Warrior King: Warriors - Book 1, page 18
“I’m fine,” Yarif replied. A flinch belied the words.
“Let me see.” Draylon placed a hand on Yarif’s shoulder.
Yarif shrugged Draylon’s hand off. “I said I’m fine.”
There’d been too much heat under Draylon’s hand. He added all the authority of a commander behind his words. “And I said, ‘Let me see.’”
Yarif peeled his blanket off with a sigh, wincing until Draylon helped. Then came Draylon’s turn to wince. Yarif’s back held a crisscross pattern of welts and cuts, some newer than others. A few of the open cuts were a swollen, angry red. None had cut deep though. Draylon had seen men beaten to death.
One of his old lieutenants knew herblore, often treating battlefield injuries, yet remained in Renvalle. Yarif needed a healer, and, quite possibly, so did Draylon. There might be others among the group with injuries.
For a moment, temptation loomed to run out into the darkness, find Rufe and the remaining mercenaries, and locate the nearest active village. They’d lost their guide, but if they followed the main road, eventually they’d find people.
No. They couldn’t wander in this weather without a set goal.
Whipped. Yarif had been whipped. If Draylon could, he’d bring Illa back and kill her all over again. Slowly. Painfully.
Such thinking wouldn’t help Yarif. They needed a plan for the moment dawn arrived.
And to discover Illa’s destination.
Yarif put on a brave front, clenching his teeth, emitting no sound while having his back examined. It appeared Jayra’s man had cleaned the wounds. Draylon settled Yarif into the furs, tossed another log onto the fire, and hunkered down near the pallet with his sword to keep watch.
Yarif slept fitfully on his side. The pack mule carried supplies that might help treat wounds, but there was no telling if the beast survived, let alone where it might be now. Draylon followed hoofprints to another house—where evidence showed Rufe had kept his own mule—but hadn’t seen the pack beast.
He barred the door on his return to the house, leaned against the wall, and strained his ears for sounds of footsteps, hearing nothing but an owl and night creatures. In the distance, a wolf howled. Wolves might follow the scent of blood, and if any of Illa’s soldiers survived, they’d be led directly here by the woodsmoke.
Unacceptable. Draylon knelt and held Yarif’s hand. Were the twins okay? What would Father do to them if Yarif and Draylon didn’t return?
Draylon had defied his father and even now might be labeled a traitor. So much unknown. Illa’s words and Draylon’s own observations showed Father was behind this entire plot. Hints had been dropped here and there for some time that Draylon hadn’t pieced together before. Conversations about the gold recently found in these mountains. Maps of Delletina spread on a table.
Father carrying out military plans without Draylon’s knowledge.
Father had long wanted Delletina as part of the empire. That would leave only Craice before he controlled the whole continent. Historians would tell of Emperor Soland Aravaid uniting the kingdoms, likely saying nothing about the ruthlessness, the loss of life, and the treachery necessary to obtain the goal.
The betrayal.
Lleval, Draylon, and Yarif were merely tokens on a gameboard, to be placed here or there as Father saw fit or even wiped off the board entirely.
Avestan was an honorable man, and couldn’t possibly be privy to any such schemes. He’d negotiate if he held the throne, not seek to conquer by force. He valued life. Though Draylon wracked his brain, he couldn’t recall any reference to Delletina from Avestan.
Another pawn for the gameboard, one who’d be forced to resolve the mess if Father’s plotting failed.
Could Draylon possibly get word to his brother? Then again, what could Avestan do? He wouldn’t openly challenge Father.
Someone needed to.
Yarif moaned, squeezing Draylon’s hand. “Where are we?”
“I’m not really sure.” Draylon placed his free hand on Yarif’s brow. Heat. Too much heat.
“Thank you,” Yarif murmured.
“For what?”
“For coming to get me.”
On impulse, Draylon brought their joined hands to his mouth, brushing his lips over Yarif’s knuckles. The gesture felt too natural. “I’ll always come for you. You’re mine.” They’d only enjoyed one surprising night together. If given a chance, Draylon would make similar nights routine for them.
He’d never know what they might become together if he didn’t try. While he balked at the conniving, Father had bestowed a gift on Draylon in the form of Yarif.
Yarif drifted back to sleep.
Squelching footsteps sounded outside. Draylon grasped his sword hilt, though he could do little if the enemy tried to burn them out.
Three sharp raps came at the door. “It’s me, Rufe.”
Draylon closed his eyes briefly. “Thank you, God of War.” He heaved a relieved sigh, then rose and unbarred the door.
A bloodied Rufe nearly fell into the cabin, hurrying for the hearth. “I… I’m glad to see you w… w… well,” he stammered, warming his hands before the fire.
“Report,” Draylon replied.
Rufe braced one hand on the mantel, shoulders slumped. “We’re all that’s left. Jayra and our last two mercenaries were caught in an avalanche, but I managed to save three mules.”
Jayra. Jayra was dead. So was the man who’d tended Draylon’s wounds. He closed his eyes, letting out a long breath. Both had died saving Yarif, and deserved better than to draw their last breaths in the snow. Draylon didn’t know much about the burial rites of Jayra’s home country, or where the man called home.
Rufe scowled. “A few of Illa’s fighters may have escaped.”
“They were paid and not very loyal, I think. Without Illa, they’re more likely worried about their own lives than us.” Or so Draylon hoped. Still, the mercenaries’ best bet was finding shelter, and this cabin might be the difference between life and death. Would they surrender or try to kill Draylon, Rufe, and Yarif to take the cabin if they made their way here?
Or would they recapture Yarif and continue whatever mission Illa had laid out for them? Draylon must find better shelter. “Our guide said the keep lies to the east. Yarif is feverish and needs a healer.”
“Not to mention the makeshift bandage on your shoulder.” Rufe circled Draylon, inspecting the damage and letting out a low whistle. “How badly hurt are you?”
“Just a flesh wound. I’ll be fine.”
Rufe snorted. “Seems to me you said the same when that Craician tried to gut you.”
“It was just as true then as now.” They’d lost Jayra and all her mercenaries. While they’d managed to overpower a larger force in unfamiliar fighting conditions, in the end, the weather proved a more formidable foe than Illa’s forces. “We have no choice but to head for the keep at daylight.”
“I agree.” Rufe squatted in front of the fire, rubbing his hand briskly over his shoulders, then removed his hood. Flecks of snow remained in his hair. “We’re not wearing anything to show we’re military. How’s your Delletinian? I know enough to order ale at a tavern and invite a willing partner to bed but nothing more.”
“Passable, but I’ll never be mistaken for a local.”
“I’m fluent,” Yarif croaked from his pallet in Delletinian.
Draylon and Rufe both turned toward the pallet. Yarif was fluent. Further proof of Renvalle’s conspiracy with Delletina?
No. No thinking like that. Yarif could have hidden this information, but instead, he freely volunteered. “That might prove useful.” Draylon kept any hint of accusation from his voice. What choice did they have but to hope someone at the keep would help? There they could make plans for returning to Renvalle.
Currently, some of the drifts around the cabin came up to Draylon’s knees. “Get some sleep, both of you,” he ordered. “You’re going to need it.”
Rufe stood. “I’ll check the mules and use the privy first.” He threw his hood back over his head and slipped out into the night. He returned a moment later, eyes wide. “We have company.”
Draylon struggled back into his armor, enlisting Rufe’s help. “How far away are they?”
“I spotted two coming through the trees, but there could be others.” Rufe shoved a gauntlet onto Draylon’s hand.
Draylon turned to Yarif. “Can you ride if you have to?”
With Rufe and Draylon’s help, Yarif slowly stood, reeling a bit and bracing a hand on the wall. He glanced down at his threadbare clothing. “Yes, but I have no clothes.” The remains of his tunic lay balled up in a pile near the hearth, and his thin boots offered no barrier against the cold, nor did the trousers. Yarif had worn his wedding attire all this time.
Rufe shook his head. “The pack mule carried a few clothes and a spare pair of boots. I should have brought them in earlier.”
Footsteps crunched in the snow. A loud voice shouted, “We are soldiers of King Niam of Delletina, here to investigate a disturbance. Let us in.”
Draylon shifted his gaze from Rufe to Yarif. “Let me do the talking.” Just in case they were forced to fight, he held his sword down by his side and nodded.
Rufe unbarred the door.
A man stepped through, wearing a black cloak, a captain’s gold insignia on his shoulders. “Who are you?”
“We were with a merchant band and were attacked,” Draylon said, wincing. His Delletinian was worse than he'd realized.
The captain glanced around the room at the hastily cleaned weapons, still coated with flecks of blood. “You seem ill-equipped to remain here. You will come with me.”
“Where?”
“To see King Niam. Your lie isn’t convincing, and your accent gives you away. Merchants aren’t prone to wearing armor, and their escorts know to wear the sign of the white goat.” He turned to his men. “Arrest them.”
Before Draylon could lift his sword, Yarif staggered toward the door. “In the name of King Niam, I claim sanctuary.”
What? After all Draylon had done to get him back, Yarif planned to abandon him and Rufe?
The captain looked down his long nose. “Who makes such a claim?”
Though dressed in rags, Yarif stood tall, every inch a noble—if a wobbly one. “Yarif DiRici Aravaid of Renvalle.”
Draylon let out a moan. Why did Yarif tell them? They’d be hostages now for sure. Draylon opened his mouth, but what Yarif said next left him speechless.
“King Niam’s cousin.”
Draylon barely caught him when Yarif collapsed.
Chapter Twenty-four
Draylon woke slowly, muscles protesting and shoulder on fire. Tentative probing found a rebandaged shoulder.
He lay on softness—goose down, if he wasn’t mistaken. A fire crackled in the hearth across a darkened room. He definitely wasn’t in the hovel anymore. Where was Yarif? What about Rufe?
So much of the last day seemed hazy. Soldiers had come to the cabin. He’d woken up here. The in-between time worried him.
Trying to sit up made him moan and squeak the rope supports under the bed. Herbs scented the air. A healer’s cabin?
A door opened across from him, admitting a lithe form holding a lantern. Draylon caught a brief glimpse of a guard standing outside the door. “Oh, good, you’re awake. How are you feeling, Your Majesty?”
Your Majesty. Whoever had Draylon knew who he was. “Like I’ve been shot with an arrow.”
“That’s to be expected since you were shot with an arrow.” The lilting voice spoke Renvallian, with a distinct mountain dialect Draylon hadn’t heard in years. Humor laced the melodic tones. The figure’s cheerful mood vanished. “Bear in mind that the guard is a mere shout away, and though I may appear slight, I’ve been trained to defend myself.”
“You won’t need to defend against me,” Draylon promised. “Where are my… companions?”
“They are being cared for. Captain Rufe required stitching. Much swearing was involved, both his and the healer’s. Your consort is battling a fever, but his condition is improving. Not to worry, though. He’s in good hands. I’m told he won’t even lose any toes.”
Good hands? Whose? “May I see him?”
“In the morning. Let him rest, as you should be doing. Since I’m here, let me check your shoulder.” The figure approached and hung the lantern on a hook in the wall. Instead of a woman like Draylon expected, the figure proved to be a very young man.
“You’re too young to be a healer.”
The boy gave a laugh. “But not too young to be the healer’s apprentice assigned to watch the patients at night.” He rolled his eyes. “As if a healer would take on such a duty unless the situation grew dire.” His voice cracked in the way of a youth’s growing into maturity.
Okay. Maybe Draylon, Rufe, and Yarif weren’t about to die after all, and their care implied their rescuers meant no harm—at least not at present. “Where am I?”
“I am charged with seeing to your wounds and comfort, getting you food and drink if you need them, but any other answers than what I’ve given will have to wait.” The boy lifted the bandages with deft fingers, humming as he worked. “No major signs of festering, but you’ll need another dose of herbs.”
He crossed to the hearth, swung out the pot crane, and poured some liquid into a cup from a pot suspended above the fire. “We’ll need to let this cool. I’m Bertham, by the way, but folks call me Bert.”
Bert placed the cup on a table by the bed, straightened the covers, fluffed the pillows, and pressed the back of his hand to Draylon’s forehead. “A touch of fever, but nothing my teacher’s concoction won’t cure.” Bert handed Draylon the cup. “Drink all of it.”
Draylon sniffed the contents of the cup. So that was the source of the herbal scent. For a moment, he worried about poison, but if whoever these people were wanted him dead, they could’ve left him in the snow.
He drank, then slumped back onto the pillow. It wouldn’t hurt to close his eyes for a few moments. When dawn broke, he’d insist on seeing Yarif.
Wait a minute! Had Yarif claimed to be King Niam’s cousin?
Consciousness faded before Draylon could ask.
Draylon woke with a start to find himself dressed in a nightshirt, sunlight streaming through glass windows. Glass? This was no mere cottage.
An attractive man with flaming red curls and green eyes sat in a chair by the bed. He appeared a few years older than Draylon, though no white yet showed in his hair. If Draylon introduced him to Rufe, Rufe would think him a present.
The good humor forming crinkles around the handsome stranger’s eyes teased up the corners of his mouth. “Good morning, Your Majesty. Or are you still pretending to be a lowly merchant?” The man’s Renvallian was cultured and refined, though spoken with a distinct lilt.
“Depends on who’s asking.” Standing, the man probably came no higher than Draylon’s shoulder, appearing more idle noble than a battle-hardened warrior. However, it paid to remain on guard.
“Ah, where are my manners?” The man stood, performing a sweeping bow. “King Niam of Delletina, at your service.” The king’s demeanor spoke of a casual visit, but no mistaking the two guards standing behind his chair.
“King… King Niam?” Had they been brought to the castle in Dellamar? Unless Draylon had lost all sense of direction, the capital lay a good five days away from their last known location. Father would never forgive Draylon for letting himself be found out.
“Niam, please, whenever I’m not at court. I escape to my country estate when I simply want to be Niam. Imagine my surprise when my guards discovered you in a deserted village nearby.”
“You know who I am?” Obviously.
Niam gave a rueful head tilt, returning to his chair. “I’m afraid your consort talks in his sleep while delirious from fever. Don’t worry. I’ve never been one to act without thinking. I’m certain you have good reasons for trespassing, and as soon as you’re ready, I’ll hear your confession.” Niam threaded his fingers together in his lap.
Diplomacy. Never Draylon’s area. Saying too little might be equally disastrous as saying too much. “My consort was kidnapped. I came after him.”
“Why not bring a retinue? I’m told there was only a handful in your party and even fewer now.”
No use in lying. “I’d hoped to slip in, get him, and get out. I don’t want any territorial disputes. I just want my consort. Besides, we weren’t sure it wasn’t by your order that he was taken.”
Niam pursed his lips, bringing his fingertips to his mouth. “You love your consort.”
Draylon wasn’t in the mood to share his feelings. “I promised to protect him.”
“You were certainly thorough in getting him back. My men found a dozen bodies, all wearing uniforms of the Delletina forces, and a few wounded. Not a single survivor spoke our language. Curious.”
“Not so curious when I believe they intended to kill Yarif, blame Delletina, and start a war.”
“A war. Oh, my.” Niam didn’t sound the least bit concerned.
“You said there were survivors.”
“Yes, there were. They didn’t survive long after being found. No, my men didn’t kill them. They succumbed to their injuries.”
“I could have questioned them.”
“Perhaps we’ll find another survivor yet. I have my men combing the woods. We should get to know each other since we represent neighboring countries. Unlike others, I seek no wars, particularly not when peaceful negotiations accomplish far more, with less loss of life. Unless one dies of boredom reading over contracts.”
What a strange little man. Draylon folded his arms over his chest, fighting a gasp as his wound pulled. “I want to see Yarif.”
“After our chat. Though your consort backs your story, how can I trust you? Our countries have long considered each other enemies.”
Draylon growled. “If you didn’t trust me, I’d be in a cell.”
