Chapter 5 Cold Kiss of Steel
CHAPTER FIVE
COLD KISS OF STEEL
It was one of those days. The perfect kind. Impossibly blue skies dotted with slow moving clouds. They were wispy things. There was a promise in the perfection. A hint of something to come—a chill in the breeze, the darkening of days. Winter was on the horizon.
Ridan scowled at the sky, shifting on the fence post he was perched on.
The wood was digging into the back of his thighs, but it didn’t contribute to his foul mood.
He hated winter. The cold locked up his joints, made everything more difficult.
He preferred the burn of summer. The blistering light of an unimpeded sun.
Blowing some of his hair from his face, he turned his attention back towards the two boys in front of him.
Despite the tranquility of the day, violence reigned supreme on the dusty ground.
A loud crash had him narrowing his eyes.
Corric was locked with Jonen. His long limbs glistened in the sun, skin still too pale for this climate, even after all these years.
He never seemed to lose the reddish tinge of a burn.
Jonen bared his teeth and tried to kick out the taller boy’s legs.
Corric crouched lower, changing his balance so he could take advantage of the change.
Jonen’s eyes widened a fraction when he realized what was going to happen.
With a shout, Corric had Jonen on his back, pinned beneath the willowy omega.
The bastard had grown up well. What he lacked in bulk, he more than made up with long limbs and an ethereal grace that could only be the byproduct of fine breeding.
He wore his hair longer now, the reddish blonde strands tickling the tops of his shoulders when he didn’t have it pulled back into a knot.
With a small smile, he rolled off Jonen and extended a hand to him.
He helped the thick set alpha up to his feet, dusting him off good naturedly.
Jonen was blushing. His dark curls were stuck to his sweaty forehead, too long for the thick waves to maintain any kind of shape.
They deflated in on themselves after a long day, leaving him looking like a bedraggled rat.
At least, that’s what Ridan told him. Repeatedly.
Osmond shouted for Corric on the other end of the training field. He was standing with Shesto and Oosa. They were covered in dirt. Corric said his goodbyes to Jonen and jogged over to them, his long strides eating up the ground.
Ridan made a face at his retreating back. Despite his late start, Corric excelled at just about everything. He couldn’t settle for just being taller than Ridan. No, he had to be ambidextrous–something Osmond noticed right away—and wield two swords.
Just like the fancy little princeling he was.
He picked at the leather of his short sword. Gone were the days of slings and wooden practice swords. Ridan had grown used to the weight on his hip. Like another limb, he would feel naked without it.
The short, pointed blade was solid. Made by the best blacksmith in the clan. But it wasn’t his father’s sword.
That heavy curved saber still hung on the tent wall.
Ridan stared up at it every night, wondering when he would be ready.
When the time would come when he would grasp the hilt, slot his fingers into the rivets worn down by his father’s sweat and blood.
His mother said he would know when he was ready.
He wanted to be ready now. He wanted to trace the decorations his father had painstakingly chosen to accompany him to battle, wanted to feel his spirit in the razor-sharp edge of the blade.
But he wasn’t. Not yet.
Jonen rubbed his nose with the back of his hand as he trudged back to Ridan.
Dirt clung to his sweaty curls and back.
He’d gone shirtless, showing off the wide expanse of shoulders presenting as an alpha gave him.
The little Jonen Ridan used to tower over was gone—in his place was a hulking alpha that created a shadow big enough to intimidate a juvenile Tetratorn.
He sniffled as he clambered up the fence to join Ridan.
“You let him win,” Ridan observed, his voice full of scorn.
Wide eyes turned to him, curls shaking in denial before his mouth caught up. “What? No, I didn’t.”
“You pulled two punches and ignored an opening.”
Jonen played with a fraying thread on his worn pants. His shoulders hunched under Ridan’s scrutiny. “I just…didn’t want to hurt him.”
Ridan curled his lip in disgust. “You think an enemy will hesitate? You’re not doing him any favors. That’s how he gets killed.”
“I know,” he whined, dropping his chin to his chest. “He looks so—”
Ridan didn’t wait for him to finish, shoving him off the fence. Jonen yelped, flipping backwards to land in a heap on the other side in a puff of dust.
“Mean,” he groaned, not bothering to get up from where he sprawled on his back.
Ridan examined his nails. “When are you going to ask him to mate?”
Jonen spluttered dirt and indignation, his tongue tying into knots with the force of his denial. “That’s-I-I don’t Ridan! I-what?” he pushed himself to his feet, but Ridan shoved him back down. He went without protest.
“Your knot is going to shrivel up before you ever get to use it.”
The alpha answered with a garbled wail of self-pity and embarrassment, “I know.”
Ridan let him wallow in his misery, looking up to see Corric helping Oosa and Shesto practice.
They weren’t warriors—Oosa’s family made the clothes in the clans and Shesto had recently apprenticed with the pot maker.
They had art in their blood but liked to be prepared.
It was important to be able to protect themselves.
“He’s a prince,” Jonen mumbled from the dirt.
Snorting, Ridan twisted to look down at him. “Of what? Drooling on the pillow while he sleeps?” he hopped down off the fence and shook out his legs, getting the blood flowing. “Besides, he was all set up with a royal match and ran screaming straight to you. Obviously, he has terrible taste.”
He left Jonen to ponder his words, resting a hand on the hilt of his blade as he made his way to the stables.
Ridan would rather chew off his own fingernails than admit it aloud, but Jonen was a good man.
He’d always been kind hearted, soft when he could be, but fierce and loyal when the time called for it.
Even when he presented, he didn’t become a knothead.
As an alpha, he would protect his mate without smothering him. Probably be sappy and romantic, too.
And as much as he resented Corric’s unfair height, he was a good man, too.
When Ridan presented, Corric stayed with him.
Held him, comforted him in the way only a fellow omega—a fellow pack member—could.
Corric never brought up things said in the hazy fever of a heat, never judged him.
Just forced him to drink water and eat, let Ridan draw comfort from his frigid scent.
He would be a solid mate for Jonen.
That, and he called for the alpha during every heat. He never remembered afterward, and Ridan usually had enough decency not to mention it, but with every pining glance, he was beginning to lose patience.
He was about to check Peppercorn’s hooves when he noticed a commotion. His mother was riding into camp on her gray mare, face twisted into an uglier scowl than usual. She dismounted before the mare even slowed, tossing the reins to a stable girl before calling out for Osmond.
Her big second was at her side in a moment, following on her heels into the war tent.
What had once been a medium sized tent with wide open flaps had been converted into a more permanent structure.
Chiefs used it for business, preferring to keep the tedium of leadership from their mates and packs.
Restrina stepped up onto the narrow doorway and jerked open the flap, ducking inside without so much as acknowledging Osmond’s presence.
She doesn’t want to talk in the open.
Silently apologizing to Peppercorn, he slipped out of the stables and tried to look casual as he swaggered across the clan.
He made sure to nod to people, greet them as they walked by, before creeping between the war tent and the blacksmith’s shop.
Normally, the clanging of hammer on anvil would drown out any conversations in the tent, but the blacksmith was out for the day.
Dropping to his belly, Ridan scooted up to the base of the tent before prying open the wall just beside the stake, peering up and into the dim tent.
It was hard to see anything other than boots. He’d done this enough to recognize Chief Restrina’s advisors—Gustall, Henroen, and Osmond.
The tent was dark, lit only by embers smoldering in the grate. Shadows danced on their faces, giving them a grim countenance.
“—Ellis confirmed their numbers.” Restrina was saying, naming her preferred scout.
Restrina was leaning over the great table they pulled out for meetings. He couldn’t see what was on the table, but he didn’t need to. His mother had a habit of looking at maps of the region when she needed to think, fingering the thick hide it had been painstakingly copied onto.
Behind her, leaning up against the wall, was the Chief’s throne.
It was a big, ugly thing. The furs heaped on top gave it some comfort—although once, while drunk, Restrina said it made her thighs sweat.
Teeth and bones dangled from it as a declaration of power, an intimidation tactic. Restrina rarely sat on the damn thing.
“Why now?” Gustall asked in his low drawl. He was huddled in the back, arms crossed, chin on his chest. His face could barely be seen under the mass of messy hair. “It’s been years. Why would Krait attack now?”
“He isn’t even attacking,” Restrina spat disdainfully. “He sent General Bargraves.”
“As much as I hate the man,” Henroen’s voice was warm despite the tone of the room. “He is a fighter. By sending Bargrave, Krait is declaring his intent.”