Warrior (8 page)

no excuse for his interruption. Instead,

he walked briskly to head of the table,

over to Jaisyn. At first grateful for the

interruption—Jaisyn had come close

to marching from the table and

challenging Kegan to a duel—she

soon realized from the severity of the

expression on the general’s face that

something was amiss.

He knelt beside her and whispered a

few words into her ear. Though no

one else heard what he said, everyone

saw her face pale before a murderous

expression appeared upon it.

Looking directly at her general,

Jaisyn

murmured

three

words.

“Ready the men.”

The general nodded and quickly left.

The

warrior

accompanying

him

followed.

Jaisyn stood and surveyed her

guests, “You will excuse me, my lords

and ladies, for this hasty retreat but

Morden soldiers have been spotted at

Galtan Pass.”

Galtan Pass was a Lytherian village

that bordered the kingdom of Galtan.

A few gasps came from the

bluebloods around the table, who

were no doubt shocked that an

impending battle was being discussed

in their presence.

Jaisyn continued in her strongest

voice. “They seem to be heading for

our city. It would be in your best

interests if you returned to your

homes by taking the route to the

west.”

With that advice, Jaisyn dipped her

head, stepped from behind the table,

and strode from the Great Hall in the

direction of the armory. When she

entered, dressed as she was in black

finery, the soldiers who were being

helped into their armor paused and

stared. Malcolm was one of those

soldiers and he immediately read the

look in her eyes.

“Your Highness, it will be safer for

you within the castle walls,” he said

immediately. Jaisyn ignored him.

Instead, she moved to the door on the

far side of the armory that she used as

a changing room.

“Oregon, send for Magda,” she

called to the squire who began to trail

after her.

“Yes,

Your

Highness.”

He

immediately turned and ran to do her

bidding.

“Your Highness?” came a tentative

voice.

She knew it was Malcolm calling

her but she continued into the private

rooms. She’d pulled the black veil

from her face and was undoing the

buttons of the dress when Malcolm

barged in.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he

began, but she could read in his eyes

that he was only being polite. “But I

must insist that you stay within the

castle walls.”

Although he topped her by many

inches, Jaisyn glared down her nose at

him. “You will excuse yourself,

Malcolm. Do not forget to whom you

speak.”

A muscle in Malcolm’s jaw worked

furiously. “I am well aware of whom I

address, Highness, but I cannot allow

you to risk your life unnecessarily

when there are others who would

gladly do so for you.”

“Malcolm,

I

understand

your

concern, but I am quite capable,

perhaps even more capable than

some,” she paused for effect, “of

protecting myself.”

“I know that—” he began only to be

cut off.

“Now that we have that sorted, you

can show yourself out.” Her tone left

no room for argument and though she

could see he wanted to argue with

her, Malcolm bowed, turned on his

heels and left.

***

Vulcan Frederick Viktor Mor’an,

known to both enemies and allies alike

as the Northern Wolf, sat atop his

magnificent grey steed, a gift he’d

received from one of the smaller

countries of the North, which bred

these beautiful creatures. Shadowfax

had been bred for a warrior, for him.

The stallion’s entire body was

muscled and he was bigger than most

of the horses in the Morden stables.

He also had a temper that could only

be described as nasty. Many stable-

hands had received bites and kicks

from Shadowfax when they least

expected it. He’d even attempted to

bite Vulcan, but animal instinct—it

had to be, for what else could have

stopped such a beast and made him

recognize a temper worse than his—

had shown him the error of his ways.

Man and beast were equally

matched. Like the horse, Vulcan was

a powerful contender. He was six feet

seven inches of broad, muscular, foul-

tempered man. He had a thick head of

straight black hair that touched right

below his shoulders, and eyes the

color of dark night that contrasted

with the stark paleness of his

complexion. Those contrasts, coupled

with his overpoweringly masculine

features—thick eyebrows, a strong

jaw and chin, lips that were slashed

across

his

face—made

him

a

handsome man. It was the ever-

present scowl on his lips that kept

most of the women, except for the

ones that he selected, at bay.

As he sat atop Shadowfax wearing

the red-and-gold colors of Morden,

and that great scowl on his face, any

passerby would recognize him as the

Northern Wolf. He hadn’t been

awarded that title for being a friendly

person.

Surprisingly, there were no passers-

by. No farmers holding market. No

herders carrying their sheep, goats, or

cows from one location to the next.

The cottages and smaller farms on the

outskirts of the city looked deserted.

Even the towns they’d ridden into to

enter the kingdom had seemed

sparsely populated. The few people

had scurried out of his way as if

Rika’s very hounds chased them.

“Varian,” he called to the man

flanking him on the left. “What strikes

you about the city?”

Varian, who’d been staring at the

empty cottages from his vantage point,

turned his multi-colored head toward

his king and curled his lip.

“It appears deserted,” he told him

casually, as if they were discussing

their next meal or a wench they

intended to bed. “It appears that they

are preparing to receive us in a

particularly hostile way.”

Vulcan’s glance swept the outskirts

of the city once more before he turned

to Chevan, one of his generals, who

flanked him on his right.

“Tell the soldiers in the front to be

wary of traps.” Chevan nodded and

called to one of the squires behind

them.

When Vulcan turned to scan the

area once more, he noticed that

Varian was staring at him with a

peculiar expression on his face.

“Something wrong?” Vulcan asked

of the man who’d shared his

childhood. His younger brother from a

different mother. The now dead King

Frederick of Morden had remarried

after the untimely death of his first

wife, and thus Vulcan had been

blessed with a loyal brother who

served as both warrior and one of his

most trusted advisors.

A cynical smile touched Varian’s

lips as his light eyes twinkled. Lesser

expressions than these had made

women of Morden swoon. “I was just

thinking that this is one hell of a

reception you’re receiving from your

future in-laws.”

Vulcan would have smiled had it

been his nature. Instead, he grunted

and continued on. He looked to the

front of their procession and noticed

the banner of the House of Mor’an

was flying high—red background,

outlined by gold, featuring two

snarling wolves perched to attack each

other.

Suddenly a cry went up from the

front of the procession and Vulcan

tensed,

hand

reaching

for

the

broadsword at his hip. He soon

realized that someone was calling to

him—a squire by the looks of it.

“My liege, the Lytherian soldiers are

blocking our entrance into the city,”

the squire finally related once he’d

caught his breath. “General Akos is

waiting for your orders.”

Vulcan’s

eyes

narrowed.

The

Lytherian soldiers were blocking their

entrance? Feeling his anger mount

rapidly, Vulcan passed a look to

Varian and broke rank, moving

Shadowfax to the side of the

procession so that he could make his

way to the front. Varian was behind

him, then next to him as they pulled

up in front of the men carrying the

banner. About a mile away, soldiers,

all dressed in heavy armor, stood in

battle formation. The banner of the St.

Ives family, a blue ground with silver

and white edges, with a falcon

swooping down upon its prey in the

center, flew against the mounting

wind.

Shadowfax, feeling the tension in his

master, reared and tossed his head,

snorting as if he intended to charge

forward. Vulcan calmed him and

turned to the ranks.

“Has

anyone

from

Lytheria

explained this?” Vulcan snapped,

glaring from the lines of soldiers to his

general. Akos Yalaran, almost as tall

as he was, and battle-scarred , simply

shook his head and replied, “They

haven’t made any motion to come

forward.”

Vulcan swore. Exactly what were

they playing at? His men hadn’t come

here to fight. They’d come to escort

their king to Lytheria, where he would

enter into marriage with one of the

princesses. It was only as a precaution

that they were all wearing armor, and

travelling in such large numbers.

“Line the men up. Cavalry to the

front, riders behind them, have the

archers take their positions where

they can find cover. Have two

generals and a lieutenant to each

sector.”

He turned to his brother next.

Varian was staring at him with still

eyes, awaiting whatever assignment

Vulcan would give him.

“Before we crush the Lytherians, I

want to speak with whoever is leading

the army. I want you on my left and a

general on my right.”

His brother nodded and immediately

found Hector.

Before long, the three men, without

helmets and followed loosely by two

Morden soldiers, were riding slowly

toward the intersection. Vulcan waved

a white flag, a flag symbolizing a

partial truce and calling for the leader

of their army to come forward.

Hector, Vulcan and Varian had

stopped at the midpoint when three

soldiers broke rank and came at a

slow pace, bearing the same flag,

toward them.

As soon as they stopped before

them, Vulcan demanded in a voice

that left little room for arguments,

“Which of you is in charge?”

The man in the middle man spoke

up, his voice a deep baritone. “I am.”

Vulcan continued, addressing him,

“I am Vulcan of Morden, High King

of the North. Who blocks my

entrance?”

At first the man didn’t answer and

as if catching himself, he countered,

“What is your business in Lytheria,

Vulcan of Morden?”

“I am here for my kingdom and

bride,” Vulcan ground out, wishing

that he could see the man’s face

under his helmet. All he could make

out were dark brown eyes.

The man stuttered, “Your—your

what?”

Vulcan, on the verge of attacking

whoever was under that helmet,

opened his mouth to say something

quite biting only to hear Varian say,

“Vulcan Mor’an, High King of the

North, seeks entrance to Lytheria to

collect his bride, as promised by the

late King Wilhelm, and to secure the

rule of Lytheria. Your king promised