Chapter 30 Westley
Not that females couldn’t be great leaders and warriors—his sisters were proof of that—but the way the Southern Wilds general was whispered about just made it sound like she was a male.
The identity of this warrior, of General Tordottir, had always been a mystery, though he never knew why. Clearly, the legends were exaggerated, because she had obviously not strangled fifty men with her beard. Unless she had a beard. He would have to dwell on this further.
A stocky male dressed in all his finery came to greet them. Westley tilted his head to assess the newcomer, and the little magic he had in his veins recoiled slightly. He instantly mistrusted the witch, who had a weak chin and shifty eyes.
With a wide sweep of his arm, his bow was much too dramatic and when he spoke, Westley couldn’t tell if he was putting on a deeper voice to elevate his masculinity. It seemed false.
“Welcome to the Southern Wilds! We are quite surprised and honoured to have a Fae prince join us here. We hope your stay will be most pleasant.” In addressing the prince, the male projected his voice so the whole crowd could hear.
Westley raised his brows at Conalle, who did not meet his gaze, though the corner of his mouth quivered.
The witch continued. “And who, may I ask, do we have the honour of welcoming to our camp?”
Westley didn’t want to be rude, he’d been raised with the strictest of manners, but he had no words. Luckily Conalle was the picture of perfect etiquette and took over the introductions.
“Allow me to introduce His Royal Highness, Westley Erikson, War Prince of Idavoll. Your Highness, this is Captain Latham Arlanson of the Southern Wilds Legion.”
Latham offered him another dramatic bow. “Prince Westley, it is an honour to meet you.”
“Just Westley will do, thank you.”
The captain nodded and looked like he was about to continue so Westley cut him off.
“If you will excuse me, I’d like to get my horse to the stables and acquire provisions for my soldiers.
” He turned to Conalle. “If we could arrange a meeting with the contenders for general, that would be much appreciated.”
“If I may, Your Highness.” Captain Arlanson stepped in front of Westley. “We can have a stable lad see to your horse.” He snapped his fingers and a young witch of no more than thirty came running over. Westley did not relinquish his reins.
“That is a kind offer, but Njord here is highly temperamental and will not allow strangers to groom him. If you show me the way, I can take care of him myself.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” The snivelling male bowed again. Dear gods, he was insufferable. “I will show you there myself.”
Conalle gave Westley what he supposed was a reassuring grasp of his shoulder before the male named Latham guided him towards the stables. He hoped it wasn’t far.
Westley cleared his throat, rusty with the pleasantries his position called for. “Thank you for your hospitality. I understand it has been a difficult time for your legion.”
“It is our pleasure, Your Highness . . .”
“Just Westley, please.”
“Of course, Prince Westley.”
Westley sighed. “So, Captain Arlanson, tell me—what do you think of the candidates for general?”
“Well, Your Highn—I mean, Prince Westley, I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask,” he said with mock humility.
“Why not?”
“Because I am one of the candidates.” He stood taller, but the top of his head was still barely level with Westley’s chin.
“Ah, very well.” Westley didn’t know what else to say. He hoped the others vying for the position were more agreeable. The stables came into view and Westley tried not to let his relief show. “Thank you for showing me the way. I’ll take it from here.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all, Prince Westley. I can show you where everything is.”
“I assume your stables are much the same as every other stable I’ve been in. I’m sure I can find my way around. I’ll shout if I get lost.”
The witch gave him a fake laugh that was much too loud and smacked his arm. Westley looked down at the spot and frowned. That was a quick switch from grovelling to friendly jabs.
“Very well, Your Highness, I shall leave you to it. I’ll have the stable lad come in a half hour to lead you to your quarters, or the dining hall, whichever you prefer.”
“The dining hall will be perfect, thank you.”
He bowed deeply again and walked off. Strutted was more like it.
Westley shook his head and made his way to the stables. As he expected, it was like every other barn he’d ever encountered.
He led Njord towards the only empty stall next to a reddish-brown mare that Westley was surprised to see was almost as big as his steed. The horse never took its eyes off them as Westley groomed Njord. He spent a little extra time rubbing his muscles. It had been a long journey with few breaks.
Westley pressed his forehead against Njord’s long face when he was finished. “You did good, thank you, old friend.” He found some oats and apples and Njord ate with pleasure.
The horse next to them still watched, and he could’ve sworn her eyes narrowed when he turned his attention to her. Odd behaviour. The horse hadn’t even moved forward when the food was brought out. He approached the proud horse carefully, but when he reached his hand out to her, she backed away.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a small voice said from behind him. It was the young stable witch the captain sent.
“Why ever not?”
“She’s not friendly with strangers.”
“Neither is my own horse, but thank you for the warning.” Westley went to reach out to the mare again, but instead of backing up as he expected, she charged forward and snapped her teeth at him. He barely managed to pull his hand back in time. The witchling chuckled.
“I told you, Your Highness, she’ll not let anyone touch her unless her mistress is with her, and even then she’s picky.”
“And who is the mistress of such a large horse?”
“General Tordottir,” the lad stated matter-of-factly. “Come, Your Highness, your supper is ready. Your soldiers are gathered and waiting for you.” Without waiting for him to respond, he ran out of the stables. Westley gave Njord a quick pat and hurried after the witch.
Westley followed him through the camp with fascination. Many were gathered around fires cooking, eating, and laughing. Witchlings played with wooden swords in the streets, some of them waving their hands around as if pretending to wield their magic. Westley marvelled at the setup.
He knew this legion moved every so often, even though the locations were never revealed. To relocate such an elaborate camp must be a lot of work—it had the makings of a village.
While most of the structures were tents, there were some buildings constructed of logs and stone. It was incredibly impressive, and despite his reticence after meeting the captain earlier, his opinion of these Vanir grew substantially seeing the life they’d built.
Still, he knew very little of their purpose to Asgard and the Trifold.
The majority appeared to be soldiers but there had to be just as many civilians.
He picked up his pace until he was almost running to keep up with the lad who led Westley to the largest building, near the centre of camp.
The witchling held the door open for him and Westley entered, subtly flipping him a gold coin.
He looked confused but pocketed the money anyway.
Westley took in the interior, scanning the room until he saw Conalle waving him over. He was seated in the centre with most of the Fae gathered around him, surrounded by empty tables.
“West, there you are!” Noren stood to greet him, a mug in each hand.
He stumbled as he got to his feet and Westley smirked.
Noren never could hold his drink. Though he was a massive warrior, he was a lightweight when it came to alcohol.
Noren held out a tankard of what was likely ale, but Westley sniffed it cautiously.
“Iss the best ale I ever had,” Noren slurred before taking a long swig from his cup.
Westley brought the mug to his mouth and took a tentative sip. Flavour burst on his tongue and he had to agree with drunken Noren—it was a very good ale.
He sat with his companions as they chatted about the Vanir camp, their journey, males, females, horses, and battle.
All the best topics of conversation. Westley tried not to indulge too much, wanting to keep his wits about him, but it was difficult.
The relief of reaching their destination combined with the surprisingly good food and drink on offer made it hard not to get caught up in the revelry.
Soon the dining hall filled with Vanir and the crowd grew noisy. At first, they were separated from the others but with the drinks flowing, inhibitions lowered, not a few couples left for privacy elsewhere.
Conalle had a female Vanir on his lap and Noren looked pleasantly occupied by two other bodies in the corner.
Westley smiled into his mug. He took in the room and observed the captain with a blond draped all over him.
A dark-skinned female sat close by having what appeared to be a heated discussion with an older, hardened looking soldier, his grey-blond beard in braids and head bald.
When Westley brought his attention back to his kin, he straightened, hands going to one of the knives still strung along his chest.
A Vanir male stormed over to their table and yanked one of Westley’s soldiers away from a female the soldier had pressed against a wall. The Fae’s tongue had been down her throat. Westley couldn’t hear over the noise, but it was pretty self-explanatory.
The female was likely the daughter—or very young wife—of the Vanir male. Westley’s soldier, Beck, shoved the Vanir male. The whole room tensed, waiting for the male’s reaction.
A huge fist smashed into Beck’s face and all Hel broke loose.
What had been a room full of people celebrating just moments ago was now pure chaos. Bodies were being thrown across the room, weapons drawn and blood spilling. Westley was sober enough to know he should not get involved but was too drunk to listen to the sober reasoning of his brain.
He drew his throwing knives as a Vanir soldier charged at him. Without hesitating, he tossed the knives one after another, slicing through the muscles in his attacker’s thighs. The male went down with a scream.
Pandemonium tore through the dining hall. Westley threw himself into a soldier who’d been about to tackle Conalle, pinning him against the wall with his body. Knives ready to strike in his hands when the door slammed open.
Westley’s magic, already churning under his skin, flared and his body strained with the pain of ice running through his veins. He stepped away from the soldier, causing the Vanir to fall to the floor with a loud thump. His hands gripped the bloody daggers harder as faced the threat.
A low female voice pierced the sounds of fighting, freezing everyone in their place.
“Enough.”