by Bec McMaster
“Both,” she snapped.
“Your eyes were saying ‘kiss me.’”
“Maybe they were,” she shot back, circling him like a rabid wolf. “But you haven’t won a kiss yet.”
“Oh”—he leaned back as the sword whined past his nose—“is there a kiss on the table now?”
“Not anymore. Second rule: When on the back foot, attack hard.”
She launched forward, swinging a nasty combination of strikes at him. He deflected each one. Barely. But she moved as if she’d been born to battle, and she was both cunning and ruthless.
And his shield arm was starting to tire.
“There it is,” she said breathlessly, as he didn’t quite lift the shield high enough.
“You’re starting to flag. Fight back. You need to finish this quickly if you’re to stand a chance at beating me.”
“I don’t want to—”
“If you say ‘hurt you’ then I’m going to stop being so kind.”
Fine. His temper roused.
The second she lanced in for a snaking strike, he spun and snapped his elbow up in instinct. There was a loud crunch and then she was staggering back, landing on her arse in the snow with blood droplets spattering her upper lip.
“Shit.” He lowered his axe. “I didn’t mean to—”
Those glorious green eyes narrowed. Then her hips were swiveling, and her foot flying. A boot locked behind his, and down he went, slamming into a snowdrift.
Two seconds later she was upon him. The sword was gone. So too was his axe. His left arm lay pinned by the shield. Tormund barely had time to breathe.
The edge of a knife kissed the skin of his throat and Tormund froze, looking up into the coldest expression he’d ever seen as he slowly arched his head back in surrender.
“Fine,” he told her in an amiable voice. “I’m dead. You’ve proved your point. Now”—he winced and shifted a little—“unless you want my trousers to split further, you may have to stop sitting on me.”
Bryn’s breath steamed in the air, and she blinked, as if realizing exactly where she was. “Split further?”
She looked down.
Their predicament became clear.
Hard thighs straddled his own, her tight vest thrusting her breasts high. Gods, he wanted to touch them. And the rest of him wanted to make her acquaintance too. Which was clearly outlined against the remaining scraps of his leather trousers.
Bryn crawled off him, shaking her head and wiping the blood from her lip. “I had a knife to your throat and you were thinking with your cock?”
“Technically, it’s the smarter of the two of us at times.” He shoved himself upright. The cold breeze whispered past his groin. Damn it. “And I knew you weren’t going to kill me. Let me have a look at that nose.”
Bryn ducked away, wiping it with the hem of her sleeve. “It’s fine.”
He captured her face in his hands, holding her firmly in place. “You’re not—”
And then he blinked.
There was not a hint of blood on her lip. He was fairly certain he’d split it.
“I’m fine,” Bryn repeated in a dangerously soft voice that made him aware of how close they stood. “And I won.”
Turning away from him, she grabbed her sword.
“You won,” he repeated, rubbing at his beard. “Surely you’re not going to ins—”
“Oh, I am. Consider it penance for stealing a kiss you hadn’t earned. The beard goes, Tormund. I want to see those pretty pink cheeks.”
“Well, you may as well enjoy them for all of a day,” he grumbled. “My beard will be back before three days are out.”
“Then I will enjoy it.”
“Who taught you to fight?” He flipped the shield up into his hand with his boot, and then arched his brows when he saw the dents she’d made on the other side. “What the hell were you hitting me with?”
It wasn’t his imagination. Her hand faltered as she moved to sheathe the blade, before she rammed it home as if to prove there’d been no hesitation. “My mother taught me to fight. And I was only using a sword.”
Hell of a sword. He eyed it. Either its magic could dent solid steel, or she was as strong as three men. “She was good with a sword?”
“She was.”
“How old were you when she—”
Bryn whirled on him. “Enough of the questions. This was a waste of time. We’re not friends, and nor is there anything else between us. I don’t owe you any secrets. I am here to help you find Marduk, and then I’m going to take my coin and walk away.”
He fell into stillness, even as she backed away a step. Interesting. “Second rule of defense,” he told her softly.
When on the back foot, attack hard.
Bryn’s eyes widened. “I’m not….”
He arched both eyebrows.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered, shooting him an angry look. Snow whirled beneath her boots as she stalked away.
Tormund sighed and fell back into the snow. “Prickly,” he muttered, as he swept his arms and legs wide, creating wings in the snow.
But he was not a man to admit defeat.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Bryn hissed to herself as she stuffed her things in her travel bag.
She looked up and met her eyes in the mirror.
There was not even a hint of blood. Not anymore. And Tormund had seen it. He knew he’d hit her hard enough to split her lip and had to be wondering why she’d stopped bleeding so swiftly.
This was what came from getting close to a man. She hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d let those generous smiles and twinkling eyes soften her, and she’d very nearly betrayed her heritage.
Bryn swallowed, her gaze lowering to her lip. Even though she was half mortal, there was enough Valkyrie left within her to make her heal exceptionally fast.
She was going to have to make it bleed again, just to assuage his doubts. Curling her fist, she winced a little.
She should never have sparred with him. Never have bathed with him.
Never have let him get close.
Why the hell did he have to be so charming?
“What happened to your beard?” Haakon stopped in his tracks the second he saw Tormund on the stairs.
“It’s a long story.” He scrubbed at his newly pink cheeks. Damn it. But he was a man of his word.
Haakon’s eyebrows rose. “Does it involve a dangerous redhead?”
“It might,” he said in a noncommittal voice.
Haakon fell into step beside him. “There’s something about her story that I don’t trust.”
“You don’t trust anybody,” Tormund pointed out. “Except for me and Árdís.”
Haakon gave him a long, slow look.
“I’m not a fool.” Tormund shouldered his bag. “There are a lot of things about Bryn’s story that don’t add up. I’m interested in finding out what those things are. That’s all.”
“That’s not all, and you and I both know it,” his cousin told him irritably.
“Well, we can’t all fall in love with dreki princesses.”
“She’s remarkably interested in finding Marduk.”
“He owes her money and she likes money.”
Haakon grabbed him by the wrist. “Even if there’s nothing sinister in her background, she’s still intent upon using us to find him.”
“And I am aware of that.” He sighed. “Don’t worry about me, Haakon. I’m not a fool. My eyes are wide open. She’s secretive, prickly and the glitter of gold gleams in her eyes. But there’s something about her that tells me she’s not just hiding a secret, she’s hiding her heart. She doesn’t like me talking about her mother. Something happened. Something bad. And I am going to discover what it is.”
Haakon finally let him go with the shake of his head. “A vulnerable redhead with a secret. It seems as though some god somewhere has wrapped up all your weaknesses in one enticing package.”
“Fate,” he said with a wink. “She can figh
t too.”
“Tor—”
“I’m in love, Haakon. Who am I to deny the will of the gods?”
Haakon shoved past him moodily. “I’m going to remind you of this when you’re crying in your cups.”
“Let’s go find our dreki packhorse. We’ve got half a continent to traverse, a prince to find, and a gorgeous redhead to seduce.”
“That’s if Sirius doesn’t dump us in the Caspian Sea. And if Bryn doesn’t slit your throat for a gold kroner.”
Tormund clapped a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “There, there, cousin. She wouldn’t go for the throat. She’d go for my balls.”
Seven
The caves were dark, but Marduk’s keen dreki vision could pierce even the darkest of shadows. He’d spent hours traversing the passages, avoiding the dreki guards who filled the caverns.
And now, finally, he was here.
A figure paced the cave floor, beyond a set of enormous iron bars that stretched to the ceiling. She—and he could instantly tell it was a she—wore a hooded cloak made of tattered homespun and her feet were bare.
Marduk eased his pack onto the floor and then crept closer, pausing at the bars. Some sort of eerie green glow seemed to be emanating from within her hood, and the song was quieter here, almost mournful.
He tried to pluck a chord of it, but as always, the song slipped through his metaphorical fingers. He could hear it but he could never quite seem to touch it.
And yet, she clearly felt his intrusion. She froze, the cowl of the hood turning in his direction.
Marduk held up his hands in a gesture of peace. The ghostly sensation of that strange music that had called to him still filled the air, but it seemed on the verge of hearing, as if the song had been abruptly muted.
“Hello,” he whispered. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
She didn’t move an inch.
Nor did she reply.
A shimmer filled the air, and he noticed she’d kept well clear of the line it marked across the floor. He glanced up, spotting the gold runes painted over the rocky ceiling of the cavern. Magic. A ward that locked magic away—and kept others magic out.
As well as bars.
What did they think she was?
“Who are you?” he asked, his heart beating a little faster.
He’d spent a lifetime searching for her it seemed, and now he had finally found her. Every dreki dreamed of meeting their true mate—the other half of their soul—but a part of him had never truly believed he’d find one. His people called it kataru libbu, a bastardized version of Sumerian that at its most basic meant an alliance of the heart, and yet was so much more.
The woman tilted her head to the side.
Marduk clicked his fingers and lit an orb of burning flame so he could see better. Instantly, she hissed and shielded her face with her hands, so he dimmed it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “No light, see?”
Silvery strands of hair caught the last dying rays of firelight as he snuffed the flame. The stranger lowered her pale hands.
“I am Marduk. I followed your song all the way here to find you. I feel like I’ve heard it in my dreams my entire life, and I don’t know why.” Nothing. No hint of recognition. He yearned for her to say something. Anything. “Do you have a name? Where does the song come from? What does it mean?”
He mimicked lowering the hood.
The woman cocked her head again.
“Will you show me your face?” Perhaps she couldn’t speak. But how had he heard her singing?
Slowly she lifted her hands and slid the hood of the cowl back.
Marduk gasped.
Her eyes were green, but not with mere pigment. They glowed with traces of Chaos magic, as if her entire body was suffused with it.
And her face….
It was like staring into his mother’s face—his own face—though her ashen hair was far lighter than his.
The world seemed to suck at him, as if some sixth sense drew him toward her. Marduk couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. Instead, he lifted his hand toward her, gesturing for her to take it.
The strange woman eyed his hand with a flat expression. But her gaze returned to his face and she hesitantly began to lift her hand.
Their palms almost touched.
Only the bars of the cage kept them an inch apart, and he yearned to narrow that inch.
Instantly, the song roared through his ears as if someone had enhanced the volume. But worse, he could see the music in the air now, see the shimmering green strands that overlaid everything.
A thousand futures stretched before him.
A thousand pasts.
A thousand other worlds, all linked to this one with threads of virulent green Chaos.
It was too much for his mind to take in. Strain began to push behind his right eye, and he winced, trying to tear his hand back, but some strange magic kept him there, straining toward her, as if she could sense the lifeline he offered.
Marduk gasped as he wrenched himself backward. Instantly, she clenched her hand and pressed it to her temples as if she was drowning in the overwhelm again. He wanted to retch. Every inch of him shook. Mother Goddess, what was she?
Who was she?
Certainly not the soul mate he’d been expecting to find.
“Get away from her,” someone said sharply behind him.
Marduk whipped around, drawing his sword. He felt clumsy on his feet, his gut still heaving.
Torches flared to life along the walls as a trio of dreki strode toward him.
A tall, elegant woman wearing black leather armor led the way, her dark hair braided back and her eyes gleaming as blue as ice in the Arctic. She carried a spear carved of ebony, and gold rings dripped from her fingers. Every inch of her was cold and regal, and Goddess forsake him, but he could have sworn he recognized her.
Behind her stood two dreki warriors, though their hoods shielded their faces and something about their auras seemed wrong. The very shadows seemed to shrink away from them.
“What are you doing here?” the woman demanded. “How did you bypass my guards?”
Marduk considered his options. He wasn’t his brother Rurik, invulnerable and fierce, but he could fight if necessary.
But his gaze strayed to those shadows and the way even the flames seemed to dim as the largest warrior paused beside a torch.
This wasn’t the time to fight. Nor was it the time to flee.
He wanted answers.
“In my court,” he said, “we allow ladies to speak first. Who are you?”
“I am Zorja Ravenspire, Queen of the Ikkibu court. And you are trespassing where you do not belong.” The spear lowered, settling right in front of his heart.
But it wasn’t the weapon that gave him pause.
“Zorja,” he repeated.
The ruling queen of the Forbidden Court.
Son of a dragon.
None of this made any sense, least of all that name. But he hadn’t bothered to ask where he was. These last few nights he’d merely headed east, drawn by the growing song on the wind, barely aware of where he trespassed.
No wonder he’d thought her familiar.
Every inch of the queen grew tight with tension. “Do I know you?”
Marduk slowly lowered his hands. “We’ve never met. But you were once my aunt by mating bond, and my cousin, Sirius, is your son.” A sharp breath escaped him. “You look very much like him. I am Prince Marduk of the Zini clan.” He turned breathlessly back to the woman in the cage. “And I am here for her.”
“There they are.” Sirius stared across the plains toward a string of mountains. Smoke circled the tip of the highest peak. “The mountain court of Kronotsky. On the Kamchatka peninsula.”
It had taken four days to reach the string of volcanoes set off the far-eastern coast of Russia. Sirius was enormous in his dreki form, but carrying three of them had slowed him down, and with the Arctic winds too cold for the mortals in the group, he’d been f
orced to cross Russia. He pulled his clothes on with the grim expression of a man girding himself for war.
“A dreki court,” Tormund said, “located in the heart of a volcano.”
“East of the sun and west of the moon,” Haakon murmured, glancing toward the opaque moon in the east. Sunlight lit his back, gilding him with a dozen shades of orange and pink. “Above the fire and below the stars.”
“The court of Ikkibu,” Sirius said. He seemed to have shaken off his bad mood overnight, though the set of his shoulders remained tense. “The Forbidden Court.”
“Sounds promising,” Tormund whispered. “Friends of yours?”
“Not exactly,” Sirius replied curtly. “I won’t be able to enter. They’ll sense my magic.”
And the Blackfrost was a name that was both feared and revered throughout the dreki world.
“Right.” Tormund stared at the distant peak. The real trick was getting to Kronotsky. The expanse of grasslands between them was too wide; there would have to be dreki guards watching over the plains. Any newcomers would be seen long before they arrived, and it wasn’t as though Sirius could kindly fly over and drop them on the flanks of the mountain.
“The court of Ikkibu has been locked to all visitors for the past thirty something years. None may enter. Those that do don’t return. Their queen….” Sirius’s voice hardened. “Their queen sealed the court and she will not take kindly to visitors. She will not welcome me here.”
Does anyone? The words died on his tongue as he saw the cold glint in Sirius’s remaining eye.
There was a time for jests, and a time for silence.
And this, clearly, was a time to shut his mouth.
“Which means don’t get caught,” Haakon muttered. “Don’t be seen.”
“Don’t be eaten.” Tormund rubbed at the stubble on his chin. It was a shade of its former glorious self, but give it a week and he’d have the beginnings of a decent beard again.
“Can you summon a fog?”
Everyone turned to Bryn. She was swiftly braiding her hair, clad in the battle-hardened leather armor she often wore. Sýr preened in the trees behind her, turning a dark eye upon him as if she’d caught him looking at her mistress and she disapproved.
