Warlords, Witches and Wolves: A Fantasy Realms Anthology

by Michelle Diener

  Her hand went to her neckline, and she pulled out a needle she must have woven into it. It was already threaded, and she looked down at the scrap of fabric, bit her lip, and then sewed a few, quick strokes.

  It was his name, he realized.

  “Will you keep that against your skin?” she asked. “Think of me, and keep it against your skin?”

  “You should put your own name on it, too,” he said.

  She looked at him, and then shook her head. “Just in case someone finds it, I'd better not.”

  She held it out, and he took it. It was made of fine cotton, smooth to the touch.

  “Against your skin,” she reminded him. Then she leaned closer and kissed him, her arm coming around to hold him close. “Goodbye. Be safe.”

  She let her horse dance back, then turned it north, and rode, and he watched her until he could no longer see her through the trees.

  He looked down at the handkerchief and smiled at the sentimentality of her request. He tucked the fabric into the waistband of his pants, so it was against his skin as requested, and then turned his horse east.

  With every step he took away from her, he fought the instinct to turn and follow. To help her reach Grimwalt before he joined his own people.

  But he didn't have that luxury.

  With every passing day, they would worry about whether to send someone after him, or attempt a rescue.

  And with the weather changing, they needed to start moving toward Fernwell, to the warmer climes.

  And still, his hands itched to pull the reins north.

  Chapter 10

  Her grandmother's house lay below as she crested the hill.

  The dogs, exuberant and sensing the journey's end, ran down to the gate and milled about in front of it as they waited for her.

  A man came from around the side of the house, and Ava recognized him as Tomas, her grandmother's estate manager.

  He started at the sight of the dogs, then looked up the hill and saw her riding down, and relaxed a little.

  “Tomas.” She called his name as she got closer, and he started again.

  “Is that . . . Ava?” He took a step back.

  She swung down from her horse and signaled the dogs, so they stopped jumping and behaving badly, and sat calmly as she opened the gate.

  “Your grandmother would have loved to be here for this moment.”

  The way he said it, in the past tense, she knew.

  She bowed her head. “When did she find the way to death's embrace?”

  “Six months ago.” He cleared his throat and she looked up to see the sudden hardness in his expression. “When she died, it was her deathbed wish that the borders be closed and all supplies to Kassia cut off in protest of your abduction.”

  “I heard the borders were closed.” Although she hadn't thought through what that might mean for her trying to get home.

  She had seen the guards, men and women in full Grimwalt colors, watching the way in, and preferred to keep her movements out of the official eye.

  In the end, she had been forced to work her way up through the mountains and take one of the passes her grandmother had shown her on the maps that covered her study.

  It had taken an extra four days.

  “The court decided to honor your grandmother’s last wish, but some are making noises about opening the border up again. It is good you’re back, you can tell them your story.” Tomas looked down at the dogs, and then crouched, rubbing a few heads. “Where did you come across these, then?”

  Ava bent and rubbed under a few chins, and the dogs crowded around closer, all wanting some of her attention. “These were the hounds sent to chase me down, Tomas.”

  The estate manager went still, and then smiled. “Now that sounds like a story your grandmother would have wanted to hear.” He gestured to the house. “It's all yours, now, unless your parents . . .?”

  “I saw my mother's body myself.” Ava couldn't keep the grief out her voice. “I heard my father died, too, and I have no reason to disbelieve it.”

  “Then this is yours, and you need to visit the Grimwalt court and let them know what happened to you.”

  She didn't contradict him, letting him take the dogs to give them food and water, and make a place for them in the stables.

  But as she stepped into house, she consider the suggestion and rejected it.

  She had never had official dealings with the court. That had been her grandmother's role and while she had met many of the sons and daughters of the elected leaders of Grimwalt, she had never spent time with their parents.

  Grimwalt, unlike Kassia, did not have a noble class. So those in control of the court now would not be the same as those she had mixed with before.

  They had closed the borders in deference to her grandmother, though.

  That probably meant they deserved at least a letter of explanation.

  But actually going to court, getting caught up in meetings, and perhaps even coming face-to-face with some of Kassia's diplomats, if any were still left there, now the borders were closed, would be nothing but a huge waste of time.

  She had a Herald to track down and administer justice to.

  And she didn't want to wait.

  Not when she had someone waiting for her on the eastern plains.

  The camp spread out before him, the lights from fires and a few torches illuminating members of his army as they talked quietly, or moved between the tents.

  Luc swung down from the saddle and stood in the dark, looking at it.

  He had never expected it to grow this big.

  When he'd turned against the Kassians, slipped away the night before the battle and sought out the Venyatux camp with a proposal for their generals, he had never considered it would grow into something this huge.

  That he would be responsible for so many.

  And yet, this was the way to victory, and so he accepted it.

  Accepted the weight of responsibility that came with it.

  In the name of his mother, who had literally thrown herself in front of an army to protect him.

  That sacrifice would not be for nothing.

  He had made that promise when he'd seen her body, and then every day of his life in the Chosen camp he'd been sent to. Looking at the tent city lying before him, he made it again.

  A sound, something he barely registered, came from his left, and he pivoted, sword raised, to block the strike that came down on him.

  Metal met metal with a high-pitched ring, eager and sharp. But this had to be a watch guard from his own camp, and Luc did not want to kill whoever they were.

  He jumped back, sword raised. “Who is there?”

  His attacker paused, then stepped forward, so a little of the light from below lit his face.

  “Commander?” He gaped at Luc, and then dropped his sword. “I . . .”

  “What's this?” A voice called from the dark behind the guard, and Reven appeared, the stocky warrior holding a sword in one hand, an axe in the other.

  “The Commander.” The guard gave Reven a stricken look, but Reven didn't even glance at him. He threw both weapons to the ground with a roar and grabbed Luc up in a hug.

  “I knew they couldn't keep you for long. I knew it!”

  More calls came out of the darkness, and Luc was soon surrounded by men and women, exclaiming and whooping.

  He had to grab his spooked horse before it bolted, and they walked down the hill together.

  Much later, he sat in the big meeting tent with Reven, Massi and Dak, wine cup in hand, and thought of Ava.

  Of whether she had had as warm a welcome as he had.

  “So, now we're alone, let's hear the details.” Massi leaned forward and poured more wine into her cup, then leaned back to watch him with eyes that gleamed in the firelight.

  “First, who was it that told the watch guards to strike first, ask questions later?”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “What do you mean?” Dak frowned.r />
  “I mean I was almost killed by one of my own army while walking into camp. I expected to have to announce myself, but if I hadn't heard the snick as they drew their sword, you'd be weeping over my body, not drinking to my health.”

  Reven cleared his throat. “I heard a horse. Sent the watch guard ahead to stop whoever was coming our way. I never thought—”

  Massi turned to stare at him, and so did Dak. “You told him to kill?”

  “I didn't think I did, but he must have thought that's what I meant.”

  “Someone is coming to join me when she’s completed her own business. I don't want her cut down as she walks in. If someone even touches her, the consequences won't be pretty.”

  “No one should be cut down. It's better to have someone to question than a body, anyway.” Massi was still looking at Reven.

  “What?” He glared at her. “I made a mistake.”

  “There is no room for mistakes any more, Rev.” Dak crossed his arms. “What would have happened to us if your guard had killed Luc?”

  “I'll speak to the watch tomorrow.” Reven ducked his head.

  “I'll speak to everyone tomorrow,” Luc corrected. “There is going to be no doubt in anyone's mind how things stand.”

  Rev looked up, a flash of fury in his eyes, before he shook his head and gripped his cup. “That's a good idea, anyway. They'll want to hear how you got away.”

  “The friend who'll be joining me is how. She helped me escape, not once, but twice.”

  “A Kassian?” Massi asked, her eyes narrowed.

  “A Grimwaldian. A fellow prisoner in the dungeon. I very conveniently arrived just as she was about to escape herself. Fortunately, she consented to including me in her plan.”

  “Where is she now?” Dak leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  “She had business in Grimwalt.”

  “But she's coming to join you later?” Massi raised a brow.

  “Yes.”

  “Because . . .?” Reven slowly took a sip of wine.

  Luc threw back the last dregs from his cup. “Because—”

  A small woman burst through the tent flaps. She was fast, running a few steps and then jumping onto a chest, using it to launch herself into the air, a curved blade in her hand. She brought it down at an angle to slice at Luc's neck, and Luc reached for his sword and arced his arm upward, cutting her hand as she brought it down.

  The woman screamed as she fell, and Massi was on her as soon as she landed, a knee in her back and a knife to her throat.

  With a gasp, the woman twisted up, pressing her neck against Massi's blade, impaling herself on it, and then fell down, blood gushing from her wound.

  Massi turned to stare at him, shock on her face. “Did you—?”

  Luc knelt beside the woman, but she was already unconscious and after a few moments, dead.

  “How did you do that?” Dak asked, voice low.

  “Do what?” Luc got to his feet, his gaze on the assassin, but at Dak's silence, he lifted his head, found all three were staring at him.

  “I didn't even realize she was in the tent until you were cutting her hand.” Dak shook his head.

  “The way you grabbed your sword . . .” Rev swallowed. “I've never seen you move like that.”

  Luc frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  But long after they'd taken the body away and he'd made a bed for himself in Dak's tent, he wondered.

  He undressed, took Ava's handkerchief from his waistband and laid it on his pillow, as he'd done every night since he'd left her. When he lay down, he rubbed at the arrow wound on his chest.

  A wound that was no longer there.

  Chapter 11

  Ava reached for the missive Velda held out to her, the document impressively beribboned, with beautiful beaded tassels.

  “Another demand, I expect.” Velda folded her arms and stood over her as Ava delicately loosened the knot and then unfurled the parchment.

  Ava read it, then looked up. “It is.”

  Velda didn't say I told you so, although she had indeed told Ava so.

  Her polite letter to the Grimwalt court, letting them know the circumstances of her parents' deaths, including who was responsible, and her own escape, had not been the end of the matter.

  Increasingly demanding letters for her to appear began arriving, some now no more than a few days apart.

  Ava set the letter down and took up her sewing.

  “It's looking good,” Velda said, eyeing it with a professional's attention.

  “It will have to be.” Ava tied off the last stitch and laid the man’s shirt out.

  It was, even if she said so herself, magnificent.

  She had hand stitched it from the softest cotton, and then used blues and greens to embroider feathers over it.

  Because Herron reminded her of a strutting, vain bird.

  There was not a single black stitch in the work. She wanted to give him no reason to hesitate to put it on.

  “Why did my mother tell me only black silk worked?” She tilted her head as she looked up at Velda.

  “Your grandmother never understood why she clung to that. Yes, your grandmother preferred to work black silk, it was her signature, and perhaps your mother confused preferred with had to.” Velda shrugged. “Your grandmother never worked pieces like this, though. Secret pieces for the unsuspecting. When she worked an item, it was deliberately. Made to order, or as a gift. Whoever wore what she had made did so as a statement. And unless they said what working your grandmother had used, no one knew what protection they had. But people knew there was some magic involved.”

  “Would she have approved of this?” Ava asked. She didn’t just mean the shirt. She meant the deceit of it.

  “I don't know. I think she would have.” Velda leaned against the table. “She loved your mother and you, and she would have wanted justice. But also, these are such complex workings, nothing your grandmother ever considered. She would be proud of your skill.”

  “They are complex. Let's hope not so complex they don't work at all.” Ava folded the feather shirt, wrapped it in its own paper and then boxed it up.

  “How many is that, then?” Velda waved at the parcels.

  “Ten in all. Not much, but they take a long time.” Ava hoped ten was enough. There was a flower one, a wave one, an arrow one . . . all different. All unique. Rare enough Herron would covet one of his own.

  “Tomas's friend should be here tomorrow to smuggle them over the border.” Velda straightened.

  “Good. I have written instructions for him.” Ava showed Velda the rolled parchment. “The feather one can only be sold to the Herald. It has to be held back until a request comes from the palace.”

  “I’ll make sure he knows.”

  “And your friends at the border are sure Herron is on his way to Fernwell?”

  Velda nodded. “Word is the Jutan have retreated for the winter and Herron is going to Fernwell to report on the skirmish to the queen himself.” She shifted suddenly, a hand going to her mouth. “I forgot. The court messenger is waiting for a reply.”

  Ava grabbed the parchment from the Grimwalt court, picked up an ink pen and scrawled her answer across the bottom. She rolled it back up, wound the ribbon around it, and held it out to Velda. Her grandmother's housekeeper had been a second grandmother to her even when her real grandmother had been alive. It had been a balm to her soul to have her company these last three weeks.

  Just before Velda took it, though, she changed her mind.

  “No. I'll hand it over. Explain how things are. This aggravation has to stop.” Ava walked out into the hall and saw the messenger standing by the fire.

  Summer had only just ended, but the weather was cooler than usual.

  “Sir.” She came to stand beside him, and passed him the missive.

  “Finished with your reply already?” He flicked a glance at her, and a bell began a warning toll in her head.

  It wasn't that he was being ru
de. There were no social barriers in Grimwalt and she didn't care for the pomp and ceremony of her father's Kassia—she rather preferred the refreshing equality of her mother’s country. There was something else here, though. Some nervous energy.

  “It was a short reply.” Ava smiled at him, hoping none of her concern showed. “Please tell the speaker of the court that I cannot come all the way to Taunen. It would take too long, and I have pressing business.”

  “It would take two weeks, at most,” the messenger said.

  The bell toll became louder.

  This was not the court messenger she was speaking to, she was sure of that.

  Perhaps it was the son of one of the court leaders. Or even of the speaker himself.

  “Two weeks is time I do not have.” She inclined her head and backed away. “Please send my regards to the court.”

  “Lady . . .” The messenger's call was sharp, and Ava turned, face composed, to stare at him.

  “My apologies. It is just not the news the speaker had hoped to hear.”

  “I understand. I have been dealt a number of disappointments myself over the last few years. I'm sorry to have been the cause of one for him, but that is out of my control.” She inclined her head again and walked away.

  He was on her by her second step, hand over her mouth to stop her screaming.

  She fought him, using every trick Carila had taught her, but suddenly, he was not alone. He held her arms at her side while another man tightened a gag over her mouth, all while they dragged her from the hall.

  By the time they had reached the door, her arms were pinned to her sides and only her feet were free.

  “Ava!” Velda screamed her name from the door to her sewing room, and then ran at both men, grabbing a candlestick from a mantel as she sprinted across the hall.

  She hit the messenger hard with it. He had no chance against her because his hands were full, trying to stop Ava getting free from his grasp.

  The second man, the stranger, tried to grab Velda's arms, but she screamed again, the sound loud enough that even Ava wished she could cover her ears.

  It did the trick, though.