Salome at Sunrise
Bryton Haruk sets out on a suicide mission to stop the bloodthirsty Skullmen from terrorizing the war-weary Land of Eldwyn. Consumed by guilt over the death of his wife, Bryton seeks revenge and reunion in the afterlife with his lost love. His purpose is determined, his bravery unmatched, until the queen casts a spell to save Bryton from himself.
Salome is that spell. A bird-shifter, she can harness the earth’s breeze and take the form of a beautiful, innocent woman. Her challenge is to harness Bryton’s pain and guide him to peace. She entrances and irritates him, tempting Bryton from his mission. Even as he gives in to the passion between them, Bryton insists on mounting a solo attack on the brigands’ compound, and Salome fears her love won’t be enough to save him…
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Inez Kelley
To Sandy, Kate and Knox, who pushed
Ella, Chi, Keri, Jamie and Elaina, who picked
And Deb, who believed
Wet blood stained the parchment in a perfect circle. Tiny ridges and whorls from a large finger held Taric’s attention for far too long. He tore his gaze from it with difficulty to the man who’d left the smudge. No wound marked him, but then, Taric hadn’t thought it was Bryton’s blood. Bryton was far too skilled at questioning prisoners.
“You got him to talk?”
Bryton tightened the cinch on his destrier with a sharp tug and moved to the pack mule behind him. “Enough pain’ll make anyone scream secrets like a girl and beg for mercy.”
“Did you give him mercy?”
A whoosh whispered through the stable when Bryton palmed his dagger. Unsatisfied revenge tightened his jaw as he spun the knife, presenting the hilt to Taric with a raised brow. “Meet Mercy, Your Majesty. She’s delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Mercy,
carved along the handle in a scrolling script, was darkened with age and worn smooth with use. Taric didn’t blink and Bryton thrust the dagger back into his belt. The blade glinted with malicious hunger but not one drop of red marred the steel. Bryton had taken time to clean his weapon, long-instilled duty overriding his consuming anger.
Taric scanned the orderly list of names and prison numbers, his mouth filling with sour distaste. So many were crossed off, but not the one Bryton hungered for. He refolded the parchment and tucked it into his belt. “I still don’t like this.”
“You don’t have to,” Bryton muttered.
“I don’t have to let you go, either.”
Bryton ran a huge hand through his hair and jerked his head, cracking his neck with a loud pop. Lines of stress and strain furrowed his brow beneath the shock of inky black now staining his long copper hair. The wide line of black hair had appeared overnight, over one long terrible night more than a full summer ago. That thick swatch wasn’t the only darkness Bryton now carried.
The determination blazing from his bright blue eyes would have made a lesser man cringe. As it was, Taric fought the urge to step back.
“I’m going,” Bryton snapped. “The plan is sound. One man has a better chance of sneaking into their camp and executing an ambush. I’m the best soldier you have and you know it. Even Myla agrees tha—”
“No, Myla agreed a platoon would be too easy to spot. You took it on yourself to plan this suicide mission.” Fisting his hands, Taric fought for an even tone. “You haven’t slept. You look like shit. A few days won’t matter.”
“I’ll sleep when I make camp. I’m not letting that son of a bitch go, not when I’m this close.”
“You?” Taric roared, his temper slipping. The stable boys dropped their water buckets and scurried away like mice. Bryton never flinched. “Over two hundred murderers were wrongly given their freedom and turned loose on
my
kingdom. It’s taken over three long bloody summers but I’ve been right there beside you, my friend, sending the Skullmen back to hell.”
“There’s no way in hell’s asshole Karok is getting away from me this time.” Bryton locked eyes with Taric and gritted his teeth. “That bastard murdered my wife. You can bet your royal ass I’m going to kill him, and I’m going to make it hurt.”
“Your duty is to me.”
Deliberation and restraint slowed his movements but Bryton did not drop his eyes. “It is. But I owe her a duty as well. Don’t forbid this, Tar. You of all people know what losing your wife feels like.”
“Yes, I do. And I hurt for you.”
“Don’t,” Bryton spat. “I have to do this.”
“You can’t bring Katina back, Bry. She died. You just stopped living.”
“What the fuck do you want from me?”
Jester bucked at the shout and Taric leaped for the loose reins. Calming the horse helped him hold his tongue. He really didn’t want a fistfight with Bryton right now. “I want you to be a pain in my ass again. I want you to call me ‘Your Maggoty’ and make fun of this stupid beard I’m trying to grow. I want…I want you to heal, Bry. That’s all. Don’t do this in anger. There are well over a dozen Skullmen holed up somewhere in those mountains. We’ll get them. You don’t have to go alone.”
Bryton grabbed his labrys and slowly ran his fingers down the handle, chilling Taric. He stroked the doubleheaded battle-axe like a lover…or a killer. “You’re just pissed Myla won’t let you go instead of me.”
Taric cocked his brow. “Myla doesn’t dictate what I do.”
New lines of frustration formed between Bryton’s brows. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Frayed threads of impatience barely hid under his careful words. “Tar, you’re the King of Eldwyn. She was right to call you down from the fighting. Let your men handle this. You need to think more about the future and your bloodlines.”
“My bloodlines are just fine.”
Bryton thrust his chin to the left. “Yeah, well, the future king is eating dirt right now so you might want to check on that.”
Taric glanced out the stable door. His filthy young son sat stomping a wooden horse to make tracks in the dirt. His dark hair was dusty and a thick smear of mud lined his face. Taric hurried to catch the little hand before the grimy fingers could go into his mouth. “Batu! Your mama’s going to skin us both like a rabbit if she sees you like this.”
His son laughed at the scolding. “Funny Papa. Me’s not a wabbit.”
Taric scooped the child up and plopped him into a freshly filled horse trough. Batu giggled and splashed him. Such pure childish joy beamed from that round face, it took Taric’s breath. He allowed his grin to remain for one perfect moment before solemnly looking back to Bryton. “Maybe you should think about your own bloodlines. Jana needs you.”
Bryton turned his head, looking at the horses, the feed sacks, anywhere but at Taric. His soft tone carried a deep, hushed sorrow. “Last moon was the anniversary of Katina’s death. Jana called the nurse ‘Mama.’”
The slight pause in Bryton’s preparations heartened Taric as much as the sadness in his words pained him. Bryton’s joy, his laughter, had died along with Katina but his eyes always softened when he held his daughter. They weren’t soft right now. They glistened like shards of ice.
“She needed her mother. That didn’t stop Karok but I will. Jana will be fine with you and Myla.”
“You know we love her like our own, but that doesn’t change the fact she needs
you
. You’re her father. Trust me on this. Without a mother, she’ll need you more than you can imagine.”
Bryton looked at him for a long moment before grabbing the last bag of foodstuff from the stable floor. It slipped from his hand with a heavy thud as his eyes blazed with a radiant, unearthly glow. The color shimmered, obscuring the white and the black until nothing remained but illuminated blue.
Taric’s gut tightened. “Damn, I hate when you do that.”
“Doesn’t really wax my wood, either,” Bryton muttered through the brewing magic vision. His voice dipped lower, more graveled and menacing. “Keep the guards close…and go hunting.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. You just need to use your bow and go hunting.”
Taric snorted. “Bry, I haven’t hunted anything but enemies in—”
“Take up your bow, hunt through the darkness to the light—” Bryton’s tone tremored with power, with charm that deepened to an ominous whisper, “—and aim toward a kiss.”
“That makes no sense.”
Bryton’s eyes dimmed to normal and he blinked rapidly. He yanked the fallen bag off the ground. “Hell, I just relay what I’m shown. Ask your kitty-cat queen for a translation. She’s the one that slapped this magic shit inside me to keep your blond ass safe.”
Making sure Batu was secure enough in the shallow water, Taric rose and walked to his captain. The jangle of coins on jewels rang loud in the quiet stable. Bryton’s gaze dropped to the heavy purse then jerked back to his.
“If you’re determined, take this in case you need more supplies…bribes, whatever. The crown pays. This is Eldwyn’s mission, not your personal revenge, right?”
Something flashed on Bryton’s face, a flicker of guilt. He tucked the purse in his homespun tunic with a nod. He turned his back to adjust the saddle blanket, an insult Taric barely acknowledged. Bryton had never treated him as a royal but as a friend. Friends acted like asses to one another at times. Friends also didn’t shy from the truth no matter how ugly.
The truth soured Taric’s stomach. Bryton had a death wish and no intention of coming home alive. Since Katina’s death, he’d taken increasing risks, put himself in harm’s way more times than Taric could count. He’d given up wearing mail, planned and executed reckless attacks, took point more often than any soldier in the ranks. Each time he survived, Bryton got drunk—not to celebrate but to mourn. Despite his friend’s longing for the other side of life and his wife, Taric wasn’t ready to lose him.
He stepped in front of the stirrup before Bryton could mount. “I’ve never pulled rank when we’re alone.”
Afternoon sunshine sliced through the wide doors, turning Bryton’s hair to brass—all except the streak of black that hung along his left cheek. A tic there spoke of his strained patience. “No, you haven’t, but your ass is just itching to, so get it over with.”
“Do you want me to bring in a witness?”
Bryton snapped straight, insult tingeing his cheeks red. “My word used to be enough for you. Are you questioning my loyalty?”
“Your loyalty? No. I always have and will trust you. Swear to me on your oath you’ll heed my command and I won’t call a witness. It’ll be between us.”
Mouth clamped into a thin slashed line, Bryton bowed formally. Resentment stiffened his back and curled his fists.
Taric nodded, the mantle of royalty he could not shed falling on his shoulders like an invisible shroud. “Kneel.”
One knee hit the stone floor of the stable and Bryton kept his head bowed. Steel sang on leather when he pulled his sword, holding it aloft in both hands. Dust motes and sunbeams danced like pollen, and golden light shimmered on the long silver length.
Salvation
was etched along the blade. Taric’s gaze traced each curved and swirled letter, along the fine nicks from use, across the scarred knuckles holding the sword. The sword and the man had saved him from death many times. Could he do the same? Could he save his bodyguard from himself?
Bryton’s sword rose proudly in one hand and his fist banged to his left shoulder. His voice echoed with reverence in the quiet stable.
“To thee, I have pledged my oath as a captain, to give my life without question. To thee, I give the strength of my arm, the force of my blade and the sacrifice of my blood. I swear by the oath I gave to thee, Taric Segur, as my liege and my king, to defend you and yours from all harm. I swear by my honor to give all for the preservation of my homeland. I swear by my fathers, those who came before me and perished, that Eldwyn should never fall. I obey thy every command. Long live the name of Segur.”
Had there been indignation or anger in his voice, Taric might have dropped the royal authority but there was none. Instead, there was only pure, formal honor. It was that honor Taric was counting on. A vicious tremor shook Taric’s arm but he forced his hand to stop before resting on Bryton’s head. Warmth from his hair flowed to Taric’s palm and up to his chest and he swallowed. Dutiful, ritualistic words rolled from his tongue.
“You are the High Captain of Taric Segur, King of the Land of Eldwyn, the twelve provinces therein and the Islands of Parot, Haverstead and Gillum. You are his Might and his Law. By honor and your sworn blood oath, you are life bound to the crown. Heed me now, Bryton Waru Haruk. This I command and this I demand as your sovereign king…get your ass home alive.”
Horses nickered and shuffled in straw-filled stalls, and Bryton did not rise. Batu splashed, wet sloshes hitting the floor in a soft splatter, and Bryton did not rise. Outside, the metal ring of the blacksmith’s hammer chimed like music, and Bryton did not rise.
Umbrage laced his soft curse. “You bastard.”
“Not literally but you’ve called me worse. You should’ve learned by now, Bry. Check doesn’t count.” Taric stepped back and reached for Batu. “That was checkmate.”
Half an hour later, atop the parapet, Taric prayed his strategy was enough. Bryton’s form was but a dot on the horizon and grew smaller with each second. Anticipated loss roiled in his belly.
“His honor is strong,” Myla murmured behind him. A twitch lifted Taric’s lip. He hadn’t heard her approach. She was as light-footed as her jaguar had been before his magical guardian traded in her shape-shifting ability for the chance to become his human wife.
“It is, but is it stronger than his hurt? I don’t know, Myla. I feel like I just lost him.” Tearing his gaze from the faraway spot, he turned and gave her a rueful smile.
His queen looked more warrior than royal, which fit her well. Her long mahogany hair was braided tight and swung like a rope down her back. The plain oak-brown tunic had no embroidery, but the sword and dagger belted at her waist sparkled in the sunlight. Soft fawn leggings were tucked into tiny boots and clung to her figure like mist to the moist ground. She preferred teaching swordplay to the youngers over stitching and mending. She drew less blood with a blade than a needle.
“Where is Batu?”
“I sent him in with the nurse for a bath.”
A knowing look arched her brow and she tilted her head. “What mischief did he find this day?”
“No mischief, just a lot of dirt,” Taric said, scratching at the new growth under his chin. He never realized growing a beard was so…scratchy.
Myla trained her face on the distant mountain ridges. Sunlight tripped over her cheeks and gilded her hair with a golden sheen. Wind tossed stray tendrils about her nape and ears but she didn’t move. A spark lit in the depths of her unfocused gaze, a spark that grew to a crackling fire. The husky timbre in her voice no longer shocked him but her words did.
“I have no power of life and death nor can I bend his will, but I am not without talents to aid him. Will you give me leave to help your captain find peace, Taric?”
“What are you going to do?”
“All that I can that he might lay his pain to rest.”
Taric clasped his hands behind his back and delved deep into his own soul, searching for the right or wrong of it. Magic could be a blessing, he knew better than most, but it didn’t come without sacrifice. His gaze drifted once more to the empty horizon.
