Kingdom of Khal: Redeeming Davik

by Madison Hayes

  Her shackles chinked and a small keening whine escaped her lips. Coldly, he looked down on her bowed head, pleased he had finally dented her iron self-command. Her hair had worked its way out of the leather thong and hung before her face like a mourning veil. “Warrik,” she whispered and he watched a tear fall onto her steel shackles. She raised her face.

  He met her eyes with horror. Her grief, keen and real—invoked in his brother’s name—was like a knife in his heart. In her voice, he heard his own anguish articulated. In her eyes, he recognized the grief and sorrow he had thought he was alone with. Sorrow that even his parents didn’t share.

  Revelation hit him hard as his knees gave out. “Petra.” His throat constricted and he choked on her name. He dropped to his knees and reached for her.

  Caught a glimpse of her wrists, raw and wet inside steel manacles. Watched her hands twist.

  Saw the skin stripped away beneath the steel to reveal wet pink flesh, purple where she bruised, gray where she blistered, yellow where she festered. Red where she was bleeding.

  A thin line of scarlet ran along the edge of one manacle and dripped to the ground.

  He jerked away from her. Fought to his feet. Backpedaled a few paces in panic, fighting to keep his balance. Scrambled backward across the room—as though fleeing a herd of demons—stumbling as he backed into the door. Wrenched it open and got himself through. The door slammed behind him and he threw his back against it then took a long shuddering breath as he staggered a step and leaned drunkenly against the wall. He straight-armed himself away from the wall and reeled down the narrow corridor, turned a corner, and found Dye waiting for him.

  “Enjoy yourself?” Dye asked cynically.

  Davik swallowed hard, straightened himself, and pushed past the man.

  Dye’s sneering voice followed him. “If revenge is so sweet, why do you look like you’re going to puke?”

  Unable to fight his rising gorge—and with a hand on the wall to steady his reeling world—Prince Davik of Khal leaned over and puked his guts up. With a silent smirk of appreciation, Dye stood watching him.

  “Get those chains off her,” Davik rasped, drawing his wrist over his mouth. “Now!” He shuddered. “Get her out of there. I want her…out of the palace. Out of…my country. Arrange her escape.”

  “Yes, my Prince,” Dye granted obsequiously. “And would you have that accomplished with or without murder.”

  Davik whirled on him. “If I’d wanted her murdered,” he gritted, “I’d have given the job to—someone I trust.”

  Holding his hands up in a signal for peace, Dye smiled ingratiatingly. “Just asking,” he said.

  Davik glowered at the man, disgust thick in his eyes. “Where does your loyalty lay, man? Who do you serve, Northman?”

  “At the moment sir, you. Along with myself,” Dye muttered under his breath.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Well? Are you coming,” Dye asked her again.

  “I’m thinking on it,” she said grumpily.

  “If you’re going to stay, I’ll have to put the chains back—”

  “Right,” she said standing quickly. She was clad in traveling doeskins. She followed Dye from the cell.

  * * * * *

  From his rooms, Davik watched the foothills. A sun-shaft slashed through the sullen clouds and shot earthward, burying its head into the heart of the mountains. Once parted, the surly gray skies pulled back in shriveled defeat, allowing the golden light to pour out in a torrent over mountains and foothills. Somewhere within the palace walls a group of men were cheering. A deep muffled roar of approval reverberated through the halls of his palace. His palace!

  Ah shit, he thought. Ah shit. His lips curled in an unhappy smile. The girl drew everyone in; even the gods. Footsteps in the corridor drew his attention and he turned.

  Dye stuck his head in the door. “It’s done,” he said.

  Davik nodded, pulled the stopper from a large jar, and upended it.

  Dye joined him in a few cups, but couldn’t keep up with the Prince. When his initial attempts at conversation were ignored, he joined the Prince in silent consumption.

  “Was it your men I heard cheering?”

  “They’re your men too, Davik.”

  Davik nodded, finished a jar and reached for the next. The jar was almost at his mouth when his arm seized as though rusted in action—motionless—as he stared down at the table. The base of the wine jar had left a wet ring on the surface of the table. A blood red ring. His eyebrows drew together in sympathy as his eyes filled with pain. He put the jar down. “Did you bandage her wrists, Dye?” he asked faintly.

  Dye snorted. “What do you care?”

  Davik pulled his arm across the tabletop, blotting the ring with his sleeve. “I don’t like rats either,” he said weakly, “but I’d not watch one suffer.”

  Dye gave the Prince a long, hard look. “She couldn’t stand to have them wrapped,” he said brusquely.

  “Shit.” Another jar was consumed before the Prince staggered over to his bed and threw himself down on his back. Dye watched the man squeeze his eyes together. “Shit,” he muttered again.

  With his eyes on the Prince, Dye finished his cup, then crossed the room and opened a small shuttered window.

  Long past dark, he clattered up a set of steps and stepped out onto the palace roof. A dim form shifted in a shadowed corner. He gave the girl a nod and unwound the rope looped over his shoulder.

  “You’re sure,” she asked Dye.

  “Aye. I’m sure. He wouldn’t wake to attend the end of the world.”

  * * * * *

  With the black night behind her and the distant ground somewhere below, Petra leapt from the roof and rappelled down the palace wall. Swinging her legs through the small opening, she sat on the sill an instant before lowering herself to the floor. She crept across the unlit room, stopping briefly at the desk, then continued to the bed where a man sprawled in a limp mass. Sinking to her knees, she considered the man’s pained expression. She cocked her head to the side and frowned at him, then shook her head. “You should never have come to my cell,” she told the comatose Prince. “You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” The corner of her mouth lifted slightly. “But I’ve no doubt you’ll get what you deserve, Davik.” The melancholy smile was on her face as she stood and slipped out the window.

  * * * * *

  With morose disinterest, Prince Davik of Khal—both Northern and Southern—surveyed the stack of documents on his desk. For the fourth time, he opened the top drawer, shuffled through its contents and closed it again. One by one, he opened each remaining drawer in his desk and examined the interiors with lackluster interest. With his chin in his fist, he stared at the stack again.

  The door opened and a man stepped inside. “My Lord Prince,” Dye announced, and waited with a smirk. “My Lord Prince, your army is deserting.”

  No response.

  “The Maydayns are on the march and approach the city walls even now.”

  Nothing.

  “The Queen of Thrall demands your immediate response, on pain of attack, to her question about her granddaughter.”

  Davik opened his drawer and peered absently inside.

  “Your mother’s on her way down the hall.”

  Davik looked up slowly and tried to focus on the man. “My mother’s coming?”

  Dye laughed without sympathy, and threw himself in a chair before the Prince’s desk. “Get enough to drink last night?”

  Davik sighed. “If you’re going to lecture me, Dye,” he said in a broken whisper. “I pray you do it quietly or I will vomit right into your lap.”

  The doors swept open and Davik’s tall, spare, ungenerous mother cut across the room like a knife. She slapped a document down on the desk in front of Davik, smug victory stamped on her face in bold letters. “You’ve been accepted,” she announced.

  Davik blinked at his mother blearily, then down at the document on the table. Helplessly, he
pushed it toward Dye.

  Dye’s expression was chagrined as he read. “Queen Tien of Greater Thrall And Etc. accepts The Khallic Prince’s offer of wedding…to her granddaughter, a Princess of the royal line, descended from…etc., etc…the ceremony to take place upon—” Dye looked up. “She’s on her way here! Queen Tien! With a thousand men to protect her granddaughter.”

  Davik turned an unlikely shade of green as Dye’s eyes shot back and forth down the page.

  “Your bride comes with a large acreage in Northern Khal.”

  “How large?” his mother inquired greedily.

  “A thousand.” Dye continued. “…on the understanding that Prince Davik is the present heir to the throne of Khal and will remain so during his lifetime…”

  “Ha!” This from the Khallic Queen. “And Tien pretends to disdain political weddings.”

  “…and breach of this contract to result in a break of all diplomatic relations between Greater Thrall and Khal, as well as other measures, including but not limited to…the cessation of peaceful relations…” Dye broke off in alarm. “She’s talking about war!” Dye threw the contract on the desk and looked at the Prince’s pale face. “You’re to be wed, Prince Davik.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “The Queen of Thrall wants a receipt for that contract,” Dye reminded Prince Davik the next morning.

  “I thought you were against this wedding.”

  “Yeah, well a man’s priorities change when the Army of Thrall is on his doorstep. Khal can’t afford a war with Thrall And Etc.”

  Davik was looking slightly more fit today, and less morose, but his temper was climbing gears. He slammed each of his drawers shut then cleared his table with angry swipe that put everything on the floor. With a contained expression of annoyance, he crossed the room and continued his search in his trunk, his bed, then the floor. “I don’t know,” he growled. “War with a common foe might be the one thing that pulls this country together.”

  “Don’t make jokes, Prince Davik. War with Thrall would devastate this country.” He pointed a finger at the Prince. “It doesn’t make sense to throw away a friendly alliance that’s been in place for over a hundred years.”

  “Friendly alliance! With Thrall! Did your read that contract!” He stripped the bed completely, threw the sheets on the floor and regarded the mess with ferocity. “That contract had a distinctly unfriendly tone. Why?”

  “Are you kidding, man? Your mother would piss anyone off.” Dye put his shoulder against the wall, watching him. “You look like you’re feeling better. Are you ready for your lecture?”

  The Prince ignored him and continued his search.

  “You probably never heard of the young man who got her out of your father’s cesspool. He took an arrow in the back; they had almost cleared the walls. Mercifully, he died within the hour. That didn’t stop your father’s men from making his last hour a nightmare. But he revealed nothing that would help them find the girl.”

  “The girl’s convincing when she spreads her legs,” Davik grunted ungenerously. “No one knows that better than I.”

  Dye shook his head. “He was her brother.”

  The Prince’s temper was short. “Like I said, she’s convincing—”

  Dye’s steel against Davik’s throat sheared the sentence short. “He was my brother too,” the redhead hissed. “One more word from you about my brother and I’m taking the afternoon off.” Dye grunted as he jerked up on the blade. “Going fishing. And I’m taking your dick as bait. Think you’re the only man who loved his brother? At least Warrik was a man, and a soldier at that. My brother was just a kid. You want to call the girl a whore, go ahead. Mithra knows you treated her like one. But if you think a woman becomes a harlot when you treat her like one, you’re mistaken.”

  He released the Prince with an angry shove. Glaring at the man, Davik rubbed his neck. “She’s your sister?”

  Dye jammed his blade back into the sheath on his belt. “You Khallic Princes have a damn high opinion of yourselves. You lock the girl in a dark hole for five years, whip most of the skin from her back, murder her brother. And you’re surprised she doesn’t fall on her knees and worship you and your brother for gang-fucking-rape!”

  “Is that what she called it?”

  “What do you call it Davik? Or is that just the way the Khallic nobility shows a girl a good time?

  “She saved you! We had orders to kill the first man out of that inn on the fourth dawn. Preferably you. We were to kill the brains of the Southern army and hold The Heir hostage to leverage for peace. But we were to kill the first man out of the inn. Whoever survived would be The Heir. She couldn’t warn you without betraying all of us! She stopped you. Threw herself on you and stopped us from carrying out our orders. Her Prince’s orders! She tried to save your brother. All this after gang-fucking-rape!” He ran a hand through his angry red hair.

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “No? What was it like, Davik? Because I’m from the North Country and North Country men don’t share their women. What was it like? Was it anything like love?”

  Davik stared at Dye. Yes, he thought. Yes. It had been a lot like love.

  “And here in the dungeon? I don’t suppose that was rape, either?”

  Davik winced, his stomach roiled. “That was rape,” he said with unflinching honesty.

  “And what was the difference then, Davik? You didn’t enjoy the rape?” he sneered. “Did it never occur to you that perhaps she didn’t enjoy it? Any of it? That a North Country girl wouldn’t enjoy being fucked by two noble Flatland Princes?”

  Davik’s eyebrows drew together as he recalled that dawn, when Warrik had pulled her away from him. She hadn’t wanted Warrik.

  “Shall I define rape for you then? It’s when a man forces sex on a woman and she doesn’t want it.”

  Ah shit. This was bullshit. “You almost make me feel sorry for her, Dye. Oh! Except for the fact that she seduced me and my brother so she could murder us!”

  “Maybe that’s how it looked from the South. From the North it looked like a brave young captain sacrificing herself to end the siege on her country. She joined the Northern Army because she hated the South, hated your father, hated what you had done to her and her brother. She executed her mission brilliantly, forced Southern Khal back to the fucking flatlands and, in capturing you, secured our ability to leverage for a signed treaty recognizing our sovereignty. In the opinion of the North Country, she was ready for The League of Hadi’s Saints.”

  “And yet, she let you escape from her home, knowing you would resume your siege, knowing what Kartin would do to her, knowing she was letting her people down. Do you want to know why? Because she thought you were the man to lead Khal.” Dye stopped for a breath. “She gave you Northern Khal,” Dye finished vehemently.

  “Aye, and Southern Khal too, when she killed my brother. Mind me to thank her for that.” Davik threw himself into his chair and withdrew his gaze from the redhead’s angry face. “Why haven’t you killed me before now, Dye?”

  “And put you out of your misery?” Dye laughed grimly. “I’d rather watch you suffer. Although,” he muttered, “there are times you wear on my patience.”

  Patience. Davik stared at the man. “Patience? What are you waiting for that requires patience, Dye? For me to fall in love with your sister? This isn’t a child’s tale.”

  “Love!” Dye looked stunned. “Don’t be an idiot, man. I’m waiting for you to be the leader she said you could be!” He shook his head and muttered. “Child’s tale! No, this is no child’s tale. I’ve heard a few. The Princess may have to kiss a frog, but she isn’t generally the victim of gang-rape.”

  “It wasn’t rape,” he grated “and she’s not a Princess.”

  Dye was a while with his comeback. “Next to you, she’s a Princess.”

  Davik stared at the man with frustration. “Don’t mince words, Dye. Do you mean compared to me or wed to me?”

  “Wed to you
? Wed! Don’t you even use that word alongside my sister’s name!”

  “Your sister.” Davik rose from the chair like a storm. “Like you’ve done such a great job of protecting your sister! You let Kartin beat the shit out of her. You let me put chains on her. Why!” Davik roared at the man. “Why didn’t you tell me about her wrists?”

  “Why didn’t I—“

  Davik was smashed into the wall.

  Dye snarled into his face. “You knew about her wrists. Why else would a soldier of her caliber faint at the mere idea of being tied! And Ursa—what about Ursa! She told you the girl wasn’t mending. She told you to remove her chains.” Dye took an angry breath. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know! Don’t tell me! Or, so help me man, I’ll kill you where you stand!”

  The redhead was fast, experienced and without scruple when it came to fighting. Generally, he didn’t rely on strength, didn’t have to. And it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when the Khallic Prince lifted him by the lapels, so to speak, threw him across the room, and dove after him. Nonetheless, Dye was unprepared for the Prince’s outburst. The two men went down in a flailing display of bad temper. Davik’s head snapped back when Dye threw his elbow into the young man’s face. Davik’s knuckles smacked the floor as Dye avoided a blow, then failed to avoid the next several volleys. Out of habit, Dye pulled his knife and watched it beaten out of his hand. Cursing, and forced to close on the young Prince to avoid his flying fists, Dye managed a wresting move that flipped the Prince on his back. Davik took the crack to his head without pause, and apparently without feeling, as he returned to the fight with more brute strength than Dye would ever see in his lifetime. Sheer raging power put the Prince back on top. The Prince was approaching melt point, Dye realized. Complete, red-hot fury. And he’d be taking Dye out when he reached white-hot rage. “Right!” he bellowed over the Prince’s curses. “Right. You didn’t know about her wrists then.”