The Road of Kings: A Strong Woman in the Middle Ages (A Medieval Tale Book 8)

by Lina J. Potter

  "God, please help them! Let them return alive! Oh, God..."

  She could finally allow herself to cry, but Lily hadn't realized it yet. Her cheeks were just moist.

  In less than an hour, she would stand up, go to the queen, smile and calm everyone down, but for the time being, she needed to be weak. For whom was she praying? For her husband? For Lort? For Chantaine? For his soldiers?

  She didn't care, as long as they came back alive and victorious. The rest were words in the wind.

  ***

  Altres Lort squinted. The wind blew in his face, tussling his hair, trying to unclench his pressed lips, cutting his eyes with sharp fragments.

  Forgive me, brother. Forgive me for being late, for not being by your side, for not predicting the mutiny... Forgive me that I couldn't even help your wife and children. In the darkest hour, other people did for them what I should have done. I'm sorry.

  Gardwig didn't reply. He never would.

  Altres couldn't even cry out to the skies, asking what he had done to deserve it. He knew everything already.

  How much dirt, blood, pain, and death, how many broken human lives are on your conscience, sir royal butcher? How many times have you been cursed? Fate has finally caught up with you, and praise Aldonai that at least the children made it out alive, that Milia survived. That Countess Earton was by her side.

  But Altres had no time for a moment of weakness. First, he needed to find out who the enemy was and get to his throat. He needed to get to Fort Shedar. Mourning came later. Vengeance was number one on his list.

  The wind touched his cheeks, snatching his tears and covering their tracks with dust. Nobody would see Altres Lort, the king's butcher, cry. Nobody, ever. As for his soul...who had ever cared about that?

  Thank you, wind.

  A joint regiment almost fifteen hundred strong was marching to Fort Shedar.

  Virma, the lands of Clan Oronsteg.

  Angelina couldn't sleep.

  She kept pacing the room like a fox trapped in a cage. Her pillow was hard, her bed was too narrow, the wind was cold, and she felt a draft coming from the window. That wouldn’t do at all!

  Wulf Oronsteg was a gracious host, and she and Bran had received rooms, servants, and guards. At that moment, the servants were asleep, and the guards were downstairs, which boded well for Angelina's plan. Still, it felt really scary, even if she knew that she wouldn't get another chance—never.

  That thought made Angelina shiver as if a grave chill overcame her. What a nasty feeling.

  Never.

  No. She wasn't going for that. Having made up her mind, she pulled on a cloak above her shirt and left the room.

  Bran wasn't asleep; she saw light coming from under his door. For a second, Angelina hesitated and finally knocked. She didn't doubt that the door was locked. It was Bran, after all.

  He opened up almost immediately, standing on the doorstep and looking at her.

  "Angelina?"

  The dagger that the chief of Gardren had been wielding fell on the floor with a loud clang. He had made sure to give a warm welcome to any unwelcome guests.

  "Will you let me in?"

  Angelina took a step forward, then another, not allowing either Bran or herself the chance to change their minds.

  "Yes. What's wrong?"

  Angelina turned around, shutting the door. She placed a heavy bolt into the groove, buying time to muster her courage. Then she took the plunge.

  "I want us to spend this night together."

  She was the only person in the world to see Gardren's jaw drop. Bran quickly recovered, but it was too late—he had already lost the advantage. He couldn't push Angelina out the door anymore, and she didn't care about anything else.

  "Angelina...you..."

  "Don't send me away, please," she asked softly. She knew that if she didn't say or do anything, Bran would kick her out. While he was formulating his arguments, she had time. "Don't shut me out. I love you."

  Bran slumped down on the floor by the feet of his beloved, kneeling before as he would before a god.

  "Angie..."

  His fists clenched. He had dreamed of touching her, but he never dared to, never allowed himself that. Never, not with Angelina. He had no right to ruin her life.

  But how was he supposed to keep the girl from doing something stupid? Angelina dropped on her knees next to Bran, touched his fingers, and immediately noticed the tension.

  "I love you. I know you won't leave Virma, I know that I can't stay, and I know that we will part ways... Bran, please!" It was almost a moan. "Let us have just a few nights together!"

  His blue eyes were an ocean of longing.

  "Angie...I can't. I can't do this to you."

  He could say so many other words: beautiful, clever, convincing. He didn't get the chance, as Angelina awkwardly touched his lips with hers.

  "Please..."

  Her cloak opened, falling from her shoulders, and Bran couldn't resist anymore. After all, he wasn't made of steel.

  Burying his strong fingers in her golden mane, he pressed his mouth against hers, with her cloak serving as their bedding. The night belonged to them, and tomorrow didn't matter.

  Bran knew that he was going to regret it in the morning, but he couldn't fight back. His love, his dream come true, was next to him. He was a man of flesh and blood, dammit!

  Let the one who could refuse his beloved throw a stone at him.

  Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

  Richard and Tira couldn't sleep either. Their reason was the same. As a tide of passion subsided, their bodies were pressed against each other.

  "I've never felt so happy."

  "I've never loved anyone like that."

  "I don’t believe it. You have experience."

  "Tira, I wasn't born yesterday. I did share a bed with others, but I’ve never loved like that."

  Tira rubbed her head against his chest like a cat.

  "I don't care what was before. I care that right here and right now, you're mine. Our paths might have never crossed..."

  "No. I love you too much for that."

  Tender words, followed by gentle caresses, passed into a new act of love.

  Richard fell asleep, but Tira could not. She was full of energy. She wished to dance, to sing, to tell the whole world of her happiness.

  Donning a cloak, she stepped outside. Stars shined from above. She stretched and started spinning on the porch.

  "Satisfied?"

  A low voice wrested her from her happy oblivion.

  "Huh?"

  Elg Torsveg appeared as if out of nowhere. Tira looked at him in genuine surprise.

  Richard hadn't yet realized her absence and gone to get her, but it would happen soon. If he saw Torsveg here...she didn't need that. She wasn't afraid for her beloved, knowing full well that even if the slightest harm were caused to Richard, Olav would flay the entire Clan Torsveg alive. He had the power and the reach, and then there was Ativerna...

  But the day was so wonderful, and the night was just as nice. Tira understood that her love was doomed. Sooner or later, Richard would leave, and she would stay, and nobody knew what would happen next. So why would she stain those fleeting moments, Fleyna's divine gift, by talking to Elg Torsveg?

  She had no reason to.

  "What do you want? "

  If Tira wasn't a warrior trained by old Virman masters since her childhood, she would have never noticed a sweeping blow aimed at her chin and intended to knock her out, to stun her, to drag her away...

  But she did, barely managing to dodge it.

  "Torsveg!"

  Elg knew that he was running out of time. He could afford only a few minutes; after that, he needed to go to his people and lead them—but only after that snotty girl was lying in a secluded spot bound hand and foot, completely at his mercy. Desire prevailed over the mind. She wasn't supposed to last long against a veteran warrior. Just one more blow...

  Yet Tira had passed through her i
nitiation and never left home without a dagger on her waist. As she evaded his attack, metal gleamed in her hand, and Elg sprang back, drawing his sword from the sheath.

  So be it. If she couldn't be his, she wouldn't be anyone else's!

  "Alarm!" Tira yelled desperately, knowing that she couldn't handle him, not with a dagger against a sword. She stepped back, but she was too late. She couldn't do anything else. His blade struck hard and true, right into her chest where her heart was beating.

  All Tira felt was cold. Not even pain; pain came later after Elg pulled out his blade. Inside her heart, where a minute before were only warmth and lightness, lay a piece of ice.

  Elg Torsveg grinned. So she didn't want him? Traded him for a prince?

  Serves you right, bitch!

  The Virman didn't consider one thing: malice was fraught with consequence. Tira had been brought up as a warrior and was a warrior herself. She dropped down on the spot. Elg sneered, watching her unmoving figure with a measure of triumph.

  So you spurned me? Set your eyes on Richard? You will get what you deserve, then, and so will he.

  He stepped forward to the door and reached out to open it. A promise? Yes, there had been something like that. But in the heat of the moment, Torsveg forgot all about it: about his people, about peace with Ativerna, about Virma itself. Rage clouded his mind, coupled with bitterness and the sense of loss.

  Never.

  Anything might happen in his life later, but not Tira, not anymore.

  Elg couldn't hold back a scream when a dagger pierced his leg.

  With the last bit of her strength, Tira took a swing. Aiming at the heart usually was a good idea, as such a blow was supposed to kill a person immediately...or almost. After all, different people might have their hearts in slightly different places, plus it was protected by the ribs.

  The girl braced herself up and dealt one final blow. She wasn't going to meet Olive empty-handed. She flashed the smile of a warrior who knew that her strike had hit true and caught sight of a door opening wide and steel flashing in the starlight. The goddess was merciful: her last sight was Richard, his sword unsheathed in his hand.

  His Highness had heard a scream and, without a moment's hesitation, burst out with his weapon ready, start naked.

  One look was enough for him. Platinum hair on the bloodstained wood of the porch, Torsveg's triumphant grin...

  His blade swooshed. Elg had no time to parry it, and his head rolled on the ground.

  "Tira!"

  At that moment, Richard forgot everything about the enemy and the potential attack. Nothing existed for him in the entire world except for the girl dying in his arms, a rivulet of blood dripping down from the corner of her mouth.

  "Healer!

  But what healer could there be? Fights broke out here and there, dark shadows ran across the village, battling Hardring warriors, and Olav burst out of his house spinning his giant axe above his head and felling an unlucky opponent from the get-go while arrows swooshed past their heads, as Jamie put his shooting skills to use, harboring no illusions about his skills in melee.

  As the alarm went off on the ships, people started lighting torches. Bran Gardren's warning hadn’t come in time.

  "Tira! No!"

  Her blue eyes opened, unseeing, and for a second, Richard saw a fleeting smile.

  "I love..."

  Quieter than wind, softer than thought, the dying whisper of her soul.

  Her head went limp, her blond hair smeared with blood.

  "NO!"

  Blades rang all around, and people kept falling down, screaming, and running, but Richard didn't care. Only one thing mattered: Tira's body, and he couldn't let go of it. It didn't feel real and final. It couldn't be real, could it?

  A droplet fell on the dead girl's cheek, then another.

  It must have been rain.

  ***

  Olav Hardring didn't sleep that night. His reasons were much less pleasurable: there was still no news from Bran.

  Olav didn't know that a bird had already been sent but hadn’t reached him yet, as pigeons couldn't fly at night, unlike owls, so he was concerned about Chief Gardren. Or maybe not quite that: being concerned about Bran was akin to being worried about the safety of a coral snake. It was a gorgeous thing with deadly venom; it could be defeated, but how many men would it take? It would be a nightmare. But Her Highness...

  Olav might have been pulling algae over Richard's eyes, but the truth was if Bran still hadn't written anything, things weren't fine. So what had happened?

  Olav doubted the problem was Gardren himself; he firmly believed in Bran's ability to get out of any scrape and bite everyone he could get his teeth in, but that was if he was alone.

  What about the rest? If something was wrong with the princess, how could he look Richard in the eyes?

  Ah, to Holosh with looking, he could look aside. Any alliance between Virma and Ativerna would be out of the question forever. A treaty might happen, so might a trade agreement, but not an alliance, no way. Something like that could never be forgiven. Many families might have paid a bonus for getting rid of their kin, but that was not the case there. Richard loved his sister; that's why he had let her go. If she was in trouble...

  Please let her survive. Please let him survive.

  Struggling with his heavy thoughts, Olav sat in his hall. He heard the scream, too. The night was bright, and the sky was studded with so many stars you could make them into beads. When he peeked out of the window, he saw the entire scene: Tira, slumping on the ground, Torsveg (Olav didn't recognize him at first) with a sword in his hand, and Richard rushing to meet them.

  "TO ARMS!"

  That shout woke everyone up. Those who weren't asleep grabbed their weapons and ran to their chief's call.

  "ENEMY!"

  Olav darted out of the room still dressed for sleep, only taking his axe, and cut down the first unlucky fool who approached him with his sword.

  No, it wasn't one of his men; an ally wouldn't try to run his blade into your gut. Experienced fighters noticed such things immediately, and Olav knew where his opponent was aiming before he even started moving.

  Another swing and another enemy fell as Olav yelled, rallying his people, and stepped forward. One more down.

  Clan Hardring wasn't going to get killed in their sleep. Even if luck weren't on their side that day, they would die with honor, fighting.

  ***

  Everything was calculated down to the minute.

  Ships (they couldn't very well travel by land, could they?) would dock, releasing veteran warriors, who would first slaughter every person on the other ships, getting rid of sentries, and then help the bulk of their force: clans Saragr, Draen, and Adrag.

  The men of clans Torsveg, Hardar, and Erdar, who had taken part in the Circle's meeting, would start in the village. Around midnight, they would attack the others, first covertly, and then, after the alarm was sounded, openly.

  The warriors from the ships would join forces with those ashore, and nobody would be able to resist them, especially those asleep and not expecting an attack.

  Was it dishonorable? Well, Olive would forgive them, and Holosh wouldn't judge. In the end, history was written by the winners.

  And that's what would have happened if Elg hadn't decided to put his interests before the cause. Torsveg knew that Tira would be in the thick of the action, and to lose the girl without even getting a taste would have been unforgivable.

  Love? Obsession? Nobody could say anymore.

  Elg left his people and went to get the girl. And then he lost. Tira managed to sound the alarm, leaving the conspirators no option but to attack before time, so they still stood a chance.

  Anders Erdar was an intelligent man and a good warrior—bad ones didn't survive in Virma—but even he was at a loss. They had been supposed to lead their people together with Torsveg, but out of the blue, an alarm went off, with Elg nowhere to be seen. Would his people obey Anders?

  A
few minutes of hesitation made all the difference. The Virmans might not have gotten to pull on their pants, but they always kept their weapons within reach. Upon waking, their blade was the first thing they touched, not their clothes.

  While Erdar wavered, the Hardrings had already snatched their weapons and burst out of their homes. They didn't have to search for the enemy for long.

  A squad of crossbowmen would have taken down half of them on the spot, but crossbows weren't particularly popular in Virma. Bows were, but firing at night was hard. The best weapons in close quarters would be short swords, daggers, knives—the tools of an assassin. As for shooting...

  Several archers started firing from inside the houses, but a dozen arrows were nothing, a trifle.

  A melee broke out, even worse than a wall on wall fight—a real free-for-all. The Hardrings did know their allies in person and generally adhered to a simple principle: anyone dressed in dark clothes, chainmail, and wielding a short blade was an enemy and had to be cut down. Their allies, after all, had to fight in whatever they were wearing when they heard the alarm.

  A battle was in full swing. That night, the gods would be happy.

  ***

  Leif Erquig had never wanted to become a hero. In truth, he was sleeping on a ship because he was afraid. He would have never confessed it, but he knew that Torsveg was trouble and expected a dirty move from him. When something had started inside the village, the first thing Leif did was to wake up his crew.

  He wasn’t surprised. As Lilian Earton liked to say, if something felt wrong, it didn't mean it wasn't true.

  Leif didn't go into the village, abandoning the ships to their fate. He rightly figured that Richard was no fool, that it was him the Ativernans would make their way to, and that the ship should be fully ready for battle. He ordered everybody to arm themselves, keep their weapons at hand, and prepare, just in case, pitchers of flammable fluid. When three ships with their lights out and their sails painted black tried entering the harbor on the sly, he knew that he had done right.

  After five seconds of hesitation, he decided that decent people wouldn't sail and especially disembark at night, heard metal clanging and noise common to armed people, called out, asking them to stop and identify themselves...and barely managed to dodge an arrow.