“It doesn’t bring him back! Nothing brings him back!” he wailed as if not hearing her words. Ike gently placed the sword at the man’s feet.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I’ll check back on you later. My daughter will probably want to visit.” Ike breathed. He then turned to Serena. He placed a hand on her shoulder in gentle comfort. She took a shaky breath, trying to force herself to move. He nudged his head forwards telling her it was time to go.
She took a final unsteady breath and stood. She pulled her hand away and wiped away the tears. Vilkrim waited for her and the pair followed the rest of the men into the gate. Upon entering, she could hear yelling at the front of the group.
Wesley and Daryl were shouting, although she couldn’t make out the words. She rode closer, but James grabbed her reins, stopping her. He shook his head no. His eyes were full of a fierce warning. Wesley stood in front of his horse with Daryl, who did the same. In front of them stood a large brutish looking man. He had the same dark brown hair as Wesley, but his face was covered in scars.
The General.
“You come back here as losers!” he snapped loudly. “If you can’t die with honor, you should just die here and now!”
“The Samorians invaded the beach. There was nothing else we could do. They’re using it as a staging city for their army.” Wesley explained. She watched as the man she knew was the General punched Wesley in the face. Even from her distance, she could hear the pop as his fist connected with Wesley’s jaw. He stumbled to his knees. Her heart dropped as she nearly bolted forwards, but James yanked her reins back.
“Don’t get involved. It never ends well for anyone.”
Her eyes looked back and watched as Wesley wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. She could see a bit of blood against his pale skin. She gritted her teeth, trying to see reason when all her instincts screamed to attack while the man wasn’t looking. Take the opening. Kill the man.
“You are a failure of a Captain! You’ve led the Prince to failure. We will discuss this further. Tonight, at dinner.” The General growled. He moved to leave, his eyes glancing over those watching before his eyes settled on her. She felt her blood run cold at the look in his eyes. It was more than the look of a predator who found its prey. It was the look of a man who enjoyed destroying everything he touched. She did not want him to choose her as his next conquest, especially when she was in a position where she couldn’t kill him.
“What is a woman doing amongst you?” He looked at her and then back to Wesley. She could tell Wesley had no answer. Neither did Daryl. Whether she wanted to, it involved her. She took a deep breath, pushing down her pride. She got off Vilkrim and walked closer before bowing deeply before the General.
“I am a mercenary, sir. I joined in Bathon to help with the war effort. I hoped my blade could be of use.” She lied, staying bowed. She looked at his black boots and the black uniform tailored with golden designs. She forced her body still as he snatched the braid on the back of her head. He yanked it, pulling her up so he could look her in the face. She ignored the mild pain on her scalp, focused on surviving.
“Why the fuck would we need a woman’s help? Let alone a native’s?” he growled. His eyes tried to bore into her, but she did her best not to struggle. She could not act. She saw Wesley twitch his face, revealing his emotions. He looked like he was in pain, watching, but there was also a rage that brewed behind the surface. She hoped the General missed it. His eyes rested solely on her. He looked her over, his eyes devouring every detail.
“Why is she here?” he growled, looking at Wesley.
“She’s skilled with blades. We use her as the perfect distraction against the enemy. No one expects a woman.” Daryl said. The General’s hard eyes turned to him.
“Perhaps the Samorians are stupid enough for such a ploy to work.” He paused, looking at her again. “Just make sure she serves her purpose, or I will find a new one for her.” He pushed her aside. Serena stumbled back but bowed, holding her instincts back. She heard him turn and waited until he was far enough away before rising.
“You should not have come up here!” Wesley growled. She ignored him and gently lifted his chin so she could see how bad the bruise was.
“He spotted me. I had to do something. He wasn’t going to ignore my presence forever.”
“We hoped to keep it a secret for a while longer.” Daryl sighed.
“A mercenary?” grumbled Wesley pulling away and grabbing the reins to his horse.
“Wesley,” Serena started.
“Don’t Serena.” He snapped before pausing for a moment. His tone shifted as he looked at her. His eyes filled with a mix of sadness, worry, and a hint of fear. It stole the air from her lungs before he even continued speaking. “Please, just go see Helen. I have things to do.” He turned, walking towards the stables.
She turned to Daryl, not trusting the emotions she saw. He was hurting in a way he refused to let her help. “Go with him,”
Daryl smiled gently. “Of course. We’ll see you later.” He gestured for her to go to the cottages.
She felt nervous at the idea of later. Later the General wanted to see Wesley, no doubt to hurt him more. She looked back at Wesley, who handed his reins to the stable hands before heading off towards the castle. She wished she knew what he was thinking.
“I’ll call for you later. He’ll need you then.” Daryl whispered before following him. Serena nodded and collected Vilkrim’s reins. She handed him to the stable hands and headed for Helen’s. The knot in her stomach grew with every step.
Chapter Two
Wesley
Wesley always dreaded his father’s return. It brought nothing but pain. For a moment, he lied to himself, thinking his father might be proud of him. Maybe this time he would accomplish enough to get praise from the cruel man. Each time he was disappointed. Each time his father’s homecoming spurred punishment that made up for all the time spent apart.
Wesley knew this as he walked towards the General’s quarters. Each step was heavier than the last, as if he walked through feet of mud to his father’s room. He kept reminding himself; it was better to get this over with now instead of letting it fester. Waiting always made it worse.
Daryl walked at his side in silent comradery. Both knew what was coming. Wesley’s father would take all his frustration out on him. It would force Daryl to come to his aid. Nothing felt worse than letting his oldest friend see him in such a state. It was his duty to protect Daryl, not the other way around.
Gritting his teeth, Wesley stood before the large gold-trimmed door.
“Do-” Daryl began.
“Yes,” Wesley breathed, reminding himself he had to enter. Even without a summon he knew his father would want to see him in private. Dinner was a lie. A simple ruse that took the place of what it was.
Punishment.
“An hour?” Daryl asked. Wesley took a shuddering breath and shook his head. He saw the look on his father’s face when he saw Serena. He would be seething behind this door.
“Two,” Wesley commented, pulling every shred of courage he could muster. He pushed open the door as Daryl stepped aside, out of sight. He could feel Daryl’s eyes on his back as he entered the lavish apartment. Shutting the door, he looked it over, trying to find what corner his father hid in.
“Dinner is early,” commented the bitter voice of the General. Wesley spotted him, drink in hand, as he walked from the bedroom doors. The bedroom was furnished in black and a deep dark red that seemed to make it more of a cave than a bedroom. Perfectly suited for his father.
The General took another sip and walked across the room. The grand marble double fireplace sat in the corner. On the mantle were various trophies of war. Skulls, necklaces of bones, and helmets from commanders he killed. He mounted some of the largest ones on the wall behind the fireplace, like a person would a prized buck.
Wesley’s eyes drew back to his father, who opened the farthest set of doors. A part of him hope
d he would open the set closest to him and ask him to sit in his office. He’d rather be able to have a reasonable conversation for once instead of being forced into his father’s den of torture.
Wesley moved without being told, trying everything to not add to his father’s anger. He walked past his father, noticing the amount of wine in his glass. Almost halfway gone. If it was his first glass Wesley might find relief, but Wesley suspected it was at least his second. He took a deep breath, pulling off his jacket and hanging it on the pegs nailed into the wall by the door.
He forced his eyes to ignore the various weapons hung on the walls like decorations. In theory, this room was a private training room for the General. The reality was it was the perfect place to punish his loser son.
Wesley pulled off his weapons, hanging them up as well, acutely aware of the General walking the edges of the room. He drew closer. His steps thundering louder and louder in Wesley’s ears. Already his heart raced.
He could hear the General gently poking various weapons on the walls as he neared, the metal tinge of metal on stone nearly making him jump. Before the General could reach him, Wesley moved to the spot on the floor he knew from years of experience his father wanted him on. He refused to rush his feet because the General would hurt him worse for running away. Wesley kept his steps steady, timing them to his breaths. Reaching the center of the room he knelt waiting.
The General walked around the room again before placing his cup down on the chest of weapons. He purposively stood in front of the only window, blocking out sunlight as he looked at Wesley.
“So, son. How many lashes do you think you deserve for this mess?"
Wesley remained mute, knowing better than to speak. Any number he gave would be tripled, making it worse. The General laughed at his silence.
“If only your self-control did not impede you in politics or war, you might be worthy of our bloodline.” He scoffed. “I cannot believe you let them take Bathon from you.” He growled, his steps growing heavier with his anger.
Wesley hated this show. This show of strength his father put on drawing out the anticipation of the punishment. They both knew he would choose the whip. He always did. He just had to make Wesley wonder if today was the day he finally lost his patience. Was it today his father finally killed him? A part of him didn’t care. He wanted an end to this cycle, but the General had no other heir.
He hated children and without a wife to care for them, Wesley was his only option. The General would continue his “lessons” until Wesley acted the way his father wanted. Wesley could never tell him the truth. That most of the acts the General committed turned his stomach. That Wesley could never do the same.
The sound of the whip being pulled from the wall drew Wesley’s attention. He forced his breaths steady.
“You’re useless, boy!” the General snapped the whip connecting with Wesley’s back. Pain rippled up Wesley’s spine as the whip tore his skin open. He flinched with the pain but sat back on his heels. It was too early to collapse onto his hands.
“How is my son such a feeble creature? How can you not do your duty?” Another snap of the whip on his back brought more pain. “The Prince is weak because of you!” he yelled again, bringing more pain. Slowly Wesley tuned out his father’s words, the pain flashing his vision white.
As it continued to get worse, he saw her. Some sense of relief washed over him at the image of his mother. She only ever came after her death, and only when his father beat him senseless. Tears swelled in his eyes at the sight of her.
Her face seemed to glow, as her gentle eyes wrapped him in the most comforting hug he could never truly feel again. Guilt crashed into him as she smiled.
“Shush dear. It’ll be alright Wes.” Her warm voice blanketed him in strength. Seeing her could always give him the strength to survive. He fell onto his hands, panting as his father continued his lashings.
Her gentle hand cradled his cheek.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry I’m not there to protect you, my strong boy.” She whispered to him, her arms wrapping around his head and holding him tight as she pulled him into her chest.
He was never sure if she was real or not. Templarians believed in their ancestors guiding them. Helping them through tough moments in their lives. Perhaps she really was here to comfort him. Perhaps she was a figment of his imagination, but the truth did not matter. Seeing her was all he needed. It was almost a decade since she was alive, and the loss still clung to his heart like a scar.
A particularly hard blow made him yell out in pain as he fell to his elbows, his arms too weak to support him. The General snorted, walking in front of him. The image of his mother slide to the side as the General’s boot moved under his chin. He forced Wesley’s head up, meeting his eyes.
The General’s scowl grew as he shook his head.
“So weak,” he scoffed, dropping his head. “What is this nonsense about the mercenary?”
The image of Serena rushed to the front of his mind. Her rich, flawless skin melted into her warm chocolate eyes. He swore her eyes hid a fire in them that constantly warned of both destruction and kindness. Her lips turned upwards in a cocky grin as her eyebrows raised in amusement could make his heart skip a beat. The General could not be allowed to ruin her.
“I asked you a question!” snapped the General his boot connected with his stomach. Wesley fell flat, the pain in his back rippling with the sudden movement.
Wesley’s mind raced through ideas. He needed a good one to keep her safe. Damn her for speaking up. She should’ve just tried to hide.
“She’s useful,” Wesley said, his voice smaller than he intended. The General let out a laugh.
“Useful? Women are only useful on their backs!” he snapped. “Your decisions, I swear, are getting progressively worse. What use does she have?”
Wesley took a shaky breath, forcing himself back into a kneel. He sat back on his heels, facing his father as the warm blood cooled on his back.
“Entertainment and an occasional diversion. She’s got plenty of tricks she can perform with her throwing knives.” Wesley said, trying to sound cold. Even if he thought much more of her, the General needed to see her as nothing. Nothing to concern his time on. Wesley prayed to his mother his father believed him. She stood smiling at him from behind his father’s form.
The General stood thinking before letting out a breath. He reached for his cup and Wesley was filled with hope. It was over?
“I expect her kept in line. I don’t want to see her. If I do well, then she might need her own set of lessons.” He grinned before taking a sip.
“Understood,” Wesley returned, steeling his emotions away. Now, so close to freedom was not the time to let fear or worry show on his face.
“Get out,” The General said. At his words, the specter of his mother disappeared, reminding him of the whole inside his chest.
Wesley stood, his back exploding in pain. He gritted his teeth as he picked up his blade, strapping it to his waist. Slowly he slid on his jacket, inflaming every piece of raw skin on his back.
“Get out!” snapped the General. Wesley rushed forwards ignoring the pain as he left the room and the apartment to the hallway. Daryl wasn’t back, which meant he was wrong. It did not take two hours after all.
He turned from the apartment towards his room. He forced his steps steady, refusing to let anyone see him like this. His legs shook, and he leaned on the wall, gathering his strength as moved. Whenever he heard footsteps, he pushed off the wall and strolled by as if nothing was wrong. Guards walked through the halls and nodded their heads at Wesley, who nodded back despite the pain. He finally reached his doors, nearly collapsing against them.
He walked in tossing off his jacket, nearly tripping over the carpet as he shuffled his legs. His breaths grew ragged, and anger sunk into his bones as it always did. So angry he could do nothing. So angry at fate for giving him such a painful life. Angry for not saving his mother.
The door op
ened and Wesley turned to see Daryl. Daryl rushed to him. He put Wesley’s arm on his shoulder and helped him to the bedroom.
“I’ll get the doctor. Here,” Daryl said, offering him a glass of wine. Wesley looked at the red liquid and scowled. Red reminded him too much of the blood sliding down his back.
“It looks pretty bad,” Daryl commented.
“Of course, it is.” Wesley snarled before taking a sip. Daryl sighed.
“You should rest for the rest of the day.”
Wesley turned, glaring at Daryl.
“Seriously, Wesley. You can’t keep living like this! You’re going to die from exhaustion.”
“You can’t die from that.” Wesley scoffed.
“Want to bet?” Daryl snapped back. “Seriously, you need to rest today. We’re here and we’ll find the nobles we need. Send letters but stay in your room for a while.”
“The General will think he scared me off. I can’t.”
“Not if I’m with you the whole time. Come on. Why don’t we talk about nobles we could get on our side and how to handle the council? They will be less than eager to let this happen. They will not want to be in the King’s crosshairs.”
“They’ll do their jobs. They might not like it, but they will. If not, they could lose their place at court. They won’t gamble that. Now, please. Go get me a doctor. One of the good ones too who stitches well. I don’t need to add to my collection of scars.” He sighed.
“I’m sure the women would see it as manly.”
Wesley deflated at the idea. Most women didn’t know how to react to the scars on his arms. How would they react to the forest of them on his back?
“Doubtful,” Wesley sighed. “Let’s not have this conversation. I don’t have time to think about women.”
“What about Serena?”
Wesley felt the flush in his cheeks and despite the pain, he grabbed a pillow chucking it at Daryl. Daryl laughed, catching the pillow.
The Trial of a Tyrant: The Assassin of Acreage Book Two Page 2
