by Gwynn White
Axel grimaced. Tens of thousands of Trevenites died in the first weeks of the war. Those corpses would be well past use by now. In an effort to be tactful, he said, “If your men have the stomach for it. But even then, we have to be careful. My cousin doesn’t trust me any more than I trust him.” Axel had to consider the possibility that Lukan and his father would use methods other than human spying to monitor him. “If no battles with real casualties occur, Lukan may discover that we are toying with him. I will be recalled, and in all likelihood, he will send in a general eager for my job with instructions to lead a division of guardsmen against you. No matter how well you hide, they will eventually find you. Not one of you will survive.”
Chad sighed. “I wish I could dispute that, but it took days to bring down the guardsmen that did wander in here.”
“Now that you mention it, I would love to know how you achieved that.”
“It was no marvel. The prisoners they brought with them led them into a maze of tunnels. Your guardsmen got lost and died of thirst.” A wry smile. “I can’t see us doing that with a whole division of the buggers.”
“Neither can I.” Axel chewed on a piece of dry bread, gave up trying to crush the coarse wheat grains, and swallowed. “How many people do you have here?”
A pause, then Chad said, “Over eighty thousand men, women, and children hide in these mines with me.”
No wonder the Trevenite king struggled for food.
It also complicated things for Axel. If Lukan knew those numbers, he would expect eighty thousand body bags—figures not even Axel could fake. But for Axel to prolong the war for long enough to prepare for the counteroffensive, he needed Lukan to believe his warlord fought against huge odds. Axel poked a pesky grain of wheat stuck in his teeth with his tongue, considering the problem.
“You seem concerned,” Chad said.
“Just planning. I need time to get the money together to fund the counteroffensive. Even expensive crown princes can’t raid the treasury in one afternoon. Artyom Zarot would never permit it. Also, Jerawin will need time to produce the shotguns. I must pay the man a visit once I leave here to get his production lines going.”
“How much time are we talking about?” Chad asked.
“Lukan expects me to deliver the mines in three months. I estimate about eight or nine. That will allow me to move a sizable amount of money before anyone really gets uptight and starts moaning.” He would worry about Lukan’s demand for a three-month victory once his visit with Chad was over. He pushed his fear for Malika aside. He had to trust his father would never let anything happen to her. Axel pointed to Chad’s dagger. “Lend me that.”
Chad’s eyebrows rose, but he handed Axel the weapon. His eyebrows shot even higher when Axel used it to pick his teeth. “Glad to see you making yourself at home before you start slaughtering us.”
Axel handed Chad his knife. “From what I have seen and heard of your guerilla tactics, it will be my men who are slaughtered, not yours.”
Chad leaned forward. “You think so?”
Axel waved his spoon around the cavern. “As long as you fight in the mines, yes, definitely. You own the terrain, and you seem to know how to use it. I can only send in so many troops into these narrow passages without them falling over each other. Or getting lost. Remember, as far as everyone knows, we have no maps of your mines. I can’t see how you won’t win—in the short term. And that is what I will be reporting to Lukan. So, back to my original question: how many of your troops will you commit?”
“As few as possible. How many men do you suggest?”
“Given your advantages, I think a thousand soldiers, carefully deployed, could give me an eight-month-long headache. But in the end, my sheer numbers of infantrymen will prevail. Obviously, my intelligence reports to Cian will suggest we wage war against a far greater Trevenite force.” Axel paused. “How do you feel about sacrificing one thousand of your people?”
Chad buried his head in his hands.
Axel waited. To lose one man was painful enough for a caring commander, but to commit one thousand to certain death was heart wrenching.
Chad looked at him. “One thousand,” he said in a strangled voice. “May their spirits forgive me for what I ask of them.”
Axel purposely kept his voice businesslike in the face of Chad’s anguish. “Do you have a safe place to hide the rest of your people?”
“These tunnels stretch for hundreds of miles into the mountain. As long as you don’t send in twenty thousand guardsmen on hunt-and-destroy missions, not even a mole will find them. When my one thousand are dead, you can declare your victory.”
Axel pushed his informa over to Chad. “Keep this. I will show you how it works so we can communicate with each other and the other kings.”
Chad picked it up. Rolling it in his fingers, he said, “You have brought me hope, Avanov. Who would think I would live to say that? But the spirits . . .” Chad shook his head. “You do know that they play with us? Thorn’s Winds are no less capricious. Neither are Jerawin’s celestial bodies, I would imagine. Although we worship them, we are mere sport to them. Like sending you. At first, when we heard that Warlord Axel Avanov had been deployed here, we all quaked in our very boots. I honestly believed it would be over for us. Yet, here you sit, eating my food and sharing your technology. These are indeed strange times.”
Axel allowed himself a momentary flush of pride, and then it was back to business. “I take it you will need an initial supply of food before the battle commences?”
“Yes. Jerawin has been helping us, but it is not enough. Any thoughts?”
“Your gas killed so many of my men so quickly that it left me with a glut of rations. They taste like dung,” Axel pointed to the remains of his bread. “A bit like this, really. But they’re nutritious.”
Hope gleamed even brighter in Chad’s eyes. “And where would this ‘dung’ be located?”
“Sethron.”
“Just outside the capital.” Axel could see Chad’s mind churning. “A warehouse?”
“Numerous.”
“Guarded?”
“This isn’t a free lunch, you know.” Axel shot Chad a warning look. “Leave my men hungry, and I will chop off one of your fingers next time we meet.”
Chad laughed. “The same men you’re sending to kill my people? Forget it. They can starve for all I care.”
Axel suppressed a smile. The warehouse in Sethron was not the only place he had rations stashed for his troops. He had plenty to spare until the next shipload of supplies arrived from the Heartland. While this war raged, those supply ships would rumble into Maegkin on a regular basis. After years of fighting, even Chenaya would feel the loss. It was just one more knife in Lukan’s back. Eventually, his cousin would bleed out.
Chad turned to a group of his councilors on the other side of the cave. “Prepare a raiding party to attack Sethron. There are heavily guarded warehouses there with food.”
A whoop of delight broke out in the cavern. Amid high fives and back slaps, Chad’s councilors left to do as he commanded. Even though they had required his blood, Axel watched them go with something akin to affection.
Chad’s voice hooked Axel’s attention. “You know I will be sending out regular raiding parties to rob you of supplies.”
“I would have expected nothing less. I’ve already factored that into my planning. Lukan is not only funding our counteroffensive, he is also picking up the tab for your dinner.”
Chad grinned. “That sounds like grounds for a celebration. How about we break open some cider before we resume our hostilities in the morning?”
Axel smiled wickedly. “Don’t count on replacing your cider from any of my warehouses. All you will find there is chenna.”
“Cider now and chenna for the party we will hold before we launch our counteroffensive. That seems fair.” Chad shoved his hand out to Axel. “Shake on it?”
“Deal.” Axel clasped Chad’s big hand in his. Comrades in arms, he
and Chad held each other’s gaze, leaving Axel with a genuine liking for the man he had once wanted to kill.
* * *
The party launched by Chad’s cider lasted late into the night. Cup in hand, Axel leaned against the wall and watched the Trevenites dance to windpipes and tinkling cymbals.
His head buzzed. He’d drunk too much, but the cider warmed him, took the edge off the throbbing in his broken finger, and allowed him to relax for the first time in weeks.
“Care to dance, Chenayan?”
Axel turned to see Magridal standing next to him. He hadn’t heard her coming. Again. “You sure are light on your feet.”
“All the more reason to dance with me.” She flittered a perfect eyebrow and shot him a provocative smile. Her auburn hair, pulled back from her face with a leather thong, fell in waves down her back, and her green eyes sparkled. Tall and lithe, she swayed in front of him.
“Why not?” Axel plunked his mug onto the ground and allowed her to lead him to the dance floor. The swing of her hips heated his belly—and other parts of him—even more.
She draped her arms around his shoulders and gyrated against him, further raising his core temperature. His hands slid around her waist and pulled her closer. She felt good in his arms, and he let go of more of his reserve. Body pressed against hers, he moved in time with her to the lilting music.
Her lips brushed his ear. “Come.”
Before he could protest, she grabbed his hand and led him, stumbling, from the cave. Laughing, she wrapped her arm around his shoulder to hold him up. “Trevenite cider is as lethal as your chenna, Chenayan. Remember that next time you party with us.”
“Bit late to tell me that now,” Axel slurred.
She pulled him into a cell, not dissimilar to the jasper cave, except this had a bedroll on the floor. She pulled a wooden door closed behind them. Her mouth immediately sought his, her soft lips demanding.
Axel blinked, trying to focus.
Her hand slid under his shirt and stroked his stomach. “Let’s get this filthy thing off you,” she murmured, as her other hand swiftly loosened the ties.
Crusted with blood, his shirt had chafed him all evening. He helped her shrug it off his shoulders and then pulled her closer to him. Their lips met, and her tongue slipped into his mouth.
Axel jolted, and his eyes flew wide open.
Magridal pulled back, her face quizzical.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” Axel took a step back, swallowing hard. His mouth was parched, and he longed for water. A quick glance around the cell revealed no flask or waterskin.
“Not a virgin, are you, Chenayan?” Magridal asked with a dry laugh. “If so, I’ll treat you kindly.”
Suddenly very sober, Axel said, “Hardly. Look, I’m sorry, but I belong to someone else.”
A scathing look. “I’m not asking for marriage. This is just sex. Two people sharing their bodies. Having a good time.”
Axel shook his head. “My body is not mine to give you. It belongs to her. To . . . to Lynx. Every part of me is hers.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Sorry. But this”—his fingers flicked between them—“will never work.”
Magridal stepped back and folded her arms. “Lynx? Of Norin? Married to Lukan? The one who has vanished?”
“Yes, to all of the above.”
Magridal’s laugh was incredulous. “It could be years . . . decades before you find her. Maybe never.” Her head cocked to the side. “I’m under no illusions that we will actually destroy Lukan.”
“Then decades it is.” Tiredness swamped Axel. He pointed to her bedroll. “Can I still use it even if you aren’t in it?”
It took Magridal a moment to answer. Then she swore. “Chenayan, maybe it is possible, after all.”
“What?” Axel gritted out. He wanted her gone.
“That we could win.”
“I am an Avanov.” Axel sat down on her bedroll, unlaced his boots and lined them up together. Trousers folded neatly over them, he looked up at her. “We never start battles we don’t believe we can win. Added to that, I’m thoroughly pissed off, having lost plenty already, with more hanging in the balance. It’s an unbeatable combination.”
Chapter 32
Axel closed his eyes and tipped his face up to the almost scalding water gushing over the green ice crystal ledge. It smelled faintly of sulphur from one of the many hot springs that bubbled through Maegkin, the Trevenite capital.
The muscles in his back quivered, grateful Chad had tapped into the water source when he constructed this shower en suite in the palace. Abandoned by the rightful owner at the time of the invasion, Chad’s home was now the official headquarters of Axel’s army, and Chad’s bedchamber his private billet.
Even so, this was the first time Axel had used it. Three weeks ago, immediately after leaving the mines, he had gone to visit Jerawin in Lapis. Ostensibly, it was a truce-making mission. Or that was what the official report to Lukan had said.
In reality, Axel had set up production lines for his shotgun manufacturing. He had also opened a dozen bank accounts in the Free Nations. The Chenayan treasury would soon be billed for services rendered to a raft of different front companies selling commodities as diverse as bauxite to bananas.
As well as all that had gone, Axel had come home to devastating news. He sighed, then stepped out of the constant flow of water. A quick shake of his head, and he flicked most of the water from his dark hair. Fumbling with a shortage of fingers, he wrapped a towel around his waist.
Nothing could change the cold, hard fact that the first three weeks of hostilities against Chad’s army had been a disaster—for the Trevenites. Over eight hundred of the king’s one thousand warriors had died in the fighting. Chenayan casualties? Less than fifty.
It was not only untenable, it was also illogical.
Axel stopped in his tracks and stared up at the fine stucco work on the domed ceiling, searching for some explanation as to how Chad had suffered such losses. He had already sent Chad a message on the informa requesting a meeting. This time, the king would have to come to him. Axel doubted Lukan would tolerate too many more of Axel’s disappearances—no matter how the official reports to the palace justified them.
Apart from his sadness at losing all these men, they now needed to be replaced if the alliance was to reach its objectives. If Chad refused, then the war would be over before Axel could siphon off a single mycek from the treasury.
With so much riding on this effort—including his own sister’s life—Axel’s mood plummeted. Fighting that depression, he slapped his hand against the stone wall and strode through the doorway leading to his new bedchamber—and stopped short.
A woman with emerald-green eyes and long auburn hair pulled back from her face reclined on his bed. A crossbow lay at her side, within easy reach of her hand. Magridal.
Axel made a point of looking at the door. It was still locked, from the inside, just as he had left it an hour ago when he entered the room. The windows were bolted, too, against the first winter blizzard raging outside. Anger bubbled up, spiked with fear that Magridal could sneak up on him like this. It left him vulnerable, and that was even worse than feeling depressed.
“Silent as a ghost, as always,” he snapped. “But now it seems you walk through walls as well. What do you want?”
“I could teach you how, if you like.” Magridal licked her lips provocatively. “But I would need something in return.”
Axel slouched against a dresser and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve already told you. I’m not interested.”
Lithe as a cat, Magridal jumped to her feet and swayed toward him. Her crossbow remained on the bed.
He tensed as she stroked his stomach.
Eyes fixed on him, a slender finger snaked across the water beading there. She brought the droplet to her lips. Sensuous and slow, she lapped it up with her tongue. “No man has the right to be as gorgeous as you, Axel Avanov.”
Axel glared at her. “
What do you want, Magridal?”
“You.”
A derisive snort. “I’m flattered, but I hardly think you’d travel for hours from your mountain hole in a blizzard, risk your life crossing enemy lines, and then break into my bedchamber just to sweat the sheets with me.” His smile turned mocking. “No matter how gorgeous I am.”
Anger flared in Magridal’s eyes, and she waved around the room. It was beautiful, clad in a mosaic of green and blue ice crystal. It should have been cold, but the same hot spring that fed the shower had been plumbed into the walls, radiating a gentle heat.
“Your bedchamber, Chenayan? Last I knew, this belonged to my king.” Her bitterness reminded him of Lynx when she spoke of the Chenayan occupation of her land.
Axel set his jaw in a hard line. This woman was nothing like Lynx.
“You were nicer when I was drunk,” he said, walking to his dressing room. “And I’m not your after-dinner snack. So stop looking so famished.”
Magridal followed, slouching against the doorjamb, her eyes never wavering from him.
Axel watched her steadily for a moment or two, hoping she’d get the message and leave him to dress in private. When she didn’t, he fished a pair of trousers from his wardrobe and wriggled into them. He didn’t bother with a shirt. Illusive and dangerous, it wouldn’t harm to keep Magridal on the defensive.
He led her back to the bedroom. She sat on his bed, he on a chair opposite her.
Keeping his voice neutral, he asked, “Now what do you really want?”
“Whose side are you actually on, Crown Prince?”
“I beg your pardon?” Axel squinted at her. It didn’t improve the look of fury on her face. “I’m not sure I understand you.”
She leaped to her feet, whipping from side to side as she paced. “Eight hundred and fifty-seven people dead in three weeks!” She scowled at him. “How are we supposed to survive that? What good are shotguns if our sacrificial army is wiped out in weeks?"