Warcry

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  The trumpets sounded again as they moved forward, Anna’s skirts brushing against the legs of those standing along their path.

  Heath pressed his belt pouch, feeling through the leather to see if the rings were still there.

  They were.

  Othur and Anna had reached the dais. They bowed and curtsied to the Archbishop and took their positions off to the right. As Othur escorted Anna to their place, Heath saw Browdus lean forward to whisper urgently in the Archbishop’s ear. Probably trying one last time to change his mind.

  To Heath’s relief, the Archbishop shrugged Browdus off.

  The Herald pounded his staff again and called out, his voice resounding above everyone’s head. “Lords and ladies, the Queen’s escort.”

  Heath’s gaze returned to the doorway to see Atira standing there, cloaked, her hair up over her head in a mass of curls, with a white ribbon woven through. Behind her stood Yveni and Amyu, each with white ribbons and cloaks.

  Atira stood there for just a breath, and then all three women reached up, unfastened their cloaks, and let them fall.

  Heath’s mouth went dry. By all the gods above, they were all lovely. But Atira . . . she was gorgeous.

  Atira stood tall, her tanned skin glowing in the torchlight. The Xyian dress was of blue, with a bodice laced tight and a long, flowing skirt.

  Yveni and Amyu wore the same dress, their skin glowing. Amyu was slighter than either of the other two, but her curves were more pronounced.

  Heath sucked in a breath as Atira walked forward. The dress seemed to flow around her as she moved smoothly toward him.

  The room remained quiet as the three women advanced, every eye glued to them.

  Heath’s body reacted, his blood rushing to his groin. He growled under his breath, cursing the woman as he shifted his body, certain she’d planned this from the start.

  Atira’s mouth quirked in the corner.

  She drew closer, and Heath realized that this was the first time he’d seen her without a weapon. It shocked him somehow, the contrast between Atira as warrior and Atira as a woman of Xy. It seemed wrong . . . and he frowned slightly at the thought.

  But when she stepped up onto the dais, he caught a glimpse of a sheath, and he understood. They had slit the skirts, she and the other women, and hidden weapons beneath them. At least they’d had that much sense. The dress wasn’t going to protect Atira from much of anything, should the worst happen.

  And when the ceremony was over, if all went well, he’d be the one to untie those lacings.

  OTHUR MADE DAMN SURE HIS GAZE WAS ANYWHERE else other than on the Plains women. Anna would kill him, otherwise.

  The women floated down the aisle, Atira in the lead, and they moved to stand in a row on the left side of the throne. Atira turned her back on Heath pointedly. Othur caught a glimpse of his son’s face. Heath’s skin looked hot enough to burn.

  Although perhaps it wasn’t anger that fueled that flame.

  Othur smiled and adjusted the sash of the Sword of Xy. His son was a smart man. He’d figure things out.

  “Lords and ladies of Xy, and warriors of the Plains, Xylara, Daughter of Xy, Queen, and Warprize.”

  Lara stood in the doorway.

  She wore a flowing dress of white, and on her shoulders was the mantle of Xy, the ermine framing her body. Her hair was up in tousled curls with both white and gold ribbons wound through. Her blue eyes were bright with joy as she paused, then started toward the throne.

  The crowd knelt as she approached, rising only after she passed. Lara didn’t acknowledge them, as was proper. She kept her pace steady, her face to the front. The long train of the mantle rustled as it passed over the marble floor, stretching out behind her.

  Othur’s eyes grew misty. She’d been such a tiny child, running through the gardens with his son, her brown curls flying. Grown right before his eyes, in the blink of an eye. So stubborn and insistent that she learn the skills of healing, even if she was a Daughter of the Blood. Until that terrible day that Xymund demanded that she sacrifice herself for Xy. That terrible, wonderful day.

  Anna had tears running down her cheeks and chins, and Othur lifted her hand and kissed it.

  Lara continued forward and moved to stand before her escort. The three women knelt to help her with the train, then rose to stand behind her. Othur averted his gaze.

  Once again, the Herald pounded with his staff. Othur had to suppress a grin—old Kendrick was enjoying his duties more than seemed right for a man of his age. His voice was almost youthful as it rang out, “Lord and ladies of Xy, warriors of the Plains, I give you Keir of the Cat, Overlord of Xy.”

  Keir didn’t bother to stand in the doorway. He just came stalking up toward the throne, making it more than halfway before anyone even knew he was there. He was wearing those black leathers and chain armor, and the combination was dark and fierce. Othur noted the two swords strapped to his back and the dagger at his side. The message the Overlord was sending to the Xyian nobles was obvious.

  Keir approached the dais and stood there, facing the Archbishop. But he only had eyes for Lara.

  “Keir of the Cat, Overlord of Xy, you stand before me, the earthly representative of the Sun God, he who blesses and preserves the Kingdom of Xy. What would you have of me?” the Archbishop asked.

  “Devoted One.” Keir’s voice was deep and clear. “I would take Xylara, Daughter of Xy to be my wife, to pledge my marriage vows to her before the Sun God and these witnesses. By my own free will and hand.”

  “How say you, Xylara, Daughter of Xy?” the Archbishop asked.

  “That I would take Keir of the Cat to be my husband, to pledge my marriage vows to him before the Sun God and these witnesses. By my own free will and hand.”

  “Who represents the House of Xy in this matter?” the Archbishop said.

  Othur took a deep breath. “We do, Devoted One, who stand in the place of Xylara’s parents. We consent to the marriage of Xylara and Keir before the Sun God and these witnesses.” Othur looked at Anna, and they spoke together, “By our own free will and hand.”

  “So it has been said and declared.” The Archbishop’s voice shook slightly. “Are the witnesses satisfied?”

  Othur held his breath.

  “We are,” was the scattered response of the crowd, but one man stood forth to stand in the center of the aisle.

  “No,” Lord Durst said.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE SILENCE SEEMED ENDLESS AS KEIR TURNED ON his heel to face Durst. The Warlord crossed his arms over his chest. “You do not hold my token, Durst of Xy.”

  Heath tensed, ready, and started watching the crowd for movement.

  Durst snarled at Keir and limped toward the dais. “I spit on your token, Firelander. I will not consent to this abomination. I will not permit that whore—” Durst pointed at Lara. “You and your whore to raise the heir to the throne of Xy.”

  The reaction of the crowd was what Heath expected. Some were looking around confused; others—the ones with armor and weapons—had determined looks. The Plains warriors all just looked angry. Those warriors had their hands on their hilts, looking about, waiting to see who would be friend or foe.

  The Herald was still standing in the open doorway, his staff at the ready, with a faint hint of outrage in his eyes.

  “You do not hold my token.” Keir spoke clearly, his voice calm and level. “I will take offense, Lord Durst.”

  “And silence my voice with violence, I suppose, as you did before.” Durst was shaking with anger.

  “I silenced your insult to my Warprize.” Keir’s voice didn’t change, but Heath heard the regret. “I acted as I would with one of the Plains, without thought. I have learned of your ways now. Apparently you have not learned ours.”

  There was a stir through the crowd, and Heath smiled grimly. They’d thought to goad Keir into rash action, most likely, and Keir was not cooperating. He just stood, his arms crossed, and waited.

  “Your consent to our
marriage is not necessary, Lord Durst.” Lara’s expression was pleasant enough, but her voice had an edge to it. “If you do not wish to witness this ceremony, you are free to leave.”

  “I am not alone, woman. There are those who stand with me.” Lord Durst gestured, and some of the Xyian men started to move toward the aisle.

  Heath watched with narrowed eyes. It was about what he expected, in terms of numbers.

  Of course, Lanfer was in front, armored and armed, with a smug look on his face.

  Durst glanced back in satisfaction. “Renounce your Firelander paramour, Xylara, and send him back to the Plains. You are of the Blood, and—”

  “You are a traitor, Durst,” Lara cried out, trying to step forward as if to confront the man. But Atira placed her foot firmly on the train, and that pulled Lara up short. “You are a traitor to your sworn and consecrated Queen, as are any who join with you.”

  “Durst,” the Archbishop started, but Durst cut him off.

  “You fat, pompous bastard, you’re the cause of this. You would go forward with the heathen, knowing—”

  Browdus leaned forward, but the Archbishop shifted away from him. “For the best interest of Xy,” he said. “New trade routes mean—”

  “Greed,” Durst spat. “You forsake the interests of Xy for the sake of your purse. Our purity demands we reject these people and their ways. Our war dead—their mounds still fresh outside these walls—cry out for vengeance. Who will heal those wounds?”

  “I will,” Lara said.

  She caught the attention of the entire room. “With this wedding.” She placed her hand on her belly. “With this child. We will go forth from our past, learn from our mistakes, and weave our peoples together. A peace, Durst. A true peace for Xyian and Plains folk alike.” Lara looked at Keir and reached out for him.

  Keir stepped toward her and took her hand in his, looking down at her with a smile.

  “Devoted One,” Lara said. “If you would . . .”

  “No. Never. Not while I breathe,” Durst announced.

  “Durst, see reason.” Lord Korvis spoke up, his lady at his side. “You are not the only one to have lost loved ones in the war. The Queen has the right of it. We must put aside—”

  “Fool!” Durst didn’t bother to turn. “I can see there is only one way. If my words will not convince you, then blades must suffice.” He drew his dagger with a flourish. “Guards! To my side!”

  Heads turned, staring, but the castle guards remained in their places.

  Heath stepped forward. “We aren’t idiots, Durst.”

  Durst gaped at him.

  “Detros spotted the men you bribed having a bit too much coin, and offering to trade for this duty. You must think us stupid to ignore those signs.” Heath put his hand on his hilt. “Your bribed supporters are elsewhere, under guard. I will deal with their betrayal later.”

  Heath watched as Durst seemed to shrink, lowering his blade slowly. The man leaned heavily on his cane and looked back at Lanfer.

  Lanfer still stood in the same position, but some of the smugness was gone. He was eyeing the guards lining the walls now, with the knowledge that they were no longer allies.

  Heath remained wary. So far, the only blade out was Durst’s dagger, but that could change in an instant.

  “Durst, see reason, man,” Lord Korvis repeated himself. “The Queen will be merciful. I’ve seen her justice and know it to be fair.”

  “You’ll get no support from me, Durst,” Lord Sarrensan joined in. “Put your dagger away, and let us see this done.”

  Heath stood, waiting for the man to choose.

  OTHUR SIGHED AND STARTED TOWARD DURST.

  Anna tried to pull him back, her face filled with fear, but he shook his head and pulled away. “Someone has to try, love.”

  He moved up next to the Warlord, who gave him a worried glance. Othur focused on Durst, standing there, looking forlorn. “Lord Durst,” he started, keeping his voice low. “Please. We do not agree, but there is no reason for blood to be shed this day.” Othur stepped off the dais, spreading his empty hands as he approached the man. “The Queen would permit you to withdraw to your lands, to live in peace. No one wants you to suffer any more than you already have. Any more than we all have.”

  Durst’s eyes were a blank, his lips moving but no sound issuing forth. He seemed a man defeated.

  “Peace comes at a cost,” Othur said. “But we fail our dead if we do not try to end the fighting.”

  “We could still fight,” Durst mumbled. “We could drive them from our lands.”

  Othur moved closer. “Let there be no more talk of death. Let us focus on the future, on the work that needs doing to ensure our prosperity.” He took another step closer.

  “Father,” Heath warned.

  “Heath, its fin—”

  Durst threw his head up at the sound. Othur saw the madness raging in his eyes.

  “You have a living son!” Durst screamed, spit flying from his lips. With one fierce move, he thrust his dagger in Othur, piercing his chest.

  Pain flared through Othur’s chest as he staggered back.

  DURST STARED IN ASTONISHMENT AT THE BLADE he had buried in Othur’s chest.

  The stunned silence around him was pierced by Anna’s scream.

  The dagger hilt slipped from Durst’s hand as Othur lurched back. Terrified, desperate for a weapon, Durst grabbed for the sword on Othur’s belt. The Sword of Xy, pulled free of its sheath, gleamed in the light.

  The room exploded behind him in hoarse cries and the ring of blade on blade. Heath lunged to catch his father, struggling to ease his fall. Othur’s hand fumbled for the dagger handle, surrounded by blood.

  Xylara had disappeared from the dais, the mantle abandoned on the floor. The damned Firelanders were pulling their weapons. In a moment, they would attack, and he’d die at their hands.

  But he had that moment and a breath left. The boy was on his knees in front of Durst, cradling his father, crying out his name.

  Durst swung the great crystal sword up over his head and put every ounce of his strength into the downward blow at Heath’s neck.

  A sword flickered out in a block that Durst could not evade. In horror, he watched the crystal strike the steel.

  With a loud ringing sound, the crystal sword shattered.

  Keir of the Cat stood there, snarling.

  Durst backed away, dropping the hilt of the sword.

  AT DURST’S CRY, ATIRA DREW HER HIDDEN DAGGERS and stepped in front of Lara. Amyu and Yveni ripped the mantle from Lara’s shoulders, ignored her struggles, and with Rafe’s aid, shoved her between the throne and the wall. Prest and Rafe took their positions again, drawing blades and keeping Lara confined.

  The rest of the room was filled with screaming women and battling warriors. Atira had a brief glimpse of Liam being attacked by two Xyians, one threatening him from behind. Then a cloaked figure leaped at the Xyian and bore him down, daggers flashing.

  Then Durst heaved the crystal sword over his head, threatening Heath.

  Atira’s heart stopped. She was too far, too far—

  Keir moved, drawing his own blade, and blocked the attack. The crystal sword shattered with a ringing sound.

  “Stop, stop!” the Archbishop was crying out, but no one heeded. The two acolytes were scrambling to get out of the way.

  Eln was kneeling at Othur’s side. “I’ll see to him,” the tall healer snapped.

  Heath stood, his face contorted with rage, his hands covered in his father’s blood. He pulled his sword and dagger.

  Durst turned and fled into the melee.

  Heath followed.

  Atira looked at Keir, who stood before the throne, both swords drawn. He gave her a nod; he and Prest and Rafe would guard the Warprize.

  Atira launched herself after Heath.

  THE FIGHTING RAGED THROUGHOUT THE THRONE room. Heath watched Durst weave his way through the mass of warriors, headed for the main doors. Fear made the man faster
than Heath had expected, but Heath’s rage fueled his own legs.

  Bodies sprawled on the white marble floor, forcing Heath to watch his footing as he ran. He caught a glimpse of Lanfer but was past the man before he could do more than lift a sword. Lanfer was not his target.

  The Herald stepped into the door, his face twisted in anger as Durst approached. The frail man swung his staff at Durst. Durst ducked and the staff cracked against the doorway.

  Durst paused long enough to push Kendrick into Heath’s path, and then he was off, running toward the main doors.

  Heath caught the Herald and twisted around him, leaving him clinging to the doorjamb. He paused just long enough to make sure the old man was steady on his feet before continuing on. He ran down the corridor, past the startled faces of the guards, and burst out into the courtyard.

  The area was awash with people frantically trying to mount and flee. Ladies in their finery were running for the gates. Heath stopped, sucking in deep breaths, looking—

  Durst was off to the left, trying to mount a panicked horse. He had one foot in the stirrup, hopping around, trying to draw himself up.

  Heath sheathed his sword, keeping his dagger out. He strode over, grabbed Durst by the collar and yanked him back.

  Durst fell, sprawling on the cobblestones, staring up at Heath. “Do it,” he panted, his breath harsh. “Kill me.”

  Heath gestured for two of the guards, who came running at his command. He heaved Durst up to his knees. “Bind him,” Heath commanded. He looked off to the gate in the castle wall. The gates remained closed. “Let no one through,” he called out over the milling crowd.

  One of the guards in the tower lifted a hand in acknowledgment.

  Durst looked up, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. “Kill me, damn you.”

  “You’ll die at the Queen’s command, and no other,” Heath said as Durst was dragged to his feet and bound. “But I pray . . .” Heath leaned in to stare at Durst, “I pray it is by my hand.” He gestured to the guards. “Bring him.”