Chapter Eighteen #2
The tent’s occupants, some startled by their arrival, jumped to their feet and bowed.
With one exception: King Malorn of the Autumn Court, a bronze woodland crown on his head, remained in one of the two large, elevated seats at the back of the tent.
His husband, Henry of Stagfield, a young man dressed in royal finery, did rise and bow before he retook his seat, Malorn’s arm possessively curling around his shoulders.
Malorn’s presence, him being James’s brother-in-law, was a display of James’s power: See, I’m practically royalty myself.
Iver slid his hand into William’s, lacing their fingers together. They stepped toward the second love seat at the back of the tent, elevated above the others. Only when they’d sat down, ermine cloaks pooling around them, did the rest of the lords and ladies take their seats.
“Welcome, Your Majesties,” James said from his place beside his elven husband, Raziel, on one of the lower chairs. They were two peas in a pod, both criminally attractive, long, blond hair falling down their backs, James dressed in sapphire blue to Raziel’s emerald green.
Normally, elves were forbidden from entering intimate relationships with humans as it extended the human’s lifespan to five hundred years.
When James and Raziel had been found out, they were taken to the elven world to stand trial.
Raziel’s crime of sleeping with James carried a death sentence.
Something had to have happened that saved him.
Something big, though William had never found out what.
He’d only heard about the incident when it was over and James and Raziel returned to Castlehill.
“As we are short on time,” James said, “I have taken the liberty of sending a messenger to the orcs.” His lips curled when he added, “They’re camping ten miles from here and haven’t quite caught up to us.
Our troops are positioned to shield us. I’ve informed the orcs that we are open to negotiations and asked them to send a delegation, which we will receive for parley at our camp. They should be here within the hour.”
His cool, assessing gaze rested on William and Iver, seeing if they had anything to add, before he made introductions.
The young woman in rugged leather armor standing beside him, a sword sheathed at her hip, was his sister, Lady Cordelia.
Opposite James, on the other side of the tent, sat his cousin Lord Richard Dalton of Somerdale with a shy spring fae curled into his side. The two of them were constantly touching, Richard stroking and soothing the timid little thing.
Beside them was Richard’s brother George, who shamelessly sat in the lap of another man—no, an imp!
The pointy ears combined with the subtle red glow in his eyes left no doubt.
What was a nobleman doing with an imp, a creature more dangerous than any dark fae?
Something at George’s throat caught the flickering light of the lamps.
A collar? William frowned. A collar signified an imp’s ownership over a human’s soul.
George was the imp’s… slave? There was a story behind this, William was sure of it.
Further down and relegated to single seats—surely James’s way of slighting his peers for refusing to take the orc threat seriously until it was too late—came the rest of the southern lords and ladies, among them Lady Balfe.
Finally, behind James and Raziel, stood Castlehill’s steward, Andre.
He was a man of slender proportions and pretty features.
He wore a neat, unassuming taupe ensemble and had tied his shiny brown hair in an elegant braid.
Andre, despite his large, brown eyes and full, pink lips, had something strict and professional about him.
He seemed the type of man who strapped down emotion and personal opinion while working, leaving a blank canvas upon which his lord may project any qualities he desired.
There had to be more to him than met the eye.
His presence this far from Castlehill was a surprise.
“You’ve taken your steward?” William asked James. The whole point of a steward was that when the lord or lady of the castle was absent, they stepped in, keeping everything running, securing their liege’s rule.
“I’ve taken all of Castlehill with me.”
“You wanted to avoid a siege.”
James shook his head. “There would’ve been no siege.
Castlehill’s walls are tall, but with all my troops spread out in the deep south, there was no one to defend them.
When the front first broke, we fled. I couldn’t leave the people of my barony to their fate, so they came with us.
As did the other lords and ladies of the south.
Lady Lighthall of Stonebridge is said to have perished during the assault on her castle.
” His tone suggested their death was no loss.
“Why did the front break?” Iver asked, his cut-glass enunciation a stark contrast to James’s gently flowing southern accent.
“Because we were overrun, Your Majesty.”
“Why were you overrun?” Iver’s thumb stroked over the wedding mark on the back of William’s hand.
James arched an eyebrow. “I can venture a guess.” He comfortably slid into the arms of his husband.
William didn’t like it. Something was up.
“The orcs had been salivating for men for decades, trying to find a way across the Great River. When they managed to tame its magic, the news spread like wildfire. The orcs first crossed the Great River fifteen months ago. Since then, many must’ve carried captured men back to Oordoon.
Drawn in by the promise of an abundance of fertile mates, the orcs would’ve left their homeland en masse, heading for Vale.
Tens of thousands have come. I don’t know how many more are in Oordoon. It could be millions.”
William tilted his head. “So you’re saying they have the numbers to take Vale.”
“The numbers, yes, but not the constitution. The cold bothers them, and they hate snow. Meaning they can’t hold any conquered land over winter.
What they can do is raid Vale from early spring to late autumn, and the warmer the temperatures, the further north they travel.
They cannot conquer Vale, but they can abduct our men, year after year. ”
“So what do you propose we do?” William asked.
“We can hardly move the entire population north, into the foothills. Even if that were possible, the land there is hard to farm, and there isn’t enough of it to feed the people.
We need our southern reaches to grow crops, and we need farmers, villages and trade routes to feed everyone.
James crossed his legs. “Precisely, Your Majesty. We must retain the land in the south.” My land, James didn’t say, though everyone in the marquee heard it.
“Which means we need to persuade the orcs not to raid it for men. They won’t stop just because we ask nicely, but we can get the orcs back across the Great River if we offer something they want in return. ”
“What are we supposed to offer the orcs? All they want is men.”
Something flashed in James’s eyes. “And why do they want men? Because they want to procreate. Because they want mates. Because, despite their brutish behavior, I suspect they want love. After all, their females disappeared decades ago.” He looked around the marquee.
“Hasn’t it occurred to anyone why the female orcs might have vanished? ”
William’s neck prickled. James knew something. He, in his clever mind, had worked something out that the rest of them hadn’t.
James wasn’t an easy vassal to manage. But like humankind had the men the orcs desired, William had something James wanted. He could be handled.
James, with his elven husband, would live for five hundred years.
He was ambitious, and it was no secret he coveted the throne of Vale.
William would have no human children who could inherit it.
After his passing, the throne would be vacant, threatening a war of succession.
Unless William named a successor. And herein lay the key to controlling James.
William was going to dangle the throne in front of him for the next half-century.
James, given enough assurances, would cooperate.
William would hold him in the palm of his hand.
James didn’t care if he had to wait fifty years. He had all the time in the world.
After the talks with the orcs would have concluded that night, no matter their outcome, William was going to have his own, private negotiations with James. He had a hunch that afterward, both of them would feel like they’d fleeced the other.
Noise erupted outside the marquee, growing louder. There was rustling, the tent flap moved aside, and a messenger stepped inside.
“Your Majesties,” she said and bowed. “He has come to see you. Farigoth the Ravager.”
Heavy footsteps reverberated through the camp. William could’ve sworn the ground was shaking with the weight coming down on it.
An overpowering smell of war, blood and raw power wafted into the marquee. William clasped Iver’s hand, and as if that were a secret signal between them, the temperature in the tent dropped. Snow fell.
Behind James, Andre broke into a sweat, a drop running down his temple. His cheeks were flushed pink, his breathing going fast. He pressed his lips together, but not in time to contain the small whimper that escaped him.
Farigoth the Ravager was here.
TO BE CONTINUED
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