Chapter 4 #2
The table erupted, Brand fighting between laughter and choking on the food in his mouth when another two ales appeared at his elbow. Not by any mystical means, but courtesy of Thaddeus.
“Cousin,” was all Thad said, arching his brow.
There was an impish light in Thad’s eyes, even as his expression was almost bored, and Brand struggled to contain his smile. It had been over a year since he’d seen that sparkling mischief.
Over a year since their Aunt Meliora, Thad’s mother, had died, and he’d worried his cousin would never be the same. Sisters knew, Caius was still wrecked over it.
Forcing his own face to match Thad’s bland look, they stared at each other, waiting.
It didn’t even cross his mind to care that the table had gone quiet, people watching and waiting, focused solely on them. Not when the result was possibly seeing Thad light up with a true smile, maybe hearing his cheeky laugh.
Thaddeus’s lip quirked and, in a blur of motion, they both jumped to snatch a tankard. Ale sloshed, narrowly missing them as they lifted the cups to drink.
He dodged the fist that came at him from the corner of his eye, shouts of Cheater! and Get him! filling the space around them. Brand fought one-handed against Thad’s sabotage, choking back his laughter and finally managing to snag his cousin’s wrist.
He refused to lose to the whelp.
His cup hit the table a split-second before Thad’s and Brand leapt up, bellowing out a triumphant whoop. Thad cursed and leveled a finger at him, breathing hard.
In that moment—skin clear of the usual Thodeleborian markings, face shaven and blond hair just long enough to brush at his collar—Thad looked almost exactly like Magnus had as a younger male.
Full of life and exuberant defiance. Only his eyes were different, a deep cerulean to Mag’s bright and golden amber.
Eyes that burned with challenge.
Without a word, Thaddeus spun and raced to the ale barrels nearby, dodging numerous people and nearly knocking a male over in his haste.
The old Demon sent a string of curses after Thad, but his young cousin paid him no heed as he filled four cups with the frothy liquid.
Carefully arranging the handles to bring all of them back at once, he managed the return journey without spilling too much, only slightly more aware of those around him.
“Best two out of three,” Thad said, shoving a pair of tankards towards him.
Brand grinned, lifted his third ale, and emptied that one too.
“You know, you two could have at least tried to put yourselves together before coming down to breakfast.”
Brand cracked an eye open against the hammering pain bouncing around his skull, and beheld the Demon King of Straelon.
Lyriat stood at the head of their table with his arms crossed, an arrogant brow raised in censure. He cut an imposing figure in his long, sleeveless tunic—a rare sight, since the cocky bastard often ran around shirtless for the entertainment of it.
His own, of course.
White horns spiraled from high on his forehead, winding upwards from the copper waves of his waist-length hair.
Rings of gold inlay glinted along their carved lengths and bands of rare, pearlescent stone circled his arms above powerful biceps—a permanent mark of his station and all that would be left on the pyre after his death.
Those that didn’t know him might have even been frightened, worried they’d offended the monarch. But Brand caught the mirth glittering in his friend’s moss-green eyes, the slight upward tilt of his lips.
“Please—and I say this with the utmost respect—fuck off.”
“Aye. What he said,” Magnus murmured.
Dishes clinked under the hum of conversation, Solyrian burning bright and spilling into the great hall through massive windows that ran floor to rafters along the walls.
For some bloody reason, even the ceiling was glass, and the dust motes dancing innocently in the overwhelming light only served to highlight how dreadful he felt.
He was never drinking again.
His brother was staring at his plate of untouched food, head propped in his hands. Brand was fairly certain the chunks he was seeing in Mag’s snarled braids were sand and seaweed, though he had no idea how they’d gotten there.
“Ah, come now,” Lyriat said. “Young Thaddeus was just telling me what a lovely time you all had last night. Do you disagree?”
No bloody clue. He couldn’t remember a damned thing after Thad had wrapped a length of bunting around his horns while cackling in his face. All Brand knew was that, if he looked even half as awful as Mag, then it was no wonder Lyriat was commenting on it.
Head swimming, he chanced a look around the hall and found his cousin among a group of warriors near the portal. His hands waved wildly about as he no doubt told some ridiculous story, beaming at every comment and guffaw, and clearly unaffected by the chaotic shenanigans of the evening before.
Youthful prat.
“The night was fine,” Magnus grumbled. “It’s the morning that’s being a right wee shite.”
Lyriat chuckled and pulled a chair out, plopping down and rubbing his hands together. “Well, I don’t know about you two, but I’m starving. Shall I have some eggs and toast? Or perhaps potatoes and greens.”
“Sisters spare me,” Brand whispered, his stomach turning.
“You know what? I think I’ll have the lot.”
A servant appeared to the sound of his and Mag’s groans, gently placing a platter in front of the king.
Two glasses came next, set before him and his brother.
The liquid—if it could be called such a thing—was gurgling, putting off a noxious odor that was possibly the most foul fuckery he’d ever smelled.
Of course, he thought that every time.
“Ach, not this rot again,” Magnus whined, swiping his up.
“It’s no more than you deserve for being an irresponsible reprobate,” Lyriat said cheerfully around a mouthful.
“Aye, I suppose there’s that. Little brother?”
Brand eyed the brew, already dreading the next couple minutes. The only thing that allowed him to palm his own cup was the knowledge that it would work, born from previous, unfortunate experience.
Magnus gave him a halfhearted smile before clinking their glasses together and tipping his back, downing the entire thing in one gulp.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Brand did the same. The gelatinous mix went down like fizzing mud—bubbles exploding in his mouth, bits gagging him—and his whole face twisted against his will.
“Weeping arseholes!” Mag bellowed, pounding the table with a fist. “Why does it have to be that fucking repulsive?”
“To deter… from… same asinine… over and over.”
Brand’s ears roared in time with the beat of his heart as the potion took hold, half of Lyriat’s words denied entry with every thump.
Tendrils of magic reached out from his center with long fingers and, just as he had the thought that his end was coming, the concoction settled and dissipated.
Between one blink and the next, a cool dew lit upon his limbs, refreshing him.
His body hummed, as if to sing and chirp with the morning birds.
He was the shimmering dawn itself, shining bright after a long storm.
“Say what you will,” Brand said with a sigh, “but the rank shite works wonders.”
“Aye.” Mag grinned. “And now that my head’s cleared, I wonder…” He gave Lyriat a narrow-eyed look, leaning in close to the monarch. “Where were you after the ritual last night, Your Illustrious Horned Majesty?”
Brand huffed at the sarcastic jab, the awkwardness of their system lost on none of them.
He’d gotten lucky to be Blessed of Straelon, to have grown up with its king by his side in the trenches of adolescence. Lyriat was his friend first and foremost. Still, it was odd to try and define their official places.
Brand was higher in rank as an Imperial Son, but lower in rank as High Ambassador. Meanwhile, his father, Emperor Alwyn, outranked literally everyone in Bordoroth. Which meant creatures tended to bow and scrape before Brand and his brothers, even when it was technically inappropriate to do so.
Magnus liked to lean into those strange nuances, bringing the tension to its breaking point and forcing it over the edge with humor.
As the only one of the current five Sons to still be in the position of Ambassador Apparent, he got away with more ridiculous behavior because he didn’t officially represent Thodelebor yet.
That honor still lay with their Uncle Caius—Thad’s father, and a male who’d taken seriousness to a level unheard of since the death of his mate.
Lyriat sniffed and looked away, his demeanor suddenly aloof. “I was here and there, of course. We must have missed one another throughout the celebrations.”
Magnus barked out a laugh. “Now there’s a damned lie if I ever heard one!”
Lyriat’s cheeks slowly turned a comical shade of crimson that Brand wasn’t sure he’d ever seen there before.
“Sweet Sisters,” Brand said, gaping. “Mag is right! What—”
Shouts sounded on the opposite end of the hall, bringing every conversation to a screeching halt. Benches and tables turned over, clattering to the tune of shattered pottery. Weapons sang as they were drawn, flashes of light signaling various Demons giving in to their transformation.
He, Magnus, and Lyriat scrambled to their feet as Thad’s voice reached above he chaos. “Get back! Don’t touch him!”
The crowd parted before them as they rushed towards the portal. Lyriat called the rage and went through his change seamlessly, the mighty Demon King glowing with sunlight and towering above his subjects. Whatever he saw made his steps falter, his leathery wings jerking out to keep his balance.
“Out, all of you!” Lyriat bellowed, his voice deep and echoing. “Now!”
As if by magic, the room emptied and left Brand with a view that sent shockwaves tearing through him. He broke into a sprint, sliding on his knees as he reached the scene.
A ravaged body lay prone on the flagstones, Thad kneeling on the other side.
“We need to turn him over,” his cousin said. “Somehow.”
Brand’s breath sawed as he nodded, his hands hovering uselessly above the creature. Skin had been peeled away in long strips from head to toe, the savage wounds oozing blood in such a constant stream that it was impossible to tell if any flesh was still intact.
“There’s nothing for it,” Mag said, crouching beside him. “We’ll just have to do it, lads.”
“Right. Hold his neck steady, Magnus,” Brand commanded. “Lyriat, get his legs while Thad and I work his shoulders over.” He met his cousin’s gaze. “Pull him towards yourself, I’ll do the rest. Everyone on my signal… Go!”
He waited until the male was half over before sliding his hands beneath and pulling the torso as gently as he was able.
For a moment, Brand felt a spark of relief when he heard a quiet, wheezing groan. Then his eyes focused and time slowed, the world stretching around him and snapping back as recognition came and disbelief stole his voice.
Baldrir.
Brutalized. Tortured. Maimed.
The room shook as Lyriat unleashed an ear-shattering roar, giving voice to the fury boiling within Brand.
His friend was nearly unrecognizable, especially without his horns.
Their once-proud lengths had been violently hacked away, reduced to jagged stumps.
Even more skin was missing from his front half than the back, his entire chest and stomach an oozing mess of exposed muscle and more.
Worst of all, Baldrir’s jaw was slack—blood pooling in his open mouth and pouring from the corner of his lips—and his tongue was gone.
“Sisters save us,” Magnus whispered.
Brand shook himself, refusing the roiling emotions and forcing his mind to work logically. “Thaddeus, is there anything you can do for him?” Brand asked.
Thad’s mother had been Nachthellian—making his cousin half Wolflord, half Sorcerit—but he was young, not yet possessing his full powers though he looked fairly grown. Still, there was a chance—
“No,” his cousin answered quietly, a shadow flitting across his features. “I know only the basics. Mam hadn’t gotten around to the rest before she… Before.”
“We need a healer then.” Brand turned to Lyriat. “Please tell me an inordinate number of Sorcerit have already shown up from the Evesong to witness our Occurrence.”
Lyriat’s jaw ticked. “None,” he said. “The few who came to do the flowers left as soon as they were done fixing Aldiat. You know how they are.”
Brand cursed under his breath. “Baldrir doesn’t have time for us to make a formal request. He needs help now.”
He tried to recall anything that would help—a favor owed, a rumor heard, a connection to exploit. Finding Araxis would take too long, his youngest brother more myth than substance most days.
“I know someone who’d come without question,” Thad said, interrupting his thoughts. “A friend.”
Lyriat stopped his pacing and leveled Thaddeus with a chilling look. “They possess the skill to heal injuries such as this?”
Thad didn’t hesitate. “I swear it.”
“The price?”
That time, his cousin did pause, and his voice was hushed when he finally said, “Far less than you’d expect.”
With a curt nod, the Demon King waved a dismissive hand. “Go.”
“Aye,” Mag said, gripping Thad’s shoulder. “Fast as you can.”
Thaddeus stood, determination in every line of his body as he rifled through his pocket and withdrew a length of thread. “It won’t take long, so be ready.” With that, he tossed the coiled bundle and followed it, disappearing through the oily, rippling surface of the portal.
Movement forced Brand to look up, just in time to see Hedda and Faldir drawing up beside Lyriat with weapons drawn, their faces twisted in mirrored looks of outrage.
“What the fuck? Is that…” his Second whispered. Then louder, “Bal!”
Her axe clattered to the floor as she dropped without thought and crawled through the pooling blood to her kin. She pressed her forehead to Baldrir’s, crooning nonsense, twining a lank lock of his hair around her fingers.
The sight ripped into him. Whoever had done this would pay.
“Faldir,” he said, the rage rising, “bring me our five fastest.”
“Consider it done.”
His Third was already shouting orders before he’d left the great hall.