Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
T he day was already long and Thea watched her escort with the same resentful fascination as before.
The two great swords sheathed across his back were enormous and, like all Warsword weaponry, forged with Naarvian steel.
But since the fall of that kingdom, no new warriors had passed the Great Rite and thus, no new blades had been presented.
Was that why Hawthorne had called her dagger sacred?
Thea studied the way he sat in his saddle, how with a subtle movement of his knees, he could steer his horse as though it were an extension of him.
‘Who taught you to ride?’ she asked, deciding that it was an innocent question in the face of all she truly wanted to know.
He actually groaned.
‘This would be a lot less painful if you got over yourself and just answered.’
‘I don’t owe you answers, Alchemist. My only task is to get you to Harenth in one piece, though with the rate you pry, I make no promises on the latter.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Is that another question?’
Thea swore.
‘You curse like an alchemist.’
‘And you act like a prick.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ he muttered.
‘On that I have no doubt.’
A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘Sorry to shatter your illusions about the legendary Warswords.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘You’re right, I’m not.’
‘Are you this obnoxious with everyone? Or have you saved that just for me?’
‘Obnoxious?’ Hawthorne bit out. ‘I’m obeying the orders of the Guild Master. I owe no one small talk, especially a woman who put the midrealms at risk by wielding a blade.’
It was Thea’s turn to laugh. ‘I’ve been carrying that blade for six years ,’ she snapped. ‘And I didn’t see a swarm of shadow wraiths invading Thezmarr.’
‘Six years…?’ Hawthorne chewed on the words.
‘Yes. Six years.’ Thea realised she was grinding her teeth. ‘Perhaps you had it right from the start. It’s best if we don’t talk for a while.’
‘Finally, something we agree on,’ he retorted before surging forward on his stallion.
This time, Thea didn’t race to catch up; she needed the fresh air without his smouldering presence.
They travelled through the gold and green farmlands, where workers paused in the fields to stare at them.
Well, to stare at Hawthorne, the Hand of Death.
Thea supposed it wasn’t often they had a legendary Warsword in their midst. Some of them even bowed as they passed, their reverence only serving as fuel to Thea’s burning curiosity.
At what point in his life had he changed from the man to the legend?
Was there a moment? A particular battle?
Was it years of culminating a bloody reputation?
As her earlier anger ebbed away, several times she turned to the warrior, a question on her lips, but he shook his head, a look in his eye that said, don’t you dare .
They had been riding for hours when the Warsword brought them to a stop just before the fields of a vast crop.
‘The horses need to rest,’ he said by way of explanation.
After hours in the saddle, Thea was grateful for the opportunity to stretch her legs. On the crest of the hill, she surveyed the farmlands beyond.
‘Who owns it all?’ she asked, forgetting the present company for a moment.
To her surprise, Hawthorne answered. ‘King Artos.’
‘He owns everything?’
‘The Fairmoore family owns all the land in Harenth. That’s why the people pay such high taxes.’
‘Have you met him before? King Artos?’
‘Many times.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘What’s he like? What should I expect when I make my case to him and the other rulers?’
‘The unexpected.’
Thea wished Wren was there to roll her eyes at. ‘Gods, you’re a terrible conversationalist.’
‘I don’t do pleasantries.’
‘Clearly.’ She sighed. ‘But this isn’t about pleasantries to me. This is important. It’s everything .’
After hours of travel, he looked at her, really looked at her. ‘King Artos is a hard man to predict,’ he allowed. ‘A trait you’ll find common among the kings and queens of the midrealms.’
Thea paced, trying to rid herself of the unease that churned within. ‘You think it’s a waste of time, don’t you?’
‘I never said that.’
‘But you think it.’
‘What I think shouldn’t matter.’
Thea stopped short. ‘But it does,’ she admitted. ‘You’re a Warsword of Thezmarr, the very thing I aspire to be. How could it not matter to me?’
For the first time since they’d met, Hawthorne’s expression softened. The harsh lines of his face faded and he offered a tentative smile. ‘You need thicker skin than that if you mean to succeed.’
The small kindness caught Thea off-guard and, for a moment, she struggled to tear her focus away from the soft curve of his lips.
‘Thicker skin,’ she managed. ‘Got it. Anything else?’
‘Try not to piss off your superiors.’
Thea blinked in disbelief. ‘Was that a joke?’
‘No idea what you’re talking about.’
A sudden icy wind swept through the lands below, stinging Thea’s cheeks. She pulled her cloak tight, though it made little difference.
‘Winter winds from Aveum,’ Hawthorne explained. ‘This valley bears the brunt of it and we won’t reach the end by sundown. We’ve got a cold night ahead of us.’
Thea’s teeth were already chattering, the golden rays of sun doing nothing to warm her when she was back on her horse. ‘Is it always like this in these parts?’ she asked.
‘No. The winds have come sooner than expected.’
‘Why is that?’
Hawthorne gazed out into the distance and shifted in his saddle. ‘The midrealms respond to unrest.’
When night fell, the winds howled in earnest, but there was nowhere to take shelter. They had no choice but to make camp in an empty paddock as the icy gale carved through the surrounding valley, sharp as a blade.
Both she and Hawthorne attempted the same duties as the night before, but not with all the skill in the world could Thea light a fire in those conditions. Nor was there any game to be found.
‘We’ll have to make do with rations,’ Hawthorne said, returning his bow to the rest of his belongings.
Thea nodded numbly from where she sat in a ball on the ground and reached for her pack with frozen fingers.
Hawthorne still towered above. ‘If we stack our saddles and bags and sleep behind them, we can create a bit of a barrier between us and the wind,’ he said, already moving towards his stallion.
Though Thea wanted nothing more than to curl up beneath her blanket, she forced herself to follow suit. She wouldn’t have him thinking she was weak or lazy. Together, they crafted a makeshift wall against the icy blast and took shelter behind it, shivering side by side.
Thea’s focus went straight to where their arms grazed one another. With Hawthorne being so huge, there was no way they couldn’t touch in such a confined space. He noted her gaze.
‘I can make do elsewhere if you’re uncomfortable,’ he said.
For a moment Thea imagined his hulking frame out in the open, exposed to the bite of the cold.
Despite her misgivings about the brute, it didn’t sit well with her.
She shook her head. ‘It’s fine,’ she told him, her stomach fluttering.
‘Makes sense to stay close and make the most of what little body heat we have.’
‘If you’re sure…’
‘I’m sure.’
In the end, they didn’t bother with the rations, nor try to talk over the screeching gale.
Hawthorne remained upright against the saddles, as though determined to keep some semblance of space between them.
But Thea was too exhausted to care. She longed for the reprieve of sleep and, thankfully, she drifted off the moment she curled up on her bedroll.
Strong arms encased Thea, wrapping her in a delicious warmth while deep breaths tickled the crook of her neck. As she woke to the rose and lilac clouds above, no sign of the howling winds from the night before, she realised whose heart it was that beat steadily against her back…
Hawthorne was holding her to his chest, every inch of him flush against her, the heat of him soaking through the thin layers between them.
When did this happen? How? A Warsword held her in his arms. The Warsword. And in the depths of slumber, he pulled her closer still, creating a hot friction between them that Thea, still groggy with sleep herself, arched into without thinking.
To find him hard against her.
Her breathing hitched, an ache building between her thighs. Tipping her head back, the scent of his soap was intoxicating, and a flush of warmth spread through her whole body.
Hawthorne stirred, slowly, every movement only heightening Thea’s awareness of exactly where they touched.
A low hum of pleasure sounded against her skin and then —
‘Fuck!’
The contact vanished and the chill of the dawn air swept in.
‘Fuck,’ Hawthorne said again, leaping up, a rare blush gracing the tops of his cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, I —’ he stammered, turning away from her and adjusting his clothes.
Thea was on her feet, holding her arms across her chest, trying to rub the warmth back into her limbs, trying to erase the memory of his imprint against her.
‘It’s fine,’ she said, though her voice betrayed a tremble. Gods, she’d moved against him, she’d sought his touch…
‘Truly, Alchemist, I never meant —’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I must have… reached out in my sleep.’
Somehow, his mortification eased the throbbing in her own body and the confusion that came with it. A laugh bubbled out of her.
‘You think this is funny?’ he demanded, incredulous.
‘A little.’ She gave his pants a pointed glance where there was no hiding the unmistakable bulge.
‘Gods,’ he muttered, adjusting the fall of his shirt again. ‘You’ll be the end of me.’ He snatched his swords from the ground and walked off. Thea soon heard a curse, and the distinct sound of water being tipped over his head.