In the end, he had no other support to fall back on during this impromptu trip but his own determination, which was, unfortunately, rapidly dwindling. Callan barely paid him any heed save issuing him terse directions as they rode out of the castle that morning, and had kept brooding silence ever since. Perhaps calling it “brooding” was somewhat of an exaggeration, but even Derek could tell he was not best pleased.
The town of Bryluen was only a two-day ride from Irthorg, but it was already proving to be a rough one. Spurred on by the same urgency that had forced them to cut short the festivities, the Mulbernians set a hard pace, falling just short of exhausting their horses. They’d only stopped twice for food and a brief rest, and Derek almost wished they wouldn’t, because getting back into the saddle was harder and harder each time.
At Callan’s sign, the troop came to a halt when the sun had almost sunk into the sea, tingeing the sky and water deep purple. The road ran along the edge of a sparse pine forest, with the distant mountains silhouetted in black against the inky starry sky. They hadn’t encountered any villages larger than a hamlet for the last dozen miles, with most of the coastal settlements gathered around Irthorg or the port towns farther to the north.
By now, Derek’s hands were practically shaking with fatigue, and it was nothing short of a miracle he didn’t fall flat on his face while dismounting. But somehow he managed to stand on his own two feet, even if the ground lurched beneath him and he had to grip the pommel of his saddle to stay upright. He wasn’t much help with setting up camp either, but he did what he could, gathering kindling for the fire while others erected tents and tended to the horses. It still nettled him to some degree—he wasn’t used to other people, especially fellow warriors, performing the mundane tasks he was perfectly capable of doing himself. But after a long day in the saddle, he had to concede he wasn’t in the best of shape to pitch in.
At first, Derek was uncomfortable about sharing a tent with Callan, whose manner toward him was as curt as ever, but it turned out the thing was spacious enough to allow them both some privacy. Inside were two sleeping pallets, separated by a burning brazier. Derek was grateful for the warmth—they were close enough to the sea to hear the monotonous crash of the waves against the cliffs, and the night promised to be chilly.
After a quick meal of bread and dried meat, shared with the soldiers around the campfire, they both retreated inside. Derek lowered himself onto his pallet with a suppressed groan, wishing for nothing more than to stretch over the soft furs and close his eyes for as long as the darkness allowed. Callan, on the other hand, lingered at the entrance, holding the flap aside as he watched the sky turn a deeper shade of black. Finally, he turned to Derek.
“I’ll go have a look around. You should rest.”
“Would you like me to—” Derek began, but he was already gone.
Too tired to do anything but follow his husband’s advice, Derek took off his coat, cursing under his breath as he struggled to do it one-handed, and went right to sleep.
HE WOKE IN the dead of night, staring blearily at the tent’s wall billowing gently in the breeze. The coals in the brazier still gave off a pleasant warmth, but their glow was all but spent. He turned to look at the other pallet, finding it empty. Had Callan not returned at all? Where was he?
Driven by some half-formed uneasiness, Derek sat up and put his coat back on, fumbling with the sleeves. As he left the tent, the night greeted him with bitter cold and the distant light of the stars, strewn across the clear night sky like a handful of diamonds thrown carelessly onto a swath of black velvet.
Two soldiers and Callan’s lieutenant, Leandre, were keeping watch by the fire while the rest of the troop slept on the ground, wrapped in their cloaks and thick blankets. Derek exchanged nods with them as he walked past and continued on to the edge of the camp, the woman’s intent gaze heavy on the back of his neck. He glanced at the sleeping men, but Callan was not among them.
When he reached the edge of the copse, he stopped to relieve himself. Even so simple an act was now made difficult by his injury, and the thought further soured his mood.
A soft sound, like a shuffle, came to him somewhere off to the side, and he turned toward it, his heart hammering. Darkness lurked between the trees even though the forest wasn’t particularly thick.
“Is someone there?” he called. “Callan?”
His only answer was the distant hoot of an owl. Feeling silly but urging himself not to be spooked by shadows, he stepped farther into the forest, feeling his way along the tree trunks more than relying on the feeble moonlight that barely penetrated the canopy.
Something moved a few paces ahead, and he stopped in his tracks. Perhaps coming alone wasn’t such a good idea after all. What was he doing anyway, chasing after a man who was clearly doing whatever he could to stay away from him?
Trying to convince himself that the noise probably was made by something completely innocuous, like a hare or a fox going about their business, he steadied his rapid breathing.
“Callan?”
Two eyes stared at him from the darkness, glowing bright like two mirrored lanterns. Derek swallowed hard and took an involuntary step back.
A large wolf emerged from between the trees, stopping just a few yards away from Derek. His fur was white, almost snowy, tinged with gray at the tips of his ears and muzzle. His golden eyes, intent and unblinking, locked on Derek as if appraising his worth.
Derek’s mouth went so dry that sucking in a breath proved difficult. He had his dagger with him, but it probably wouldn’t be much use against an animal so exceptionally large, almost twice as big as the wolves he’d seen roaming the woods of his native Camria. It could probably smell his fear. He could only hope the wolf was familiar enough with humans to be wary of them and their sharp biting weapons.
He forced himself to calm down. It was a false calm, of course, with panic coursing under the thin veneer of control, but Derek held on to it instead of running away screaming.
“Easy now,” he murmured, addressing the wolf. “I’m going to leave right away, see? Here’s a good boy.”
The wolf flattened his ears and bared his teeth, emitting a low growl, but otherwise stayed put. Derek vaguely remembered being told once that wolves didn’t growl at their prey. Did that mean the animal didn’t consider him a snack, but rather an opponent or a trespasser? Either way, it wasn’t reassuring. He risked another step backward, wondering if the soldiers would hear him if he had to resort to screaming after all. There was hardly any point in keeping quiet if the wolf decided to attack him.
“Not here to bother you,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “So you can go back to whatever it was you were doing. Hunt a rabbit or something.”
A twig snapped behind him with a loud crack, and Derek wheeled around to see Callan standing a few paces behind him. He drew a shaky breath, but Callan didn’t look his way, his intent gaze focused on the wolf, his teeth slightly bared in a scowl.
The tense moment seemed to stretch on for eons. Derek held his breath, bracing himself for whatever came next, but then the wolf simply turned and slunk away into the trees.
Derek resisted the urge to sink to his knees in relief—not the least because he knew how difficult it would be for him to haul himself up again. Instead, he turned to Callan.
“How did you do that? Did you tell him to go away?”
“It’s a wolf, not a dog,” Callan said.
Perhaps it was the darkness that pushed the boundaries of his awareness, or maybe it was the near complete silence. Either way, Derek could feel the evasiveness in Callan’s voice in a way he hadn’t been able to before. Callan’s face was shrouded in shadow, with only the moon reflecting in his eyes when he moved.
“You did,” Derek said, a statement rather than a question this time.
Callan lifted a shoulder. “Maybe he just sensed a kindred spirit.”
This was clearly everything Derek was going to get in way of an answer. Derek coul
d well understand Callan’s apprehension. The High Queen’s laws were unforgiving toward any manifestation of witchcraft, however small, and conversing with wild animals (or whatever it was that had transpired between Callan and the wolf) would definitely fall under the category.
Was this the curse whispered about in Irthorg, laid on Callan by an Outer Isles witch for murdering his Agiennan wife? If it was, Derek couldn’t find it in himself to be appalled by it.
“Well, I’m glad this was the case,” he said earnestly. “I don’t know if that beast was about to pounce on me, but it’s you I have to thank that he didn’t.”
“You’re welcome,” Callan said after a heartbeat. “I’m glad that he didn’t too.”
Without another word they started back toward the camp together, the silence between them a fraction more companionable than it’d been before.
Chapter Six
THE TOWN OF Bryluen stood at the mouth of a narrow natural harbor. Newer timbered tenements, some several stories high, surrounded the older fortifications. Ships floated majestically farther out in the bay, and rows upon rows of boats were moored all along the quay. Even from this distance, looking down on the city from the higher vantage point the road offered, it was easy to see it was bustling with activity. Bryluen thrived on trade, as it was the merging point for many travel routes, both by sea and land.
But as their troop neared the outer stockade, it became clear the entire city was on high alert. The gates, which usually closed at sundown, swung open only at their approach when the duke’s banners had come within sight of the guards. A much greater number of them patrolled the outer walls, Callan noted, as they cheered their troop on their way into the city streets.
He saw the same anxiety etched into the faces of the citizens, replaced with cautious hope as people stopped to gawk and wave at them riding through the muddy streets. The knowledge that the sight of the black-and-silver banners was enough to instill hope in the hearts of frightened townsfolk was both uplifting and disconcerting at the same time, leaving Callan with no choice but to meet their expectations.
They headed straight for the fort, which overlooked the harbor. The high stone walls of the Bryluen stronghold, built over two centuries ago, were interspersed with arrow slits and robust buttresses. Rays of late-afternoon sun gilded the fortifications, softening the otherwise daunting facade. The large square courtyard, decorated with the twin statues of Gwenna and Gwaithil at its center, teemed with soldiers and horses. The sight jolted Callan’s half-faded childhood memories of the days just before the break of war.
Derek rode up from behind him, watching the activity. Hard lines creased the pale skin of his forehead. The ride had taken a toll on him, but to his credit, he never complained about his obvious discomfort, and Callan couldn’t help but grudgingly (albeit silently) admire his forbearance.
By some kind of a silent agreement, neither of them mentioned the incident in the woods on the first night of their journey, for which he was grateful. He could well do without his new husband accusing him of witchcraft. Not that it would realistically get Callan into too much trouble, considering who he was, but there were quite enough ugly rumors circulating around him already.
It wasn’t as if he could explain it to Derek, even if he wanted to. Callan had never talked about it to anyone, including Idona. He hardly knew what “it” actually was. The very notion of him possessing magical powers was ludicrous. He couldn’t heal the wounded, or move rocks, or call schools of fish into the nets, in the way of Agiennan witches. He could only hear and feel things that he knew other people couldn’t. Like sensing the white wolf’s consciousness, a touch away from his own, and asking him to retreat because Callan didn’t want to see Derek threatened.
There was nothing sinister about this ability, nothing that could be wholeheartedly called “witchcraft,” if he was careful not to indulge in it. There had been tales about his remote ancestors, stories about how the first Dukes of Mulberny could summon wild animals to fight their battles and command wind and earth to do their bidding—with some of them eventually driven mad by their lust for the power the magic supplied them with. But those were nothing but stories told around the fire on long winter evenings and obscure mentions in dusty books. They had nothing to do with him.
Whatever had passed last night, it seemed Derek was ready to overlook quite a number of Callan’s sins, whether real or purported. But now Callan wasn’t so sure it was out of cowardice.
“It appears the garrison is well manned,” Derek said quietly, steering his horse closer to him. “There are only fourteen of us. If the situation is that grave, what could we possibly do to make any sort of difference?”
“We’re not here to wage another war,” Callan said, reminding himself to be patient. As an outsider, Derek had only a vague idea of what they were up against. He did note Derek used “us,” including himself in their number. “This isn’t a military campaign that can be won with sheer numbers. They’ve asked for our expertise in dealing with small-scale attacks that happen seemingly at random, and we’re here to find a way to stop them.”
Derek still looked dubious, but he nodded without offering further commentary.
Callan didn’t bother with going to his room or changing clothes. He exchanged words with the fort’s elderly castellan and headed to the war room with Leandre as soon as his troop had been seen to. After a moment, Derek joined them—most likely out of stubbornness than a real sense of urgency. Callan wanted to tell him to go rest but thought better of it. Derek was a grown man, capable of making his own decisions. If he wanted to inconvenience himself for the sake of feeling like he was doing something, Callan wouldn’t be the one to stop him.
The Commander of the Bryluen garrison, Lord Morgan, was waiting for them in the war room with his lieutenants, all of whom bowed deeply before Callan as he strode inside. The long, low table in the middle was covered in maps held in place with heavy candlesticks. An array of narrow windows faced the bay, the sound of the waves, the noise of the harbor, and the crying of the gulls blending into a distant din, a mundane backdrop for the palpable restlessness inside the room.
“My lord,” Morgan said dryly. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
Without wasting time on further obeisance, he gestured toward the maps. Callan walked to the table, nodding to the other people gathered around it. Several silver pins marked the locations of the pirate ship landings along the coast, all the way from Bryluen to the Egret Forest that effectively marked the northern border of Mulberny.
“There have been twenty-two attacks in the last three weeks,” said Lady Elsie, Morgan’s daughter as well as second-in-command and in charge of the garrison’s field intelligence. As always, she sat in her specially made wheeled chair that was high enough for her to easily survey all the maps laid out on the table. Her sharp eyes, when she looked at Callan, betrayed an intellect as deadly as any sword.
“So many?” Callan frowned, turning his attention to the map. The targets all seemed small and insignificant—a fishing village, a trading post, a temple. None of these would have put up the resistance that might spark the sort of viciousness he’d read about in the reports.
“Yes. They’ve escalated not only in number, but in malice as well,” said Lady Elsie. “The Agiennans were always wont to cause mayhem, but the raids were usually swift and purposeful—they’d pillage the place and leave. Now, they burn everything in sight—houses, fields, temples, killing indiscriminately, leaving very few survivors. They even kill the livestock they can’t take with them. There seems to be no rhyme or reason for these attacks or for this senseless destruction, at least not any we can discern.”
“The people are frightened, and rightly so,” Morgan said. “Many are abandoning their homes, flocking to Bryluen and other larger towns for safety. The city is filled with refugees, and a lot more are headed farther inland. At this rate, the northern shoreline will soon become completely deserted.”
“This is highly
unusual. The raiders haven’t been as bold as that since before the war,” Leandre said. Of course, both she and Callan had been little more than children when the Seven-Year War with Agienna had started, but Morgan, who had fought alongside Duke Bergen in past campaigns, nodded in agreement.
“Do you think someone else might be behind this escalation?” Callan asked, recalling his father’s insistence on the Danulf clan’s involvement.
Morgan and Elsie exchanged a look that told Callan the duke hadn’t been the first to entertain that suspicion.
“It’s not out of the realm of possibility,” Elsie said, somewhat reluctantly. “But so far, no evidence suggests deliberate warmongering by a third party, aside from the suddenness and the brutality of this onslaught.”
“I’d be loath to cast blame until we have some solid insights into this matter,” Morgan said.
What he hadn’t said was that no one wanted to rush into another bloody war with the clans of the Outer Isles, but the thought was clearly on everyone’s mind—Callan’s included.
“What have you been doing so far to prevent new attacks?” Derek asked.
Callan, who had almost forgotten about his presence, turned to him in surprise—as did everyone else in the room. Derek shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.
“This is my husband, Count Derek of Camria,” Callan said in response to Lord Morgan’s questioning gaze. He should have probably introduced him right away, but his mind was too intent on the current problem to stand on ceremony.
“Indeed,” Morgan said, giving Derek a once-over. “Wasn’t there some altercation with Camria not long ago? I remember Count Johan—the late count, I suppose he is now—being displeased with the position of our dam, or something to that effect.”
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