“Those last ones,” Faeoris breathed heavily, still staring at the sword, “are my favorite.”
“Mine too,” he said, wiping the flop of sweat from his brow.
Her chest heaved as she approached. He reluctantly stood straight, trying to bury a wince with a smile. It was nearly impossible to arch his back in a stretch while sucking in his gut.
“Angst, I...” Her lips were pursed, and she stood very close.
“Yes,” he asked, a catch in his breath.
“I was wondering why you haven’t—”
“Make way,” Maarja shouted, shoving between them.
Angst and Faeoris jumped apart. The Nordruaut woman hefted a large buck over her shoulder and dragged a doe behind her. Had she had come out of nowhere, or was he just really distracted?
“That’s a lot of food for one night,” Angst said in surprise.
“I’m hungry,” Maarja said.
“It must take a lot of food to feed so much body,” Faeoris said.
Angst covered his face with his hand. Should he grab Chryslaenor and tell them to quit? Would he actually be able to hold them both off, even with his foci? Maarja looked back at the Berfemmian, and there was a long pause as both women peered at each other. Finally, with a grunt, Maarja turned away and plodded toward the distant campfire.
“That doesn’t help,” Angst said.
“What?” Faeoris asked as if nothing had happened.
“We need to work together,” Angst said.
“As long as she knows her place,” Faeoris said, “we’ll work together just fine.”
Faeoris walked away. The silhouette of her long legs, one step in front of the other as though she balanced a tightrope, her hips rocking to and fro, was mesmerizing. Angst almost left his sword as he followed her to join the others. He tried to stop gawking at her sultry shadow long enough to think. Why were the two women at odds? It felt like they were marking their territory, but hadn’t they just met? It didn’t make sense. They lived a continent and an ocean apart, and shouldn’t have had any reason to hate each other. He had to do something. He was supposed to be leading this group, but what could he say to make Faeoris and Maarja like each other when he didn’t even understand the problem?
Just as Angst opened his mouth to let loose an inspiring speech about banding together, Maarja stopped and drew a knife the length of his thigh. She drove it into the chest of the buck with a nauseating crunch and efficiently stripped and prepped the deer. Before long, she was roasting kabobs of venison over a fire that blazed way too high for cooking.
A fire this large would’ve set Hector to cursing and leaping into the trees on watch for anyone who might have spotted the blaze. Chryslaenor sensed nothing. Angst sought out his gamlin friends, who’d mostly been silent since he escaped Tori’s chambers. They seemed distant, but their buzz of communication warned of nothing, so he relaxed.
Jintorich added some expertise to the cooking with seasoning, making it much better than anything Angst had tasted from Rose, though he would never admit it to her. The Meldusian spices the small man had used only made Angst hungrier, and he ate until his belly was more distended than usual. He reached for another plate, but his hand fell in exhaustion. The only thing that would’ve made this meal better was a draft of port, a cigar, and his lost friends. He sighed.
“Jintorich, Maarja,” he said. “That was just amazing.”
Maarja belched noisily, pounding her sternum. Faeoris scoffed but said nothing.
“Thank you.” Jintorich bowed his head, his large ears lowering respectfully. “Thank you both. I used to be a chef—”
“What exactly is the plan?” Maarja interrupted.
“Find my friends, hunt down Alloria, save the princess,” Angst said pointedly.
“You really think these things out,” Aerella said dryly.
“Okay,” Angst drawled. “Then I retire and spend the rest of my life apologizing to Heather. Is that enough?”
“I doubt it,” Faeoris replied. “You’re going to need more apologizing, to more people.”
“Probably,” Angst said, prodding lazily at the campfire with a stick.
Everyone looked up at the sound of a branch cracking nearby. They all glanced toward the wagons and waited long moments for another sound. Angst focused on Chryslaenor, listening for a warning, but heard only the steady song of his foci.
“We’re fine,” Angst said. “Promise. The sword would warn us.”
“The plan, Angst,” Faeoris urged.
“We should arrive at Gressmore in a day or two,” he said. “Once we find the memndus stone, we ditch the wagons and head to...wherever.”
They all nodded somberly and nobody said anything further. The day had taken much more out of him than he’d expected. Angst looked around to the three tents already set up.
“I’m beat,” he said. “I should pitch my tent.”
“We’re in that one,” Faeoris said casually, nodding toward the nearest one.
“Oh,” Angst said in surprise. “Uh, good. Thanks.”
Everyone else remained silent, uncaring. Hector didn’t admonish, Dallow didn’t scoff, Tarness didn’t snicker—and Angst missed all of it. His old friends were sometimes the conscience he didn’t want, but often needed. This crew didn’t care an iota who slept with whom, but why not? Was it indifference or beliefs he wasn’t familiar with? He knew so little about them, and they hadn’t offered anything. This wasn’t a night of stories or experiences; it was a night of strangers.
“I’ll keep watch,” Maarja said.
“That’s not necessary,” Angst said. “Chryslaenor will warn me of any problems.”
Maarja stared at him with untrusting eyes.
“I’ll take second watch,” Jintorich stated in his high-pitched voice. “Wake me when you are ready.”
“Of course, my friend,” Maarja replied huskily, staring at the fire.
“Ooookay,” Angst said as he stood. “Well, thanks.”
Aerella entered the third tent, and Jintorich the second. Angst walked to the first, kicked off his boots, and crawled in. He paused for a moment to appreciate the pillows and blankets already laid out before quickly shuffling over to the farthest side of the tent to make room for Faeoris. She unbuckled her boots then pulled off her noisy shorts with their scale sides, and finally removed her scale top before entering the tent. The campfire left little to the imagination as she crawled in. He pulled the blankets over his crotch as she crept into place beside him. She tugged at them, covering herself until his left leg was exposed.
“Thank you,” she said.
He really wanted to say something clever and charming, but instead Angst remained on his back, not thinking of her thin young curves or voluptuous bare breasts. Shouldn’t she be wearing clothes? Not that it would’ve helped, much; she looked amazing clothed too.
“For what?” he asked.
“I’ve never slept alone in the woods,” she said. “I’m glad to be here with a friend.”
And with that, she rolled to her side, her breasts squished against his shoulder, not that he noticed, and kissed him on the cheek. There was a brief pause as she waited for something that didn’t happen. Faeoris sighed and returned to her back. He wasn’t sure if the covers actually covered anything, and did his best not to check. Angst lay there for a long time, staring at the dark canopy of his tent, thinking about vegetable shopping again. He hated vegetables.
11
Rohjek
SMyket briskly rubbed his dark muscular arms as if that was enough to fend off the spring morning chill. He longed for the warm sands of the Vex’steppe desert. This cold was yet another reminder that he did not belong in this foreign place, and nor did the tribes, but in this he had no say. Instead, he hovered over the fire, hoping it would cook life back into his muscles. It was a very small fire.
“Why don’t you kill him as he sleeps?” DEdin asked, glaring at a large tent.
SMyket froze at the suggestion, and t
he chill stiffening his back was not caused by cool air. Of course he’d thought of killing ANduaut, but refused to even utter the words. Their leader had become far too deadly since his return from Angoria. Since his change. SMyket scoffed at his friend for even suggesting it, shaking his head to release the image of DEdin slowly dying at ANduaut’s hands.
DEdin might have been one of the few physically strong enough to beat their leader. The man was a head taller than ANduaut and covered in thick muscle. His chest was the definition of barrel, and his arms and legs were made of raw power. DEdin’s head was shaved to his smooth dark skull, his only hair a thin line of beard tracing his jawline. He looked both fierce and battle ready, but that wasn’t enough. DEdin was also slow. His bright green eyes weren’t dull; he just didn’t move fast enough. He was the type of man who would kill you with one blow, if he could hit you.
“You know the truth of it,” SMyket whispered, unable to keep defeat from his voice. “If he heard you right now, you are already a dead man. You’ve watched him. You aren’t as fast, nor as merciless.”
“That’s why I said you should kill him,” DEdin said. “You are the only one he trusts alone in his tent.”
“Trust is too strong a word,” SMyket said. “He is always alert when I enter.”
“It’s not as though he sleeps with one eye open,” DEdin replied with a fierce smile.
“Ha.” He coughed to cover his chuckle. “As if he had two eyes.”
“The man who crushed his skull did a poor job.” DEdin looked down, rubbing his hands fiercely. “How is it possible to live like that?”
“The Dark Vivek,” SMyket said, unable to keep the hatred from his voice. “He is...unnatural. After returning with ANduaut’s carcass through a dark circle in the air, he healed him to full with the magics.”
“Magics!” DEdin’s thick jaw jutted outward as he clucked his tongue in disapproval. “And not to full!”
“Oh?” SMyket whispered loudly, hoping DEdin would pick up on the hint that he too should speak more quietly.
“He’s an aberration! His head is broken!” DEdin said. “His skull half crushed! How can he even think?”
“He thinks enough,” SMyket snapped, his body rigid. “Enough to kill any who attack, enough to take over this nation we are in, and enough to lead! He came back a changed man. Twice the danger and undefeated.”
“You are the only one remaining from the counsel of three,” DEdin replied, crossing large arms across his dark chest. “All believe it should be you who faces him then takes his place.”
“I am far from ready,” SMyket replied. “And I owe him my life.”
“Because he didn’t kill you?”
DEdin soaked in that slight for uncomfortable moments. Was fear the only reason he refused to face their leader, the Iroquai? No, there was also the Vivek. He had returned ANduaut to life, and directed their leader to come to this place. If SMyket actually killed ANduaut, they would not only have to fight this Vivek, they would be surrounded by monsters. He would be responsible for the end of the tribes. No, it wasn’t fear, it was wisdom—he struggled to convince himself of this.
“It’s not time,” SMyket said.
“You fear him,” DEdin snapped.
“Fear does not make me a coward,” he replied firmly. “You’ve seen the dead who challenged him.”
“And that’s all?” DEdin asked.
“No, there is more,” he said darkly. “It’s this place.”
“This place we don’t belong!” DEdin whispered loudly. “Tending creatures that aren’t natural!”
“It’s too late now, and you know it’s true. Could we defend ourselves against him?” He pointed all around at surrounding camp. “Against all of them?”
“Can we defeat this Vivek? I thought there were two. A Dark Vivek, and one of the light,” DEdin said. “Maybe we misunderstand.”
“Maybe they are one and the same,” SMyket whispered, unable to keep the concern from his voice.
“Your delay will doom us all,” DEdin said.
“I should see to the Iroquai,” he said dismissively, gritting his teeth.
SMyket left his friend with no other words. He approached the large, open tent, which rested in the middle of their settlement. The ground was soft, the moist ash and dirt sticking to the sweat of his bare feet. The air was cool enough to numb his nose, but a dry heat rising from the ground warmed his legs. It felt like a sickness, and DEdin was correct, they didn’t belong here.
He entered the tent and bowed his head respectfully. It didn’t matter that the Iroquai was meditating and his courtesy went unnoticed, it was respect for tradition that he bowed to. Their leader was lost to meditation, with his legs crossed and his hands resting on the two-daggered staff set across them. His breathing was steady and his remaining eye shut.
ANduaut never seemed to sleep like everyone else. He merely sat, like this, whenever he felt it necessary. Usually, this came on their leader at night, but it could happen at any time. In the middle of counsel, at the beginning of a meal, he would say, “It is time,” and fall deep into meditation. Their leader would make his way to this tent, sometimes stumbling like a drunkard, and rest here. Tribesmen would flock around the tent to protect it in hopes of being recognized by the Iroquai, even if they never were.
SMyket shook his head in confusion. Never in the history of the tribes had a murderer remained leader. While running away with his lover, ANduaut had killed his father, the former leader of the Vex’steppe. His first action as their new Iroquai was to reject Faeoris and her Berfemmian during their mating cycle. The Berfemmian left furious, with more than a few dead in their wake. The tribesmen had remained furious. ANduaut had destroyed the natural order of things, including their cycle of reproduction. He had turned away their sex, and everyone had hated him. How could the fool say no to Faeoris? The man had to be blind in both eyes. ANduaut had then disappeared like a coward. Weeks passed, and when the Vivek returned with his body, the tribes had gathered a representative of the young, the old, and the middle-aged to choose a new Iroquai. In a way, a new leader did come forward. When ANduaut woke, he immediately killed the young man, and the old, leaving SMyket alive as a servant. Yes, more than anything, SMyket wanted the Iroquai dead.
ANduaut had returned a different man. He was grotesque to look on. His forehead was caved in over the right eye, like an apple smashed against a wall. The eye was always shut, bulging out behind an eyelid that occasionally leaked thick, orange tears. That half of his face hung like honey dripping from rye.
But it was more than appearance. SMyket had always considered ANduaut weak, indecisive, and cowardly. These concerns were crushed with his head—their leader was now cold, thoughtful, and ruthless. He always looked like he had a plan, even at rest. Even now, in his trance, ANduaut’s good eye fluttered, wincing in pain or concern, lost in dreams and insight. The tribal leader’s breath caught and calmed in a torrent of unknown thought.
Since his return, nothing had been the same. They had migrated to the lands beyond, ending in a place filled with ash and lava. The Iroquai announced that there would be no more Berfemmian, and if they wished, men could sleep with men unhindered. Which did nothing for the majority who still wanted to mate. Those few who could wield magics would be held in the highest regard. They were no longer just warriors; they now tended smaller tribes. All those who argued met a quick demise, usually at ANduaut’s own hands, and, occasionally, at SMyket’s.
“You are looking at me again,” ANduaut said, his eye still shut and his voice puzzled. “Is this more than curiosity?”
“No, Iroquai,” SMyket said in fear. He didn’t want the gaze to be mistaken as hate, or anything else.
“Is our nation whole?” he asked.
“We are one, my Iroquai,” SMyket said, biting his tongue. It was true nobody was fighting, but almost everyone hated ANduaut. That certainly brought them together.
“I hear you speak of me in whispers,” he said darkly,
his eye still shut. “Is there danger that I need to address?”
“No, I promise,” he said quickly. Was it possible he had heard them? “We merely wonder what the Iroquai dreams.”
There was a long pause, and ANduaut squeezed his eye tight. A grotesque orange tear leaked from the bulging mass of deformity. He caught his breath several times before speaking. “I dream of my love, ENdear. I dream of my father, and his mistakes. I dream of Rose.”
“The flower?” SMyket asked.
“Yes,” ANduaut said. There was an awkward silence before he continued. “How are my eggs?”
“They haven’t hatched,” he replied, his throat tightening. “But there is movement.”
“Finally.” ANduaut smiled, his eye opening.
12
Unsel
Angst’s eyelids opened suddenly, the unexpected consciousness making him gasp. His swords sang in his mind, not quite harmonizing. Dulgirgraut sounded muffled, like a horn under blankets. Were they warning him or talking to each other? His heart was racing, and he felt...angry? He was struck by a wave of anxiety, as if something was terribly wrong. Maybe it was a foci dream he’d already forgotten? But they rarely faded from memory this fast, and had never left him feeling so upset.
His nose itched, as did a small spot under his back. He felt trapped in the closeness of the tent. One arm was tucked under Faeoris, who’d rolled back to her side and fastened herself to him, an arm over his chest and a leg over both of his. Why wasn’t he loving this? It was inappropriate cuddling at its best, and Angst should’ve been sound asleep.
His mind tried racing past the discomforts, but they were like deep ruts in an already rocky path. Two days on the road, and it felt like they should’ve already found his friends. The large wagons had slowed their progress like a lazy summer day. It didn’t help that they also took the road less traveled, which was as unkempt as Heather’s hair after an argument. He’d have to thank Wilfred for the suggestion.
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