BALTHAZAR JOH’EL
BALTHAZAR JOH’EL
Fifty last night,” Vice-General Maranna said as she slipped into the room Balthazar had been confined to since that morning, bringing with her two sheets of yellowed paper.
“And the real number?” Bal asked. Today was the last trial for the crown, and judging by the fact he was locked up in a waiting room in the royal arena, it would be a dirty fight to the death between him and Janos. Good.
Maranna pulled a finer piece of paper out from under the worn one. This one wasn’t pocked and yellowed. No one but them would see this one. “One hundred and seven,” she said, then threw herself into a chair while Bal fixed his hair in a candlelit mirror.
The general pouted. “Couldn’t get it up to one-ten?”
“I’ll tell them to strangle three of the captives to make the number nicer for you,” Maranna drawled.
“Oh, please,” Bal snorted. “We don’t take captives.
” He pulled at one of his curls. Having his hair bouncing in his face during a fight was a little stupid, but his favorite Wraith had taken to tugging on his hair during kisses and he wanted to give her the perfect tendril to yank when he grabbed her after killing Janos.
Maranna sighed. “We should petition for a longer waiting period,” she said.
Bal turned to his sister and found her picking at her lip.
“I know,” he said. “This brings our total up to… what? Five hundred and some change? And we still haven’t hunted down Gustoe.
” He set his hands on his hips. He was secretly pleased his soldiers hadn’t tracked down the general of the Wail yet. He wanted to gut that bastard himself.
“No,” Mar said. “Because you’ve only been resting a week after a big-ass eagle tried to eat you.” She cocked her head at him. “Or did you forget that, sneaking up on the roof to canoodle with a Wraith?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, jumping from foot to foot to prove it. He didn’t tell her his leg spasmed. “Besides, spending time with Esme is healing.”
“Healing what part?” Maranna asked, pursing her lips.
“It’s not like that,” Bal told her, leaving the mirror to plop down in a chair across from her. “My heart is… exceedingly fond of her.”
“I know. It’s disgusting.” Mar sighed. Then again, she was used to Balthazar and his set of pretty ladies taking turns slipping into his tent thrice a week. They knew about each other, of course. Sometimes they’d all drop in on him at once if they sensed he’d had a particularly bad day.
And now, Bal was prowling around Esme’s door like a lost dog.
“Are you jealous?” he asked, crossing his legs.
“I heard she has two sets of fangs, you know.”
“I like a little bite.”
Mar hitched her lip and threw the papers at him.
Bal reviewed the letters from Wally, whom he’d left in charge of the Scourge in his and Mar’s absence.
He’d told Esme a few days ago that he’d been stretching out the competition to buy time for the people in the Lake, but that had only been partially true.
While Janos was stuck here, the Wail was mostly stationary.
That gave Bal’s men plenty of time to burn their camps.
So far, they’d roasted five hundred pigs.
Bal itched to join in. Most of his clashes with the Wail had been skirmishes, but fire? He’d never burned a man before.
“Why aren’t you more worried?” Mar grumbled.
“Because the dangers of romancing beautiful women are their own rewards?”
“No, about yourself, Bal. You’re still hurt. You’re pretending not to be, but you are.”
“Seems confusing. Why would I do that?” He pursed his lips.
Mar refused to find him funny. “Because you want that crown—badly,” she said.
Bal looked up from the letters, licking his lips. “What’s wrong with wanting something?”
“Not being strong enough to take it.”
He faked a hiss. “My own sister, not confident in me?”
Again, no laugh from her.
Bal leaned forward against his body’s protests. “I understand that you’re concerned—”
“You were unwell for as long as it took you to charm your way into a Wraith’s bed and now you’re rushing through a fight for your life so you can exterminate the Wail,” Mar said. She leapt up from her chair to lord over him. “Because you’re a bloodthirsty whore.”
He pouted. Bloodthirsty, yes. Whore? Perhaps.
“No. Because I have a mission. We’ve always had a mission, Mar.
What’s gotten into you?” he asked, hauling himself up and grabbing her shoulders.
When had they gotten so wide? Wider than his, and higher because she was taller than him, too. One year older, always.
“No, Bal. You’ve always had this mission,” she said. “We’ve always wanted to help people, but you? You were always so focused on punishment. Why? What does that do for you?” She broke it to him quietly, like she was saying something he didn’t know.
“Because they deserve it,” Bal said easily, hooking a finger under her chin. “It’s just that simple. I don’t enjoy it, but the gods all give us a task. This is just mine.”
“I’ve never seen you pray to the gods,” Maranna said accusingly.
Bal grinned.
“I swear…” She rubbed her face, groaning and giving up in one tired sound. “Just… just be careful today. Be smart. Do not die. And when this is over, before you put a whole legion of men down, maybe we should think through our next steps.”
Bal nodded at her as she worked through this little bout of anxiety, only half listening, until Mar stepped away from him, taking the papers and reminding him that he had only a few minutes to the trial.
And yes, he should stretch, and yes, he should focus, and yes, he knew where she and the others would be sitting, and yes, he knew they’d throw him a sword if he asked for it.
Yes, yes, yes. He walked her out of the room and left her with a kiss to the cheek that she wiped away, despite the heat lingering in her face.
Bal shut the door after her and sighed into his empty space.
She had a point. He was hurt, and there was more to being king than killing other men. But Mar didn’t understand. She was lucky. Her parents had caught colds and died in their beds. No blood, clean and easy.
Bal still remembered being six, tucked under the table while his mother’s pleas for help gurgled in her thinning throat. He’d been there, and he’d done nothing. He wished he’d been braver. It had haunted him for years upon years that he hadn’t been. But it had taught him a lesson, too.
He had to fight for his family or he’d lose them.
Already had lost them, in fact—first his mother, then his brothers and uncles in Lukas’s coup, then Darius.
Since then, Bal had never had a full family, not until now, really, with Mar and his kids and…
and Esme, even. And he’d gained that family through punishing others, through killing anything that might hurt them, even before it drew its blade.
He likened it to a father hunting wild boar to feed his family.
The father would bring back the carcass and section off the fat and bones and meat, make something useful from the beasts that would ruin them.
Just like how Bal went out and slaughtered a pile of men and returned with the peace of mind that his children would be safe for one day more.
That peaceful mind was what planned their cities and fed them and clothed them.
If Bal didn’t kill regularly, his soul grew restless. His kids needed him focused.
One would think something so important would be more memorable, but Bal often blacked out on hunts.
Sometimes, he saw the man who’d killed his mother when he massacred Wail men.
Sometimes, he saw nothing at all. But how the violence came about didn’t matter.
It was right, and it was good, and it was brave.
Bal hadn’t been brave that first time. He’d never make that mistake again.
A knock tore Bal from his thoughts. His skin prickled, thinking of Esme leaning against the doorframe. They’d done nothing but kiss, but she was ruining him touch by touch already.
“Come in!” he yelled, turning towards his door. “Are you here to badger me too, pretty Wra—”
But there was no pretty Wraith at his door. There was just Janos. Alone.
“Can we speak?” he asked, not stepping over the threshold until Bal invited him in.
Bal licked his lips. Fuck, he didn’t have a knife.
“Fine,” he said with a nod, and Janos slipped in, shutting the door behind him.
The air soured. In a few minutes, Isobel would set them on each other in a ring, and a few minutes after that, Janos would be dead. And here he was, standing in Bal’s room, pale and tall, a phantom already haunting his killer.
“What is it that you want to talk about?” Bal asked, gingerly dropping himself into a chair. He gestured to the one across from him, and Janos sat, crossing his hands and legs. Bal noticed his palms, though—red and callused, hidden under trimmed nails and clean fingers.
“You’ve won one trial and the second appears to be a draw,” Janos said, opening his jacket and pulling a sheet of crisp, pale paper from the pocket.
“You’re a fierce fighter. There is a good chance you could be king today.
” He spoke with all the poise of a prince and not an ounce of love lost. He didn’t seem to mind the idea of losing.
“There is a very good chance, yes.” Bal minded his nails. “Here to beg for your life?”
“Oh, please.” Janos smiled with anxiety wadded thickly in his words.
“You don’t take captives.” He placed the piece of paper on the table between them.
“These are the names of the architects of the Wail’s tax and border strategies.
They’re the ones who tell the bands where to go and who to target, the ones who order the weapons, that shift the money around, who approve the burnings. They’re the ones to blame.”
Bal’s brows flinched close.
“No, they’re not all soldiers,” Janos explained. “Many are civilian men on my father’s council, merchants that need the land cleared to build on.”
“Why are you giving me this?” Bal asked, leaning forward to grab the paper. Just as his fingers touched it, Janos grabbed his wrist.