by Layla Harper
“Rowena?”
The norn lies unmoving, her eyes fluttering beneath her closed lids. But then her lips move. Her fingers slide to the edge of the cot.
I lean forward, straining to hear her voice.
“… take… ceasg.”
Ceasg? She speaks of the fin folk?
Is she delirious?
Perhaps I am the one not in my right mind. “Take what, norn?”
“Ceasg. You…” The movement of her eyes slows, and her breathing evens under my watchful stare.
I am tempted to wake her but manage to hold back the impulse. I pat her hand, cool beneath my own. “Rest easy, norn. We will speak again when you are well.”
I rise from the chair.
Long ago, tales were told of a creature resembling a human woman but with the lower body of a salmon or grilse. A maiden of the wave. It is said that enslaved humans fed the former sea goddess their young. Of course, if such an offering occurred, the Reckoning and banishment of the human race from Alfhemir would have quickly put an end to any power the ceasg gleaned from those sacrifices. If she exists today, she must be one hungry fae.
“Any change in her condition?”
My brain is slow to process Frinhol’s question, especially when I did not hear the male enter the tent in the first place.
I grip the jug in my hand. “Perhaps. She spoke.”
“Did she?” The goblin comes to a stop at the foot of Rowena’s cot.
“Aye.” I rub my eyes and squeeze the bridge of my nose. Do I trust Frinhol’s pronouncement of innocence when it was his guard who betrayed me to Aelinor?
What choice have I?
Until I make contact with Khao, my third, I am dependent on his hospitality. Second-guessing my instincts does none of us any good. I sigh. “What do you know of the fin folk?”
“Me? Not much.” He shrugs. “But I know someone who might. As a matter of fact, he arrives tomorrow with the ravens you requested.”
The birds will carry the physical record of Aelinor’s treachery to Drengskador and Forvarra. But it will take time for the messages to arrive. Time to rally my forces. Time I cannot afford to lose.
“Will this contact know where I can obtain a portal charm? Do you?”
Frinhol looks visibly uncomfortable.
“I give you my word no one will know how I came about this information.”
“You ask for contraband.”
“I know well what I ask. Your point?”
Frinhol smiles. “I may know where to inquire about procuring such wares. But the situation is delicate, is it not?”
A growl rumbles in my throat. “The raven master?”
“He may, but it is not his name that comes to mind.”
“My lords.” The spry healer, an older female goblin, enters the tent. Barefoot, her petite body is swathed in yards of a green fabric so vibrant it sparkles like the finest emerald. Wild graying hair falls around her face, her wide ears protruding through the thick mass.
“Green,” she had told me earlier, “is the color of healing. My task is not limited to mending wounds but in bringing harmony between the physical and the spiritual, for included with the marks upon their flesh are injuries one cannot see with the naked eye.”
Wise, wise female.
Can she see the scars running through my soul?
I acknowledge her greeting with a dip of my head. She quickly sets to work, a flash of green rotating among the wounded, and already the air in the room lightens, like a dark cloud lifting from the injured.
“Will you accompany me to my quarters?” Frinhol asks, drawing my attention away from the healer. “We can discuss the matter at hand in more detail, yes?”
Even in my inebriated state, I get the message.
“Very well.” I gesture for the male to lead the way. With the jug of brew in my grip, I follow the goblin out of the tent.
The night air is warm and thick, the scent of smoke heavy in the air. There are no sounds of mourning. No wails for the dead. This is an army camp accustomed to death and loss and the ravages of war. Even at this late hour, the process of rebuilding continues. Several fae work to erect a new tent while others pick through salvageable items from the blackened remains of another nearby.
“The repairs to the wards are nearly complete.” Frinhol points to the elf at a perimeter boundary—a war mage banished from the spring court. Aelinor’s breach left the encampment exposed to the elements and visible to fae in the vicinity.
“Good.” Two guards stand on either side of the entrance to Frinhol’s quarters. I nod to each and follow the goblin inside, static clinging to my form as I pass through.
“Magic?”
Frinhol’s face goes tight. “After Magda, I am not risking sensitive information finding its way to the wrong ears.”
“You suspect others?”
“No, but Magda’s betrayal came as a shock to many, myself included. I didn’t question her loyalty. Perhaps I should have. The female was… embittered. She had been a member of Jarkil’s harem. Freeing her was probably my first mistake.” His face twists. “One of many. You may speak freely here, King Rogar.”
“Rogar.” Here, I am no king.
Frinhol glances to the empty jug of brew in my hand. “More firewater? Or would you care to eat?”
“I have need of a communication spell. Several.”
The goblin moves to a table by the rear of the tent. He picks through several pieces of fruit before settling on a juicy plum. “There is a merchant, the bride of my lieutenant. She barters with a hag up by the River of Tears. I will take you to her in the morning.”
“We go now.”
Frinhol’s teeth sink into the fruit. He chews thoughtfully while my frustration builds.
“You will be compensated for your damages.”
“King Rogar—”
“If I cannot communicate with my third in time, I will have need of an army.”
He bows. “We are at your disposal, my lord.”
“Good.”
“The hag will not bargain without payment in exchange.”
At the moment, I have nothing but my sword and my word, and I will not barter my blood. Not yet. Not until all other avenues have been exhausted.
But does he doubt my integrity?
Fueled by the brew, my anger boils. “Does my word bear no weight here?”
“I am not questioning your ability to pay. As I have stated, my resources are yours to take as you please. I trust—” He smiles. “Trust is a difficult word for warriors like us to wield, is it not? But I have every confidence your honor will provide a worthy recompense when I have proved myself loyal. Yes?”
“My offer of sanctuary will hold.” If I have a kingdom to rule when this is all over.
Frinhol finishes the fruit and spits the pit into a container by the flap. “Magic folk, creatures steeped in powers neither of us truly understand, often make demands that at times seem innocuous. But there is always more to the request. A hidden element woven into the wings of the words. It is not a path one should take lightly.”
“The turn of the moon is nearly upon us. Without the aid of magic, my forces will not arrive to this continent on time. And the ravens, although quick, require days of travel in each direction.” I tip the bottle to my mouth and drain the precious drops that remain. “The benefits far outweigh the risks. I will convene with your lieutenant’s consort.”
“In the morning.”
“Now.”
Frinhol reaches for an apple, tossing the fruit in his hand as if assessing its weight. “Would you interrupt a mother suckling her babe?”
I throw my head back. “Oh for the love of Ulda, remind me to never underestimate your powers of persuasion.”
“And I the mighty force of your glower.”
Some of the pressure loosens from my chest. “Tell the consort she is free of my glower until morning, but I make no promises once the cock crows.”
“Understood.” Frinhol
takes the empty jug from my hand and replaces it with a goblet holding a clear liquid. “Drink. It will keep your head clear in the morn so you can glower properly, pain free.”
I laugh, the sound without mirth. “Funny goblin. Have you a remedy for a broken heart?”
“No, but I have oft wished I did.” He pauses., his face twisting in the dim lighting. “The wizard will not harm your mate. It is you she demands. Now drink.”
I do not tell him that what Aelinor wants is to destroy me, and she will use Kyra to do it. I lift the cup to my lips and find the drink surprisingly refreshing.
“I have given much thought to what we witnessed at the fortress.” Frinhol refills my goblet from a pitcher he retrieves from the table.
“And?”
He turns and sets the pitcher on a spot near the tray of fruits. “The appearance of the night realm is damning, yes, but I cannot help but wonder if we have misread the situation.”
“The queen’s assistance is lost to me.”
“Agreed, but the peril cannot be ignored.”
“It will not. The matter will be addressed once the greater threat”—my cousin—“is removed.” Let the courts handle the disaster they created. I have done my share.
Frinhol hands me the apple. “Eat, my friend, before the grief takes your strength. If nothing else, your body requires sustenance.”
The goblin’s words spark a memory.
“Ah, but my lusty mate requires sustenance.”
“She does if she wants to keep up with you.”
“In that case, I shall return with bushels of nourishment to keep you fed and satiated for days and days on end, my queen.” My hands reach for her lush arse.
“Hey.” She laughs. “No damaging the goods.”
“Are we bartering, female?” I grind my erection against her hips. “For I have my own wares to offer.”
It has been little more than a day since our time in the basin. I would give anything to return to that moment. My lusty mate in my arms, covered in my scent, her rich laughter ringing in my ears.
How my world has changed.
My lungs compress. The brew reels in my gut. I stand and shove the fruit back into Frinhol’s hand. Once outside, I gasp and drag in lungsful of air.
“Big guy,” she called me.
Does she not know I am nothing without her?
Ignoring the startled fae, I stride through the encampment, longing driving each desperate step toward my quarters. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel her in my arms. Breathe her scent in my nose. Taste her skin on my tongue.
What sorcery is this?
My tent within reach, I stagger for the opening, my vision blurred, whether from the brew or tears, I know not.
“King Rogar,” a voice calls from behind. Female. Her sweet, cloying fragrance reaches my nose.
“What is it?”
“Are you comfortable? Do you require more drink?”
“I have all I need. Leave me.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” A warm weight settles on my back. “Anything at all, Your Majesty?” Her touch drifts lower.
With a snarl, I shove the female’s hand from my body. “I am a mated male. I have no need of you. No need of the services you provide. Be gone and do not return, or you will learn what a mated orc does to those who threaten his bond.”
Feet scurry away. I do not bother to look.
Beyond the canvas walls, I fall onto the bed of blankets someone had taken the time to arrange on the floor. Kyra’s scent is faint, but I latch on to the fabric, bringing the woolen sheet to my nose.
“Stay with me, female. Do not leave me. By the ancestors, I vow I will find you.”
And when I do, I will never let her go.
4
Rogar
In spite of the copious amounts of goblin brew I consumed, sleep evades me. My mind races with scenarios and outcomes. Aelinor knows me well. Too well. We have spent countless hours strategizing over hundreds of missions. She is versed in how I think. Familiar with the avenues I am most likely to pursue to formulate my offense. She respects my strengths and will fully exploit my weaknesses.
I roll off the pallet and pour cold water into the washing bowl. Sinking my face into the liquid, I scrub away my exhaustion and then run my wet fingers through my hair. The fires she set were not random. Only later, after moving the injured and burying the dead, did we discover she had targeted specific vendors.
Frinhol’s magic users.
My claws elongate. She thinks she has cut me off from my allies. She thinks she has maneuvered me into a dark corner, and that may very well be true. But no plan is perfect, and what my cousin does not know is that I have a secret advantage of my own.
The portal stone.
When I exit the tent, the dual suns are beginning their ascent. At this early hour, the camp is deserted, save for the guards positioned at various security checkpoints. Frinhol’s quarters are situated farther down the road from mine. I quickly cross the sandy way and meander around the smaller huts erected between our two. When I approach his tent, I notice the guards posted outside his door are missing.
I slow, listening for movement from inside. I neither hear nor scent the male. Pushing the fabric aside, I poke my head through the opening. Remnants of fruit and drink remain on the table by the door. Rumpled sheets sit in a twisted pile upon the bed. Apparently I am not the only male sleep eludes.
I head for the marketplace to begin my search for the lieutenant’s consort. On the way, I stop by the infirmary to check on Rowena. I find Frinhol sitting beside her cot, hands clasped between his thighs, watching the norn with an indecipherable expression. Not hate or malice but one of wonder or curiosity. I cannot tell which.
Oblivious to my presence, he reaches for a lock of her hair. Twisting the thick strands between the pads of his fingers, he leans in and lifts the tresses to his nose.
“I would be wary,” I say, startling the male. “Even in sleep, she is formidable.”
Abruptly, he drops his hand. The tips of his large ears turn red, amplifying the black druid symbols on the right side of his face. “King Rogar, it is not…”
“Interest?” I quirk a brow.
“Not in the way you imagine. The female is safe in my care. You have my word.” His yellow eyes stray to the sleeping norn. “I…” He shrugs. “I was drawn to the red. Its vibrancy has no equal.”
It is in a goblin’s nature to covet treasure, but lusting after a female’s hair speaks of other desires, one this male seems unwilling to admit. “I will hold you to your word, Frinhol Grimsteel. Harm her and you answer to me.” My eyes shift from Rowena’s hair to her arms. The wounds are finally healing. “Her condition improves.”
He grunts in assent. “She calls for the girl in her sleep. Ilearis. She is her daughter?”
I nod.
“What do you know of her? Of her past? The mother, not the child.”
“What I know is mine to keep. You may ask her when she wakes.”
He seems to weigh my words before putting distance between himself and the cot. “Come. I promised to take you to Odra. She is expecting us.”
The suns’ glare streaks across the sky. The camp stirs to life, the aroma of meat and charcoal wafting in the breeze. A demon stands on guard across from the infirmary, and I spot another behind the tent as we pass.
Frinhol keeps pace with my long strides, and I use the opportunity to question him about Aelinor’s army. “Disclose what you know of Jarkil’s forces.”
“My information is out of date. Perhaps much has changed.” He shrugs. “Perhaps not. Dark magic fortifies the castle grounds. A blood ward bars the wizard from entering the main building. Getting in or out of the compound undetected will be next to impossible.”
“I am counting on it.” I have always been direct. Aelinor will expect no less. “Her numbers?”
“Substantial. Comprised mainly of ground troops. Mercenaries. The Baobhan Sith. A good number of slave
s abducted from the fire realm.” He casts me a sideways glance. “Muspelheim was the first territory we broached via portal travel after Jarkil allied with your cousin. We spent months in that sweltering world searching for a magical sword, one we were told could slay any fae.”
“Including the high queen?”
“Especially the high queen.”
“Hmm. And what became of this weapon?”
“Hard to say when my king hid the contents of the chest we spent the better part of a week dredging from the bowels of a volcano.”
My step falters. “You think it was not a weapon but the bones?”
“Likely.” From his pocket, he withdraws a slim vindril and raises the smoking roll to his mouth. He wets the tip before lighting the other end. “I began to doubt the true aim of our mission and my king’s alliance with his unnamed ally almost immediately.” He puffs out a cloud of smoke. “However, at the time, Jarkil reassured me all would be revealed. The goblin nation was on a path to prosperity and freedom, and after centuries of war, I wanted to believe him.”
Several females cross the path, giving us a wide berth. “But you did not.”
“No I did not.” We turn right, the ash littering the ground dusting the tops of our boots to a light gray. “I spent centuries as the goblin king’s second. It was not the first time he lied to me to accomplish his means, but it was the first time I disagreed with him about the end result.”
Frinhol comes to an abrupt stop. “If the wizard recovered Myrkur’s bones from the fire realm and Earth, it is possible she may have already retrieved the third set. If this is true, breaking the blood ward over Azgagh and retrieving the last of the bones will allow her to complete the ritual. She must be stopped. No kingdom, no race will survive the aftermath.”
“On that we agree.”
We enter what remains of the marketplace. On the day of our arrival, this place was bustling with activity. Vendors cramped in tight spaces sold their wares to a mass of interested shoppers. Today, scorch marks outline the area where dozens of booths once stood.
Air stirs behind us.
Rursk, one of Frinhol’s lieutenants and the demon who flew me to the high queen’s fortress, joins us. He dips his head in salute. I had slain two of his brethren at the cavern before I knew they were allied with Frinhol. The male bears me no ill will, claiming a death in battle is an honorable death regardless of the circumstances.
