Chapter 67 Aldric
Chapter sixty-seven
Aldric
He lay on a bed of verdant green, the blades of grass cool and soft against his neck, pillowing his head like the finest down. Somewhere near, water danced over stones—a burbling brook that sang a lullaby to his weary bones. The air smelled of wildflowers and rain.
For once, there was no scent of ash. Nor blood. For once, there were no ink-black sands nor cruel voice whispering in the dark. There was only her.
“My Crow,” his kirei whispered, her breath brushing against his ear, warmer than the sun above.
Aldric turned his head.
Sera lay beside him in the grass, the light catching the copper fire in her brown hair. She was not the broken thing from the black sands. Not the queen drowning beneath the weight of her kingdom.
Here, she was whole. Radiant. Smiling that soft smile that had stolen his heart months ago.
His pulse stuttered. He didn’t dare move—didn’t dare blink—afraid that if he did, the illusion would crumble and he’d lose her all over again.
“Am I dead?” he asked, lifting a hand to brush the velvet warmth of her cheek. She felt real beneath his knuckles. Warm. Alive.
Her palm came up to cradle his jaw, thumb tracing the scars beneath his beard. “Not yet, my love,” she whispered, gaze flicking to his mouth as she leaned in. Closer. Closer.
Until he could feel the ghost of her breath caressing his lips.
Until he ached to kiss his wife one last time—
Aldric’s eye snapped open.
Canvas. Damp. Filthy. The cloying stink of stale sweat, human waste, and the briny rot of the sea rushed in to replace wildflowers. For a breath, he lay frozen, the phantom warmth of her mouth still lingering—an ache sharper than any wound.
Finally, his mind had offered him a good dream. And it had been far too short-lived.
Aldric sat up with a groan, shoving heavy fur blankets aside. Even that small effort was nearly too much. His vision swam. Nausea clenched low in his gut.
He snarled.
His head was hollow. His limbs weak. The fever that had ravaged him had burned itself out only to leave him trembling like a newborn kitten rather than the Crow of Drakmor.
He glanced down. Brigandine gone. Boots gone. Weapons gone. Only his undershirt and trousers remained, bare toes curling in the cold, damp air.
Wonderful.
But at least he wasn’t bound.
A small improvement.
He swung his legs over the edge of the cot, teeth gritting as the world tilted hard to one side. He needed a weapon. Needed his armor. Needed a plan.
His gaze swept the dim interior. Empty, save for a table with a lantern, a basin stained with bloody water, and a stool.
A glint of gold on the table caught the light.
Aldric’s hand shot out, fingers closing around his sun pendant. The one Sera had given him on their wedding day. The metal was icy in his palm, but the weight of it steadied him. Grounded him. He slipped it over his head, tucking the chain beneath his shirt.
He would not leave it behind.
A sound tore through the silence outside—a howl followed by a scream.
A scream cut short.
Aldric was on his feet in an instant, ignoring the pitch of nausea churning his stomach. More howls echoed. Snarls, steel clashing, men shouting.
He lurched toward the tent flap, instincts blazing. He needed to know what was happening out—
The flap swept open.
And there she was.
The witch.
She looked down at him with her usual scorn, but now…something else glittered there. Triumph. “Good,” she purred. “You’re alive. And just in time.”
Aldric’s jaw tightened. “In time for what, witch?” he spat.
Her smile widened. Predatory. Satisfied. “She has finally arrived.”
The ground seemed to tilt beneath him, threatening to send him sprawling. “You lie.”
She arched a brow. “Do I?”
Outside, the noise swelled—shouts, steel on steel, bestial snarls. Who else could it be? Who else commanded such numbers? Who else was reckless enough—foolish enough—to come for him?
It was her. His kirei.
Rage surged white-hot, burning away the tremor of dread. His Sons had failed. They had not kept his wife away. They had let her come here, into the heart of the viper’s nest.
“No!” he roared, lunging for the witch.
He didn’t know what he meant to do. Only that he would do something.
But she didn’t flinch. Her fingers slid toward the hilt of the witchblade at her hip. Sickly light pulsed from the jewel embedded in the pommel.
“Seize him,” she commanded over her shoulder. “Bring him to the pass.” Without a backward glance, the witch swept past the tent flap and disappeared from view.
The tent darkened. A hulking shape lumbered within. The very same dead-eyed Arathian he had stabbed back in the woods.
Aldric’s mouth dried. His weak limbs screamed in protest. In a fair fight, he could have gutted this Arathian in seconds.
But this was far from a fair fight.
Aldric was unarmed. He was barefoot.
And up against a monster who could feel no pain.
The Arathian reached for him.
Aldric ducked on instinct—though the movement nearly pitched him to the earth. He staggered backward, vision swimming. Think.
His gaze snagged on the lantern. A desperate gambit. But his only gambit.
Aldric dove. His fingers brushed the handle and slipped, sweaty palms failing him. The lantern wobbled, threatening to tip harmlessly.
With a roar of frustration, he slammed his shoulder into the table leg. The wood splintered. The table collapsed, sending the lantern smashing against the canvas wall.
Glass shattered. Oil erupted. Flame wooshed to life, a hungry orange beast that raced up the fabric in a heartbeat.
Heat, instantaneous and blistering, scorched the skin of his face. Smoke filled the small space, thick and suffocating.
He had to move. Now.
Dropping to his stomach, Aldric crawled. His limbs felt made of water, his lungs seizing with every shallow breath of the acrid air. Above him, the burning roof sagged, raining sparks onto his back. Scorching through his shirt.
He didn’t look back to see if the Arathian was burning, too. He could hear the heavy, wet thud of boots following him. The monster wasn’t stopping.
Aldric clawed at the dirt, dragging himself beneath the hem of the tent wall just as the structure groaned and collapsed inward. A wave of intense heat washed over his legs, searing the skin of his calves.
He bit back a scream, kicking wildly to free himself from the burning canvas, and rolled out into the gray pre-dawn light.
Cold air hit him like a physical blow. He lay there for a second, gasping, retching soot, his body screaming in protest. The fire roared behind him—a pyre for the dead thrall.
He hoped.
He forced himself up. His knees shook violently. Sharp stones sliced into his bare feet as he staggered forward…and nearly pitched headlong into the maw of a beast.
A varhound. Massive. White as winter and stained with fresh blood.
Aldric scrambled backward, his heel catching a rock, sending him crashing down to his elbows. The beast lowered its head, lips peeling back to reveal rows of glistening death. It lunged.
A sharp whistle sliced the air—a command.
The hound skidded, snapped its jaws inches from Aldric’s face, then turned and bounded away into the smoke-choked chaos of the camp.
Aldric didn’t question his luck. He didn’t breathe. He just scrambled to his feet, adrenaline the only thing keeping him upright.
A hand seized his shoulder from behind.
Aldric reacted on pure instinct. He spun, snarling, putting his weight into a feral swing aimed at the stranger’s gut.
“Easy, Your Majesty!”
The blow was caught. A strong grip immobilized his wrist.
Aldric blinked, the red haze clearing.
Calix.
And behind him, Rakon and Leif. His Sons. They were soaking wet, reeking of the sea and mud, their armor dull and dark to hide them in the gloom.
Relief hit Aldric so hard his vision grayed. He swayed, his legs finally giving up, but Rakon was there, catching him by the arm to hold him upright.
Joy burned bright in his chest. His men were here. They were still alive.
But fury burned hotter.
“You,” Aldric rasped, glaring up at Calix. “You swore to me.”
Calix winced. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I tried to convince the boys to leave you for dead, but I was overruled.”
Rakon grunted his agreement. “Loudly overruled.”
Leif raised up from his crouch just long enough to shoot a glance over the rocks they were using as cover. “All clear. Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Aldric seized Calix’s vambrace, dragging him close. “Where is my wife?”
His half-Kunishi Son’s jaw worked. His gaze slid away, back toward the camp. The crash of steel. The howls. The screams. “Doing something you won’t like.”
Aldric’s breath left him in a single, lethal hiss. “Sera.”
She was here. Forging straight into the Underworld for him.
Leif cut a look back their way and hissed, “We have to go. Back out into the water. We’ll swim around and—”
“No.” The word was a growl, vibrating deep in Aldric’s chest. He planted his feet.
Calix frowned and seized him about the wrist as if he could possibly haul him away against his will. “Your Majesty, you can barely stand. You have no armor. We need to get you out now.”
“I said no!” Aldric wrenched his arm free with a surge of strength he shouldn’t have possessed, nearly toppling over from the effort. He steadied himself, breathing hard, his one eye wild as he looked from the safety of the ocean lapping in the distance to the inferno of the camp.
To where she was.
“You let my wife walk into a trap,” he rasped, thrusting out his hand toward Rakon. “Give me a blade. I am going to get her, whether you help me or not.”
His men shared a look. With a sigh, Rakon unbuckled his secondary blade from his waist—a hunting knife as long as Aldric’s forearm. “You’ll get yourself killed, boss,” the big man rumbled, passing over the weapon, belt and all.
He gripped that belt tight and set to strapping it about his own waist, grateful to have a bit of steel in close reach once more. “Better to die at my wife’s side,” he rumbled, already staggering back out into the fray, “than to be the sort of man who would run, leaving her face a witch alone.”