directly at Darshan. “The Udynean ambassador. Dinnae think you can disguise him with a change of clothes.”
“And what does me mum want with him?” Gordon demanded.
“Naething much.” The guard clasped his hands at his belt. His beard was thinner than the others and did nothing to hide the smugness tightening his smile. “Just a wee escort back to Mullhind.”
Darshan straightened in the saddle. “Forgive my ignorance, but am I under arrest?”
The guard shook his head. “But you should be,” he growled. “The corruption of a prince is treason.”
Hamish rolled his eyes and sighed. “Nae this again,” he muttered. “He hasnae corrupted me.”
“And I
can hardly be committing treason when I am not Tirglasian,” Darshan added. “Nor is Queen Fiona my monarch.”
One of the other guards—the one with a bushy grey beard that made up for the lack of hair atop his head—nudged their leader. “This is what I’ve been saying for years. Do away with the hunts and the world goes to shit. Some traditions shouldnae be allowed to die. Did she specify alive?”
Their leader shook his head. He raised his hand in a clear signal.
“Now wait a minute,” Gordon said.
Pain lanced through Darshan’s chest. He slumped in the saddle, his breathing suddenly a strain.
“What the—?” someone exclaimed.
“Stand down!” That was Gordon, no mistaking the authority in his voice.
Through the sudden wash of tears blurring his sight, the fletching of an arrow danced on the edge of his vision. The shaft grated against his ribs with every shallow huff of air.
Already, his healing magic rushed to repair the wound. It couldn’t do a thorough job with the blasted arrow still in him, but it would staunch most of the bleeding and dull the pain.
“Dar!”
‘Mish. Darshan clutched the arrow shaft. He had to get the bloody thing out.
“Nae.” Hamish’s hand landed on Darshan’s shoulder, helping him stay upright atop the horse. “Dinnae try to pull it out. We’ll—”
The hiss of another arrow flew by, leaving a sharp pain in his shoulder. A mere graze in comparison to the fire still blazing in his chest.
Hamish cursed and jerked his mare back, causing the horse to rear. He appeared uninjured. That could change with the next arrow.
Darshan snapped his head up, his focus settling on the men still up on the battlements. One man stood closer to the edge, his bow drawn full. You.
A blast of air was enough to tip the man off the top of the tower. He hit the ground with a crunch.
“He’s a fecking spellster?” someone bellowed. “Naebody told us he was a spellster!”
“Forward men!” roared their leader, drawing his broadsword. “He cannae take all of us. Avenge your fallen comrade!”
“Halt!” Gordon commanded, even as he swung his horse about to put the full length of the steed in their path. “You cannae do this!”
The men barrelled straight past him, heedless to his words. Animalistic growls and grunts escaped their bared teeth.
Darshan pulled on his pony’s reins, urging Warrior back as fast as his hooves could take them. What had he done to deserve their ire? To deserve death?
The leader reached Darshan first.
Darshan jerked the pony to the side. Warrior staggered back, his rear legs sliding and giving. His rump hit the ground. The impact jolted right through Darshan and sent a fresh flare of fire through his chest.
The man swung his sword up, the arc clearly aiming for Warrior.
Not the pony! A shield flickered to life before him even as Warrior screamed and fought to right himself.
The man’s blade struck and, mercifully, bounced off the shield.
Zurron leapt onto the leader’s back before the guard could recover. The elf wrapped his wiry arm around the old man’s neck. The guard flailed wildly, then with less force until he finally collapsed.
Warrior continued to kick and thrash beneath Darshan. The pony rolled to one side, throwing him to the ground as it regained its footing.
“Grab him!” Gordon bellowed, the command sending Sean galloping after the pony.
“You bastard!” another voice roared from atop the tower. It was all the warning Darshan got before arrows hit the ground near his head.
Without looking, Darshan flung a bolt of lightning in the direction of the battlements. The crack of shattering stone rumbled alongside the muffled boom of thunder.
No more arrows answered his attack.
The grunt of fighting filled his ears. The others, Zurron and the two brothers, fought to keep the three men on the ground from closing on Darshan. But even with the latter not using lethal force, they were armoured and all bearing broadswords. Whereas Darshan’s companions carried nothing bigger than hunting knives. Neither side seemed at all willing to mortally injure the other, but if they didn’t restrain the guards soon, Darshan was certain he would wake up dead.
“Filthy elf!” one of the men snarled, throwing Zurron to the ground. The guard dealt a kick to the elf’s gut and, collecting his sword, charged for Darshan. “You die here, rutter.”
Darshan struggled to sit up, to keep a solid shield around himself. His chest was ablaze and bleeding despite his magic’s frantic attempts to staunch the flow. He could feel the strength draining from him with the attempt, clouding his sight, slowing his movements.
“Nae!” Hamish screamed.
The cry pierced through the swiftly descending fog of Darshan’s mind in time for him to register the sword bearing down on him.
Unbridled terror overrode his senses. Darshan flung up his hand.
Raw magic flowed from his fingertips. Wild and deadly, it followed only instinctual command, rushing at the guard.
Wisps of smoke and heat encapsulated the man, searing the flesh from his bones. Greasy smoke filled the air. The sickening stench of charred meat invaded Darshan’s nostrils, fuelling his wrath.
His magic carried onwards, heeding the most basic of thoughts. These guards wanted him dead. Never mind that nobody harmed those of the Mhanek and breathed for long, this had clearly been personal. He wasn’t about to give them a chance to regroup for a second attempt.
Under his command, the wind gained speed and power. It bowled the two princes off the ground, brushing them aside and tearing the remaining attackers from the earth in one almighty blast.
The guards slammed against the tower. There they remained, pinned by glistening shards of ice and the shimmering forms of broken magical constructs Darshan hadn’t the focus to craft in full. The guards screamed, their agony echoing into the forest.
Only once the pressure crushed the breath from their bodies did they fall silent.
And still, Darshan held them in place. Waiting. Pushing them harder against the tower until the stone surrounding them began to crack.
By the time he thought to stop, the men were as limp as corpses.
Darshan lay there, panting and shaking. He had ordered quite a number of deaths as vris Mhanek, but they had all been through the usual method of contracted assassinations. He hadn’t actually killed anyone since his early teens. “Are they dead?”
Gordon scrambled to his feet. He knelt beside the guards, checking one and then the other, before nodding. “Aye, they’ve passed on to the Goddess’ bosom.”
Darshan didn’t know if the man had actually whispered or if the fall had also affected his senses. Nevertheless, he shook his head. “Not them,” he wheezed. He already knew his magic had done a thorough job if not with its usual finesse. The sting of it sang through the air. “The others.” He pointed at the shattered battlements, his arm trembling.
He had only meant to scare the archers into hiding, but there was no hint of anyone up there. Not even a cautious arrow launched his way. Not that he wished there was. He rather doubted his ability to do more than sit here. A shield dense enough to stop an arrow was out of the question.
One by one, his companions turned their attention to the battlements. They waited in silence for someone to poke their head over the edge. Nothing.
Darshan eyed the windows, hopeful of spying a glimmer of light, a darker form within the shadows. But the arrow slits were designed to keep those within unseen.
“I’ll go see,” Gordon offered. Slipping his hunting knife free of its sheath, he strode into the tower. It wouldn’t be much use against something like the broadswords these guards had used, but the men inside had been very particular about avoiding doing any harm to their princes.
“I’ll secure the horses,” Zurron offered, already backing up to where the majority of their mounts stood under the trees on the opposite side of the
road. At least none had sought to follow Warrior or Sean.
Darshan inched himself into a seating position. He felt along the shaft jutting from his chest, surprised to find it still whole. At least the arrow hadn’t appeared to have moved too far.
Hamish knelt beside him. He clapped one steadying hand on Darshan’s shoulder. “Is it as bad as it looks?”
How could it not be? Just what sort of injuries had his lover witnessed to think an arrow in the chest might not be all bad? “A little,” he admitted. The shaft was deep and grated against his ribs with every movement of his chest. Now he was able to focus a little more on what his magic had healed, it seemed that his shortness of breath had been due to a nicked lung. Had it been just a little bit further to the left? Well, then he most certainly wouldn’t have be sitting here chatting. “I am sorry you witnessed that. It is not usual for me to—”
Hamish stilled him with a drawn out, sibilant hush. “How about we get you patched up?” One side of his mouth twitched into a nervous smile. “Then you can apologise if you still think it necessary.” He slipped an arm beneath Darshan’s shoulder, preparing to lift him.
Darshan batted away the man’s hands. “I can heal this readily enough once I get the arrow out.” Judging by the other arrows scattered about, removal would likely require pushing the head through to the other side. He rather doubted he had been struck by the only arrow without a barbed tip.
His lover’s lips flattened. The knowledge of what needed to be done seemed to dull his eyes. “That’s going to hurt. A lot.”
“I do not doubt it.” Likely more than the arrow’s initial entry, if past experience with such an injury was anything to go by. “But I cannot repair the damage unless it is removed.”
“Then let’s at least get these clothes off you.” Hamish grasped the arrow and, with a quick warning nod, snapped off a large chunk of the shaft.
Shrugging out of the overcoat was easily done, once his belt was released. The shirts were a little trickier, requiring Hamish’s assistance in manoeuvring the fabric around the arrow shaft as well as having his lover pull each one over Darshan’s head. Each shift and tug sent a fresh ripple of pain through him. The chill air gnawed deeper into his skin with each layer removed.