Chapter 4 #2
First, silence. Then, a sound—not the whooshing one you’d expect when a blade slices through air, but a strangled one, like someone drowning. And the sickening crunch of sinews tearing apart.
Her eyes pried open just in time as one of the men stumbled and collapsed, like a puppet whose strings had been severed.
The dead soldier fell, and his limp arm struck her knee. It was heavy and warm. Cringing, Trisha jerked herself free, refusing to look at the corpse. Her eyes were fixed instead on a familiar shape. The sole reason for her predicament—Blainor.
The darkness obscured his face, but she could picture his expression: cold, emotionless, focused solely on survival.
The face of a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill.
She’d witnessed it. Feared it. And yet, here and now, she was thankful, for it was the only thing she could be sure of to keep her alive.
The lone soldier spun and retreated, recognizing the greater threat. His breathing came in bursts of exhaustion, fear, and defiance.
“At least I have my chance,” he growled. “You killed my father, monster.”
“I’ve killed many,” said Blainor in an emotionless tone. “I’m sure yours was no different from the rest.”
The soldier’s breath hitched. Then, he snarled, like some rabies-infested creature, and struck out. “Die!”
Silent, Blainor met the soldier. The edge of his longsword gleamed as he moved. A blunt thud resounded as his shield reflected the strike. They withdrew. Dead twigs crunched as they circled each other, and soft rings echoed in the forest each time their swords met.
Once. Twice.
Then, the Warlord of Eichlandt launched into an attack. He struck with speed, precision, and ferocity. Blainor’s opponent floundered under his force. It wasn’t even a fight, but one brutal assault to remove an obstacle in his way.
The Normark soldier hit the ground with a thud, breath and life abandoning him.
Blainor’s chest rose and fell, racked with exertion. For a moment, it was the sole sound breaking the silence. Then, he shook it off like a master. “I thought songbirds fled to the trees.”
Trisha’s mind struggled to process his words before the familiar burn of annoyance flared across her cheeks. “When I learn to fly, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
Her breath quivering, she pushed herself upright, battling the trembling of her limbs. The memory of her arrow’s flight, how it sank into that nameless man’s flesh, brought another taste of bile to her mouth. She swallowed, forcing it down.
Them or me, she repeated, hugging herself. How hollow it sounded. She’d never get used to taking a life. “Is it… over?” she asked, hoping, wishing.
“For now.”
Incredulous, Trisha stared at Blainor, parsing the unsaid. “You expect another attack?” Her voice broke under her hysteria, the words snagging somewhere in her throat.
He scoffed, wiping his sword on the dead man’s clothes. “Not tonight.” Sheathing the blade, he stepped forward. Pale dawn slipped through the foliage, illuminating him. A branch split under his boot. His hands moved a fraction before stilling, but his fingers flexed at his side.
“Are you unharmed?”
“Yes, except for my pride,” Trisha muttered before massaging her sore behind.
Another crack echoed behind her. A soft, apologetic snort followed; Dapple prodded her shoulder gently.
Sighing, she leaned into the warmth of his cheek. “It’s all right, boy. You were braver than I.”
Blainor watched them in silence before nudging with his head. “Come on. Let’s return.”
She didn’t object—too weary to resist or argue. With the danger gone, only exhaustion remained.
Her thoughts shifted as they approached the campsite. It was a mess—items scattered across the ground, motionless figures, and, above it all, that distinct stench of blood and death.
It churned her insides. She refused to think about the lifeless husk strewn over the forest floor.
Blainor strode through the chaos toward Fjorten and Kaiden. “Where do we stand? What are our losses?”
“They fight poorly, m’lord,” Kaiden spat, “even with numbers on their side.”
“Ilker’s dead, and Jurgen took an arrow to the leg,” Fjorten reported. “But no other losses.”
Blainor turned toward Jurgen, who was seated on the ground while another man worked to bind his wound. “Will you be able to ride?”
“You’d have to kill me if you plan on leaving me behind, Warlord,” Jurgen declared. “I’ll ride.”
“Good.” Blainor spun around to his lieutenants. “No survivors. Tell the men. Kill anyone that breathes.”
Blainor’s men circled the clearing, complying with his order.
Before wandering away, Trisha stared at Blainor, mouth agape. She couldn’t bear to watch—too disturbed by the Warlord’s cold practicality, by the reek of death, by the way her life had changed in less than a day. Dapple kept pace beside her, quivering with unease.
He shoved her shoulder. Where’s my treat?
She fetched a lump of sugar for him. While Dapple chomped on his treat, Trisha looked around the dark forest, as if hoping her answer would emerge from beyond the bark. What should she do? She couldn’t stop at Isdet. That route was blocked. And the path back to Nortwurd would expose her as well.
With a scrunched face, she rubbed her forehead. Dapple wouldn’t mind departing this scene of bloodshed, nor would she. But braving the night alone, especially if the king’s men were still waiting, was a risk she was not willing to take.
She kicked the dirt.
To stay in Normark or to accept Blainor’s offer of protection? As if her thoughts alone had summoned him, steady footsteps approached.
He’d abandoned his shield but still wore his gambeson, a few glossy bloodstains splattered over the fabric. So unassuming in his plain quilted armor, with the sheathed sword at his belt and midnight hair coiling on his crownless forehead, yet he ruled all of Eichlandt?
“You should rest,” Blainor said. “We’ll continue as soon as dawn breaks. It’ll be a long ride if we’re to pass Isdet.”
Trisha scowled. “What do you expect from me? If I’m to accept your offer and come with you to Eichlandt and your home… Moorhafen?”
“I told you already. I want you to fill my halls with your music.”
“For how long? Will I be free to leave?”
He tilted his head as though to consider. “Are you concerned?”
“I don’t trust you, my lord. You said you planned to persuade me. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer of protection. I do. But I want assurances. Assurances that I won’t be confined.”
Blainor’s mouth firmed. “I see you weren’t lying when you said you prefer the road over commitment. It’s an invitation, Trisha. Not a shackle.” His voice softened. “Don’t tell me you’re not interested. You wouldn’t have come this far with me if you weren’t.”
She averted her gaze.
“I won’t hold you,” he said. The leather of his gloves murmured, betraying the slight movement of his hands. “A guest is not a prisoner.”
“Guest?”
“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself, Starling. I’m offering you shelter.” He drew a breath. “All I ask is that you let me know if you want to depart. No other commitment.”
The memory tugged at Trisha—a hand pulling her forward, the tall reeds rustling in the wind. She studied him up and down, trying to read his expression. “And that’s all? Just letting you know if I want to leave?”
His tone turned smug. “I have a feeling that once you’re in Moorhafen, you won’t want to.”
“You seem rather certain of that.”
“Then come with me, if only to prove me wrong. You appear to enjoy challenging me.”
Fatigue weighed her limbs and muddled her thoughts. She couldn’t deny that Blainor’s offer held appeal. It certainly triumphed over being detained by the King of Normark. A shiver went through her. She didn’t want to think about the dead soldier with her arrow in his cold flesh any longer.
Again, she saw the vision of tall reeds in the wind, the stone circle in the distance. Ice and snow, the serpent from her childhood had said. Eichlandt? Or even farther?
Blainor waited, bloodstained but unharmed, eyes shining like silver-edged clouds. Nearby, his men cleared the campsite, dragging the dead out of sight.
Could she risk facing the king’s men? Being questioned about Eichlandt’s Warlord or her involvement in the fight?
The receding shadows revealed thick patches of blood across the dirt.
Trisha’s shoulders fell in exasperation. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”
He nodded as though he’d always known the answer, as if there had never been any doubt. She wanted to scream, but she’d handed him the leash herself, and now he was leading her down some dreary road whose end she couldn’t see or understand. She should never have said yes.