Court's Fool (The Aermian Feuds Book 6)

by Frost Kay

  Sage slowed down even further, making sure her steps were very careful. She slunk past tents at the south side of the Scythian camp without seeing even a hint of a Scythian. She chewed her lip. It didn’t seem right. It was too easy. Every step she took, Sage waited for someone to shout the alarm.

  She eyed one of the quiet tents and then her stark, white outfit. While it had helped her hide on the battlefield, she would stick out like a sore thumb among the warriors. She needed a cloak. Sage crept toward the nearest tent and listened. Not a sound.

  Ever so carefully, she lifted the tent flap and peeked inside. Empty, as far as she could see. Sage slipped inside and hovered at the entrance. The tent held four pallets, a chamber pot in the corner, and a few articles of clothing. She grinned when she spotted a discarded cloak.

  Quickly, she tossed the huge cloak over her outfit and pulled the hood over her head. It dragged on the ground and wouldn’t stand up to close inspection, but it was better than what she had before. She blew out a breath and clenched her jaw, so her teeth didn’t chatter, just as they were prone to do when adrenaline flooded her body. Sage took one last glance at the tent. It was funny how four walls brought a source of comfort. It was only canvas and wood. Easily burned or cut through, and yet she felt safer inside than she did wandering through the camp. Safe, at least, until the tent’s inhabitants came back to rest in their beds. Staying in the tent wasn’t an option, long-term.

  Sage peeked through the slit of the entrance. The coast was clear. She crept from the tent, her filched cloak trailing behind her. Sage wove to the left of a tent when three Scythian warriors materialized ahead of her and blocked her path. Where the hell had they come from?

  “What do we have here?” asked the Scythian to her left. He reminded her of a leren, all dark and feline-like. Contempt seemed to radiate from his person. “Did you think Scythians are so stupid they wouldn’t notice a stranger prowling around in their camp?”

  She kept silent. Let them have their words. They hadn’t attacked yet.

  “Do you know what we do to spies?” demanded the one in the middle, his sharp features making him appear hawkish.

  Torture them.

  “If you’re looking to die, we’re happy to oblige,” the biggest warrior on the right crooned. “But we have a few questions we’d like to ask of you.”

  Sage crossed her arms slowly, so as not to spook the warriors into violence, the movement hiding how she was freeing the blades at her wrists. The Scythians all seemed to vibrate with anger, and she knew how easy it was to set them off. She needed to time it perfectly.

  “Actually, I need to speak with your warlord. He and I have some business to discuss,” she said cheerfully. “If you’d be so kind as to escort me to his tent.”

  The warriors frowned as her very female voice surprised them.

  Gotcha.

  Sage lunged left, clearing the far side of her attackers’ line. She paused and waited on the balls of her feet. Sage jerked her head, and the hood slid to her shoulders. No reason to have it block her vision when the ruse was up. The soldiers moved in sync, hardly batting an eye at her prior burst of speed. They knew she was slower than they were. They were going to toy with her now. Sage held up one blade in front of her and one behind her, keeping her gaze on the trio that now circled her.

  “What a pretty little thing,” the big man taunted. He eyed her stolen cloak. “I’m sure my lord doesn’t invite thieves to dine with him. I say we take care of this right here. What do you think, men?”

  The others laughed, and the hair along her arms rose a moment, before the hawkish man came at her. He tossed a large knife from one hand to the other. A surge of relief rushed through her. Clearly, this one was still young. Any warrior worth his salt knew a soldier never let go of his blade.

  Sage darted beneath his guard and knocked his knife from his hands. He swung at her, and she jammed one of her blades into his ribs. He bellowed and grabbed for her. She barely managed to duck in time and caught his eyes flicking right.

  Damn it.

  She cut the clasp at her throat and lunged forward, spinning to see the biggest man clutching the dark Scythian cloak she’d stolen. The feline man attacked from her right, and she snapped out a side kick, nailing him in the knee. A sickly snap sounded. He screamed and yet managed to grab her boot. He yanked, pulling her off her feet. Sage dropped to her back and twisted, dislodging her foot from his grasp.

  A snick on metal caught her attention. She rolled, just as a blade plunged into the ground where she had been lying. Sage surged to her feet, knocked the biggest warrior’s feet out from under him, and dumped him onto his back.

  Her attention focused on the hawkish man who moved slowly, each step graceful and calculated. The biggest one was the loudest, but this man was the most dangerous.

  Sage danced backward as he pursued her.

  “Pretty little show,” the man said simply.

  She shrugged. “I do what I can. Take me to the warlord, and I will make sure he spares you.” A lie.

  He cocked his head but never stopped moving. “What makes you so special?”

  “Nothing and everything.”

  “Playing with words.” His lip curled. “Just like an Aermian.”

  Her muscles tensed, and he blurred. Sage didn’t have time to prepare herself for the blow. The warrior hit her so hard, he slammed the breath from her own lungs. She sailed backward and remembered just in time to tuck and roll. Her left shoulder took the brunt of her weight. That would bruise. Sage popped to her feet and wheezed.

  He hadn’t used his blades. The warrior caught her glance and smiled. “Blades are too easy. It’s more personal to kill someone with my bare hands.”

  Another psychopath. Delightful. “Your warlord won’t be pleased if you don’t take me to him.”

  The hawkish warrior studied her and held a hand up when the other two clambered to their feet and made like they were going to join in. “She’s mine.”

  Sage sank further into a battle-ready stance. This wasn’t going to be fun.

  He took one gliding step toward her when a spear struck the ground between them, quivering, planted in the snow-covered earth. Another figure appeared from behind the hawkish warrior, his long braids just visible.

  Blair. She wanted to sag in relief, but she didn’t. She watched as the warrior looked back, to find the commander prowling toward them. The youngest warrior with the rib wound bowed his head and grimaced.

  The hawkish man didn’t bow but stood tall when Blair stepped into his space. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “Protected our camp from an intruder, sir.”

  “You’ve attacked our liege’s consort.” Blair cracked a smile that was anything but friendly. All three warriors stiffened.

  Sage kept her expression blank at her title, even though it made her skin crawl.

  “We had no way of knowing,” the youngest began to say.

  “Enough,” the hawkish warrior barked. “We will accept the punishment for our actions.”

  “Indeed, you will,” the commander murmured. He moved around the warrior and took a couple of smooth steps in Sage’s direction before halting. “Consort.”

  “Commander,” she murmured. They gazed at each other, snow falling around them.

  “I will escort you to our warlord.”

  She swallowed hard and tried to tamp down the fear growing in her belly. There was no turning back now. Sage rose from her fighting stance, her blades still in each hand. On wooden legs, she passed the biggest warrior and the youngest one, as they both stared at her in fascination. Sage paused next to Blair, eyeing the hawkish warrior. His eyes narrowed as he scanned her from foot to toe. She arched a brow.

  “She’s tiny,” he muttered.

  “True. Doesn’t stop her from fighting a good fight, does it?” Blair pointed out.

  The warrior nodded in agreement.

  Blair looked down at her, his amusement draining away as fast as it had
come. “Put those blades away, consort, unless you intend to challenge me.”

  Sage worked her jaw, but returned her blades to their places. She felt utterly naked without her weapons in her hands. At least he hadn’t taken them from her. Yet.

  “Very good. Now follow me. He’s been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

  Dread filled her.

  There was no going back.

  Thirty-Two

  The Warlord

  Three of his best warriors stood around his desk—Jacobi, Phenrir, and Demdai. He steepled his fingers and watched the three of them, his gaze blank even as he studied his commanders. Their army was making progress but… something about Demdai’s posture was bothering him. His shoulders were just a little too stiff, his gaze a little too blank. Too much like his own.

  What was his warrior hiding?

  “Winter is setting in, my liege,” Jacobi explained.

  The warlord’s lips twitched, and the overly tall warrior blanched. Satisfaction warmed him at the reaction. Jacobi wouldn’t be rebelling against him any time soon. While the commander excelled at following commands, he was hardly a plotter.

  “True,” he murmured conversationally and waved a hand in dismissal. Only a fool wouldn’t have a plan. Zane’s expression hardened a touch. He was not a fool. The years of bloodshed, rebellion, and death had trained him well.

  Jacobi swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but gathered his composure. “Of course, my lord.”

  Zane smiled at the man. He liked that about the towering warrior. A devious strategist the man was not, but he served in a more practical function of passing unbiased information among the warriors. A commander that followed his orders to the letter was difficult to come by.

  His gaze slid over the other two warriors.

  As for Demdai and Phenrir, both had their own agendas. Phenrir would never take the throne, but he had a son around Blaise’s age. He wished for a union between them. That would never happen.

  Traitor, the voices hissed in disdain.

  His lips thinned. His niece had made a grave mistake in crossing him. She’d taken his consort from him. That wasn’t forgivable.

  Kill, kill, kill!

  Her betrayal would not go unpunished, but not to the point of death. Zane steepled his fingers as he dropped his gaze back to the intricate map on his desk, his shuddered gaze hiding his glee from his men.

  He had plans for the wayward girl. While he couldn’t outright kill the only heir to his throne at the moment, the suffering and shame she’d experience when she was captured would be enough to have her fall in line. His lips twitched the tiniest bit at the remembrance of how his men hunted her down each time she set a foot on the battlefield.

  Her woes were only beginning.

  The warlord’s eyes flicked to the haughty Phenrir. The warrior had too many ambitions—both he and his son—there would be no marriage between their families. He’d never let a sniveling wimp on his throne.

  However, he did know of a warrior who might bring Blaise to heel…

  “My lord?” Jacobi said.

  “Continue,” he said, waving his hand. Their reports to him each night were an exercise in humility. The warlord knew exactly what was happening on the battlefield and in his camp. Any good leader did. But it amused him to watch his commanders shift uneasily in his presence.

  Jacobi opened his mouth to speak when Blair’s deep voice sounded from outside his tent.

  “Entrance, my lord?”

  “Permitted,” Zane answered.

  His last commander pushed through the tent flap and hovered at the entrance, snow clinging to his dark braids.

  “May I approach?” Blair asked respectfully.

  The warlord’s gaze sharpened. Here was a man who knew how to play the game properly. Blair never stepped out of line. That in and of itself was suspicious.

  “You may,” he drawled.

  His commander approached the desk, not sparing a glance at the other three men staring at him with slightly veiled dislike. Another reason why he kept Blair around. His dutiful commander stirred the pot too much. They hated how many privileges Zane had given Blair. In all honesty, he hated Blair most days. The man was efficient, though, and the warlord couldn’t find a reason to kill him. There were numerous fraudulent charges he could have heaped upon the good commander’s head if he’d really wanted him dead. But Zane had learned not to be wasteful throughout his years.

  He eyed the hostile glances being thrown from his other commanders. If his leading men hated each other, they would never unite against him.

  Blair bowed deeply and straightened, locking eyes with him. “There has been a development. We have discovered a spy in our camp.”

  A spy? The hair at the back of his neck rose. There was only one so brazen to enter his camp. Slowly, he rose from his chair. “A spy?”

  Blair nodded. “She’s here.”

  The world slipped into silence; not even the voices whispered. His skin tingled. She was here. Sage. It was as if her name unlocked the chaos he kept tightly leashed inside himself.

  Ours. Mine. Die. Possess. Pain. Ours, the voices roared.

  Pain pulsed in his temples, and he glared at his men.

  “Get out,” he uttered softly. His warriors filed out, not one hesitating.

  The warlord squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed the sides of his desk to ground himself. The wood groaned beneath his palms.

  Ours. Ours. Punish. Ours.

  “Mine,” he growled out loud. His. She was his to possess and punish. His.

  The warlord opened his eyes and inhaled deeply, barely holding on to the threads of his sanity.

  Sage was here.

  His vision dipped, and Zane bared his teeth through the howls echoing in his mind.

  She was home.

  The wood cracked and bit into his palms. The pain helped him focus. Slowly, he counted his breaths and released the edge of his desk, leaving smears of crimson behind.

  The warlord rolled his neck and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling of his tent.

  She returned.

  For once, he allowed himself a full smile.

  He’d won.

  She was his.

  Thirty-Three

  Sage

  The night air seemed to thicken, as four hulking warriors exited the large canvas tent, Blair bringing up the rear. She kept her expression neutral, as one of the warriors approached from her right side. He halted an arms-breadth away and scanned her from head to toe. His lip curled. From his expression, he clearly didn’t care for her.

  “So, the consort returns,” he sneered from his great height.

  Consort. Sage hid her flinch at the title. Get yourself under control. If you can’t handle him, how do you expect to handle the warlord?

  He leaned into her space as if to intimidate her. Her initial wariness burned away while irritation and anger took its place. She’d danced with the devil and sat by his side in hell. He didn’t know what real fear was. This man was just a giant bully. She could sense it.

  The man gave her a terrifying smile and whispered, “I hope he rips your bloody throat out for what you’ve done.”

  She lazily arched a brow at him, goading him the tiniest bit. “Where would the fun be in that?” she murmured back softly, knowing that all the warriors were listening in despite her low tone. “Methinks you don’t know your lord as well as you profess to.” She scanned him from head to toe as he’d done to her. “If I was a betting woman, I’d say you’re only a glorified bitch for the lord to kick around.”

  The warrior’s face turned red at the insult. “You little whore!”

  How unoriginal.

  “If you don’t watch yourself, you might be the one with his throat cut.” Sage tsked. She slanted a glance to the tent and back to the warrior’s expression, which had now drained of its fire but held bitterness. “I would watch what sort of labels you throw around in mixed company. I’m told all Scythians have an excellent se
nse of hearing. I’m sure the warlord more than most.”

  The warrior’s jaw set, and he hissed into her face. Her heart pounded a little harder.

  “Enough, Phenrir,” Blair said, a clear command.

  Sage didn’t fail to notice the rage that ignited the warrior’s eyes before he shuttered his expression and moved out of her space, his steps almost silent as he stormed away into the camp. So the haughty Phenrir didn’t like Blair ordering him around. Good to know. Sage filed that information away for later.

  Her shoulders slumped the smallest bit, and she felt like she could breathe again once he’d moved away from her, hovering to her far right. While Phenrir wasn’t the warlord, he still wasn’t someone she wanted to be close to. Sage dismissed him and focused back on the tent entrance.

  He still hadn’t arrived. Her stomach quivered. On one hand, it gave her time to think, but on the other hand, it ratcheted up her nerves. Nervousness did not do her any good.

  A fat snowflake dropped onto her nose, causing Sage to blink and to focus on the frigid feathers descending from the night sky. Snow fell around them, flurries dancing in a gentle breeze. She focused on one, and counted her heartbeats until the snowflake joined its brethren among the white shroud blanketing the ground.

  The silence held a sinister edge to it. She studied the warriors stationed around her from beneath her lashes. They stood around her like stone sentinels, their dark gazes frozen to her. The only sign that they were alive were the warm puffs of breath that steamed into the chilly night air. How did they stand so still? Sage opened and closed her hands, keeping her fingers from stiffening up. Weren’t they cold? Her toes had already begun to go numb in her boots as the snow piled up around her feet. How long did the warlord plan on leaving her out here?

  Do you really want to see him so badly?

  The temptation to fiddle with her shirt niggled at her, but she squashed the notion. She wouldn’t give the men around her any indication that she was nervous. She readjusted her stance, and ignored the eyes that were watching her. The back of her neck prickled, but she didn’t look behind her. Damn nerves.