My Demon Warlord

by Carolyn Jewel

  Mair drew breath at last.

  The wooden railing around the gallery created an illusion of separation from the tourney grounds, but a reasonably agile person could step or jump over it and be among the soldiers in ten paces. Five paces from the gallery, Dal Atul went down on one knee. He bowed his head, right fist pressed to his left shoulder. A soldier, one of the regulars, spat into the dust.

  Atul, for reasons the subject of yet more rumor, had fallen out of favor with Veren. He’d strangled the king’s mistress after discovering she’d been unfaithful to their sovereign. One version had it that she’d been unfaithful with Atul himself. After he’d sated himself on her body, he’d killed the woman for her infidelity. Whatever the truth, he’d lost his place among the king’s personal guard and now was here, a performing monster.

  A girl sitting near Mair, the daughter of one of the Tallend delegation present to conclude a treaty with King Veren, gasped when Atul lifted his head. Someone shushed her.

  “Proceed.” Veren flicked a finger. He was past middle years, with a reputation for sexual excess and a mind for military tactics that, nearly thirty seasons past, had conceived of and executed the campaign that crushed the elvish armies at two borders. In their retreat, the elves had taken their measure of revenge. All remembered. None forgot.

  Veren’s sleeves were slashed to reveal a gold lining. Pearls encircled his cuffs, and gold and silver thread gleamed at his collar and in the embroidery that covered his doublet. Though he sat not quite straight on his chair with one booted foot on a low, velvet-covered stool, goblet of ice wine in hand, no one could look at Veren and think him a man softened by his years of rule. His eyes were too penetrating for that. He’d conceived and created the King’s Own, after all.

  The Dragon stood, his malevolent blue gaze scanning the gallery. He did nothing to hide his ruined cheek. Scars, some the size of Mair’s smallest finger, crisscrossed the right side of his face and neck and twisted his mouth into a permanent scowl. Taller and more muscular than the others, he looked too big to be quick. The elvish bastards who survived tended to be both. His gaze continued moving, assessing the spectators and, so it seemed to Mair, finding them beneath his notice.

  Mair was always the least grandly dressed of the women at court and not deliciously foreign like the Tallend women, with their dark hair and eyes. There was no reason, no reason at all, for Atul’s gaze to pause at her. Yet she did not think it was her imagination that it did. She met his eyes, fell into them, and her heart twisted. Irrevocably, in searing, permanent damage, caught up in the ancient magic still swirling inside her. It was magic. Her breath caught in her throat, and the new shape of her life was a sword, fatally sharp.

  The women near the gallery railing retreated so that Mair, who had been in the middle of the spectators to the left of Veren, found herself with no one between her and Atul. She learned something new: she was indeed afraid of him. What sane person would not be? But she refused to move. Not one jot. The Dragon would not despise her for cowardice.

  The Tallenders recoiled, men and women both, and that made Mair wonder if Veren had not made a canny choice when he chose to humiliate his Dragon in this manner. The king’s mistress had been from one of the Tallend border villages decimated during the Elvish retreat and now among the disputed territories. The Tallenders were here to press for the return of the southwest edge of the Fensic Empire. Veren’s position was that the lands were his by right of conquest and current possession. He’d sent troops southwest to discourage elvish incursions, but if the additional troops also delivered a message to the Tallenders, that was to his benefit.

  Perhaps Atul, too, delivered a message for the king. Mair could not help but think he did. This, my people, is what will happen if the borders are not guarded. More half-blood bastards born by your women.

  The shape of his ears and eyes gave away his elvish blood, and by now the Tallenders must have heard the rumors about the reason for Atul’s disgrace. Like the other King’s Own, he wore his long hair plaited into tiny braids held back from his face by a leather thong. The braids were a part of a private ritual undertaken when a soldier made the oath that bound his life to Veren. The undamaged areas of Atul’s face hinted that he might once have been of at least average appearance. Perhaps even handsome. If not that, then compelling.

  Atul glanced away from Mair, and she let out the breath her fear had trapped in her throat. He nodded to Veren and returned to the grounds. The soldiers nearest him backed away, giving him room. Was it respect or fear that made his compatriots keep such a distance? Both, Mair imagined. Dal Atul was a monstrous man.

  Veren leaned forward on his chair and spoiled his air of indolence.

  “Now,” said Estes for anyone to hear, “I think we shall see a sight worth having come out in this heat.”

  Veren handed his goblet to a servant. “We hope not to be disappointed.”

  Atul drew his sword and, alone, moved through a series of steps familiar to any student of the blade. Mair whispered the name of each form. This was beauty: a man with such command over his body. The Dragon flowed from one move to the next, each motion precise and calculated to kill.

  Once done with the basic patterns, he switched his sword to his left hand and began again, as perfect as before. When he completed the forms, he nodded to one of the nearby regulars. The man who stepped forward wore leather gear, metal breastplate and gauntlets layered with white steel of Elvish make. Southerners hated the Elvish, and with reason, but they did not disdain superior smiths. Elvish blades sometimes went years before they needed sharpening. Today, for a tourney more a demonstration of prowess than a competition, the swords, elvish or not, had been magically blunted.

  As Atul stepped forward, shouts rose up from the crowd of ragged and dirty boys. Cries of “Kill the Elvish bastard!” rose above whistles and jeers. The Dragon crooked his fingers at his opponent, a silky smile curving the undamaged side of his mouth.

  Estes bent his head to Mair’s. Her uncle was Veren’s advisor, a light-haired man with a neat goatee, green eyes and a devotion to fashion first taken up when Veren called him to court some fifteen years ago. Her father oversaw her uncle’s Northern holdings. Embossed iron rings encircled each of his fingers, and he wore an iron stud in one ear. Between shoulder and elbow, his wide sleeves were slashed to reveal a purple silk lining. He wore the leggings and high boots so popular at court and carried off the look with elan.

  “I do not blame him if he refuses to fight the Dragon,” he said.

  “Ah, but look, uncle.”

  Having relented, the challenged soldier moved into a ready stance, sword lifted. He was young and fit, of course, with a pretty face and brown hair cut close to his head. From the sighs around Mair, he was a favorite with the young ladies.

  Mair did not look away when the Dragon turned the scarred side of his body toward the gallery. Several of the ladies gasped. Her chest pinched. Not in pity. Nor in disgust, but in a reaction that fluttered at the edges of her heart.

  Though it was well before midday, the sun beat down, merciless in the blue sky. The lightweight armor the soldiers wore exposed more of their bodies than usual and made it possible to see that Atul’s injuries extended beyond his face and throat to his shoulders and lower. Both arms were scarred.

  The two combatants faced off. An older soldier who wasn’t wearing armor gave the signal to start. Moments later, Atul disarmed his pretty opponent. Mair applauded with the men and the smaller number of women who, like her, knew good sword-work when they saw it. The rest bemoaned the pretty one’s defeat. Money changed hands and new wagers were laid down.

  The king leaned toward Mair. She was close enough to smell the lemongrass and cedarwood that scented his clothes. “You did not wish young Sult to come away the victor?”

  She curtseyed and answered honestly, even though she was aware of Veren’s displeasure with Atul. “Majesty. I applaud the better swordsman.”

  “Better.” He snorted and rais
ed his voice. “Better, because he won?”

  “No, Majesty.” She tried to keep her tone light. More than once her uncle had taken her to task for speaking too bluntly. Her excuse that she was a Northerner never sufficed. Her uncle had been with Veren long enough to lose his Northern ways. “Because he is the superior swordsman. Surely, you did not think he would lose to Sult?”

  “Perhaps I wished him to.”

  “If you did, did you tell Atul?”

  The king gave her a sideways look and pointed to the field. “Who wins this match?”

  Mair considered the Dragon’s new challenger and thought the answer obvious. “Atul will have him in two moves. Possibly one.”

  “You know this for fact?”

  “Not fact, sir. I cannot read the future like one of your mages. But there.” She pointed. “His balance is too much to his back leg. The Dragon will draw him forward, and that one will not be able to correct his balance. He will be too slow.”

  “We shall see,” Veren said.

  The match began. Atul leaned in and allowed the other man to tap his blade, but followed this with a backward slide, catlike and precise. While his opponent struggled to take advantage of the retreat, Atul sidestepped and gave what would have been a killing blow had not his sword edge been blunted. Never mind the dulled edge of the weapon, tomorrow that soldier would feel the bruise.

  “Elegantly done,” Mair remarked, when she could just as easily have crowed, Just as I said.

  Veren cocked his head at her again, eyebrows raised. “A beautiful woman who knows the art of the blade.” He touched a finger to his chin, but his eyes were too intent to support the affectation of irony. “Curious.”

  On the field, Atul moved his sword to his left hand again and set himself for his next opponent, another of the regular soldiers.

  “I give it twenty seconds,” Mair said.

  “We shall see,” Veren replied.

  Indeed, the match was over that quickly. Behind them more wagers were paid and placed. The crowd of boys jeered and gestured crudely in Atul’s direction. “How is it,” the king asked, “that you know the art so well?”

  Mair smiled, but Veren did not smile back. “In the north, Majesty, those who fail to master the blade are soon dead.”

  “Plainly spoken.”

  “Our soldiers learn the art because it means their lives or the lives of their fellows if they do not.”

  “You forget”—He snapped off his words—“these are my soldiers, not yours.”

  Mair bowed her head in acknowledgment. “We never forget that, Majesty.”

  “You relieve me greatly.”

  Another soldier came forward to challenge Atul.

  “Have you a prediction for this match?” Veren asked.

  “I’ve seen Teo fight before. He is talented. Quick, too.”

  “Have you?” Veren cast a look at her uncle. “I was not aware the noblewomen of my court sneak away before dawn to watch soldiers train.”

  Her uncle brushed a finger along her shoulder. A warning to her to be cautious of her words. He chuckled. “Majesty. Do you think young ladies would not?”

  “Mm.” Veren’s attention returned to her. “Tell me then, what you think of them. My soldiers whom you have spied upon so faithfully.”

  “You know as well as I do, sir, that none of these men are a match for Dal Atul. Even among the King’s Own, only one or two come close to his skill.”

  “And?”

  “And?” She raised her eyebrows. “Neither of them are on the field today.”

  The king’s look was shrewd for a man who’d had his wine refilled three times. Already he held a fresh goblet. He stood and so did everyone else in the gallery who’d been sitting. The men on the field came to sharp attention.

  “If Teo wins,” Veren said, raising his voice so he’d be heard, “he’ll have Atul’s former place in my personal guard. Not his current one.” He lifted his goblet as if in a toast. “I wouldn’t give a dog Atul’s place.”

  Teo’s sword arm dropped, then rose again to touch the flat of his blade to his forehead. The soldiers and most of the gallery cheered. Mair did not. Such a promise seemed cruel to her. Teo could not win unless Atul let him.

  “What do you think, Estes?” Veren asked as he sat. “Is your niece the only woman here who hopes that twice-damned Dragon will win?”

  Mair drew herself up, too used to speaking her mind to keep her opinion to herself. “Perhaps I am the only woman here who knows he will win.”

  The king smiled, a lazy curve of his mouth. His eyes settled on her with such intensity, Mair’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you?” he asked.

  “I suspect I am, Majesty.”

  “My Dragon has a champion.” Veren clapped his hands. There was a dull clack of metal against metal when the two iron rings on his thumbs met. “Most excellent. For him.” He addressed Estes. “A champion beautiful enough to think the gods made her for him, eh, Duke?”

  Veren referred to a famous, but, in her opinion, tiresome, story of a young man of no fortune who fell in hopelessly in love with a woman so beautiful that princes sought her hand. He would have perished from despair had not the gods appeared and revealed that she had been fashioned for him.

  “Don’t you dare agree with that, Uncle.” She rolled her eyes. “As if the woman hadn’t the good sense to look past idiot princes to the one man in the story with a good heart.”

  Several people laughed, even some of the Tallend delegation. Her uncle bowed to Veren, hands clasped at his chest. “My niece is of an impetuous mind, Majesty.”

  The king waved off the remark. On the field, Teo had stepped aside to consult with the master of swords for the regular troops, a gray-haired man whose sun-browned skin was taut over a sinewy body. Atul waited while Teo nodded in response.

  The king took a sip of his wine. “Are you in love, Lady Mair?”

  “In love?” She drew her eyebrows together. What sort of infernal question was that?

  “Come now, is there no young gentleman at court or at home who’s captured your heart?”

  “No, Sire. There is not.”

  He slouched on his chair again, but there was no mistaking the vigor of his body. He’d been a soldier before he was king. “The garrison your father commands, it’s near the border with the Bloodhand elves?” He shot a look at her uncle. “Is that not so, Estes?”

  “Yes,” her uncle said.

  “Troublesome, that border.” He didn’t raise his voice, but the members of the Tallend delegation were listening. “That is often the nature of borders. To be troublesome.”

  “Berrence holds fast, though,” Estes said of Mair’s father.

  “He does,” Veren said. “That he does.” He held out his goblet, and a servant stepped forward to replenish the contents. “Tell me about your northern elves, Lady Mair.”

  “They tend to be from the Bloodhand sept, though we see others from time to time. They are reclusive and don’t come to the garrison often.” The peace, such as it was, had been in place more years than she’d been alive, but memories were long and northerners bore grudges; against each other and against the Bloodhand elves. They had their share of half-bloods in the north. She glanced at her uncle and was not reassured by his expression.

  “I’ve asked the question of you, Lady Mair, not your uncle. Go on.”

  “Three times I had the chance to watch one of the Bloodhand elves take up a weapon.” When the king’s eyes widened, she hastened to add, “In peace, to be sure. Not even our best swordsmen lasted more than a minute against them. Each was a remarkable sight, and one I shall never forget.”

  Veren shifted on his chair. “In your opinion, my lady, how would the Dragon fare against an elvish swordsman?”

  “For so large a man, he is quick,” she said. In that respect, Atul benefitted from his Elvish blood. A look in the direction of the field showed Atul watching Teo warm up. His eyes, with their elvish tilt, were flat and dead. “He fights with
the instinct that comes from talent and hour upon hour of practice. No one here matches him.”

  The king’s eyebrows quirked up. “But?”

  She relented. It wasn’t in her to lie. “Against of one of the elvish fighters I saw, Dal Atul would lose his first bout.”

  Veren’s smile chilled her. “No doubt.”

  “But,” she said, “he would learn from his mistakes. He is not challenged here as he would be if he trained with one of the Bloodhand elves. He would dissect their habits and tricks and learn to defeat them.”

  “That is a match I would dearly love to see.” Her uncle spoke in a voice that was a touch too hearty.

  “Perhaps, Lady Mair, we should send him north with you.” Veren lifted his goblet as if in salute. “To match swords with the elves. What say you to that?”

  She curtseyed. “Your Majesty may do as he pleases.”

  “In that, beauteous lady, you are correct.” He grinned, but he spoke without humor. “Unless Estes finds you a husband.”

  Behind her, a woman tittered. Mair’s scorn for flirtation was well known at court.

  “Has that happened, Estes? Have you found a man willing to wed a woman who speaks without fear of the consequences?”

  Estes bowed. “Such negotiations are always a delicate matter, Sire.”

  Veren addressed the Tallend delegation with that unsettling smile that wasn’t really a smile. “Perhaps one of you would take her off her uncle’s hands, eh?” He surveyed the delegation. None of the men were young. “If not one of you, perhaps a son or grandson? What man does not appreciate a beautiful wife? One who can advise your swordsmen. Unstintingly. No?”

  “Majesty, if I’ve offended you . . .” Mair felt her cheeks grow hot.