Warlord's Wager

by Gwynn White

  “Rise, Count Felix. Your pledge has been accepted. You are dismissed. Don’t forget my list of requirements—including my rifles.”

  Heart knocking against his chest, Lukan watched Felix stumble across the room. Only once the door closed behind his uncle did he allow himself to collapse into a chair. He mopped his face with his velvet sleeve. It took a good few minutes before his breathing returned to normal.

  Unfortunately, there was another person who needed reining in.

  Lynx.

  He snorted. Given his lust for her, that was never going to happen.

  If he was to survive, Lynx had to be banished from Cian—and fast.

  To achieve that, he had an audacious plan that would not only rid him of her but would neutralize the threat Axel posed to him, too.

  It was time to implement it.

  Chapter 5

  Arms linked in a defensive huddle, Stefan and his men circled Axel’s stretcher. On all sides, screaming raiders shoved and tugged, trying to break through to Axel. Not for the first time since arriving in Norin, Stefan wished he carried his sword, but, by design, he and his men had been unarmed when leaving the Dragon’s Claw.

  Stefan gritted his teeth as Lynx’s friend Heron elbowed him brutally in the ribs. It saddened him to see the bloodlust in Heron’s eyes. Stefan opened his mouth to plead with him to back down when another raider slugged him in the face. Stefan’s lip split, and his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood. Unlike his guardsmen, he didn’t wear a jasper and therefore experienced the full brunt of the pain.

  A raider pummeled Malek, standing next to Stefan, in the stomach. A short pause while he gathered his breath, and then Malek shouted above the Norin battle cries, “Do we fight back, sir?”

  This horde of raiders would have a tough time if Stefan unleashed his three guardsmen, even unarmed, on them. In the end, sheer weight of Norin numbers would prevail, but not before much unnecessary blood would be spilt. Another pile of dead bodies on a Norin funeral pyre wasn’t going to win Thorn to their cause.

  “Only if they break through and threaten the warlord,” Stefan shouted back. And it hadn’t slipped his notice that none of the raiders had used their weapons. It was all fists, elbows, and kicks. Even a few bites.

  “They’ll break through over my dead body.” Malek kneed a young girl trying to slip through the gap between his legs and Stefan’s.

  The young raider yelped in pain and staggered back.

  Stefan was about to reprimand him when King Thorn shouted, “Stand down!” Thorn jumped the last few rungs of the rope ladder, landing lightly on the dusty ground. “Heron and Clay, here. Beside me. Now.”

  The raiders froze, the cacophony of their cries stilling instantly. One by one, men and women stepped away from Stefan and his troops. With a last, baleful look at Axel, Heron trotted over to flank Thorn. Clay fell in on the other side.

  Stefan shot Thorn a grateful look and took the opportunity to wipe his bloody mouth on his filthy sleeve. Even his men’s postures relaxed. As loath as he was to leave Axel, Stefan walked to intercept the king. “Sir, neither the warlord nor I will forget your kindness.”

  Thorn’s eyebrows quirked. “Warlord?”

  “Yes, sir. Axel Avanov now holds the highest rank for a field-serving general the empire can grant.”

  Thorn snorted. He turned to one of his captains, a battle-hardened man with a torn ear and a nose that had been broken one too many times. “Asp, mount a guard on this ship. No one”—he looked pointedly at the Stefan—“is to approach it.” Another glare at Stefan. “If you or your men try, we will burn the craft to the ground. Am I understood?”

  “Of course, sir. Can we at least shut the ship down properly? I would imagine we will be imposing on your hospitality for some time yet.” Stefan waved at Axel. “No doubt the healing will not be quick.”

  Axel’s breathing stuttered and gurgled. Stefan’s heart almost stopped. It gave him little comfort when a mien of concern settled on Thorn as he looked Axel over.

  But the king didn’t seem to be in a hurry to react to Axel’s plight. He turned to Asp. “Send some men on board to watch our guests. And make sure they remove nothing more than personal belongings. No weapons.”

  Stefan gestured to Malek. “Go. Do exactly as the king’s men say.”

  Thorn studied Stefan. What was the king looking for in his face?

  “I can’t be doing with ‘colonel’ this and ‘colonel’ that. You have a name?”

  “Zarot. Stefan Zarot.”

  Thorn’s eyebrows rose. “Your father still serves on the High Council?”

  So Thorn knew that Stefan came from one of the most privileged families in the empire—after the Avanovs. It made him an even more valuable asset if Thorn intended to use him and Axel as bargaining chips. “Yes, sir. Lord of the Treasury.”

  “The Winds certainly blow in mysterious ways.” Thorn gestured to a couple of his raiders. “Bring the stretcher.” To Stefan, he said, “This way,” and started toward the first ring of tents, some hundred paces from where the airship was tethered.

  Stefan hesitated, torn between walking next to him and staying close to Axel. Thorn solved the problem by falling into step with the men carrying the stretcher.

  Stefan nodded at him to say he appreciated the gesture. “The camp looks bare. Are you breaking it up?” he asked, making conversation.

  “I am.” The king’s sharp answer seemed to imply that Thorn thought Stefan was gathering intelligence. Stefan opened his mouth to explain that his interest was purely coincidental when Thorn added, “Healers are this way.”

  Thorn picked a path through tents, guy ropes, flea-bitten dogs, wide-eyed children, and adults standing around like wide-eyed children. The tension was palpable. More than one Norin flashed a weapon. What shocked them more: the arrival of an unheard-of flying craft or the presence of an Avanov in camp?

  The king patted arms and heads as he passed, reassuring his people that all was under control. Then Thorn said to Stefan, “I don’t believe anyone will try anything, but I’ll keep a double guard on Avanov while he’s in camp.”

  Perhaps Thorn’s curtness had not been about espionage but merely the result of deep thought. Having him and Axel in camp presented real problems—and opportunities—for the Norin king. Knowing Axel, he would be quick to exploit those. If he ever walked again.

  “Thank you, sir. That would be appreciated.”

  Seven of the Norin healers waited outside the surgery; they must have already heard of Axel’s arrival. Unlike the feathers and braids raiders wore or the aprons of the servers, healers wore leather pouches—perhaps where they stored potions and wild ingredients collected from the steppes. Even to an outsider, the divisions in Norin society were clear.

  How one became a healer, Stefan did not know. Before he could ask, a winsome, freckle-faced girl in her early teens stepped forward to greet them. She thumped her fist to her chest. “Bring him in. Lay him on the table,” she said to the stretcher-bearers. “I have already prepared my things.”

  Stefan stiffened, and his eyes darted from one healer’s face to the next, finally stopping at the child.

  Thorn smiled knowingly. “You have a problem, Zarot?”

  “Uh. . . well—” Stefan took a deep breath and decided to throw diplomacy to the wind. “To be honest, sir, yes, I do.” He gestured to the girl. “No offense, miss, but you are very young. Surely one of the older, more experienced healers . . .”

  The girl laughed in Stefan’s face, turned on her heel, and skipped off after Axel. The rest of the healers trailed after her. Stefan gaped.

  Thorn chortled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Relax, Colonel. I give you my oath, I will heal your warlord. My daughter will never forgive me if I don’t.”

  So Lynx had been successful in her pleadings? Relief filtered through Stefan’s frame. It certainly explained the softening of Thorn’s attitude toward them.

  Thorn pointed into the dimly lit recess of t
he healers’ tent. “Or rather, Teal will. She may be young, but she’s skilled. She was three when she first ambled into this tent. The healers haven’t managed to shift her since then. That is how we choose our healers—by the passion they show for the task. Poison is her specialty.”

  “I see.” Stefan spoke the words, but without heart. He was exhausted, at the end of his energy and patience.

  “Come inside. Then you’ll understand.”

  Stefan stepped into the square structure made from ostrich skins. He wrinkled his nose at the muggy air, hot and smelling of misery and healing. A fire burned in a central pit, both for light and, he guessed, sterilizing instruments and cauterizing wounds. Metal clamps, knives of varying sizes, all razor sharp, and even a few saws for grinding through bone hung above them.

  The leather walls were strung with ropes bearing bottles and drawstring bags, probably filled with potions and remedies. Four wooden tables, with hinged legs to fold when the caravan moved, circled the fire. The stretcher-bearers had placed Axel upon one of these, where Teal tended to him. Two burning torches in metal stands had been pulled up to offer additional light.

  “This is our surgery,” Thorn said. “The healers have two other tents. One where they prepare their remedies and another for patients needing constant care. Your warlord will be transferred there when Teal is done with him.”

  Teal’s fingers pressed into the crook of Axel’s neck, feeling his pulse. A moment later, she took a leather thong off a wooden stand next to the table and strapped it around his arm. Then she picked up a knife, the blade a dull red from being in the fire, and waved it in the air to cool.

  “Are you going to slice him open with that?” Stefan barely concealed the dismay in his voice.

  Thorn’s jaw locked. “It’s bad enough you Chenayans killed one of my raiders to steal the murghi. I don’t intend to compound the problem by letting you watch how and what Teal administers to counter it.” He gestured to the tent flap. “Your warlord is in good hands.”

  Stefan dithered. He only cared to know what Teal did to his friend.

  “Colonel, a meal in my home while we wait. Teal will report as soon as he awakes.” Thorn’s voice was sharp.

  “Is a cure possible? He seems so far gone.”

  “Your friend will be around to torment you for many years to come.” Thorn cracked a warning smile. “As long as he doesn’t command any more troops to attack my camp.”

  Relief lit Stefan’s face. “I think you can take that as a given, sir, now that Mott is dead.”

  Thorn’s head jerked up, and he took a jagged step. “Mott is dead?”

  “Lukan and Felix. The throne is now Lukan’s. Lynx is our empress.” Stefan kept his relief about that change to himself. He had never liked or trusted brutal Mott. And with Lukan ear-marked for destruction by Dmitri, for the first time in his life, Chenaya had a glimmer of hope.

  Thorn froze as he processed the news. Axel’s breathing stuttered. The king nodded at Teal. “Make sure he survives. A lot is riding on that. Not least of all Lynx’s wishes.” He turned to Stefan. “A cup of mead in exchange for a pleasing story, Colonel?”

  Stefan snorted. “I think you like the ending already.”

  “Some endings bear repeating.” Steps light, Thorn led Stefan out into the bright Norin sunshine. “Assuming, of course, that the new pup hasn’t learned too many old tricks.”

  Chapter 6

  Lukan paced back and forth between the satin-covered sofas in the sitting room outside Lynx’s closed apartment door.

  Today was his allegiance swearing and coronation. First, he would meet with the High Council, who would ratify his claim to the throne. He had no doubt they would accept him and swear their allegiance. After all, as part of his posturing last evening at dinner, he had let it be known that failure to swear allegiance was a form of treason, punishable by death. Lukan didn’t expect any of his high-born to risk him carrying out that threat.

  The meeting with the council would be followed by a luncheon, where the rest of his high-born would declare their fealty. Then, Mother Saskia would place the imperial crown upon his brow.

  It was the most exciting day of Lukan’s life.

  But instead of reveling in the luxurious sable robes he would wear or contemplating the fit of his crown, here he was.

  The room where Kestrel had stayed before her marriage to Tao was empty, the huge bed stripped. Now only Lynx occupied this cluster of rooms in the turret. Lukan had made it very clear to her that she would never be invited into his private quarters, let alone his bed. This upcoming meeting was all about ensuring he didn’t fail in that resolve.

  So why was he so terrified to throw open her door and implement his plan?

  He leaned his head against the mirror above the mantle and stared at himself. Apart from tightness around his eyes and mouth, he looked as handsome as ever. Even his diamond had regained the luster it had lost before the wedding.

  “Stop deflecting,” he muttered, spinning away from the mirror. He started to her door, only to stop again.

  He wasn’t prevaricating, he told himself; he was being wise, giving himself time to go over the finer details of his plan to banish her, thus ensuring he hadn’t missed anything.

  In truth, he knew he hadn’t.

  After his meeting with Felix yesterday, he had completed the final details needed for success, including briefing his new Lord of the Rack on his duties.

  Unfortunately, for this crucial plan to succeed, a handful of deaths were unavoidable. Not one person involved, other than Morass, Felix, and Lynx, were to survive. Lukan could risk no loose tongues. It was a small price to pay to protect him and the empire from the possible conception of Lynx’s son.

  Morass’s lack of emotion when informed of his task had been disconcerting. Almost as disturbing, Lukan guessed, as the efficiency with which his Lord of the Rack would dispatch the soldiers, maids, and the other low-born who would execute this plan.

  Now all that remained was for Lukan to steel himself to set it all in motion. Today, he would accomplish everything he needed to take care of two of his problems: Lynx and Axel.

  “But it’s complex. And nothing can be allowed to go wrong,” he muttered.

  For this banishment to succeed, Lynx had to appear to escape from Cian and be filmed boarding a ship for the Free Nations. Then Felix would insert the Final Word technology into her, and Lukan could hide her away. With the Final Word in her, escape would be impossible, and Lukan could watch her whenever he wanted to. It would be like being with her, only better because the distance would stop her tempting him.

  And it had to happen today, the day she would be required to swear allegiance to him. There wasn’t a person in the palace who didn’t know Lynx’s first loyalty was to the Norin king. She wouldn’t bend her knee for him today. Lukan intended to capture her refusal on the camera he had hidden in her room.

  With that motivation, Lukan could show Axel she had defected rather than face death—thus rejecting both of them. Perhaps then, Axel would be willing to work with him again. It was a long shot, but Lukan had to try it.

  His raider wife, however, was not the type to flee. Lynx would fight to defend her life with every trick she knew. But everyone had a weakness, and he had discovered Lynx’s frailty that day back in the forest before the wedding.

  His wife was scared of the dark.

  And for a woman brought up on the endless plains of Norin, that fear could extend to claustrophobia. Today, for a brief time, Lynx would find herself in her worst nightmare. Through serendipity, Lukan would provide her the means to escape. And with her flight on film, even Axel would hesitate to doubt what he saw.

  “That’s where the risk comes in,” he told himself for the hundredth time since crafting this scheme in the safety of his hide-out in the archives. “Will she take the gap and run?”

  His jaw clenched. If she didn’t willingly try to disappear, then he would have no choice but to command Felix to insert t
he Final Word without the much-needed photographic evidence. Not ideal, but either way, this would be his seductive, lethal wife’s last day in Cian. She would never taunt him with her beauty again.

  He gnawed the inside of his mouth. Without the damning footage, he would have to move to Plan B to deal with Axel. He grunted. At this stage, Plan B didn’t exist.

  The palace clock chimed, making Lukan jump. Seven bells. His meeting with the High Council began at nine o’clock, sharp.

  Ready or not, it was time to face Lynx. His throat wobbled as he swallowed a gulp of fear. Then he opened the door to her room.

  Lynx’s near-naked flesh stopped him in his tracks. Wrapped loosely in a towel, she stood framed in the bathroom doorway. Fresh from the bath, she glistened with water droplets. A shocked expression petrified her face.

  Lukan’s manhood hardened. Run, he told himself, but his feet refused to obey. He licked his lips, aching to unwrap her and kiss every inch of her supple body. No! he almost yelled at himself.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, a seductive smile phased across her face. “Lukan! I can’t say I’m not surprised. Didn’t you say you would never risk seeing me naked?”

  She made no effort to hitch up her towel. It left her small left breast exposed.

  Eyes transfixed by her taut nipple, Lukan swallowed again. It felt like pushing his telescope down his throat. He stuttered, “We need to discuss today’s coronation. I assume Tatiana has given you your robes.” He managed to pull his eyes away from her breast long enough to see a pile of sable discarded in the corner of the room. Anger flared, but he suppressed it. It was, after all, nothing less than he expected. Or wanted. “I see. Short of hangers, are you? I will have Tatiana provide you with some.”

  “Don’t bother.” Lynx dropped the towel, standing naked in front of him. “Your coronation. I’m not coming. I've sworn fealty to the Norin king.”