Warrior (9 page)

our king the Flower of the East and

Lytheria, in return for being able to

continue ruling his lands without

interference.”

The man sounded angry as he

replied, “What evidence do you have

of such an agreement?”

Varian, never one to lose his

temper, reached into his satchel and

pulled out a few parchments.

“A betrothal agreement,” he waved

it before the Lytherians, and began to

read, “‘King Wilhelm of Lytheria

agrees to the betrothal of Princess

Mathilda St. Ives to King Vulcan

Mor’an

of

Morden.

Upon

her

eighteenth birthday or upon the death

of King Wilhelm, the princess, is

hereby betrothed to King Vulcan.

Upon the marriage of King Vulcan to

the daughter of the Royal House of St.

Ives, the rule of Lytheria will be

granted to his protection, long may he

reign.’ Signed, King Wilhelm of

Lytheria. Signed, King Vulcan of

Mor’an. Undersigned, High Priestess

Ishat Lyria of Lytheria. Undersigned,

Anhur, Seer of Morden. The seals of

both houses are also affixed.”

As he read, Vulcan heard a gasp

come from the Lytherian soldier

seated to the left of their commander.

Did no one know of the betrothal? It

did not matter. He’d made an

agreement with Wilhelm and it was

time to collect on it. One way or

another, by battle or marriage,

Lytheria was going to be his. And

from the ridiculous reception he’d just

received, he was itching for the

former.

“Copies of this betrothal were

handed to all of the witnesses. This is

my king’s copy. Your late king had a

copy. Your High Priestess has a copy.

And our Seer has a copy. It is no

forgery.”

Varian finished speaking, rolled up

the parchment and placed it back into

his satchel. The Lytherians said

nothing. Vulcan, already angry that

this wasn’t going as he’d planned,

demanded, “Will the Lytherians stand

down and allow their rightful king to

enter?” The question was directed to

the commander in the middle but it

was the smaller soldier to his left who

answered.

“No!”

The soldier in the middle cleared his

throat and continued, although his

voice

sounded

slightly

unsure,

“Lytheria will not give Morden

permission to enter.”

Vulcan

cursed

soundly

and

addressed his response to the smaller

soldier to the left, “Then prepare for a

short and bloody battle. One way or

another, Lytheria will submit to me.”

With that, he turned Shadowfax,

and began to ride back to his men,

who were now neatly lined up

according to his orders. Varian and

Hector waited a few seconds before

turning and following him.

***

This had to be what her father

meant by his cryptic message of

acceptance, Jaisyn thought, as she

turned Ajax and rode back to the line

of Lytherian soldiers.
How could he
?

He could not expect her to accept

this. That she’d give Mathilda to this

—
monster
! Vulcan of Morden might

not look like the devil at but his soul

was as evil as those black eyes of his.

He was obviously a savage from the

way he’d snarled out every comment

when addressing her general. His lips

looked like they were cruelly slashed

onto his face and forever curled down

into a scowl.

Jaisyn would meet him on the

battlefield today. The only way he

was going to take Mathilda would be

over her dead, decapitated body. His

awful kingdom had already taken one

sibling from her; she wasn’t going to

willingly hand over another. As soon

as they were back with the Lytherian

soldiers, Urian tugged his helmet off

and turned to face her. His expression

was almost comical. He looked

confused, apprehensive and angry.

“Your Highness, if what has been

said is true, and has been approved by

the High Priestess, we cannot stand

against it. The Goddess would be

displeased.”

Malcolm, who’d flanked his father

on the right, tugged his helmet off as

well. “We have to find out if the

betrothal is genuine. We need to find

Ishat and see if she has a similar

document.”

“And then what? Even if my father

has betrothed Mathilda to that

barbarian, I will not stand for it.”

“Will you go against one of Lyria’s

High Priestesses?” Urian demanded,

his eyes narrowing dangerously. The

Lytherians were deeply religious.

They held their Goddess above all

else. Lyria was responsible for giving

them life and in turn she demanded

their utter devotion and respect.

“I am not going against Lyria. I am

standing against Morden. They stand

for everything our Goddess is against.

They are barbaric and ruthless. I

cannot believe that
s h e
would wish

their leader upon one of her

daughters.”

Urian appeared to consider this for a

few seconds before he answered, “If

the High Priestess approved it, we

should not go against it…my lady.”

Jaisyn had had enough. Would he

argue this way with her father? Why

was he arguing with her? Was she not

their leader?

“Urian, you have served the St. Ives

family well until now. Is it your

intention to step down as one my

generals?”

Urian looked insulted and his lips

curled into a mean snarl. A few

seconds later, he sighed. “My loyalty

is and will always be to the St. Ives.

What are your orders, Princess?”

***

Malcolm shook his head from

behind his father. Jaisyn was not

listening to reason. She was allowing

her emotions to cloud her judgment.

She hadn’t yet thought that her father

would not willingly betroth her sister

to a ‘monster.’ Jaisyn might just be

the reason for unnecessary bloodshed

in Lytheria. As she passed her orders

to his father and the other generals,

Malcolm found his squire and sent

him on a mission, one that took him

from the field that would soon become

a battleground, and into the Castle

Temple.

***

Like most battles, this one was

bloody and wild but there was

something else that made Vulcan push

harder to have it over quickly: it was

unnecessary. Lytheria and Morden

had had their fight years ago. Today

was supposed to be one of happiness

—well, at least for the Lytherians and

the people of Morden. Happiness was

an emotion he was incapable of

feeling.

He’d told his warriors before the

fight began that he wanted them to

show no mercy and give no quarter.

Lytheria

had

reneged

on

an

agreement, and he wasn’t feeling

particularly hospitable. The sooner

their soldiers were crushed, the

sooner he could get on with staking

his claim to the country.

Vulcan was in no way surprised

when

after

hours

against

the

viciousness of his warriors, the

Lytherian army put up the call for

retreat. Covered in the blood of the

Lytherians and still seated atop a tiring

Shadowfax, Vulcan had watched

them

race

away

from

the

battleground, leaving behind their

dead and some of their injured.

“What should we do now?” Varian

called to him, looking every bit as

bloody as his brother.

“Follow them,” Vulcan replied, and

he lifted his sword into the air and

charged forward.

Varian turned and faced the men,

swinging his sword back and forth to

get their attention, and he yelled,

“After them!”

With that, he turned his stallion and

followed after Vulcan.

***

“Oh Lyria, what is that sound?”

Mathilda screeched as the pounding of

hooves and the clashing of steel met

her ears. She was lying abed, still

dressed in the colors of mourning,

when it reached her. Immediately, she

jumped from the canopied bed and

headed to her window. The windows

were specially designed to keep

arrows from entering, so she could

see a portion of the front of the castle.

That portion was enough to send her

scurrying to Isolde’s chambers, which

was a few doors down and on the

opposite side.

When she barged in, Isolde was in

the midst of running out and they

collided in a tangle of gowns and

limbs.

Both yelped and began to blame the

other before they heard the battle

cries and fear leaped into their hearts

once more.

“What’s

happening,

Isolde?”

Mathilda asked. Her voice trembled in

trepidation. Never before had they

witnessed battle. It had never come

this close to them.

Isolde, less naïve than her sister in

these things, gently pulled Mathilda

into her chambers and closed the

door, knowing that they were better

off there, at the top of the castle, than

on the ground floor.

“I think they are fighting in front of

the castle,” she said softly.

Mathilda shrieked. “Fighting? Why

so close to us? What if they get into

the castle? What will happen to us,

Isolde? And where is Jaisyn? Why

isn’t she here with us? Do you think

something’s happened to her?”

She began to cry. What started out

as lone tears slowly turned into great

sobs. Isolde’s warm hands wrapped

about her back and she heard her

sister whisper comforting words. They

only made her cry harder.

Chapter 3

Jaisyn, along with the remainder of

her battered army, charged across the

drawbridge and into the castle. She

was slightly nauseated. The Morden

soldiers had cut through her army

within hours, forcing them to retreat.

She’d watched warriors loyal to her

father, to her family, fall to their

deaths before her eyes. And there had

been so much blood, so many gut-

wrenching screams to couple with the

pungent odor in the air. She had

thought a battle similar to the many

practices and mock battles that she’d

participated in. It wasn’t. Not in the

least. Her only real experience had

been those years ago when she’d

faced the three men, and that hadn’t

been on the battlefield.

As she’d sat atop her stallion, with a

ring of Lytherian soldiers, Malcolm

included, surrounding her, she’d

watched helplessly as her people had

been cut to shreds, beheaded,

stabbed, crushed, maimed—

Dear Lyria
. They were absolute

savages. Her sadness fled. Rage

engulfed her once more.

“Lower the portcullis! Raise the

drawbridge!” someone shouted from

next to her. She heard a loud bang

and turned with her sword held high.

The drawbridge had been lifted. She

could see nothing of the grassy front

of the castle. All of the soldiers who

were still fit to fight were running

about with various tasks. Some were

helping their injured; others were

racing to the armory for more

weapons.

“Get

the

archers!

Man

the

battlements!”

Jaisyn shook herself. Her people

needed her. She was in charge of this

war, and like a leader, she needed to

take control. The inner bailey was

crowded with shouting men and

bustling women.

She began to shout above the noise,

“Check the buttery! Make sure there

are enough supplies for a siege!”