Warrior (14 page)

shook his head and walked off,

probably to try to persuade their other

captive to eat.

“What is your name?” Vulcan asked

the man. He was covered in grime,

sweat and blood alike, and looked like

some sort of unwashed golden dog.

What was no doubt some form of

blond hair stuck to his head, along

with dark filth.

The man did not reply so Vulcan

continued,

“Will

your

people

surrender to Morden?”

The man blinked and shrugged.

Vulcan crossed his arms before his

chest and said coldly, “What is your

name? I will not ask you again.”

The man continued to keep his

silence until finally, he lifted his head,

his eyes staring directly into those of

the king. He spat out, “Malcolm.”

“If Lytheria surrenders to Morden,

will you challenge me?” Vulcan

assessed the man as he sat there, rope

binding his arms and legs. He’d

wounded two of his warriors, and had

put up a good fight against Varian. He

took no pleasure in killing good

fighters and men loyal to their

countries. But if this man answered

wrongly, he was taking his head. He’d

had about enough of the Lytherian

resistance.

The man cleared his throat, and

replied slowly, “
If
Lytheria surrenders

to Morden, I will not fight it.” The

way he said “if” told Vulcan that he

didn’t expect any such surrender.

Vulcan’s jaw locked angrily. If

Lytheria didn’t surrender, his men

were going in through the secret

entrance, and slaughtering anyone

who stood in their way.

As it happened, thoughts like that

turned out to be unnecessary. When

noon arrived, and Vulcan, carrying

the wrongly named Flower before

him, arrived at the line, he noticed that

the drawbridge to the castle had been

lowered.

Although

soldiers

still

manned the battlements, there were

no arrows pointed in their direction.

Varian, now wearing full battle armor,

came up alongside him. The timid

princess sat before him.

“This could be a trap,” Varian told

him,

staring

at

the

lowered

drawbridge. Vulcan knew that. It was

for that reason that a portion of his

men were going in first, before he and

Varian would enter, followed by the

rest.

General Akos reined his horse in

beside his king and asked for his

orders. Vulcan conveyed them and

before long, Morden soldiers on

horseback began a slow canter toward

St. Ives Castle.

When the soldiers had entered into

the realm of the arrows, and none

were loosed, Vulcan nudged his horse

forward and Varian flanked him.

The sisters were not gagged today

but thankfully, they remained quiet.

The Flower was as tense as ever

before him, but with one of his hands

securely around her middle, she was

going nowhere.

They

crossed

the

drawbridge

unharmed and entered the inner

bailey.

Vulcan

looked

around,

noticing the crowd of armored

Lytherian soldiers that lined all sides

of the courtyard. They stood still as

his soldiers passed them and made

their way to the main bailey, where

the generals and the other princess

should be waiting. Vulcan was

prepared to accept nothing less than a

full surrender.

When they entered the main bailey,

they

were

greeted

with

more

Lytherian soldiers, but ahead of them,

standing before a door that no doubt

led to the Great Hall, were a cluster of

soldiers

who

seemed

to

be

surrounding,

if

not

protecting,

something.

The Flower squirmed before him

and Vulcan tightened his hold on her.

She stopped moving, but her body

remained coiled as if at any moment

she intended to jump from Shadowfax

and run. When they approached the

cluster of soldiers, a few stepped aside

and Vulcan saw whom they’d been

shielding. It was obviously a woman,

if the blue and silver dress were any

indication, but he couldn’t make out

her face as a blue veil covered most of

her head. A silver crown encrusted

with various stones rested neatly upon

her head. This was the other princess.

“I am Vulcan of Morden, High King

of the Northlands. Does Lytheria

accept me as her liege?” His voice

was loud, intended for everyone

gathered to hear.

Silence greeted his question and

then as if she had to force herself, the

princess in the Lytherian colors

stepped forward and curtsied low,

dipping her crowned head as she did

so.

“I am Princess Jaisyn St. Ives of

Lytheria. Lytheria accepts Vulcan of

Morden as her liege.” The words

were not offered freely. In fact, he

was sure that she’d said them from

between clenched teeth.

Varian turned his stallion to face the

approaching soldiers of Morden and

the Lytherian soldiers who had not

heard that declaration. “Lytheria

accepts King Vulcan of Morden as

her liege!”

“Will you release my sisters, now…

my lord king?” Jaisyn of Lytheria

posed what sounded more like a

statement than a question.

Vulcan wished the veil gone to see

her eyes. He was sure she wasn’t

smiling but her eyes would tell him if

it was defiance he heard in her voice,

or fear. He had a feeling that it was

the former.

“Lytheria is now a subject of

Morden. As such, all Lytherians are

free of harm from any of the subjects

or allies of Morden.”

Vulcan threw the words back at her,

but he swung his leg over Shadowfax

and slid from the horse, lifting the

Thorn—that was a better name

anyway—down with him. Her feet

had barely touched the ground before

she tore from his arms and ran to her

sister. Varian had dismounted as well

and the timid one followed suit.

Obviously, she was the eldest, this

Jaisyn of Lytheria. Vulcan had always

thought her name interesting for a girl.

All of the Jaisyns he’d known were

male:

warriors,

landowners,

clergymen. She was the first woman

that he knew of with such a name.

After hugs and assurances, she

finally placed her sisters behind her.

They remained near as she addressed

him once more. He stood many inches

taller than she and had to look down.

“Will you join us for our first meal

together?”

Again, she asked her questions as if

they

were

statements.

Vulcan

clenched his jaw, annoyed with this

princess who stared in defiance

instead of cowering, and who held

herself as regal as any queen, as if

she’d permitted him to be overlord to

her kingdom and he hadn’t wrestled it

from her dainty fingers.

Varian, no doubt sensing his brother

might have had enough of diplomacy,

spoke calmly. “As a sign of goodwill,

we are returning one of your

soldiers.”

Varian snapped his fingers and two

soldiers brought forth Malcolm, dirty

and bloodied. Jaisyn and one of the

soldiers

around

her

released

involuntary cries at seeing the man.

From the close resemblance and the

fact that the man rushed over to him,

Vulcan recognized him as his father.

Vulcan’s eyes narrowed on the

princess, taking in her reaction. Who

was this man to her? His curiosity was

piqued.

***

Vulcan sat at one head of the long,

draped table with Jaisyn perched

regally at the other. There was an

obvious divide. On his side sat Varian,

Akos, Hector, and Chevan. On

Jaisyn’s sat the Thorn, the Timid, and

two more of her trusted soldiers,

possibly even generals.

The servants brought out the food—

meats, cheeses, bread, and ale—and

laid them out attractively. It was a

handsome selection for both sides as

the Lytherians had been rationing food

while the Morden soldiers survived on

only meats.

Despite the come-hither call of the

food, Vulcan wasn’t stupid. He

certainly did not train stupid men.

They would wait until the Lytherians

took bites of every food item before

they ate. He wouldn’t put it past the

veiled princess to have the food laced

with poison.

The servants returned with carving

knives and began to cut chunks of the

meat and place it onto their platters.

Varian was the epitome of relaxation

as he smiled down the table at the

princesses. Vulcan’s scowl never

faded.

When everyone had their ale and

food before them, Vulcan directed his

gaze to the princess on the other side

of the table.

“Is something wrong with your food,

my liege?” she asked, again between

clenched teeth.

“I do not know, Princess. Is there?”

he countered, making no move to pick

up the utensils beside him.

He still couldn’t see her through that

veil and wondered how she intended

to eat with it on. He soon found out

when she brushed it aside, exposing

full, pink lips, and lifted the tankard to

them. Immediately, her men did the

same. She lowered the tankard and

took a small taste of the meat. When

she was through with that, the veil

slipped back into place and she said

bitingly, “There is nothing wrong with

the food, my lord king.”

Vulcan picked up his knife and cut

into the meat, using the fork to bring it

to his mouth. His men followed suit

and soon they were all eating. Tension

still reigned, but they ate. Together.

“My men and I will need lodgings.”

Jaisyn tilted her head slightly but

didn’t answer.

Varian added, “And there is still the

matter of the betrothal.”

She started and turned to him before

returning her gaze to Vulcan, whose

eyes were narrowing. “I beg your

pardon, liege. I thought that was

forgotten.”

“The betrothal was witnessed by our

Seer and your High Priestess. It is

sacred and cannot be easily broken,”

Varian continued, passing a look to

his brother before returning his gaze

to her. Vulcan remained silent.

Exactly where was Varian going with

this? “That is—unless our king

renounces it.”

Someone dropped a utensil and it

crashed to the floor. It was the Timid

One. She looked pasty, as if she were

going to be sick at any moment.

“Jassy,” he heard her say in a whiny

voice. Her lip trembled as if she were

about to cry.

‘Jassy’ addressed her. “It is all right,

Matty.”

Vulcan and Varian exchanged

knowing

looks.

‘Matty’,

which

sounded like Mathilda, was the Timid

One?

“Princess Mathilda?” Vulcan called,

his eyes on her. Startled, she

immediately looked to him, and he

flashed her a wolfish grin. Her eyes

widened and she seemed to draw

closer to Jaisyn.

He turned to the Thorn. “And you

are?”

She tilted her chin defiantly,

although her lips trembled slightly. “I

am Princess Isolde of Lytheria.”

Varian clucked his tongue, and lifted

his goblet. “Princess Isolde, it is a

pleasure to meet you.”

Isolde sent a withering glare his way

but Jaisyn nudged her under the table.

Instead of allowing her mouth to voice

what her eyes were saying, she

replied demurely. “And I you, Prince

Varian.”

Vulcan pushed his chair back and

stood. His men did the same.

“Princess Jaisyn, I am ready to be