Warrior King: Warriors - Book 1, page 1
Warrior King
Warriors - Book 1
Eden Winters
Rocky Ridge Books
Warning:
This book contains adult language and themes, including graphic descriptions of sexual acts which some may find offensive. It is intended for mature readers only, of legal age to possess such material in their area. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Warrior King© 2023 by Eden Winters
Editing by Carole Cummings
Cover by Jacqueline Sweet
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, or redistributed electronically or otherwise without the written permission of the author, with the exception of brief quotations whereas in the case of reviews and marketing as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Rocky Ridge Books
www.RockyRidgeBooks.com
Dedication
For the incredible team of people who believe in me and help ensure I don't release unpolished rough drafts on unsuspecting readers: Mikhail McMillan, Kaje Harper, Kristoffer Gair, Carole Cummings, and Petra Rajgelj.
Also, for the readers who give the flights of fancy in my head a reason to be.
Contents
Cormiran Empire
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
About the Author
More Fantasy by Eden Winters
Additional Novels by Eden Winters
Cormiran Empire
Chapter One
Blood. The scent crept into the air and would linger for days, along with hints of smoke and burned flesh. Familiar remnants of destruction. Draylon Aravaid knew them well.
Blood everywhere, on marble floors where well-dressed ladies once danced, even the elegant crystal chandelier. On his armor, gauntlets, and sword. He rounded a corner and stepped from the decimated ballroom into the castle’s courtyard.
A fountain bubbled in the center, beautiful except for the red-tinged water and arm hanging over one side, the owner hidden under the murky depths. Golden bangles encircled a delicate wrist. Even those of noble birth died with their treacherous monarch.
So much splendor despoiled. What should have been a picturesque sight was now marred with carnage, no grander than any other battlefield. Dying men groaned out their last. An untied horse galloped through the courtyard, eyes wide with fear. Vultures perched on the steepled chapel roof, awaiting their chance to feast.
Draylon no longer gagged at such displays—though sometimes they haunted his dreams. He removed his helmet and shook the sweat from his hair.
How many battles did this make? They blended together after a time, squabbles over land or wealth, someone wanting to be king and influential enough to win backing from others.
So many battles. So many lives destroyed.
And to what end?
The occasional clang of sword against sword rang out, more distant now than before. Nothing left to do but round up stragglers. Emperor Soland’s troops had once more fought to victory, and Draylon’s captains would see his will carried out. Now to prepare the castle for the emperor’s arrival.
Though he’d arrive in full battle armor, Soland’s sword never tasted blood. His eyes would also never see the bloodshed he’d ordered. So much easier to take lives when one didn’t have to look into the faces of the dying or hear their final screams.
Weak sunlight in the courtyard gave way to cooler darkness back inside the castle. How could anyone stand such confines? Cormir Castle, Draylon’s childhood home, sparkled in the bright sunshine, a glory of white stone, surrounded by the deep blue waters of the Ryel Sea. Constant ocean breezes drifted through its large windows, breezeways giving a lighted path from one section to another.
Gray stone formed the walls of Renvalle Castle, where he now stood, a drab structure with far too many stairs. Dark, damp, and immensely stifling. Best to ignore any discomfort. Draylon had endured far worse as recently as last night when he’d slept amidst a throng of snoring men on the hard ground.
Then again, he preferred the freedom of sleeping outdoors to the comforts of indoor living.
But to see the sea again…
Soon.
It had taken two new moons to break through King Lleval DiRici’s forces, eliminating the traitor once and for all. Battle won, the next steps belonged to diplomats. Not Draylon’s problem. With any luck, he would soon be away from this place.
Fatigue dragged at his body, his weariness accompanied by the odd bruising or injury he’d no desire to tend now. The emperor didn’t accept excuses. Draylon must continue.
He strode down a long central hallway, sword at the ready, pausing to poke his head inside the throne room. The lone body of a guard lay on the floor in a pool of blood.
No need to check for signs of life—his head rested a few feet away, open, unseeing eyes staring into nothingness.
More blood stained the floors, the victims having either limped away or been dragged.
A young woman carrying a pail exited a room ahead of Draylon, clapped a hand to her mouth, then scampered off in the other direction like a deer from hounds. If Draylon or his men were a threat to her, running wouldn’t help. They’d find her no matter where she hid.
Hiding hadn’t helped King Lleval.
Captain Rufe approached at a jog, helmet under his arm and riotous dark curls marred by blood and sweat. A gash on his forearm appeared nearly clotted. Pointing out any weaknesses was considered bad form. Draylon bit back concern, waiting for Rufe’s report.
“We’ve secured the castle, Commander Draylon. What are your orders?”
“Where is the royal family?” Well, except for the king and the heir. Both lay dead, victims of their treachery, by Draylon’s own hand in the king’s case.
One of many lives he’d taken this day.
“The queen attempted to flee. Our men caught her before she reached the next village. They’re bringing her back now.”
“Who is in charge of transport?” Wouldn’t do for the task to fall to bloodthirsty men or for word to get back to Cormira that Draylon’s men brutalized the queen of Renvalle.
“Lieutenant Lutrell.”
Good choice. “The queen might be insulted that we didn’t at least send a captain, but as one of my captains is currently in the dungeon, she’s better off with Lutrell.” Draylon trusted few people. Lutrell and Rufe numbered among them despite the traitor’s mark tattoo emblazoned on Rufe’s right wrist.
Rufe gasped, then hid the action with a yawn. “You’ve imprisoned your own men? Not a step you take lightly. Why?”
Any other soldier and Draylon might say Mind your own damned business. “Captain Gervais and six of his men ransacked two manors, stealing jewels and other valuables. They tortured and killed a count and his heir to find out where more might be hidden. Then they raped the countess and a serving girl.”
Rufe’s mouth pinched into a tight line. “Don’t worry, sir. Lutrell will separate the balls from any man who’d dare touch anyone in her care.” Telling that he didn’t mention Captain Gervais again. Rufe clearly wouldn’t even discuss the matter with Draylon, let alone anyone else.
Yes, a man to be trusted.
Draylon gave a curt nod. “Good. I’m told King Lleval has two remaining legitimate sons and one legitimate daughter. No one knows how many bastards he might have.” The legitimate heirs were the ones Draylon dreaded facing, having killed their father and taken away their security. He’d be their executioner as well if the emperor commanded.
Draylon had never sentenced children to die and hoped not to have such a decision to make now. He served the emperor yet still listened to his own moral code.
He’d also never gone against his emperor’s wishes. Today might be the exception.
“Yes, sir, that is correct.” Rufe, somewhat shorter than Draylon, double-stepped to catch up with Draylon’s longer strides. “The older surviving son hid the younger children in his rooms.”
Well, at least one of Lleval’s offspring showed some backbone. “As well he should. Were any of them injured?”
“Not that we’re aware. No one’s been allowed to see the younger ones. The oldest is guarding the door, threatening any who approach.”
“You left him there?” An amused smile lifted t he edges of Draylon’s mouth. No mere princeling could possibly be a match for a Cormiran officer. “Lost the taste for battle, have we?”
Rufe gave a wry grin. “It’s keeping him out of trouble. We know exactly where he and his siblings are. Where’s the harm if he tires himself out by threatening a few privates?”
“As long as the children are secured before the emperor's arrival.” The protective older brother could grow quite tired after a day of holding off seasoned soldiers.
Rufe rolled his eyes. “You can call him your father, you know. Your relationship is no secret.”
Draylon stiffened, automatically glancing right and left in case anyone overheard. He and Rufe had this conversation many times before. “Right now, he is my emperor. I am leading his army against an enemy. I’m Commander Draylon of His Imperial Majesty’s Army. No more, no less.”
Rufe’s wicked grin had brought many a lover to his bed. “As you wish, Your Highness…”
Ah, the appeal of bad boys. Draylon had grown immune years ago. He snorted. “Why do I put up with you?”
Rufe ticked off points on his gauntleted fingers. “One, because no one else will, and two, you’ve never backed away from a challenge.” He raised a third finger. “Then there’s that whole got-your-back thing. Oh, and the time I rescued you when Baroness Marlienne tried to put you in a compromising position with her eldest daughter.”
Draylon shuddered. He’d come way too close to a forced marriage. “So, the young captain you threw to the wolves to save me—how’s he doing?”
“The couple now has three children. They appeared sickeningly happy at the last ball I couldn’t lie my way out of.”
“Good.” Draylon wouldn’t mourn the captain’s sacrifice. He’d thank the God of War for the resourceful save.
“Where are we going?” Once more, Rufe struggled to keep pace. All his armor didn’t help; his smaller frame prevented him from carrying the extra weight as effortlessly as Draylon.
“The emperor himself is coming to put matters in order.” A strange turn of events, but Draylon learned long ago never to question orders.
A scream rent the air. Rufe and Draylon exchanged a look. They charged as one in the direction of the disturbance.
Perhaps the battle hadn’t ended after all.
Then again, did they ever?
Chapter Two
The soldiers laughed. All wore the red and blue of Cormira. One particular brute of a man scoffed, “The lad intends to fight us with a toy sword.”
Yarif assumed a fighting stance. One arm up, the other extended, holding his rapier steady.
“Look at that, Sergeant,” another chortled, “I think he wants to dance.”
Yarif pretended not to understand the Cormiran the savages spoke.
“I’ll give him a dance.” The one called Sergeant assumed a pose possibly useful on a battlefield but not very practical in the confines of a castle corridor.
Yarif’s ancestors peered down from gilded frames. Judging, perhaps? Or waiting for the end of the family line?
One man came at Yarif from the side. Yarif spun, ramming his weapon’s hilt into the bastard’s face. The man dropped his sword, staggering backward. Yarif kicked out a booted foot, catching the beast’s arm against the wall with a satisfying crunch. The man howled.
The sergeant took the opportunity to strike. Yarif barely lifted his blade in time. The clash of swords sent shockwaves up his arm. He crossed blades with the sergeant again and again—gaining ground, losing ground. The. Enemy. Would. Not. Win!
Yarif faked left. The sergeant lunged to ward off the blow, letting Yarif attack from below, driving his rapier through the gap between breastplate and shoulder scale. Yes! The man grunted but didn’t go down. He’d lost the use of his sword arm, though.
Now to take down the last two as quickly as the first.
“Come closer, and I’ll gut you like a fish,” Yarif spat in Renvallian, watching to see if any of the men understood. He tried again, “Your mother is a flea-ridden river whore.” No reaction.
He stood in the hallway outside the door to his rooms. Inside, the twins and their governess should be accessing the hidden passageway inside the walls. No harm must come to them. Holding off the enemy to let them escape might be Yarif’s final act, but by the deities, he’d not fail in this.
One soldier stood to the side, cradling a broken arm. Thank whatever deity for Captain Unger instructing Yarif in using knives, a rapier, and hand-to-hand fighting, despite Yarif’s parents’ complaints that a second son needed no such training. Not when they’d no intention of installing him in the military.
The sergeant held a cloth to his skewered shoulder.
In addition to fighting, Captain Unger had taught where to find chinks in armor. Yarif mouthed a silent thanks to his old mentor.
Three more soldiers approached from down the hall, all in red and blue, holding a sedate pace. Not charging. Only a few more moments and the children should be safe. May the God of Darkness grant Yarif a noble end.
One of the newcomers stepped forward, sword at his hip, hands splayed in surrender. His bearing spoke of authority, as did the swirling gold insignia on his uniform. Captain. No one else in the corridor ranked above sergeant. A bit young for captain’s gold, with the dark hair and eyes typical of some parts of Cormira.
Blood marred his clothing, and a rolled sleeve exposed blood trickling down his fingers from a nearly clotted gash on his forearm. A tattoo covered one wrist.
By the way he walked and held himself, the captain wore a hidden leg sheath in addition to the sword, also typical of Cormira. The other soldiers represented a mix of lands, speaking at least a smattering of Cormiran.
None had yet spoke Renvallian.
“I’m Captain Rufe Ferund of His Imperial Majesty’s army.” The captain spoke in a clipped Cormiran accent, keeping his deep tones low. With his gravelly voice, “soothing” wasn’t a possibility. “We have no wish to harm you. The castle has fallen, and you’ve nowhere to go. You can surrender, or face the consequences. Either way, this kingdom and all within are under the authority of His Imperial Majesty Soland Aravaid.”
So the clanging bells earlier had told of Father’s death.
Yarif schooled the terror from his features. He twisted his face into a mask of confusion, tipping his head to the side and saying in Renvallian, “I don’t understand.” No need to show his hand by displaying familiarity with the invaders’ language. The soldiers already revealed a few interesting tidbits, thinking Yarif couldn’t understand.
The captain repeated what he’d said in Renvallian, only getting a few pronunciations wrong.
“My father is dead.” Yarif’s heart clenched briefly, all the sorrow he’d spare for a man who’d brought the entire country to ruin through greedy ambition.
“Yes, Your Highness.” Something much like sympathy lurked in the captain’s deep brown gaze. Cleaned up, he might appear handsome—if he weren’t holding so many lives in his hands. And if he wasn’t a Cormiran murderer. How many of Yarif’s countrymen had this butcher slain today?
At least the conquerors acknowledged Yarif’s position. “What of my older brother?” Even as the question left his lips, the truth of the matter seemed clear: Yarif had no older brother.
“I’m afraid he’s dead as well, Your Highness. He refused to surrender.”
Sounded like the stubborn oaf. Unfortunately, the king and heir dying left Yarif in the uncomfortable position of being next in the line of succession to the Renvallian throne.
A throne he’d no desire to ever sit upon. Now Yarif stood between the throne and someone else’s aspirations, which meant he’d likely lose his life for something he didn’t even want. His very existence could be a threat, and he’d no desire to be someone’s pawn in a political game.
Why had his father forbidden him to take Adrina and Emile to safety when Cormira began marching toward Renvalle?
Yarif couldn’t run—but he could send the children somewhere safe. He’d do whatever became necessary to defend his people. Was the queen still alive? If so, he’d wager good money she’d yet to consider her offspring.
Yarif noted how the captain favored one leg, how he flexed the fingers of the opposite hand. How he matched Yarif’s intense assessment. Of all the soldiers in his hall, the captain didn’t discount Yarif’s fighting abilities.
