The King's Whisper

by T. S. Cleveland

  “Partly because you’re so interested in my interest. But mostly it’s those curls, those talented lips, and that tight ass.” Gethrin shrugged, while Felix’s face burned. “I’m a man of simple pleasures, Torsten. I want what I want, and I want your land and your flautist. But tonight, fortunately for you, I will be satisfied with just the one. Do we have a deal?” He extended his hand to shake.

  Felix couldn’t breathe.

  “You said you came here with an irresistible offer,” Torsten said. “I’m unimpressed with your side of the deal.”

  Gethrin remained unbothered. “I thought you might say as much. That’s why I’m prepared to offer even more.”

  Torsten crossed his arms and arched a dubious eyebrow. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Very well,” sighed Gethrin, and Felix had a feeling they were finally reaching the point in the conversation the man had been waiting for. “I have information, information you desperately want.”

  “Concerning what?”

  “Concerning the Guardian’s Guild,” Gethrin replied loftily, “and your father.”

  Torsten laughed again, but it was weaker now and unmistakably forced. “What kind of information do you imagine I’d be so desperate for?”

  “Let’s just say the leak of this information would be … volatile, for both parties. And it’s not only information I have, but proof.”

  Torsten couldn’t manage to hide the interest from his voice when he asked, “And you’d be prepared to hand over this proof in exchange for a single night with my flautist?”

  Gethrin looked past Torsten and found Felix’s eyes. “It’s less use to me than that mouth would be.”

  Felix stepped back until his heels were on the edge of the dais. Torsten looked over his shoulder at him, his silhouette highlighted by the campfire. His face was in shadow, his expression could not be seen, but Felix was convinced that it must be the face of a silent apology. Torsten might have been a bandit, but he wasn’t the sort who would trade his flautist’s body and not feel at least a little bad about it.

  “Flautist, come here,” he ordered, turning back around in the chair.

  Felix was trying not to hyperventilate, trying not to trip over his own feet as he walked the few steps back to Torsten’s side. When he reached it, Torsten stood, as did Gethrin. His hand touched the small of Felix’s back. All he had to do was shove him into Gethrin’s arms and that would be that. Felix tried to steel himself even as the bile rose in his throat. Panic was setting in with furious strength. And then—

  “No deal,” Torsten announced. “There will be no trade.”

  For once, Gethrin looked surprised. “Seriously?” he asked, his smile stretching with irritation and disbelief. “I offer you priceless information, ask for nothing but a night between this boy’s legs, and you have the nerve to refuse?” His hand shot out, too fast. He grabbed Felix’s arm and yanked him forward, then slid both hands over his ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Felix yelled, lifted his flute, and smacked Gethrin over the head.

  In a blink, Torsten was between them, shoving Gethrin, who stumbled back and fell from the dais. Suddenly, Torsten’s men were on their feet, and Felix found himself surrounded by Selon, Harold, and Jossy, their bows drawn. Torsten stood before them, looking down at Gethrin as he came to his feet, and then at his men, most of whom were so deep in their cups they were unaware of what was happening.

  “It appears your party has enjoyed a great deal of drink,” Torsten said quietly. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to take our territory tonight. It would not go your way, Gethrin.”

  The bandit leader kept the remnants of a smile on his face, for he was not—or so Felix perceived—the kind of villain to scowl and spit, but grin, until the very end of his devilry. “I always knew you were a fool, Torsten,” he said. “But I didn’t know you were a romantic fool. I’m not sure I approve.”

  “It’s time for you to go,” Torsten said. “You’re no longer welcome here.”

  Gethrin shook his head as he unsheathed his sword, his men now moving to flank him, though they were slow moving. “You’re making a mistake. An awfully big one for so little a flautist.”

  “Get out of my camp, Gethrin,” Torsten demanded.

  One of the drunken bandits ran towards the dais with his sword drawn, only to stumble at the foot of the steps and fall backwards with a groan before passing out.

  Gethrin, who was only now beginning to notice how sloppy-drunk his people were, laughed loudly and pointed a finger at Torsten. “You put something in the whiskey, didn’t you?”

  Torsten shrugged. “It won’t kill them. But it will make it hard to win a fight.”

  Felix gasped. That’s why his bandits hadn’t been drinking. The whiskey was drugged. By the cook fire, he could see Dot was smiling.

  “How duplicitous of you,” Gethrin congratulated. “Just like your father.” He sauntered closer, stepping over the unconscious bandit on the ground. “I applaud your efforts, but I feel confident that a dozen bandits, drunk as they are, would still be able to do some damage before you killed them.”

  “You would sacrifice a dozen of your men?” Torsten asked with a frown.

  “I have dozens more,” Gethrin replied, and then, to his bandits, yelled, “Kill as many as you can!”

  For a brief time, it was chaos. Gethrin’s bandits drew their swords and began slashing about madly. They were crazy. They were drunk and they were crazy, but Torsten’s men were not. Sober and disciplined, most were able to fend off their attackers through agile movements and precision strikes with their bows. Through it all, Gethrin stood holding his head back and laughing, and it was such a sick sound, such an ugly noise, that Felix had to drown it out. His flute was already in his hands. All he had to do was lift it to his mouth and blow.

  Stop fighting, stop fighting, go away, stop, stop. He didn’t play a brawling song. Instead, he played the sleeping song as he wished for the fighting to end. If his flute was magical, if it was truly an instrument of his will, then his hypnotic playing would reach the violent ears below him, and the fighting would stop.

  He had barely reached the chorus when the fighting ended, but not because of his playing. It ended because of a howl had that emanated from the concealment of the surrounding trees, one so loud it seemed to reverberate throughout the camp.

  “What was that?” one of Gethrin’s men exclaimed, turning with his sword towards the tree line as yet another howl sounded, this one from the far side of the encampment. And then there was another, and another. And the horses, both those tethered within the camp and without, began to stomp and snort.

  Felix looked at Torsten, who was looking right back at him, as a chorus of wolves now began howling from the surrounding darkness, their voices seeming to come from everywhere, encircling the camp. Everyone stood perfectly still, nervous, listening, even Gethrin, slowly sheathing his sword.

  Torsten leapt from the dais to stand before him, a contained rage in his eyes.

  Gethrin laughed, but it was strained. “It seems we must cease fighting one another to face a common enemy,” he said, his eyes scanning the trees. “The wolves here must be mad to so approach a camp.”

  “No, Gethrin,” Torsten replied, shaking his head. “That is not what this is.”

  “Then what is it?” Gethrin demanded as the howls rose again.

  “This is your last chance to leave my camp alive,” Torsten replied. A moment later, the howling stopped, and he turned back, locking his eyes on Gethrin’s. “You have to a slow count of one hundred to leave here unharmed,” he announced loudly. “I suggest you hurry.”

  “What madness . . . ?” Gethrin began, but already his men were fleeing for their horses, their swords leading the way. He glared at Torsten, kicked the man at his feet awake, and then turned his eyes to where Felix still stood on the dais. “Some other time, love,” he said with a malicious grin as he helped the man to his feet. And then they, too, ran quickly from the camp.

  Fel
ix watched until they disappeared into the darkness of the trees. He waited for the wolves to howl again, or for the sounds of a vicious attack to reach his ears, but there was nothing. Nothing but the faint sound of Gethrin’s laugh.

  When they were gone, Torsten rushed to Felix and grasped his shoulders. “Are you alright?” he asked. He nodded at Jossy, Harold, and Selon, who had finally lowered their bows, and after being told to check everyone for injuries, they left them alone on the dais, joining with the other bandits to speak in hushed voices. A few bandits were bleeding from Gethrin’s ordered attack, but no one had been seriously hurt. “Talk to me,” Torsten demanded, when Felix’s response to him was silence.

  Felix shrugged out of his grip. “P-please don’t touch me,” he rasped, clutching his flute to his chest. He was a shivering mess, adrenaline flooding his bloodstream and making his eyes water.

  “You’re safe now,” Torsten was telling him, speaking low. “I would have never let him have you.” He offered his hand, and Felix sagged against him, exhausted. He was beside himself, his breaths coming ragged and too fast. Torsten patted his back awkwardly, hushing him, and Felix could feel his lips moving against his hair. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

  With a hiccup, Felix forced himself to draw back, but his fingers remained knotted in Torsten’s pelt. He feared he might fall without his support, and that alone was enough to fuel the anger swiftly swelling inside him. “G-get off me,” he stammered, even though Torsten wasn’t touching him anymore. “You’re no better. You’re no better than him.”

  It was a lie, but Felix was livid, and he didn’t want to be comforted by the man who had made him his prisoner, even if he had protected his virtue for the night. He pushed himself off Torsten and jumped from the dais before making a shaky run for their tent.

  Selon caught his arm as he passed, and, for once, her face wasn’t twisted with nastiness. “Are you okay?” she asked, and he shook out of her grip, sprinting the rest of the way. He threw himself inside the tent and fell in a heap on the fur pallet.

  A few minutes later, Torsten appeared outside the flaps. Felix looked up at him, gauging the uncertainty on his face. But it only worked to spur his confusion. And his anger.

  “You’re not my savior,” he said, his words spoken slowly and with great care. He couldn’t let the tears brimming in his eyes fall free. “I’m not safe here. I’m trapped. You might keep me warm and fed, and you haven’t,” his voice caught, “touched me. But I’m still a prisoner. Don’t act like you’ve done me a favor by keeping that man’s hands off me, because all you’ve done is remind me that it was your decision to make and not mine.”

  Torsten stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “To answer your question, no, I’m not alright,” Felix continued, snuffling into the fur blanket. “I’m a bandit’s plaything. I’m your prize to be pulled out and coveted by dinner guests.”

  “That’s not—”

  “You’re not like him,” Felix said, cutting him off. “It’s true. You’re better. You have good intentions, I think, most of the time. But you’re not good. And if you’re expecting my thanks, I can’t give it to you.”

  The candle was unlit in the tent, but he could see Torsten well enough, standing at the entrance, looking lost, with nothing to say. Felix was dreadfully unused to being the talkative one, the confrontational one, and his throat felt raw from it. In truth, he did feel thankful to Torsten. In the moment he’d refused Gethrin, Felix had wanted to throw himself into his arms and cry out his gratefulness, but those were the wrong feelings to have. It wasn’t right to feel that way.

  All he could do was keep lying, then, and telling Torsten the way he should have felt. It was the way Merric would have felt, were he a prisoner, and Scorch, and Vivid. It was the normal, expected way to feel. Anger, resentment, hatred. Not the convoluted emotions making Felix go crazy as he lay on a pile of furs that smelled of peppermint, choking down his tears.

  When Torsten remained unmoving and silent, Felix kicked off his shoes and rolled onto his stomach. “No one took your toy away, Torsten,” he snapped. “Are you going to play with me, or are you just going to stand there?” He flinched at the cruel edge to his own voice. He’d never felt so mean, but he wanted a reaction, any reaction.

  He got it when Torsten turned from him and walked silently from the tent. He didn’t return that night.

  10 - Peculiar Aches

  Felix woke alone the next morning with an aching head, but more painful was the empty space beside him on the pallet, cold from lack of use. He had been the only resident of the tent throughout the night. With a sigh, he pulled himself from bed and made to get dressed, barely having time to put on his shoes and pelt before someone was peeking through the flaps. When he saw it was Torsten, he combed his fingers through his tangled hair and nodded, as if the man was waiting for Felix’s permission to enter his own tent.

  Torsten hesitated, and, when he came in, kept his distance—as much as he could in such a tight space. “Come have breakfast,” he summoned. He sounded tired and had dark circles under his eyes. Felix wondered where he’d slept, if he’d slept at all. “We’re heading out soon.”

  “Another raid?” Felix asked, stretching his cold limbs and stifling a yawn. “Need me to be a distraction again?”

  Torsten huffed, bothered. “Just be quick. I want to be gone in ten minutes.” He disappeared through the flaps and Felix followed, only stopping to grab his satchel before heading out into the cold.

  He lifted his face to the sky. It was grey and barely lit by the new day. He trudged over to Dot, took a bowl of porridge, and ate with his head down. Even Selon left him alone. After hastily finishing his meal, he reported to Torsten, who was already saddling two horses on the other side of camp. He was ignored when he halted at Torsten’s back, and only after a series of pointed coughs did the bandit turn to acknowledge him.

  “You’re ready?” he asked, not quite meeting Felix’s eyes. “You have everything? Your flute?”

  Felix placed his hand protectively over his satchel. “Why? Are you whisking me away to sell me? I hear a flautist is worthless without his flute.”

  “Are you ready or aren’t you?” Torsten clipped, rubbing a hand over his beard. It was nothing like Gethrin’s. It even looked freshly trimmed. His hair, however, was messier than usual, sticking up at odd angles as if restless fingers had been repeatedly raking through it. His eyes were bright and clear, though, despite his obvious exhaustion, and he was looking steadfastly at Felix, like hearing his answer was the most important thing in the world.

  “Yes, I’m ready,” Felix assured him. “I’ve my flute. I even have two flutes. Maybe you’ll get a better price for me with two.”

  Torsten frowned as he mounted his horse, and Felix quickly climbed atop his own. That’s when he noticed no other horses were saddled.

  “Who else is coming on this raid?” he asked. He could see Selon still eating by the cook fire, and Jossy by the planning tent. No other bandits seemed ready to join them.

  “It’s just the two of us this time,” answered Torsten, before clicking his tongue and spurring their horses into a trot.

  Felix’s horse was connected to Torsten’s by a tether, like the last time they’d ridden out, so he had little to do besides dwell on the supreme discomfort of being alone with Torsten after what had transpired the night before. He was still angry, still confused, still afraid. When he hadn’t been rolling around restlessly on the pallet, he’d been remembering Gethrin’s chilling smile and feeling his rough hands on his body. He’d not yet had time to check if his skin was bruised where he’d been grabbed, but he thought it likely from the way his backside smarted against the saddle.

  “Are you not going to tell me the plan?” Felix asked, after they’d traveled in silence for a few minutes. He thought they were headed south, but between the trees and the overcast sky, he was having a harder time than usual determining the location of the sun. It felt like th
ey were going south. They’d travelled in the opposite direction when they’d raided the wagon, and the forest looked increasingly unfamiliar as they rode, not that Felix could boast any forest’s familiarity outside the stretch surrounding his own village.

  Torsten didn’t answer, and when Felix glanced over to frown at him, he realized his bandana wasn’t pulled up around his mouth. He always wore his bandana pulled up for raids. A fat snowflake fell onto Felix’s eyelash, and he rubbed at it, his knuckle coming away with a streak of black. He was still smudged with charcoal.

  “Shouldn’t I have one of those?” he asked, and when Torsten looked at him, he gestured to the bandana around his neck.

  “Why would you?” asked Torsten, and Felix felt a smidgen of victory that he’d coaxed him into speaking.

  “I already have the fur and the charcoal eyes,” he said. “I’m only missing one thing. Well, two things, but I doubt you’d let me have a bow.”

  “Would you even know how to hold one?” Torsten asked with a snort.

  That was offensive, but a good point. “I’m not stupid. I would learn,” Felix snapped.

  “I don’t think you’re stupid,” Torsten said. “But I don’t think you need a bow either. You’ve got your flute.”

  It was meant as a joke, but neither of them laughed. They rode on in silence, no sounds but those of the forest and hooves against the ground, and then Torsten’s hand moved to the back of his neck. He untied his black bandana and held it out for Felix.

  Felix accepted the cloth. It was warm from Torsten’s skin, and he held it in his hand a moment, unsure of what to do. When Torsten raised his eyebrows expectantly, he tied it around his neck. “Do I look like a bandit?” he asked.

  After a timely pause, Torsten said, “No.”

  The bandana smelled of him, as did everything else on Felix’s body. “Neither do you, now,” he countered, his eyes on the bare skin of Torsten’s throat.

  They fell back into silence then, both looking ahead to the forest trail, Felix wondering what sort of trouble Torsten was leading them towards. It was easily an hour before the trees began to thin, and when they did, Felix gasped at the scene they’d come upon.