by Frost Kay
Swamp apples. “Retreat,” she breathed.
Rafe sprang into action. “You in front of me.”
She didn’t second-guess him as they bolted back the way they came. Where had all their bloody soldiers gone? They couldn’t have disappeared. The hair rose along her arms. This was all a trap. A damned trap.
She yelped as her boot sank deep into the mud. Sage slammed her hands to her knees, her extremities screaming in pain. Twisting to the side, she desperately yanked at her foot, but the suction from the mud made it almost impossible to move.
“Come on, damn you,” she muttered as the Scythian warriors closed in.
Rafe stepped in front of her and drew a second sword from the sheath at his hip. “Work your toes back and forth. Once you break free, you run.”
“I’m not leaving you behind.” Her teeth chattered as the rain fell harder, obscuring her vision some.
“You can and you will, little one.”
Sage clenched her teeth and jerked her foot as hard as she could. “I won’t.”
“You have no choice.” He threw his shoulders back. “I’ll draw them away.”
Her left foot popped free followed by the right and she lunged forward, only missing his cloak by a hair as he sprinted toward the soldiers.
“No!” Sage scrambled to her feet, mud and muck smeared across her body. She took one step forward before the voice from her nightmares slithered over her spine.
“Hello, consort.”
Every muscle in her body froze, and Sage stared helplessly as Rafe engaged the warlord’s men, refusing to acknowledge the hulking nightmare nearing her.
“Will you not look at me?”
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply before spinning around.
The warlord stood a measly fifteen paces from her. He smiled softly and cocked his head, his gaze perusing her form. “You’ve lost weight.”
Spots dotted her vision, and the world dipped. Oh god, she was going to pass out. Sage dug her nails into her palms and bit the insides of her cheeks until she tasted blood, the pain keeping her from blacking out. Self-loathing and shame crashed into her as she continued to stare at the monster that haunted her dreams.
“Are you eating?” he asked, like it was a perfectly rational question while on the battlefield.
Part of her numbness melted away at his asinine question. It wasn’t like they were friends catching up over bloody tea. Anger boiled in her veins. “War has hardened me.”
His smile grew. “I can see that. Battle becomes you.”
She tensed when he took two steps closer, his movements like a leren on the hunt. Sage lifted her blade and stared him down. “Come any closer and I’ll kill you.”
“So much fire,” he crooned. “How I’ve missed it.”
Her stomach rolled. Oh, wicked hell, she was going to be sick.
“Are you ready to come home yet?”
“Home? With you?” she murmured, dumbfounded. Attack him, do something.
He arched an onyx brow and shook his head, reminding her of something her father did when he was trying to reason with one of her unruly brothers. Her gaze darted over his shoulder and then back to him. Where was Rafe? Was he hurt?
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she mumbled. Sage would turn her own sword on herself before she ended back in his clutches. The warlord tsked, moving closer. She countered his moves and circled, her sword held up defensively.
Sighing, he paused and pulled his sword free from his scabbard. “You’ll only tire yourself out. As much as I love a good fight, you could just come willingly.”
“Never,” she hissed, her fingers tightening on the pommel of her muddy sword.
A smirk touched his lips. “So be it, fiery one.”
Sage jerked at the pet name as a flood of memories assaulted her. The warlord feinted several times, but she could see he never intended to strike. Yet. The scar at her neck burned at the reminder of his cruelty. He was trying to draw Sage into an attack, but she wasn’t that stupid. He was older and more experienced, but she could outwait him if she had to.
“Don’t be shy,” the warlord whispered. “It’s been so long since we’ve been able to come together.”
He attacked, and Sage blocked his swing and dodged to the side, wincing when the handle of her sword jerked against her sore hands. She needed to be careful—her stiffness, the cold, and the raw skin of her palms might get her captured or killed if she wasn’t.
The warlord pursued the attack, trying to use up her energy. Sage attempted to dodge more and block less in order to spare herself, but he was just too damn quick. His sword slammed into hers, and it reverberated throughout her entire body, her teeth clacking together.
Damn it. She growled and bared her teeth at him.
He grinned. “I love this side of you. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed this.”
Pain wormed its way up her right arm and into her shoulder as he disengaged. Her palms stung, and warm liquid heated the pommel of her sword. Without looking down, Sage knew she was bleeding.
She blinked, trying to get rid of the moisture in her eyes. Had the warlord switched his sword to his left hand, or was he carrying two swords? If she’d believed in magic, Sage would have sworn he was using some sort of illusion. Weariness must have been the culprit. She shook her head, trying to clear her vision.
Don’t give up now. Think of the children. Think of Lilja.
Her lip curled, unbridled rage unfurling in her chest.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me have all of that anger.”
He lunged at her, and Sage blocked his sword and thrust back, coming body-to-body with the warlord. But that was a damn mistake. The huge monster used his strength to force her slowly to her knees.
Stupid. She knew better than to go toe to toe with someone so much bigger than herself. Sage wheezed and broke away from him, dropping to the mud and rolling away. The warlord struck, cutting her shoulder as Sage rose to her feet, dripping rain and mud. She dodged back, cursing angrily.
He paused and began circling once again. Sage spared a quick glance at her shoulder, noting how the blood and rainwater mixed together and dripped down her soaking linen sleeve. It wasn’t that bad, but it still burned.
“You cut me.”
“As did you when you left me.” His expression darkened before it cleared, a manic look of glee replacing it. “It’s not deep, but it’ll make a nice scar of our first duel.” He switched his sword to the other hand. “Prepare yourself, love. The times for games are over.”
She met his attack, and was barely able to follow his movements as he changed his sword from one hand to the other. Irritatingly, she was forced to admire his perfect technique—one her father had tried to drill into her over the years. And while she was an excellent swordsman, the warlord was something else. It was too damn bad he was such a demon. A pity for such talent to be wasted.
Her steps faltered, and her arms began to tremble. They were swiftly coming to the time in a battle where the lesser swordsman began to gasp for air, tremble, and make horrible mistakes. She refused to be that person today.
Dig deep for the strength you know you have.
She snarled as he switched swords, and she seized the brief moment by lunging in. Sage slashed his left arm. The warlord grunted as she cut through muscle. He jerked back and examined his wound. His fingers touched the bloody gash. Slowly, the monster lifted his head and drew his fingers across each of his cheeks, scarlet cuts marring his perfect set of cheekbones.
“And that is why you are my consort,” he said softly. “You’re the only one I’ll bleed for.”
Horror churned in her belly as he darted forward. She got in two good slashes before he knocked her feet from beneath her. Sage gasped as she hit the ground. Screaming, she ripped the dagger from her hip and sank it into his thigh, just as he stepped onto her right hand, forcing her to release her sword.
He hissed
but otherwise didn’t say anything as he knelt, his boot grinding her wrist into the mud. She cried out and attempted to twist the blade deeper. The warlord tore her hand from the blade and grabbed her by her braid, pinning her in place. He yanked hard on her hair, forcing her head backward, the vulnerable arch of her neck on display.
The warlord leaned close, his weight pressing her farther into the mud. His black gaze ran over her face. He leaned closer, and she did the only thing she could think of. She spit on him. He froze, and something scary crossed his face that had her quaking in her boots, but she didn’t cower. He’d never see her cower again.
“I hate you.”
“You think you do, but hate is easily turned into other things.”
“Death is preferable to you.”
Instead of her words making him visibly angry, he smiled. He released a soft chuckle. “All this time I thought I needed to steal you back.” His smile grew. “How I was wrong.” He pressed closer, his nose running along her jawline, and his lips rested on the shell of her ear. “You’ve been brainwashed. I’ll not let you play the martyr.” He slowly pulled back and placed a tender kiss on her cheek. “You’ll come to me in good time.”
He stepped back, and Sage immediately hunted for her sword. Her fingers found the pommel, and she jerked forward on her knees, slicing toward his calf. The warlord jumped out of the way and carefully pulled her dagger from his thigh. He held it up and then clasped it to his chest like a treasured gift.
“I’ll be seeing you soon, consort.” He backed into the fog as she got to her feet. “Don’t keep me waiting too long. Every death from now on will rest on your head.”
Sage screamed and charged him, but he was swallowed up by the mist. Squinting, she spun in a circle as his sensual laugher echoed around her.
“I’ll be waiting.”
Eighteen
The Warlord
His body was overheating.
He barely felt the winter elements as he marched into camp. Warriors parted for him as he emotionlessly passed them. Blood dripped from the wound on his leg, but he didn’t feel it either. All he could see were her fiery, green eyes and sinful lips.
Blair approached from the left, a jagged cut across his left pectoral. Very close to the heart. Was his commander losing his touch?
“Come too close to an Aermian blade today?” he asked softly, striding toward his tent.
His commander, ever stoic, didn’t even flinch at the question.
He’s too bold, too well trained. He wants our throne. We must watch him, the voices whispered.
He couldn’t agree more. That was the problem with giving men power. When they held a position for too long, they eventually turned their greedy gazes on the Scythian throne. Zane had seen it time after time, and Blair was no different. It was only a matter of time until the commander made a grab for power.
“Would you like me to send for a healer?” Blair asked.
And let their incompetent hands touch him? Zane thought not. He waved a hand as they arrived at his tent. “Make sure no one disturbs me.”
With that, he entered the enormous tent. Inside, it was divided into three parts: a war room of sorts, the washing area, and his sleeping quarters. The braziers were well-stoked and heated the canvas rooms to an almost balmy heat. Sweat beaded on his brow as he pushed into his bedroom. It was simple. Warm furs created the flooring. A large bed rested near the brazier, and his desk sat to the right of the entrance.
Zane moved to his desk and sat slowly, his gaze trained on the stab wound on his thigh. He leaned down and pulled a hand-sized notebook from his boot. To anyone else, the book would look insignificant enough, but to him, it meant everything. He tugged the desk’s top drawer open and fished out a quill and ink. With care, he opened the notebook to his last entry and scratched out the date on the next open page.
He focused on his wound and studied the way it bled sluggishly. It wasn’t a cause for concern, but… His lips pressed together. It wasn’t healing as well as it should. Perhaps he needed to change his dosage?
Maybe the fools at your lab have made a mistake, the voices hissed.
His lip curled. Fools indeed. No matter how well he trained the next alchemists, they continually made mistakes, or they were intentionally trying to kill him. A wicked smile touched his lips. The last alchemist to try that had drowned in his own poison. There was poetic justice in that. Dying by one’s own creation.
He unlatched the key from the chain at his neck and opened the bottom left drawer, the sound of tinkling glass filling the air. Zane sighed. There was something about the bell-like chime of glass bottles knocking together that calmed him. He lifted a purple bottle and examined the marks on the side, the liquid matching its marker perfectly. He cast a glance at his door and listened. He heard no one but the two guards at the entrance of his tent. Although, he knew no one dared to enter without his permission, there were still those who would like to see him dead.
Carefully, he inventoried his draughts and measured out his correct dosages, noting he was low on two. He’d have to send a message to Maeve. She was the only one he trusted with his tinctures. With precise movements, he made notes in the notebook on his wound and the dosage for the day. He also scratched out a coded message for his sister.
A wave of nostalgia washed over him. It had been her idea as children to create a code for themselves. He’d only warmed to the idea as the years passed.
He flushed out his wound and didn’t bother to stitch it. It would seal itself shut by the next evening.
Zane leaned back in the chair and laced his hands behind his head, his armpits sweating. He hated sweating. While he understood the necessity, the uncleanliness of it bothered him immensely. It got particularly worse when wounded. The body ran a high fever as it tried to repair itself. But there were worse lots in life.
His gaze wandered to his bed and the trunk that rested at the bottom. A silky feminine article of clothing peeked out from beneath his bow in the open chest, taunting him. In preparation of retrieving his consort, he’d taken the liberty of having a few things created for her.
So close. In our clutches. You let her go. Weak. Weak. Weak, the voices taunted.
Not weak—smart.
He smiled as he remembered the fight earlier tonight. She’d looked wild, unhinged, and absolutely stunning. War became her. When she’d stabbed him, he’d never wanted to kiss her more. In truth, the voices had been screaming for him to take her, right there in the mud amongst the blood and war. But he didn’t. He’d fought through the battle-lust and really examined her. While she’d changed for the better, his consort hadn’t been ready to submit to him. That’s what he craved the most.
Her capitulation.
It would be all the sweeter when she broke and came to him.
And she would.
While he didn’t want to hurt his consort, he knew some types of pain shaped a person into something better, something great.
Something extraordinary. Someone worth the Scythian throne.
Zane rolled his neck and stared off into space as he went over the next parts in his plan. It may have pained him to leave her there on the battlefield today, but it was worth it.
The clock was ticking.
The two of them coming together was inevitable. He calculated that she’d come running to him in less than a fortnight.
His gaze wandered back to the blue silk.
She’d be home.
Nineteen
Sage
Sage scowled at the abused leather pants covering her knees. The fingers of her right hand tightened against the bottle of whiskey she was nursing. The pinch and tug of the thread and needle usually made her want to puke, but not today. All she could think about was the warlord.
He’d let her go. He could have dragged her through the mud by her hair, and yet, he’d left her. Why?
Are you ready to come home?
Her heart accelerated, and she lifted the bottle of spirits to her
lips, barely tasting the whiskey as she swallowed. She relished the burn of the alcohol and how it heated her belly. Since arriving back at camp, she couldn’t get bloody warm. Whether it was from the rain or her chilling experience with the Scythian warrior, she didn’t know.
“You’ll have to tell him,” Rafe said, making sure to stay out of the healer’s way. “And the war council.”
She lifted her eyes and hid her flinch at his appearance. The man was a bloody mess. Sage swallowed hard. His entire face was practically an enormous bruise, not to mention all the cuts, a stab wound, and his two broken ribs. The stars only knew what would have happened if she hadn’t shown up. Rafe was a beast in his own right, but if the warlord hadn’t retreated when he had, Rafe would have died. Because of her.
Guilt settled on her shoulders. She was so tired of feeling guilty, but what was one more thing settled onto the chip she already lugged around?
“I know,” she muttered. The war council didn’t frighten her in the least, but after the rocky few days she’d had with Tehl, this was something she didn’t want to talk about. He’d lose his ever-logical mind. “This changes things.”
“It changes nothing.”
“How can you say that?” Sage grimaced as the healer pierced the needle through her skin once more. Stars, she hated that.
“Our goals stay the same. We continue as we have been.”
“I disagree.” Her stomach knotted. “I have a feeling that things are going to be worse. Scythia’s motives have changed.”
Rafe snorted and then clutched at his ribs. “He still wants world domination. That’s nothing new.”
She couldn’t put her finger on it but… “Something wasn’t right.” It was the way he dealt with her. It felt off.
“How so?”
“I don’t know,” Sage admitted. “I stabbed him in the thigh, and he didn’t even cry out. It was like he didn’t feel the pain at all.” The memory of him swiping blood across his cheeks caused her belly to cramp and bile to burn the back of her throat. “He’s changing.”