Chapter 9 Alarik
Alarik
Taking advantage of the fleeting dry spell that followed another night of heavy snowfall, Alarik stood on the frosted lawn of Grinstad Palace, facing off with Captain Vine.
They had been sparring all morning. The king’s arm was starting to ache, and he was parched, but he could still feel the dull roar of frustration in his bloodstream and was determined to drown it out.
To do something useful while he waited for Elias to return from the Blackspires with his report.
Alarik raked his sweat-slicked hair back from his face and raised his sword. ‘Again,’ he said.
Vine huffed a breath, raising her own weapon. ‘We’ve been at this for three hours. How many more times do you want me to knock you on your—’
Clash!
Alarik struck, their swords meeting in a blinding strike.
Vine cursed, ceding a step. Alarik advanced, dealing three more blows in quick succession. ‘Careful, Vine. You’re flagging.’
‘You wish.’ Vine pivoted to the left, and the king’s next strike met thin air. He stumbled a beat and she twisted, bringing her sword around in an arc. He leaped backwards, drawing his own sword flush to absorb the blow.
Vine growled in frustration.
The king smirked. She really was flagging. He shoved and she tripped, her foot catching a wayward rock. He pounced, but she rolled over before he could pin her with his boot heel.
He fell back, allowing her a second to get to her feet.
They were both exhausted, both growing sloppy.
This wasn’t about victory. It was about training.
It was about feeling useful in these interminable moments between preparation and all-out war.
It was about drowning out the rush of his own panic and those terrifyingly vivid thoughts of ash clouds rising above the Blackspire Mountains, of his beloved kingdom bowing under the heel of Queen Regna.
Alarik roared as he swung, directing his frustration at a nearby hedge. He lopped off six branches in one go.
‘Way to piss off the landscapers.’ Vine sheathed her blade. ‘I think that’s enough for today.’
With a ragged sigh, Alarik lowered his sword.
Vine was right. He turned to face the lake.
Across the yawning sheen of ice, he watched the reflection of the Fovarr Mountains heaving in the weak sunlight.
Not heaving, breathing. He jerked his head up, finding the mountains before him.
He swore he heard the peaks groaning as they rose and then fell a moment later.
Though Vine kept telling him he was imagining the slight movement, Alarik knew he wasn’t wrong.
And he wasn’t the only one at Grinstad who sensed the strangeness in those mountains …
Which reminded him.
‘Tell me about the wrangler,’ he said, as he approached the lake.
‘She’s determined,’ said Vine, drifting after him. ‘She’s been working day and night since she arrived last week.’
‘Is she making progress?’
‘The beasts are falling into line.’ A note of admiration had crept into Vine’s voice. ‘Quicker than I expected.’
‘Good,’ muttered the king. He had suspected as much. The chorus of howls at Grinstad had already quietened substantially. He was no longer woken in the night by the roars of unsettled beasts or the strangled shouts of his own soldiers.
‘Though our soldiers seem to be keeping a wide berth of her,’ Vine added, after a beat. ‘They don’t seem to know what to make of her. Or whether she’s worthy of their respect.’
Alarik hmm’d. ‘Do you suppose it bothers her?’
Vine shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’
Alarik came to a stop at the edge of the lake, peering down at his own glassy reflection.
His face was pale and drawn, and his eyes were wild.
Even his teeth looked sharper than usual.
He recalled with some discomfort the morning he had stalked the Iversen girl into the soldiers’ hut and demanded her subservience.
How she had faced him with disconcerting ease, like he was no more than one of her beasts. A thing to be called to heel.
Alarik was used to being feared. Even as a scowling child, the servants fled from him. He was used to soldiers watching him from the alcoves as he passed, dipping their chins to avoid his gaze, flinching from the bite of his anger whenever he stalked through the palace halls.
Like the Gevran kings and queens who had come before him, Alarik was a weapon, honed for war.
His father had raised him to be strong, not kind.
To be fearless. And feared. He was a beast expected to maim and kill to protect his kingdom, a destiny Alarik had always embraced even if it sometimes frightened him.
He didn’t suffer betrayal or weakness, incompetence or insubordination.
He rarely even suffered the company of friends.
He was the king, and the king of Gevra stood alone.
Not because he wanted to, especially, but because most often, people were too scared to stand anywhere near him.
Once, over a year ago, he thought he had found someone who might stand beside him.
A witch with a quiet ferocity of her own.
But he had been mistaken about Wren Greenrock.
Or more likely, mistaken about himself. Perhaps he was destined to be a lone wolf.
Lethal and vicious, always prowling at the edges of war.
And yet the wrangler had shown no fear in his presence.
She had just stared at him in a way he was unused to – as though she was studying him, quietly learning the rhythm of his moods.
Even now, that sensation of being studied, of being known, prickled under his skin.
He should have been sterner with her in the hut that day, crueller.
He told himself it was his loyalty to her brother, Tor, that had clouded the full might of his anger and made him afford a level of leniency he was not known for.
Or perhaps it was desperation that dampened his rage and kept him from throwing her into the dungeons.
For months, he had needed a wrangler, and suddenly, there she was, mouthing off in his war room.
Unbelievable.
‘As far as I can tell, she keeps mostly to herself,’ said Vine, into the silence. ‘Although on occasion, she has lunch with the falconer. He, at least, seems to have taken a shine to her.’
Alarik wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t care. So long as she stays.’
‘She’ll stay,’ said Vine. ‘She needs the coin.’
His chest tightened, a knot forming at those words.
They proved his own suspicions true. He’d noticed how slight the Iversen girl was that day in the war room.
There were hollows in her cheeks from what he thought must be hunger, and despite the fire of her temper, there was no colour in her cheeks.
She was too pale, too small, nothing at all like the soldier her brother had been here – well-fed and well-trained, tall and hulking and thrumming with the strength of ten men.
No, it was clear to Alarik now. His wrangler was not just hungry for work.
She was hungry for food, for survival. And what of the rest of her family? Wasn’t Tor taking care of them?
He jabbed at the ice with his sword, until a crack spiderwebbed across the lake.
‘She’s up to the task,’ said Vine, misreading his frustration. ‘She might look more like a doll than a soldier, but she’ll do a good job here. She has a way with the beasts. I’m pleased with your choice.’
Alarik nodded. Yes, that was what mattered here – that he was pleased with his choice.
That his captain was happy. Not that the wrangler was happy with hers.
He would pay her handsomely for her work here, and beyond that, her home life was her own business.
If the Iversens needed help, Tor would reach out to him.
Or more likely, Tor would ask his own queen for subsistence.
It was not Alarik’s business – not any more.
He shook off the distraction as a figure came crunching across the lawn. It was Elias, the king’s spymaster returned at last from the northern mountains. Alarik stalked past Vine, rushing to meet him.
‘How bad is it?’ he said, by way of greeting.
‘That depends on your mood,’ said Elias, cagily.
‘Spit it out, Elias,’ said Alarik.
‘Regna is stationing her soldiers twenty miles from the border.’
‘How many?’
‘Hard to tell. The camps are large. Enough to house fifty thousand soldiers. Maybe more.’
Vine bit off a curse.
‘And worse, she’s dredged up a war captain from the bowels of hell itself,’ Elias went on.
‘There are rumours she’s hired a mercenary to lead the charge.
They call him the Spear. A seven-foot warrior with steel teeth and no fear.
They say he runs like a tiger and fights like a blizzard.
Undefeated in over twenty years of warfare. ’
Alarik remained unmoved. ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’
‘The Spear comes from the kingdom of Ryberg. He led Ryberg to war twice without so much as being nicked by an arrow. He kills his enemy’s soldiers, then uses their bodies as shields.’
‘Sounds impractical,’ muttered Vine.
‘I won’t tell you what he does with their heads.’
‘Yes, save something for dinner conversation,’ said Alarik.
Elias glared between them. ‘In Ryberg, children speak of the Spear to frighten each other at bedtime. They say he’s not even human.’
‘Good thing I’m not a child, then,’ said Alarik, folding his arms. ‘If this Spear you speak of moves against my country, I welcome the chance to make the first nick. And the second. And the third.’ He flashed his canines. ‘Let’s see what colour the living legend bleeds on the point of my sword.’
Elias scrubbed a hand across his face.
‘Any soldier can be felled,’ said Vine, taking heart in Alarik’s confidence. ‘And for all you’ve said about the Spear, I’ve heard nothing of dragons. Or wyverns. Which is a good sign, is it not?’
Elias hesitated.