The Duchess Quest (Jordinia Book 1)

by C. K. Brooke

  Cosmith’s eyes did not leave Macmillan’s.

  “All in favor?” said Ezra MacNeale.

  “Aye,” declared Bos. With furtive glances in his direction, the others uttered noncommittal grunts and gradually dispersed.

  “It’s settled, then.” MacNeale loosened his grip from the hilt of his sword. After gruffly releasing Cosmith, the captor, too, departed.

  “Macmillan, my savior!” Cosmith bounded toward him.

  Macmillan hesitated. What had he just done? Would Cosmith now be at his heels for the duration of the journey, expecting Macmillan to deliver him from every bind in which he might find himself?

  “Don’t make me regret this,” he warned him.

  “So, you took my advice to heart?” Every bit of the fellow’s jaunty arrogance had returned.

  “What advice?” huffed Macmillan.

  “You’ve decided to be my friend after all.” He grinned.

  “Don’t push it.” Macmillan strode past him.

  But Cosmith kept up with ease, blocking Macmillan’s way as he walked backward in front of him. He laughed in evident disbelief. “Are you serious? After saving my arse, you refuse to associate with me?”

  Macmillan was losing patience. “Will you please move out of my way?”

  Cosmith finally stepped aside. “Well, I’m indebted to you now. And I dislike owing a debt, Mac. So, tell me what you’d like in return for coming to my rescue, and we can be even.”

  Macmillan was mildly surprised that the rogue held to any code of honor. Still, it wasn’t saying much. “All right, Cosmith,” he conceded.

  The man waited with a satisfied smile.

  “You can repay me,” uttered Macmillan, “by hereon leaving me alone.”

  A WEEK INTO THE JOURNEY, they happened upon a creek just north of the Bainherd Plains. The competition was already dwindling, as some of the company had declared the journey too strenuous and unlikely to succeed, and turned back for the comfort of their homes.

  Nine gone, fifty-three remaining. Jon Cosmith had been keeping count. He wouldn’t take to extreme measures to eliminate more. But he had other methods. Plant a seed of doubt, spark an argument among friends. Or, of course, empty a man of his purse, and he’ll find himself without fare to pay the tolls at the upcoming borders, leaving him no choice but to turn back.

  Covertly, Cosmith slipped the new pouch of coins he’d acquired into his trouser pocket, eyes shifting to ensure no one saw.

  Admittedly, the journey was proving less exciting than he’d hoped. Perhaps he oughtn’t to have left the city. After all, he’d never gone so long away from the taverns, sans the company of any woman.

  And yet, perhaps the payoff, should there be one, would be worth it.

  They stopped at the creek for a bout of refreshment, and Cosmith was itching in his filthy clothes. Departing the others, he made his way downstream to bathe. It wasn’t a matter of modesty; he was simply accustomed to operating alone. And, much as he didn’t like to admit it, the press of the crowd had already begun to wear on him.

  He found a private thicket of trees, by which the creek trickled gently, and quietly removed his garments. He placed them upon the safe care of a large rock, then slipped into the water, ejecting a gasp at its unexpected chill.

  His heart thumped, however, as he heard another gasp—was it his own, echoed? Alas, no, for then came a shrill scream—and something blunt collided with his brow.

  “Ach,” he hissed, clutching his temple. The culprit, a small stone, plunked into the water beside him. He picked it up before it should sink and tried to examine it, but the blinking lights in his eyes momentarily obscured his vision.

  “Damn,” came an agitated whisper.

  Whoever had thrown the stone had missed their target, if the blow was intended to knock him unconscious. Cosmith dropped it back into the water, squinting through the pain. He glanced down at his hand. At least there wasn’t blood.

  “Just sh-shut your eyes!” stammered the voice.

  This was not a problem. His head ached so badly, in fact, there was nothing he wished to do more than close his lids against the blaring daylight.

  But then, something registered with him. Against orders, he reopened his eyes.

  In the water before him was none other than a woman. A quite unmistakably nude woman.

  “I said shut your eyes!” she crowed, her violet eyes wide.

  “You know, darling,” said Cosmith, dipping back to wet his hair, “you’ve got nothing I haven’t already seen at least a hundred times before.”

  “Oh, how charming, comrade,” she snapped, with all the hardness of a woman well-accustomed to the nonsense of men.

  Cosmith straightened. “Comrade?”

  She bit her lip.

  Realization dawned upon him. “Ah.” He took in her lengthy veil of violet hair. “And what is a woman from the good Republic doing here, so far away from home, I wonder?”

  “That is no business of yours.”

  “But perhaps it is.” Cosmith smiled. “And in this very creek, right alongside Gatspierre’s search party…. My, what a coincidence!”

  She glowered at him.

  “Unless, of course, it is no coincidence at all.” As if drawn by a magnetic pull, he drifted toward her.

  She splashed water in his face. “I’ve no idea what you are talking about,” she professed, but the fear in her eyes betrayed her.

  “I have lived in the world of shadows for most of my life, my dear. I’ve seen all manner of things. A woman disguising herself as a man, in order to win a prize of gold, does not surprise me.

  “But I must ask,” the corners of his mouth twitched, “if, by some unbelievably unlikely series of circumstances, you were to find the lost duchess, what on earth, pray tell, were you intending to do with her?” Cosmith laughed. “Surely, you did not plan on upholding your masculine façade unto the day you wed her?”

  “Of course not,” she replied indignantly. “I would simply take my payment of gold—or steal it from the victor—and be on my way.”

  Cosmith fingered his chin. “An intriguing plan, my pet,” he admitted. “But this is no quest for a lady.”

  “Perhaps I am no lady,” she shot back.

  His eyes rested significantly on the portion of her body submerged underwater. “Oh, I would beg to differ.”

  “What do you want, Jon Cosmith? Yes, I know who you are,” she added at his expression. “I was there that day, among the others, when you were so pitifully caught for pick-pocketing. Why a grown man should not have enough strength or skill to escape a lone captor is beyond my reckoning.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that, woman,” Cosmith snapped. “Of course I could have escaped my captor. It was the rest of them I feared. Had I run, the entire search party would have chased me down.”

  “And you could not outrun them?” she leered.

  He drifted closer. “Can you outrun me?” he countered suggestively.

  The woman glared at him.

  “Come on,” he cajoled her, daring to wade nearer, his skin tingling with anticipation at their proximity. “Think of all the fun we can have, you and I. I’ll keep your secret. You can continue your little gold hunt while the others are none the wiser. And if I win,” he reached for her arm, softening his voice to the gentlest purr, “who knows? I can spare some of my gold for you, in exchange for your embraces. What say you, darling?”

  For a moment, it appeared she might’ve actually been considering it. Cosmith desperately hoped so. He was starving—ravenous, actually—for a feminine touch.

  There came a splash. Next he knew, he was keeled over in debilitating pain. With all her might, the woman had kneed him where it counted.

  “I’m not a whore,” she spat, her lithe figure shooting out of the creek, too quickly for him to steal a better gli
mpse of her unclad form.

  “At least won’t you tell me your name?” coughed Cosmith halfheartedly. But when he faced the bank, she was gone.

  Naked, and with his manhood wounded in every sense of the term, he emerged from the water and limped to the rock where he’d left his clothing.

  Gone.

  The feisty nymph had taken his clothes!

  He was about to laugh, when a devastating fact dawned upon him. Why, all of his coin had been secured in that pair of trousers.

  “Unbelievable,” he hissed. “Saucy wench stole all my money.”

  He glanced down. Well, at least she’d left his boots.

  Looking closer, he noticed on the ground beside them was a set of footprints extending to the trees. Revitalized by this stroke of fortune, he followed them.

  But the tracks merely ended at an overgrown brush. Amidst the brambles were roots and all manner of undergrowth to obscure the woman’s ensuing path.

  Cosmith sighed in resignation, his trail having gone cold.

  MACMILLAN WAS ANNOYED TO BE shaken awake that night. He was sore from walking, had gone to sleep on a growling stomach (again), and coveted his rest. He’d fallen asleep a good distance away from the others for the very purpose of preserving his slumber from disturbances. And yet, there he now lay, with someone else’s face hovering over his.

  “Up you get, Mac. We’ve no time to waste.”

  “What the…? Cosmith?” Macmillan sat up. “It’s the middle of the night,” he croaked. “What are you doing?”

  “Saving your life,” said Jon Cosmith simply. “Boots on, mate. Now.”

  Though bleary-eyed, Macmillan yanked them on. He sniffed once, twice. “Do I smell smoke?”

  “Yes. Now run,” ordered Cosmith, and bolted.

  Macmillan had no choice but to follow as fast as he could, even while still foggy-headed from sleep. “Cosmith,” he panted. “What in hell is going on back there?”

  “Fire, Mac,” called the man over his shoulder. “The whole camp’s gone up in flames!”

  Macmillan halted, chest heaving. “Then we should go back and help the others, you fool!”

  “They’re all dead.” Cosmith’s voice was strained, and in the moonlight, Macmillan noticed his cheeks were smeared with soot.

  “What d’you mean, dead?” Macmillan swiveled around. In horror, he watched as the woods behind them danced and crackled in an all-consuming orange glow. He could feel the heat on his skin, even from the distance.

  He gaped at the man in front of him. “All of them, dead?” His voice cracked. How could it be? Just hours ago, they’d sat around the bonfire, shared a meal together, and swapped tales. Yet somehow, now…?

  “I’m sorry,” said Cosmith, and he looked it. “But the fire is spreading at an alarming rate, so unless you’d like to join them in the inferno, we need to move.”

  There was no option but to keep running. They fled the woods and the flames, gathering as much distance between them and the overwhelming smell of smoke as they could. Macmillan noticed the odor had a strange, rancid quality, unlike ordinary smoke. But he didn’t have time to ponder it. He was in shock, his heart tearing for the souls he barely had a chance to know, subject to such a painful and tragic exit from this world.

  Only when dawn greeted them with a trickle of rain did the two men finally slow, clutching their heaving chests as they knelt in the grass, their legs giving way from exertion.

  Something streamed down Macmillan’s cheek. He wasn’t sure if it was the rain or a tear.

  “You all right?” grunted Cosmith.

  Macmillan looked down, caught his breath. “You could’ve run. Saved yourself. But you…came back for me.” It was like an equation he wasn’t sure how to solve.

  “I told you I owed you, Mac.” Cosmith attempted to wipe the soot from his face, but only managed to smear it. “You saved me, I saved you. We’re even now.”

  Macmillan swallowed. “Even though all I asked was for you to leave me alone?”

  “For God’s sake, are you actually objecting to my saving you?”

  “I’m just…” Macmillan fumbled for the words, “stunned you’ve done something that wasn’t wholeheartedly selfish.”

  “I appreciate your poignant display of gratitude,” muttered Cosmith.

  “Jon.”

  At the sound of his given name, the man glanced up.

  Despite the grim turn of events, a tiny, grateful grin lifted the corner of Macmillan’s mouth. “Thank you.”

  It appeared Cosmith was about to respond when the sound of movement caught their ears. Both men shot to their aching feet. When they turned, they distinguished a familiar broad figure emerging through the edge of the trees.

  Macmillan rubbed the soreness from his smoke-stung eyes. “Bos?”

  The giant looked as devastated as Macmillan felt as he treaded the grass in their direction. The rain began to pick up, streaming down the enormous man’s face and causing his long hair to stick to his massive neck.

  “How did you survive the fire?” asked Cosmith suspiciously.

  “I am no stranger to ambushes in the night.” Bos’s sooty face looked haunted. “I was almost too late.” He indicated the singed hem of his trouser leg, and Macmillan saw a raw, bloody burn welt on his ankle. “But I found the werewithal to run like hell. Alas, the others….” His face closed, lips tightening beneath his goatee in the manner of man trying to hold in his sorrow.

  “Are there no more survivors?” asked Cosmith.

  Bos shook his head.

  “I don’t understand,” said Macmillan. “What happened back there?”

  “That was no ordinary forest fire.” Cosmith sounded grim. “Nor was it an accident. The New Republic of Jordinia did this, I’m sure of it.”

  “How do you know?” Macmillan pressed him.

  “Trust me,” muttered Cosmith. “Natural fire doesn’t spread as rapidly as what we saw tonight, or carry that godawful stench.” His jaw clenched. “I smell a rat. Those were Jordinian chemicals, with which someone must’ve laced our camp in the night while we slept. We’re being followed. The New Republic is trying to eliminate us who seek the duchess.”

  “But why?” said Macmillan, bewildered.

  Bos spoke in his deep timbre. “The Republic will slaughter whomever they want, however they please, to exert their authority and control. It has been this way since they murdered the royal family.”

  Cosmith adjusted the satchel over his shoulder, his face unreadable. “And it appears they’ve set an assassin on our tail.”

  “So what do we do?” Macmillan looked between them, the last men standing in their now pitiful search party. The charred devastation they’d left behind had made him begin to question everything about their mission. Was it worth it? Did he really wish to go up against the infamous New Republic of Jordinia?

  Yet Bos spoke with unwavering conviction. “The duchess must be found.”

  “I SWEAR TO ALL THE gods of my native forest, Jon, if you do not stop singing….”

  “You dislike my ballads, Mac? And what if I should compose one for you? A hero called Mac, with his hair shining black, and a knife at his thighs, longs to ravish the prize—”

  Macmillan sighed, crunching a pile of leaves beneath his muddy boots. “Do you really wish to marry the duchess if you find her? You don’t strike me as the type who would ever settle down with just one woman.”

  Cosmith was about to formulate one of his clever responses when Bos’s voice intervened. “I have wondered the same.”

  Macmillan glanced up. It was the first the giant had spoken to them in days.

  Cosmith laughed, smoothing back his unkempt hair. “Please, Mac. A duchess is not my average conquest.”

  “But she is still a mere conquest to you, no less,” rumbled Bos.

  �
��Whoa.” Cosmith halted. “Are you not competing for the same prize as I?”

  “No, actually,” replied the giant. “I revere the royal family. I would never use them as a means to any personal end.”

  Macmillan listened curiously.

  “Wait a mo’.” Cosmith jogged ahead to keep pace with the giant’s wide strides. “Then what is your game, man?”

  “I have no game.” Bos was clearly trying to end the conversation, but Cosmith was unrelenting.

  “Explain to me, then,” said the man, with an attempt at one of his charming grins. Bos was unmoved. “Are you saying you don’t compete for the reward? For what, then, have you joined our little search party?”

  “Honor.”

  Cosmith blinked.

  “A foreign word to you, I am sure,” added Bos darkly. “No gold. No bride. I volunteered to reunite Eludaine Ducelle with her uncle. That is all.”

  Macmillan and Cosmith exchanged glances.

  “You’ve come all this way, simply out of loyalty to your fallen monarch?” inquired Macmillan, intrigued.

  “Ah, but don’t you realize, dear Macmillan?” Cosmith settled back into his usual swagger. “Bos here is looking down at us from his very high horse, professing his noble asceticism in our greedy little faces. We ougt to be ashamed of our ambition, you see.”

  “Jon,” reprimanded Macmillan halfheartedly, avoiding the giant’s gaze.

  “You’ve no intention of being a husband to the duchess, Cosmith,” accused Bos.

  “Nor do you,” Cosmith retorted.

  “No. But unlike you, it is not my plan to take advantage of her.”

  “And how would you know my plan?”

  “I am well-versed in the depravity of men.”

  “Gentlemen?” prodded Macmillan. The last thing they needed was a row with only three men left standing.

  The crack of a branch startled them. Macmillan turned to see where it had come from, but no one was there.

  “The assassin could still be tailing us,” whispered Cosmith.

  Bos parted a pair of young trees. “There is no one,” he announced.