House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1)

by K. L. Kolarich

  “Your father—the Clann Darragh, I mean….” Marek cleared his throat. “He sent us on a scouting assignment two months ago to prepare for your journey. He thought it prudent to explore alternative routes in case we needed to avoid the main roads. Declan noticed framing underneath the overgrowth and led us to find the perfect shelter.” He paused to gesture at the rotted frame. “In order to remain undetected, we haven’t made our fires as large as I’d like. Tonight, we should be able to.”

  Marek fiddled with the bedroll he carried, clearly uncomfortable speaking so much. It was the longest monologue she’d heard him give in normal conversation. Luscia opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off when Declan and Noxolo stalked past, thoroughly engaged in an argument over venison seasoning. With a buck thrown over his shoulder, Declan trudged toward the fire another warrior had built. Noxolo dragged a sad-looking possum, yammering on about thissleweed and an old family recipe. Luscia controlled her smirk and braced for the thunderous explosion about to erupt from the bulkier Najjan.

  “I’m grateful for your consideration, Captaen,” Luscia finally said to Marek, despite Declan and Noxolo’s brewing dispute in the background. She lowered her head a fraction, excusing herself, and turned in the opposite direction. “Oh, and tadöm, for the furs,” she added over a shoulder, “but I’m certain Aksel will be warmth enough once he returns from terrorizing the local wildlife.”

  With that, Luscia headed to the farthest wall, desperate for some space.

  Over the next hour, Luscia found solace in the symphony of the wildwood. She slowly picked at her second portion of venison, savoring the flavor. He could be a real nuisance, but Noxolo was onto something with the thissleweed. An odd combination, she concluded, from an even odder family.

  Her gaze followed her warriors while they moved about, going through the motions of their nightly routines. Not for the first time, she recognized why Boreal’s clan elders chose each of these men to play this coveted role in her life. There was the twenty-three-year-old Marek, of course, who traversed their camp almost silently as he prepared for first watch, gliding like an extension of the mist as he searched for potential threats. His northern heritage combined with his years of training on the Isle of Viridis had honed him into a deadly warrior, and his keen mind for strategy had earned him leadership over the other four Najjan.

  The musical beat of clashing metal drew her eyes to the twins as they sparred in a series of dancelike steps and arced maneuvers. The golden-haired brothers circled one another, a competitive joy radiating from both men. At twenty-one, they were the youngest members of Luscia’s quintet of warriors, though still older than her own eighteen years. Outsiders often found their abstract precision to be unnerving, but the House of Boreal commended both Böwen and Creyvan Tearlach as shining examples of its beauty and military prowess.

  Beyond the crackling fire sat the eldest of the group: Declan Athdara. He had readily become Luscia’s favorite among her escort. Though he tended to erupt whenever his patience tired, she felt most at peace with his otherwise quiet disposition. A superior tracker and hunter—as evidenced by the dinner he’d provided—but Luscia felt certain there were many reasons Declan had been chosen to protect her. She studied the artistic way he sharpened and polished a set of luxiron blades laid before him, admiring the way he held each with such care, like they were precious stones instead of death-bringers.

  To their communal relief, Noxolo Egon snored in a corner of the ruin. It was the most reasonable he’d been that day. Translucent skin as pale as her own was concealed beneath his fine, moonlit hair, though Luscia could still see his long nose peeking through the curtain of platinum strands. It was Nox’s speed that positioned him at her side—when engaged, Nox moved as fast as Luscia, despite being almost three heads taller.

  Shadowmen, the people of Orynthia called them. Boreal’s Najjan fought in the shadows with a chilling patience, a fearsome caste of warriors who danced with blades like the whistling tempests over the Drystan Sea. Luscia found the adopted name rather appropriate, as opposed to the slew of distasteful alternatives the realm enlisted. Even in the face of Boreal’s crumbling political status within the Ethnicam, the Najjan retained their repute, and were resented for it.

  It was through the Ethnicam that Orynthia maintained a careful alliance between the four Houses that ruled each corner of the realm. After the Forgotten Wars, the remnants of humanity found solace in their respective territories and cultures, struggling to survive in a land of famine and war-taint. Those who hadn’t starved were either clean or unclean. Residual war-taint disfigured and drove the afflicted into grotesque madness, while mortal disease threatened the rest. Focusing inward as the land’s natural resources began to dwindle, skirmishes broke out amongst the outer territories of Boreal, Pilar, and Darakai. But instead to the east, Bastiion reached outward to neighboring tribes to bolster their numbers, sacrificing their heritage to become something new and in doing so, thrived. Together, the emerging Unitarians built the strength and military might of the Orynthian forces.

  It was the House of Bastiion that ultimately united the four territories, hundreds of years after the Forgotten Wars. In exchange for protection, the outer territories of Boreal, Pilar, and Darakai formed in an uneasy treaty with the prosperous Unitarians and therefore, each other. Although Boreal’s history with Orynthia dated further than that of Darakai or Pilar, all owed their survival to the crown. Over a thousand years after the earth shed its taint and began to bloom, the Houses continued to pay homage to Orynthia’s founding epicenter, Bastiion.

  In signing the Accords, the ruling powers of each House founded the Ethnicam, solidifying their allegiance under a unified Orynthian banner. From Bastiion were the Peerage of the nobility; from Pilar, the Shoto Collective; from Darakai, the tribal chieftains; and from Boreal, the clan elders. All four owed fealty to the Royal Line of Thoarne, whose descendants sat upon the Orynthian throne. This balance of power worked to ensure that, through domestic faculty and trade, service was paid in full for the benefit of all Orynthia, the central kingdom. As the Houses retained enough independence to govern their own territories, the Ethnicam provided accountability against partiality—or so it claimed.

  However, during the last century, friction had escalated within the Ethnicam when the House of Boreal suspended all trade beyond standard weaponry with the rest of the realm. Their territory was famous for its deadly luxiron blades, forged with the aid of lumin and unparalleled in battle. The Boreali guarded the secret of luxsmithing carefully, and trade of these special weapons with the rest of Orynthia had always been rare, even before Luscia’s ancestors forbade their sale outside Boreal’s borders. Luscia privately found the Ethnicam’s resentment to be ridiculous, as Orynthia’s grudge with Boreal was over the monopoly of trinkets. Corrosive and bewitching trinkets, but trinkets nonetheless. It was the Najjani warriors who were the true weapons of Boreal. It was in their blood, their very nature.

  By belonging to the line of Tiergan, it was a nature that segregated Luscia even further from her five.

  With some surprise, Luscia realized that she’d finished her plate of venison while studying her men so intently. She rubbed her tired eyes, then rose to her feet with a groan, making her way over to the well-made tent of Orallach hide that Creyvan had erected for her.

  “Thank Aniell for privacy,” she murmured as she slipped inside.

  With a sigh, Luscia peeled off her layers of traveling gear, desperately wishing for a hot bath. It’d been days since her last true wash. When all that remained was the thin layer of her linsilk shift, simpler than the others she possessed, Luscia lay back against the bed of lush furs and combed her fingers through an untidy cluster of sandy knots.

  As she finished fighting with the last of the tangles in her waist-length hair, a wet muzzle parted the opening of her makeshift quarters. Aksel waited until Luscia obliged him with a warm, “Well, come in, you brute.” />
  The lycran’s huge form shook the tent as he made an obnoxious attempt to lie down. The tent was good stock, but it was never intended to house a woman and her overgrown wolx. Regardless of his enormity and the rank stench of his latest conquest, Luscia welcomed Aksel’s company as well as his warmth. She had slept safely with the animal for three years, since he was a pup. Even now that he was considered fully grown, she didn’t intend to stop.

  Nestling closer to Aksel’s thick coat, she listened to the distant tinkling of metal as Declan rewrapped his luxiron blades. Breaths later, she heard his voice rumble in the night. Gently, barely audible to most, he sang to the unseen threads of lumin in the darkness. Luscia was nearly asleep to the sound of his melody when the twins began to accompany the native Boreali hymn, forming a soothing blend of masculine tones that rose to greet the wind stirring the leaves. They sang for no one in particular, except the moon and her maker.

  Taken in by the music and its simplicity, Luscia repositioned her head at the opening of the tent. She fastened a flap to the side to better appreciate the old song branded in their northern hearts. With eyes closed, she intertwined her offering with that of her warriors.

  From the mounts of Orallach we sing,

  From the crest of Aksel’s Keep we bring,

  A song of Old, a song of some.

  For those who’ve lost what Tiergan found,

  My soul turns ear to hear such sound,

  Of Dönum’s light and Lux’s stream.

  Though ash and flame and darkness came,

  New life and burnished day remain,

  Resilient against horrors sought.

  ’Tis in the wind, between the trees,

  Whispers proof of everlasting.

  Though in their absence I will hold,

  Aniell’s delight in Boreal.

  Her harmony trailed off as she felt compelled to look toward the heavens of Aurynth and its watchman, the moon. For her vow to Aniell and the children of Boreal, her life was no longer her own. Luscia knew the day would come when she’d be asked to sacrifice everything because of it.

  Summoning all the bravery she could, Luscia Darragh Tiergan accepted her fate. She was, and would forever be, al’Haidren to the House of Boreal.

  Luscia’s eyes flashed open.

  Rotating her neck in a slow, controlled motion, she locked eyes with her lycran. The eerie gleam of Aksel’s irises flicked to the front of the tent, then tracked some unseen movement around the side of the cramped space.

  Luscia reached for the dagger under her pillow and soundlessly pushed herself off the ground. Balancing on the ball of each foot, she inhaled deeply, but the air smelt only of moss and pine. She crept outside, listening intently all the while. The darkness was devoid of sound—even the animals had gone quiet.

  “Ana’Sere?” Böwen advanced from his post behind the edge of the ruin. “Are you well?”

  Aksel circled her legs, bare beneath her shift, sniffing the undergrowth.

  “It’s nothing,” Luscia started to murmur, but froze when the lycran yipped at the base of the tent. Along the side, a deep gash scored the stretch of hide, ending exactly where she’d laid her head. From the laceration, a beetle writhed out between the fibers and scurried back to the earth.

  “Wake the sleepers.” Luscia swallowed as the hairs on her arm lifted to another calling. “We leave within the hour.”

  TWO

  Zaethan

  A familiar blade landed inches from Zaethan’s left cheek and impaled the earth beneath him, still damp from the morning rain.

  “As they say, ‘Every gain has a loss.’ Looks like the loss is yours, Ahoté!” Kumo Shá announced confidently as his massive weight pressed down on Zaethan’s chest. The white of his smile reflected the bright afternoon sun, shining boldly against the depth of his southern skin while he boasted to the few spectators currently sprawled across the surrounding terrain.

  Always putting on a show, Zaethan critiqued.

  Ignoring the mix of dew and sweat bathing his spine, Zaethan studied the other man. Showmanship continued to prove his cousin’s primary weakness, as much as it was his source of charisma.

  “Uni. Yes, it does, my friend,” Zaethan promised under his breath, locking eyes with the proud victor. He permitted his cousin’s celebration a moment longer before slamming his forehead into Kumo’s.

  His cousin roared with pain and surprise. Taking advantage of Kumo’s disorientation, Zaethan hooked his legs around the muscular torso that pinned him and rotated them both to the right. Before the maneuver was complete, he thrust the fingers of his dominant hand aside, stretching to find a hilt encased in worn leather. He freed the blade from the dirt and let it skim Kumo’s throat, just as his left knee hit the wet earth with force.

  “A loss, indeed. But let us not forget an older saying, cousin,” Zaethan whispered into his second’s ear, just loud enough for the present members of his pryde to hear. “‘Boast in your victory, not before it,’” he quoted with a devious grin.

  Zaethan’s head still pound from the impact, but upon assessing the pain clouding his beta’s face, he decided the drumming ache was completely worth it. He rolled and stood in one fluid motion. Flipping the blade to offer the hilt to its rightful owner, he extended a hand to the man on the ground. Kumo clasped Zaethan’s forearm with a grimace and climbed to his feet, gingerly taking back his favorite knife.

  From behind, Zaethan overheard Takoda Muthwali snicker smugly. Their other comrade, Jabari Ulumb, swore as he dropped three dromas into Takoda’s hand, the clink of each silver coin emphasizing the mistake in doubting his alpha. Zaethan hid his amusement, lightly brushing off the blanket of dust and grime his outer tunic had collected. After binding back the woven locs that had been freed in the tussle, reforming the fall of rope-like braids between his shoulder blades, Zaethan strode to his remaining men, congregated near the horses.

  A small segment of his personal militia—his pryde—had ridden to the outskirts of Bastiion to hunt in the openness between the provinces of Galina and Agoston. At least, that was the generic excuse he offered to any who questioned his absence. Bastiion had been his second home since late childhood, but it was irrefutably suffocating. Having inherited the title of al’Haidren, Zaethan Kasim was committed to serve the crown, but even after twenty-three years of partially living at court, his blood still ran Darakaian red. A blood that called to open spaces, like a hawk calls to its master.

  His father—Nyack Kasim, Chief Warlord of Darakai, Commander of the Orynthian armies, and Darakai’s Haidren under King Korbin Thoarne—was scheduled to return to the palace that afternoon. While his father’s visits tended to inspire Zaethan’s need for a hunt, a half-day’s ride couldn’t prevent their eventual reunion. Zaethan shook out his clenched fists as the thought itched the back of his mind.

  “Are you never still, Alpha Zà? Doru, just stop. Take this.” Zahra Hanovi, his third, tossed a canteen in his direction, shaking her shaved head. “After all that commotion, you still jostle about.”

  She said it in jest, for both knew Zahra was his third for good reason. Her loyalty had proven to be as reliable as her ruthlessness in combat. Even so, being a few years older than he, Zahra’s maternal instinct awoke once in a while, though Zaethan rarely minded. Her spontaneous displays were even comical at times, at least when Kumo was victim to the harsher sides of her Darakaian mothering.

  Zahra would be a truly terrifying mother one day, if any man was ever brave enough to suggest it.

  “That is why I call him Ahoté,” his cousin hollered, pointing his fingers against his cheeks to resemble the whiskers of a bobcat.

  Nepotism had nothing to do with Kumo’s position at Zaethan’s side, either. His cousin was bred for war. Even covered in mud, anyone could see the corded musculature hugging his bones. With a neck the width of a small tree and legs like horse haunches,
the man looked like a fragment of the Andwele Mountains come to life. Truthfully, Zaethan held the upper hand in combat simply because Kumo moved first with his fists, second with his mouth, and lastly with his brain. The moment his cousin let the latter lead him, he’d evolve into an unbeatable opponent.

  “When did you become so eloquent, Kumo?” Zahra snapped. “It’s good to see that brain is finally trying to fill your thick skull. Eh, maybe you can give us all pet names.”

  Her voice always seemed to drip a preferred flavor of sarcasm when addressing his cousin. After their years of forced camaraderie, she still harbored bitterness over remaining third and never second. Despite Zahra’s vicious strategies and insatiable hunger to win, Kumo’s size always named him victor in formal challenges for his position.

  “Uni, yeah, I give you plenty of names, Zahra. You just haven’t heard them all yet,” Kumo managed, mumbling a string of curses in Andwele. He tightened the saddle fastenings on his mount with fervor, exerting his frustration on the leatherwork instead of the svelte, aggressive woman to his side.

  It was a delicate partnering of wills Zaethan worked hard to marry, but even with their squabbling, he needed them both. Ironically, their dissimilarity made him stronger. It was a fact each contender recognized, but refused to admit aloud.

  “Quit your bickering,” Zaethan ordered, adding a pointed, “both of you,” when Kumo’s mouth dropped incredulously.

  He didn’t have the energy to play the roles of both alpha and nanny today. Stepping into a stirrup, Zaethan swung his weight across the saddle, anxious to begin their trek back. He needed to meet with the crown prince before the evening was over, and he preferred to face his father in the morning, after a full night’s rest.

  “What’s wrong?” Kumo waited, sensing Zaethan’s growing disquiet.