Warlords, Witches and Wolves: A Fantasy Realms Anthology

by Michelle Diener

  "You should have sent Bruno off to become a knight," Rossa said. In her father's stories, all knights deserved to be turned into slugs. Though he'd exacted a more permanent kind of justice on them, as was fitting for a man of his talents.

  "He's a little old to be a pageboy, yet too young to be a squire. Maybe…" Mother said, staring at Father. "Would you know a knight who would train him?"

  Father looked thoughtful. "Several, actually, but I think he'd do best with the Baron of Maraschal. He owes me a favour for returning one of his breeding mares, among other things."

  Rossa opened her mouth to ask for the tale, but her mother pointed at Tobias's two young daughters, and shook her head. Rossa shut her mouth with a snap, and resolved to ask him later.

  "What sort of man is the Baron?" Tobias asked.

  Father shrugged. "The Baron I knew is likely dead and buried by now, and one of his sons has taken his place. They were all honourable men, riding all over their family lands to settle disputes and see that their people were well defended. Their money comes from the exquisite horses they breed, local stock mixed with horses one of their ancestors brought back from the very first crusade, though they have some contacts in the Holy Land still. His daughter…why, I see her like in Rossa here. Young Melisende joined a crusade herself once, and held her own in battle, but she was a trained healer when she was at home, seeing to the health of all her father's people." Father grinned. "All the family work hard, especially when it comes to the horses. Bruno will learn to behave as a proper young baron should, or he'll spend his days shovelling horse shit."

  Tobias didn't look convinced, but Silvana nodded sharply. "Will you write a letter to the Baron, please, Master Zoticus? The sooner we send Bruno to train, the better."

  Father inclined his head. "You shall have it by morning, as long as Sara remembered to buy more ink from the traders today."

  "Of course I remembered. I'm not so old that I would forget to visit any traders who come so far up the river. They would not let me forget, either – you spend more coin than the rest of the town combined." Mother sucked in a breath. "Oh, I almost forgot. A message came for you, too. I didn't dare break the seal on the scroll."

  A frown crossed Father's face, before serenity reigned there again. "I'll read it after dinner. Whatever they want can wait."

  Mother looked like she wanted to argue, but she stayed silent. Whoever's emblem she'd seen on the seal must be important. A king, an emperor…or perhaps the Pope? Father travelled less and less now, but he still took on some assignments. He might have more white hair than brown, but he was still a formidable fighter any man would fear.

  One day, she'd be good enough to go with him. But if she asked today, she knew what the answer would be. He no longer said a simple, "No," anymore – he'd ask her if she thought she was ready to be an assassin, to take someone's life while keeping a firm hand on her own, yet to do it so subtly, so carefully, that no one but she would know she had done the deed.

  If it weren't for that thieving squirrel…

  Rossa sighed. One day. But not today, or tomorrow, either.

  Chapter 7

  "To the late king, my father. May his place in heaven be assured!" Sviatopolk shouted, raising his cup.

  Boris joined him in the toast, as did most of the courtiers in the feasting hall. Once again, his cup was empty. This would not have happened when Kyrilu was his squire, but Igor still had much to learn.

  Boris gestured for a servant to fill his cup. After some time, Igor appeared, looking sulky, but carrying a pitcher of ale.

  "A squire should be more attentive, boy. This is not the first time my cup has been empty. The king has proposed many toasts tonight, and if I had to refuse to drink on account of having an empty cup, it would be a terrible slight to my brother. Why, better men have been tried for treason, bringing such dishonour to their king!" Boris said, thrusting his cup forward.

  "Perhaps if you did not drink so much, Your Highness," Igor said. "If you were more careful about what you drink – "

  Boris slammed his hand on the table. "I will not be lectured to by my squire. I can hold my drink as well as any man here, and you'd do well to remember your station. Your job is to keep my cup filled, and if you do not, I shall find myself a better squire who can!"

  Igor winced. "But, Your Highness – "

  "Fill my cup or get out of my sight!"

  Igor filled the cup, and Boris drained it, then held it out for more.

  "Again!"

  The look on Igor's face was one of pure pain, as though pouring the drink cut him to the core. Yet he did as he was commanded, before slinking away.

  None too soon, for Sviatopolk was on his feet again, raising his cup to Boris.

  "My late father said this kingdom must have both a ruler and a protector, and he was blessed to have sons who could do both. United, Prince Boris and I will bring a peace to this kingdom even my wise father could not. I pledge the health of Prince Boris. May we celebrate many more of his victories, against the Bisseni and any other enemy who dares to threaten us!" Sviatopolk roared.

  Roars of agreement came from around the hall as everyone drank Boris's health.

  He felt his face grow hot. His king had praised him, and he had not yet toasted his new king's health. He must make amends.

  Boris rose up onto unsteady feet. The ale was strong tonight – he had not drunk too much of it, no matter what his squire said.

  "To our new king. Long may he reign!" Boris said. He lifted his cup, then drained it in one big gulp.

  The other men in the hall thundered their approval, shouts and stomps ringing from the very rafters as they drank to their king's health.

  Boris sat down suddenly, finding his legs would no longer hold him up.

  The ale must be terribly strong, for he could not remember being this drunk since…

  The world went black.

  Chapter 8

  When day dawned, Father had already left, and Mother had that steely look in her eye that said anyone who disobeyed her would rue it for the rest of their life.

  So when Mother said, "We must finish shelling the chestnuts today," Rossa merely nodded and resigned herself to a day at home.

  At least she'd be spared Bruno's company – Father had written the letter he'd promised, and Tobias and Silvana were preparing him for the journey to the Baron of Maraschal's lands. Tobias would take him on the morrow, and hope to be home before winter.

  Rossa finished her breakfast, and headed for the smokehouse. The sooner she started, the sooner she'd be finished for the day. Maybe there'd be enough light to squeeze in some archery practice, when the chestnuts were done.

  Mother had taught her to choose chestnuts the way her mother and grandmother had taught her, weighing each in her hand as she picked them. So Rossa knew what to look for when she sat in the middle of the smokehouse and summoned her magic.

  Four baskets drifted into a line before her, ready and waiting. Rossa took a deep breath and sent her awareness out through the smokehouse. The ripest, ready to be released from their shells, rose from the racks where they'd been smoking for weeks, and floated to the nearest basket. Within moments, all four baskets were filled to the brim.

  Rossa took two baskets in each hand, and headed outside to the table overlooking the lake that gave Mirroten its name.

  "Good morning! I thought you'd be in the forest, training with your father," Swanhild said, already seated and waiting.

  Rossa forced out a smile. "A message came for Father yesterday, so he left for urgent business this morning." She pulled off her soft slippers and tugged on her boots.

  Swanhild's grin was as natural as the sky above. "Ooh, I wonder who his business involves."

  "He's gone to the Emperor's court in Byzas. It could be anybody," Mother said, dumping the first basket of chestnuts into the pressing tub.

  Rossa didn't wait for her to ask – she stepped into the tub and started crushing the shells with her heavy boots. Usually
Silvana did this, but not today.

  "So, do you think he's going to assassinate the Emperor, or work for him?" Swanhild asked.

  "In that court, anything's possible, but from what he said last night, I suspect he's tangled in a squabble between two members of the royal family. He wants us to spend the winter up at the castle, just in case," Mother said.

  Rossa stepped out of the tub, so that her mother could divide the crushed chestnuts between the baskets for peeling.

  "I told him we'd go as soon as the chestnuts are sent to the mill," Mother finished.

  Rossa's breath caught in her throat. Spending a whole winter at the castle in the mountains? She hadn't done that since she was a small child, hiding from the plague that had swept up the river, wiping out whole villages.

  "Is Silvana going, too?" Swanhild asked.

  "No, she's staying to take care of the town. Truly, I should pass the title to her and Tobias now, if I had any sense, and retire from the town council and everything." Mother's hands moved so quickly, prying the nuts loose from their shells, then tossing the nuts into one sack and the shells into a tub at her feet.

  Swanhild laughed. "My mother would turn over in her grave to hear you say that! It wouldn't be Mirroten without Mistress Sara ruling over us all, she would say, before telling some story about how you terrified a grown man into doing your bidding. She would have loved to see you tame Master Zoticus."

  That set Mother laughing, too. "Zoticus is the sort of man who can never be tamed. I never thought he could be content staying here in Mirroten, and he has gone away on his missions, as he calls them, yet he always returns to me. Maybe that's why Rossa hasn't fallen for any of the boys in town. She yearns for someone untameable, like I did."

  "Is that true, Rossa?" Swanhild asked. "Is that why you spend so much time in the forest – looking for a wild man to take as your lover?"

  Rossa choked. "I go hunting in the forest with my father!" They never encountered anyone else, except occasionally Swanhild, when the healer was out collecting herbs.

  "So you don't know where the clearing with the ancient altar is? Remind me to show you sometime," Swanhild said, mischief twinkling in her eyes. "It would not do if you got lost on your way there with your wild lover."

  "Don't say such things in front of my mother!" Rossa hissed.

  "Your mother, who has gone quite a telling shade of red? Oh, Mistress Sara knows exactly where her ancestors performed their ancient fertility rites, for she's the one who showed my mother, who passed the knowledge on to me. If I'm not mistaken, your brother Tobias was likely conceived before that very altar."

  Mother rose. "I'm going to get more nuts." She hurried off to the smokehouse.

  Swanhild smiled. "There, now she's gone…what's his name? Your lover in the woods?"

  "I'm not in love with anyone!" Rossa cried, clenching her fists. Magic bubbled up within her. If she shed so much as a drop of blood, she'd sent the whole table flying, chestnuts and all. She fought to control it.

  "That's because the man for you is not here. He's…" Swanhild closed her eyes and bit her lip, sparking her own magic into life. She sat there in silence for a long moment before her eyes popped open. "Ooh, I can feel him, though he's far away. Over the mountains. At the castle, maybe, or the monastery? Maybe you will seduce a monk. Enchant him so completely, he forgets his vows of celibacy and pledges himself to your pleasure instead…"

  Now Rossa's cheeks grew hot. "I would never ask a man to break his vows. And I could never love someone so dishonourable."

  "Maybe a courtier, then? The king's court lies that way, across the mountains, too. When the winter is over, your mother might send you to court. You are a lady, after all. A pity there is no queen at the moment, or I would suggest your mother send you to be one of her ladies in waiting. Plenty of men you might meet when you keep company with a queen." Swanhild's smile faltered a little.

  She had spent time at court, before she married Raphael, the town apothecary, Rossa remembered. "Was that what you were?" she asked eagerly. "A lady in waiting?"

  Swanhild shuddered. "No, I was…more like the queen's ward, for a time. Before she came to a tragic end. The king never did remarry. A most…unfortunate affair."

  Rossa opened her mouth to ask for Swanhild to tell the whole tale, instead of just this tantalising glimpse.

  "What is unfortunate?" Mother demanded, tipping a new basket of nuts into the pressing tub.

  "Oh, I was just saying to Rossa that it is unfortunate we have no queen, or she could go to court to meet her wild man," Swanhild said. She grew thoughtful. "If he's a courtier, he would have to be most refined in the king's presence, and keep his wildness for the hunt or the bedchamber. You'd have to accompany a hunting party to see him truly in his element, I imagine."

  Rossa fought her rising panic. She didn't want a man in her bedchamber.

  "Zoticus would never allow his daughter to go to court without him," Sara said. "No suitor would dare look at her with him around."

  Rossa dared to breathe again.

  "Don't be silly. Rossa will fall for a man who not only has the courage to stand before her father, but who does not fear him." Swanhild held out her empty basket for Rossa to fill.

  "But I don't…I won't…" Rossa began.

  Mother burst out laughing. "There isn't a man alive who isn't afraid of my Zoticus. And if there is, he's a fool. Rossa would not choose to marry a fool."

  "I don't want to marry anyone!" Rossa said hotly.

  Swanhild patted her hand. "Of course not. None of us want to be bothered by a man, until the right man gets down on his knees. It usually takes him a few tries to work out what to do with his tongue, if he's not that experienced, but once you've trained him…"

  "You're as salty as your mother!" Mother swore.

  "I'm going to get more nuts," Rossa said, heading for the smokehouse.

  Neither woman noticed, for they were too busy talking about…unspeakable things. At length. With obscene hand gestures and way too much laughter.

  Chapter 9

  The sound of screaming sent daggers through Boris's head. By all that was holy, why had he drunk so much? And why in heaven's name must they scream so?

  "Enough, woman," he grumbled.

  But the screams only grew louder. He fancied he could hear his name amid the wordless shrieks.

  Boris forced his eyes open, and felt as if the light were stabbing them, too. The light of a single torch lit the stone room, but it was enough to see a pair writhing on the floor together.

  "Go bed the girl in your own chamber," Boris grumbled, lifting his hand to shade his eyes.

  Or at least he tried to, but he couldn't seem to reach. His hand stopped short, and he squinted to see why. A manacle encased his wrist, fastened to a chain that he assumed was fixed to the wall behind him. His other hand bore a metal cuff, too, and equally heavy chains.

  "Boris! Help me!"

  Boris blinked. Vica? Some other man was bedding Vica? He roared and tried to reach them, but his chain was too short.

  His struggles attracted the man's attention, though, so he left Vica alone to stride over to Boris. The stranger wore the livery of the castle guards, though he was no one Boris knew.

  Boris's eyes darted to Vica. Blood stained the front of her slashed gown, and tears streaked her cheeks, which already darkened with a blooming bruise no doubt inflicted by the villainous guard advancing on him.

  "I will have you executed for daring to touch the Princess of Rostov," Boris declared, glaring at the man.

  "Me and the princess are busy," the man declared, throwing a punch at Boris.

  Between the mother of all hangovers and his chains, Boris was too slow to dodge the blow. Instead, the man sent him reeling against the wall, and the impact sent him back into the darkness, followed by the sound of Vica's screams.

  Chapter 10

  It was late afternoon by the time Mother called a halt to peeling chestnuts, so she and Swanhild might make di
nner. Rossa escaped before she was forced to help with the cooking, too. She'd rather be out in the forest, hunting fresh meat for the stewpot, than hunched over the stewpot, stirring it.

  After all day sitting in the autumn sun, the coolness in the shade of the forest was as refreshing as the waterskin of well-water she'd brought with her. Rossa's feet found their own way back to the clearing where she'd last trained with Father.

  Where a single squirrel had been her downfall.

  The squirrel's corpse still lay where it had fallen, cold and stiff after a night on the ground. She bit her lip and sent a bolt of magic into the dead squirrel. The sort of magic she didn't dare practice in town, or where anyone might see her.

  The squirrel moved, stiffly at first, then more like the living creature it had once been as the magic began to work.

  "Take to the trees," Rossa whispered to it.

  The squirrel scampered up the nearest tree trunk, then broke into a run across the branches above Rossa's head.

  She dug her teeth into her lip again, conjuring missiles made of magic alone. One by one, she directed the dagger-shaped projectiles at the fast-moving squirrel. And again, and again…

  The magic blades passed harmlessly though the enchanted squirrel, before splashing on the leaves and branches behind it. The magic crackled and spat for a moment, before it vanished, leaving the trees relatively unharmed.

  It did not have to be so – she could conjure fireballs, blades of ice or bolts of magic so concentrated, they punched holes through things. Father sometimes permitted her to practice with magical projectiles, but he preferred her to be proficient in more mundane weapons, leaving her magic for a last resort. A secret weapon, ready to be called upon when she needed it.

  She'd tried using her magic against her father once in a fight, and only succeeded in knocking herself out when the spell rebounded, magnified, thanks to one of the magical charms he wore. She'd since managed to replicate such a shield around herself – no charm needed – but it had taken the shape of a large bubble, a sword's length from her body, so that it stopped her from fighting at all.