by Sarina Dorie
King Viridios stroked his ruby ring, muttering encouragement to his pet as it devastated the battlefield. The silver of the king’s hair and beard grew brighter. His eyes blazed with fire. Errol fought the instinct to shift away from his king.
The crunch of bones and cries of fallen soldiers echoed in Errol’s ears.
It didn’t matter whether they were on land or sea. The Jabberwock had smashed through pirate ships the week before. It drank in the fear of Witchkin and Fae, growing stronger, not so differently from what the Silver Court did with their muse powers on artists—only this violence was less subtle.
As part of the king’s personal escort, Errol watched from a safe distance away, despairing as more of his colleagues died at the hands of the Raven Court—and the indiscriminate killings of the Jabberwock. He relived the horrors of his past, seeing Semmy’s bleeding and broken body on the battlefield. Just as he had twenty years ago, Errol couldn’t stand for those fallen in battle to be left to die.
When General Hereweald pressed the king to cage the Jabberwock and send the cavalry after any escaping enemies, Errol fidgeted, unable to stop thinking about the detail they seemed to have forgotten.
Errol bowed his head in respect. “Please, Your Majesty, we must retrieve the fallen.” He used the pragmatic reason that had convinced the king last time. “If we move position to go after the retreating mercenaries, our soldiers will fall into enemy hands. We must get to them before the Raven Court does.”
The general glared at Errol, a mere captain, for speaking out of turn, but the king nodded in agreement. “Indeed. As soon as the Jabberwock is caged, we must attend to our men.”
Errol ignored the superior officer’s snootiness toward him. Whether it was due to his silver hair and lineage from the Silver Court or his exemplary conduct, Errol had the king’s ear. He intended to use it to help others.
King Viridios looked wearier after each battle. This one was the worst thus far. It seemed to take all his strength to coax his pet back into its cage.
“Perhaps you should rest, Your Majesty,” Errol advised. “We don’t want you to overtax yourself.”
“I need a ready supply of artists,” the king said. “Surely there must be some left among the surviving villagers. See to it some are brought to me.”
Errol inclined his head, fighting the frown that wanted to show his disapproval. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
He didn’t feel the same fondness he once had for his king, but he had a duty to perform. Ensuring the king’s safety wasn’t just his job but the task he needed to do to assure the safety of the kingdom—from the Raven Queen as well as the king’s own children.
There was no one suitable among the few survivors from the massacred village. Errol arranged for artists in nearby towns as well as those imported from the Morty Realm to be brought to his sovereign.
An increasing number of artists were driven mad after the king’s feedings that followed battles. It went against Errol’s better judgment to use helpless citizens and humans who weren’t even from this realm for such purposes, but Errol didn’t know what other alternative there was.
While they waited, Errol warily watched his king as he walked among his soldiers, absorbing their energy without them even realizing it. If anyone else saw the sparks drift out of the warriors and gravitate toward the king, they didn’t speak of it. Errol suspected this was one of the abilities he had inherited along with his muse magic, a talent to see inspiration, creativity, and the taking of energy from those who were artistically inclined.
Once the artists arrived, King Viridios fed on them instead. Errol hated standing by and watching his sovereign use people this way.
After the king drove a painter of no more than fourteen mad, Errol struggled to keep his tongue silent. “Perhaps if Your Majesty only inspired enough creativity to take what he needed and no more, you could reuse the same artists again.”
“It wouldn’t be enough energy.” King Viridios glowered at Errol. “A king does what he must in times of war. It is something I don’t expect you to understand.”
Errol bowed his head in apology. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.”
He might have had the king’s ear, but that didn’t mean he was allowed to speak freely. One misstep could cost him his head, and one wrong word could be grounds for treason.
When artists weren’t readily available, the king supplemented his strength, drawing in the affinities of his guards to supply his own magic. Sometimes the king transported himself home to sleep in his own bed as his troops transported themselves to the next battle by foot. As one of the royal guards, Errol’s duty was to remain with the king and to see to it he arrived home safely. Once in the castle, another unit of the royal guard took over. Errol was given a few hours of sleep in his own precious bed before returning to the battlefield again.
He was given no time to visit with friends or go see Ivy in the kitchen. What he would have given for one of her sweet biscuits instead of hardtack, salt pork, and other military rations.
Sometimes the king was too exhausted after battle to leave and simply slept in a tent. Inside was a comfortable bed, carpets, and furnishings almost as nice as what he had in the palace.
During those times, Errol lay on the hard ground within a single-occupant tent just outside the king’s, thinking of Ivy. He imagined her magenta hair and green skin, reminding him of a flower. When she had become his charge, he had done his best to ensure no harm befell her. But now he was far away and could do nothing for her if she was mistreated.
As the months passed, King Viridios slaughtered pirates, mercenaries, rogue Fae, and any troops from the Raven Court who crossed their paths. He all but annihilated the miscreant brigands who were responsible for the recent rash of attacks on the Silver Court. Such Fae the Raven Queen claimed were not under her command or her subjects, yet she sent troops to aid them all the same.
As a Valkyrie, Errol supposed Captain Helga would be sorry she had missed this. But her unit had been assigned duty at the castle, protecting the royal family. If only Errol’s unit had been given a reprieve from active duty on the field, but they never were. Not everyone was granted the honor of serving the king as a reward for diligence and loyalty as Errol had.
Lucky him.
* * *
When the Silver Court’s forces captured a flock of harpies and winged warriors belonging to the Raven Court, King Viridios made the survivors kneel, their hands bound behind them in chains made of cold iron. Runes of protection tattooed into their skin had been scraped off, leaving them bleeding. The king strode back and forth before the enemies. Errol stayed close to his king in case any of the enemy warriors surprised them with a last attempt at an attack.
He had no idea what his sovereign planned. This was the first time King Viridios had ordered troops to take prisoners rather than slay all enemies.
King Viridios bellowed, “Who in this motley flock was responsible for the attack in Caern?” He used the capital’s nickname, what citizens affectionally called it for short.
The midnight-haired men and women stared defiantly at the king. None spoke. Errol wasn’t sure which attack on Caern that King Viridios meant. There had been multiple in the last twenty years.
King Viridios’ eyes shifted from green to red. “Who in this group of filthy raptors was among the party who attacked a woman from Ffynnoncaernpenrhynpentre?” He used the capital’s full name, a Fae word similar to Welsh, with the phrase strung together to form one word.
Errol drew in a breath in surprise, realizing his king meant his sister. He couldn’t tell what about this group made the king think any of them had been behind Alma’s death. It was true the group behind the robbings and attacks in Caern had been able to swoop in. They’d been shapeshifters, but he didn’t know whether they were harpies.
“Should the offender come forward, I will spare the lives of his or her comrades,” King Viridios said.
Errol d
idn’t think that was a selling point. He suspected the Raven Court knew it. Even if they hadn’t seen Princess Perrusia’s head sent back to the Raven Queen twenty years before, they had to know being spared from death meant they would be greeted with torture, starvation, and imprisonment.
“Very well.” King Viridios gestured to Errol. “You are granted the honor of killing them all.”
Errol blinked, trying not to let his surprise show. “Me, Your Majesty?”
“It’s the least I can do to reward you for your service protecting me.” The king stepped back and gestured to the first warrior.
Finally Errol was being permitted to avenge his sister’s death. Even so, it didn’t feel right. He had been fighting for months. He was tired of revenge.
The royal guard watched Errol from where they surrounded the king. Cavalry stood, lined up, staring with stony faces.
Errol removed his sword from his belt. He didn’t enjoy death. It was one thing to slay enemies on the battlefield in defense or fight off attackers who sought to kill the king. That was necessity. Executing men and women bound and kneeling didn’t feel like a reward.
He didn’t even know whether any of these warriors had been the ones who had killed his sister. He reminded himself these harpies were murderers. They worked for the Raven Court. They’d been attacking citizens of the Silver Court’s kingdom and were clearly violating the treaty between courts by being on their land.
Errol hesitated for a moment, remembering Prince Elric-Atherius’ forgiveness of the Raven Court princess who had been blamed for Princess Steorra’s and Prince Leofflaed’s murders. He had begged for mercy and asked for her to be spared from torture and months of prolonged suffering.
The memory of what King Viridios’ mercy had looked like flashed before Errol’s eyes. He would not be the monster that nobility had proven themselves as being that day. He intended to give each of the harpies a quick death.
Errol slit the throat of the first harpy, a man with an eye patch and black down for hair. The man slumped forward and fell onto the soft earth. A puddle of his own blood pooled around him.
King Viridios made a little snort of displeasure. “That will not do.”
Errol couldn’t tell whether it was the enemy who displeased him or something about the manner in which he’d died.
“That blade is sharp enough to cut off their heads.” King Viridios said coolly. “I want to see my enemies put to a just end. Demonstrate to them the power of your wrath. Show me this gift I’ve granted isn’t wasted on you.”
Errol was suddenly aware of King Viridios working muse magic. The king radiated with the buttery-white aura of an angel. Fury rose inside Errol, passion running hot in his veins. His will wasn’t his own. He needed to express himself. He was an artist and his sword his paintbrush. The scene he intended would be one color.
He lusted for blood.
His wings unfolded, the usual golden light turning to fire without warning. The flickering brilliance illuminated the sudden fear in the enemy’s faces. More than anything, he needed to destroy.
He thought of Alma, whom these monsters had killed with indifference. He hacked through one neck, the head rolling toward the king’s feet.
It wasn’t enough.
Errol remembered all the times Ivy had been spooked in the kitchen because of the traumas she’d endured in the Raven Court’s castle. He roared in fury. He sliced through another head. The burning need for revenge wasn’t satisfied.
He recalled all the children the Raven Court had abducted. With ease, he took off another head.
Errol panted with exertion. Some of the initial thrall faded. Slowly, he came back to his senses, the need to kill melting away.
“Captain Errol is not one to be meddled with.” King Viridios smiled at his soldiers. “See to it you remember that.” His gaze lingered on General Hereweald.
The general’s face, usually a well-practiced mask of neutrality, stared with wide eyes at Errol. He swallowed, understanding the threat. King Viridios was making it clear that Errol was under his protection—or he might unleash him just as he had his Jabberwock.
Errol wiped his sweaty brow, his arm covered in crimson. His face dripped with blood. The quiet was as loud as the tumult of battle. His heart pounded in his ears.
Errol turned, forgetting he’d had an audience. His own soldiers stared at him in horror. Lieutenant O’Sullivan looked like he was going to vomit. Sergeant Norris had closed her eyes. Private Bodil and Private Merril’s mouths were agape.
The need for vengeance ebbed away. He looked to King Viridios, uncertain whether he had done something wrong. A long line of beheaded warriors was sprawled across the ground. Errol couldn’t even remember slaying all of them. Yet his arm ached from use. His body shook from exertion.
He didn’t feel quite himself, a numb dysphoria stealing over him.
His sovereign smiled. King Viridios glowed with the buttery-gold light of muse magic. The king had inspired him to kill as easily as he inspired an artist to create. In turn, he had fed on Errol’s “creativity.”
The realization of how he’d been used and manipulated like a puppet nauseated Errol. More than that, he’d lost control. Just like the monstrous muses of the Silver Court, he’d enjoyed killing others.
His desire for vengeance had soured into a hollow victory. Once again, he’d been used by his king. Prince Elric-Atherius had warned Errol there was a difference between justice and revenge.
Now that Errol had gotten what he’d wanted, he only felt horror at his conduct. He was disgusted by his willingness to abandon decency as he lost himself. Worse yet was his inability to stop his king from violating him with muse magic. Errol didn’t know how he would be able to live with himself.
Going forward, Errol intended to focus on justice. He needed to ensure he behaved with honor and integrity. Not vengeance.
He met his king’s gaze. Errol would not permit muses to manipulate him or use other people.
He vowed to protect those in his kingdom from monsters, even if those monsters were his king and his kin.
THE END
Thanks for reading until the end. Please leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or Bookbub. This helps other readers know what to expect and helps me as an author know what you like or don’t like. Amazon is where readers purchase my books, so it helps boosts the book’s visibility when there are reviews.
To go to Sarina Dorie’s author page on Amazon to leave a review or find more books, go here:
Amazon.com (US)
https://www.amazon.com/Sarina-Dorie/e/B00Q7XYZMI/
Amazon.co.uk (UK)
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sarina-Dorie/e/B00Q7XYZMI
Amazon.de (Germany)
https://www.amazon.de/Sarina-Dorie/e/B00Q7XYZMI
Amazon.fr (France)
https://www.amazon.fr/Sarina-Dorie/e/B00Q7XYZMI
Amazon.ca (Canada)
https://www.amazon.ca/s/ref=dp_byline_sr_book_1?ie=UTF8&field-author=Sarina+Dorie&search-alias=books-ca
Amazon.com.au (Australia)
https://www.amazon.com.au/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=sarina+dorie
Amazon.co.jp (Japan)
https://www.amazon.co.jp/Sarina-Dorie/e/B00Q7XYZMI
When you’re done leaving a review, hop on your broom and fly over to my website to sign up my newsletter so that you can get FREE short stories:
http://eepurl.com/dEd4oL
PREVIEW
Tardy Bells and Witches’ Spells
from
Womby’s School for Wayward Witches
PROLOGUE
Oops, I Did It Again
“Magic is not real,” I said as I waited for my therapist to come in.
Magic wasn’t real—because if it was—that would mean I was a witch. And if I was a witch, it would mean I had killed two people using my magic. It was better to be normal. It was safer.
Bu
t after everything I had experienced in my sixteen years, it was hard to believe magic didn’t exist.
The antique clock on the wall ticked away, the rhythm slow and lethargic. Even through the haze of medications, I felt uneasy from my therapist’s tardiness.
I hugged a potted orchid in my hands, trying not to damage the white flowers. It grounded me to hold on to something. Another orchid my mom had given Dr. Bach rested on his desk, stretching toward the cheery sunshine beyond the misty veil of curtains.
My mind dipped into the well of dark memories I wanted to forget. I pushed away unbidden thoughts of my older sister and what had happened to her and my first love, Derrick. I would not think about it. Dr. Bach said what had happened wasn’t my fault.
I remembered Derrick’s blue eyes, full of sunshine and optimism. The way he used to smile at me had banished the cold cynicism of the world and reminded me anything was possible. I imagined his lips on mine, his arms pulling me into the sanctuary of his embrace. The old yearning returned, bittersweet and suffocating in its intensity. Tears filled my eyes.
The room grew eerily silent. The clock no longer ticked. The lamps in the corners flickered and hummed. Haltingly, the mechanisms of the clock started up again, but this time the beat ticked irregularly.
Tick-tick-tick-thunk.
Silence.
Tick-tick-tick-thunk.
The second hand spun counterclockwise in spurts. The scents of potted plants and dusty chairs faded under the sharp tingle of ozone and metal. Electricity tingled under my skin.
“Oh no.” I flinched and looked around, ready for something to explode.
This was not happening again. It had to be one of my hallucinations. I didn’t want to be crazy, but the alternative was worse.