Chapter 27 Alarik
Alarik
Alarik stood by the frozen lake on the front lawn, listening to the frantic footsteps of his wrangler. ‘I got your message!’ she called out, as she approached. ‘What’s the emergency?’
He turned to greet her, raising both of the swords in his hands. ‘It’s time for your training session.’
She skidded to a stop, nearly tripping over her own feet. ‘What?’
Alarik frowned. ‘We’ll start with your balance.’
The wrangler raked her copper-streaked hair back from her face.
It fell in loose tendrils down her back today, free of the usual tight braid that kept it out of her eyes.
His message must have reached her while she still getting dressed for the day.
It was obscenely early after all, but Alarik had risen before the sun, finding himself unable to sleep.
And once awake, his mind became full of thoughts of her.
And more pressingly, the bleak admission she had made to him yesterday morning in the arena.
That she did not in fact own a sword. Or indeed know how to hold one.
Unimaginable.
‘What?’ she said again. ‘Now?’
‘When else but now?’ said Alarik, evenly. ‘You’d hardly prefer your instruction in the middle of battle?’
She gaped at him. ‘And you’re my tutor?’
He flashed his teeth. ‘Lucky you.’ He hadn’t even considered assigning one of his soldiers to the task. It was far too important. She was his wrangler. His responsibility. Her safety was as paramount as his own. He would trust no one else with it.
He tossed her the smaller of the two swords, making sure it landed a safe distance from where she stood. ‘We should get started. Time is very much of the essence.’
According to Elias’s network of spies, Regna and her army were already on the march. Soon, they would reach the Blackspires in the north, and war would be upon them. Anxiety churned in his stomach at the ever salient reminder. He became impatient, pointing towards where her sword had landed.
It was a sleek, slimmer blade than his own, forged from lightweight steel, and with a leather-wrapped hilt for ease of training.
Years ago, Alarik had gifted it to Ansel for his sixteenth birthday, hoping it would inspire him to spar.
But Ansel had shown little interest in the blade.
He was, after all, another pure heart who spurned the idea of battle in favour of peace.
Shortly after, he had ceded it to Anika who deemed the sword too flimsy for her tastes and stowed it away in favour of her throwing axes.
It seemed a good fit for his wrangler.
‘Come on, Iversen. Where’s that fighting spirit of yours?’
‘Hang on,’ she huffed, hastily tying up her hair. Alarik watched in rapt interest as she twisted it into an elaborate knot, tucking the stray hairs back from her face until he could see the storm of worry in her eyes.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, feeling an uncharacteristic need to soothe her. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘But what if I hurt you?’
Alarik barked a laugh. ‘I think I’ll survive.’
Scowling now, she crouched to pick up her sword. And dipped a little to the right. ‘It’s heavy.’
It was, in fact, the lightest sword in the entire palace.
He kept this to himself.
‘Walk around with it,’ he said, palming his own sword. ‘Shift your weight from foot to foot, like this. Lift it high and low. You’ll get used to it.’
The wrangler did as she was told, her fingers flexing around the hilt as she tried to acclimatise to its weight. All the while, she stared warily at the gleaming blade, as though it were a snake that might strike at any moment.
Alarik bit back his smile. ‘Any better?’
She looked up at him again. ‘A bit.’
‘Great.’
It was going to be a long day.
‘Let’s start with your battle stance.’ Stowing his own sword, he moved around her. She inhaled sharply when he rested his hands on her shoulders. His grip was just light enough to feel her tremble. Or perhaps it was his own hands, betraying him.
He wasn’t nervous. Of course not. The king of Gevra didn’t get nervous.
He just … didn’t know how to be this close to her without closing his eyes and breathing her in.
He resisted the urge, even though she was facing the other way … even as the scent of her – wildflowers and jasmine – tickled his nose.
Focus, you simpering fool.
He cleared his throat. ‘Feet shoulder-width apart.’
She widened her stance.
‘Now turn slightly, until your dominant foot is facing forward.’ He moved with her. ‘Good. Keep your back straight.’ She stiffened under his touch. ‘Crouch, a little. Yes, just like that. Raise your sword.’
She raised her sword.
Freezing hell.
Her grip was terrible.
‘Your wrist is shaking.’
‘It’s heavy,’ she protested.
‘I watched you carry a fully-grown wolf like a sack of grain last week,’ he said, pointedly.
She tossed a scowl over her shoulder. ‘He was in pain. He’d hurt his paw.’
Alarik rolled his eyes. ‘Well, imagine someone is about to hurt you. On a giant battlefield filled with blood and gore and the dying screams of—’
‘I get it.’
‘Hold still.’ He stepped in close, until her back was flush against his chest and the crown of her head brushed the underside of his chin.
Briefly, his eyes shuttered closed.
She swayed against him, and for an absurd moment, he thought about putting his arm around her waist to steady her.
‘Your grip,’ he said, clearing his throat again. ‘It needs work. The main component of your fist should hold the hilt tightly. Close to the blade. Like this.’ Stars help him, he moved his hand on top of hers, inching her grip forward, pressing her fingers tight around the hilt.
Dangerous.
So very dangerous.
She swallowed thickly. ‘Like this?’
‘Very good, Iversen.’
Iversen.
She was an Iversen.
Tor’s sister.
Don’t forget.
‘But your thumb and your forefinger should be lighter. For ease of movement.’ He stroked her thumb, easing the tension there. ‘Good.’
Step away from the wrangler.
He ignored the warning bells in his head. This was training, nothing more. A vital exercise for a vital component of his war effort.
‘Tense your grip for defence,’ he said, straining to stay focused. ‘Draw your sword up and close to your body.’ The one he could feel pressed against him, warm and supple and— ‘Loosen your grip when you mean to strike. Lunge and swing, straight and true.’
She drew her sword up close, until the hilt pressed against her chest.
‘Like this?’ she whispered.
Not at all.
‘Almost.’
Get away from her.
‘Let’s parry. I’ll show you,’ he said, reluctantly dragging himself away from the warmth of her body. He arced around her, drawing his own sword.
She squared her stance, crouching low.
Without lunging, he lightly tapped his blade against hers.
She wobbled, stumbling backwards.
He stifled a sigh.
‘Wait. I wasn’t ready.’ She hurried forward, resuming her stance.
He tapped her again.
Dire.
And again.
Woeful.
And again.
Even worse than last time.
And once more.
This time, she nearly dropped the sword entirely.
He scrubbed his jaw, looking her over.
She bit her lip. ‘I told you I was bad at this.’
‘New plan,’ he decided. ‘Keep both hands on the hilt at all times. If someone charges at you, screech like a falcon and swing like hell.’
She did as he advised, the blade whistling as she swung it back and forth with complete and utter abandon.
Alarik backed up several steps.
‘Like this?’ she said, screaming madly as she spun around in a circle. ‘Do I look just reckless enough to be intimidating?’
Laughter burst out of him. He had to drop his own sword and bend over just to catch his breath. ‘At least your mind is as sharp as your blade,’ he said, still chuckling.
Across the grass, she was laughing, too, tears streaming from her eyes. They were blue again. Bright and beautiful as sapphires. He was half a heartbeat from telling her so, when a furious boom shook the world.
The earth trembled.
Inside the palace, screams rang out.
Roars and howls filled the morning air.
Iversen’s wide-eyed gaze shifted to something just over his shoulder. ‘The mountains!’ she gasped. ‘They’re breaking apart!’
Alarik spun on his heel, as ice and rubble rained down from the sky.
His heart clenched when he saw it: a brand-new crack ran down the centre of his beloved mountains, as though some almighty being had reached down from the sky to cleave them in two.
‘There were explosives in the tunnels,’ said Vine, the moment she burst into the atrium to offer her full report. Having just returned from the mountains, where the soldiers had been working through the debris all morning, she had run straight into Alarik.
He had been pacing back and forth, waiting for her.
‘Regna,’ he said, through his teeth.
There was no other explanation.
Vine nodded. ‘I suspect they were planted some time ago.’
Alarik went to the window, looking out at his beloved mountains. And the crack that now split them in two. Somehow, Regna had heard about the beast – heard the rumours that something wild and ancient had awoken here. Something angry.
She was trying to free it.
Mercifully, her attempt at unleashing all hell on Grinstad had failed. The creature that snarled beneath the rock was still trapped there, though Alarik’s mountains looked all the worse for it.
‘Who detonated the explosives?’ he said, turning back to Vine. ‘Did you find any bodies?’
Vine shook her head, her dark brows pinched. ‘Not a trace.’
More concerning still.
They stewed in silence, until Vine said, ‘What’s our next move?’
Alarik didn’t hesitate. ‘War.’
Her eyes darkened. ‘It’s about time.’
‘Prepare the soldiers,’ he said, stepping back from the window. ‘We depart in two days’ time.’
The following morning, Alarik woke early and went straight to his war room to look over his final battle plans.
He was still half asleep when he stepped inside, and so, for the briefest moment, he thought he was hallucinating the figure waiting for him at the head of the table.
Clad in a high-collared black velvet gown and with her crimson hair glimmering like fresh blood, Anika Felsing reclined in the king’s chair, wearing a smile made for war. ‘Hello, brother.’
‘Anika?’ Alarik blinked, to make sure he was awake. ‘I thought you were in Eana.’
‘What can I say? I was craving a little war.’ She flashed her teeth. ‘You hardly thought I’d let you have all the fun without me?’
Alarik returned his sister’s wolfish grin, his heart soaring at the sudden realness of her, here in his war room. Home, at last. ‘Your timing is impeccable,’ he said, striding towards her. ‘Queen Regna will be quaking in her helmet.’
‘Good,’ she said, rising to embrace him. ‘That bitch’s skull is mine.’
‘Welcome home, Anika,’ he said, with a dark chuckle. ‘You have been missed.’