Chapter 6 Landon #2
I force myself to relax, to breathe. Dice strike wood somewhere near the hearth, followed by a muttered curse. Conversations overlap in Orcish, Fae and the clipped mountain dialect of the dwarves. Beneath it all, the fire spits and cracks, failing to warm the room.
A hooded figure stands and moves toward my table. She sits across from me without invitation.
“You’re late,” she says in a voice so soft I nearly lose it beneath the tavern noise. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
I lean back and allow myself a faint smile. “Do you know who I am?”
A pause follows. Then she gives a quiet sound that might be amusement.
She tilts her head, studying me. “You’re the Herald of the Hunt. The Shadow Fae. Eirik’s favorite weapon. And currently, someone with very expensive questions.”
I push a pouch across the table. It clinks softly. Gold, as promised.
The hooded figure doesn’t touch it yet. “Before we begin, you should know the price of information has gone up. War drives inflation.”
“How much?”
“Double.”
I consider walking away. This might be a setup. Perhaps Morgaine somehow knew I’d come here, that this person across from me is bait in a trap.
But I need answers.
I push two more pouches across the table, more than we bargained for. The extra gold reeks of desperation, but pride will not protect Rhianelle from an army.
The figure takes them all, weighing them in one hand. Apparently satisfied, she tucks them away. “What do you want to know?”
“Is King Eirik being controlled?” I keep my voice low, though the question feels loud enough to silence the room.
“Yes.”
The bluntness startles me. I expected careful words or denial. Not this.
“By Morgaine?” The name tastes bitter.
“By what wears Morgaine’s face.” She leans forward slightly. “The enchantress you know as the king’s mistress is not what she appears. What inhabits her body now is something old.”
My blood goes cold. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said.” She folds her hands on the table. “Morgaine wanted power. Whatever she made a bargain with, I don’t think she understood what she was inviting in. The mistress may be as much a prisoner as the king now.”
“How do you know any of this?” I ask.
“Whispers from palace servants.” Her gloved finger traces the rim of my mug. “They say Morgaine speaks to empty rooms and receives answers, though her voice no longer sounds like her own. Birds fall dead when the thing wearing her body passes beneath them, and servants disappear every week.”
She pauses, watching me from beneath her hood.
“One maid claims she saw Morgaine trapped inside a mirror, pounding against the glass and begging to be released while the thing wearing her body stood on the other side.”
My fingers tighten around the mug. “You believe her?”
“I believe the maid vanished the following morning.” Her hand withdraws from the mug. “Perhaps Morgaine’s search for power finally gave her more than she could control. Perhaps she opened a door and something walked through wearing her skin.”
Every muscle in my body goes still. “What is it?”
“That information costs more than you can afford, Herald.” There’s something almost apologetic in her tone. “But I can tell you this. War is coming. Soon. The entity controlling Eirik has been very busy making alliances, promises and threats.”
“We’re already at war.”
She shifts, and I catch a glimpse of pale skin beneath the hood.
“Mammoths have been gathered from the frozen wastes. Fae warriors are being assembled in numbers the world hasn’t seen since Casimir’s conquest. Orcs and dwarves are mobilizing their full strength.
You are on the losing side of this war, Landon. ”
The use of my name sends ice down my spine.
“The elves can’t stand against that kind of force,” she continues. “Aelfheim will fall. Your queen will die. And everyone sheltering there will die with her.”
Rhianelle. The mate bond pulses in my chest at the thought of her in danger.
I grit my teeth. “What about Finnbheara? Can I trust him?”
The figure goes very still.
“No.”
The answer lands with enough force to empty my lungs.
“Finnbheara is loyal to his father above all else.” She leans closer, her voice dropping. “He will stand with the Fae King until the very end.”
“He’s my friend.”
“He was your friend.” The hooded figure straightens. “Meeting with him would be suicide.”
I want to argue and insist that she’s wrong. Finn would never betray me. Our bond runs deeper than politics and war.
But I remember the coldness in Eirik’s eyes when he ordered the attack on the elven capital. Finn was standing beside him, silent and obedient.
“Tell me about the entity,” I say instead. “What does it want?”
“I do not know.” She gathers her cloak around herself and rises. “But it wants your queen destroyed. Whatever drives it feels personal. A vengeance nursed across centuries.”
I stand with her. “Why Rhianelle?”
“That is the question you should be asking.”
She takes one step away, then pauses. “Here is one piece of advice you did not pay for. The entity knows about the mate bond. It knows you are sheltering in Aelfheim.”
Fear spikes through me. “How?”
“It has eyes everywhere. The Court of Nightmare trades with all sides, but we’re not the only ones dealing in information.” She moves toward the door. “Watch the shadows. Trust no one, not even those you once called friends.”
The tavern door explodes inward.
Wood bursts across the room in a storm of splinters. Someone screams. Tables overturn as patrons dive for cover. The hooded informer spins, one hand disappearing beneath her cloak.
Armored warriors pour through the shattered entrance.
Fae warriors.
Black steel covers them from throat to boot, each breastplate engraved with the thorned rose of the Wild Hunt. I know those weapons. I know that sigil.
My former brothers.
They found us.
The first warrior through the door has a face I recognize.
Torvan. I fought beside him for sixty years. We shared drinks after battles more times than I can remember.
His sword is already drawn.
“Herald,” he says, his voice carrying over the chaos. “You are called to answer for desertion and treason against the Fae King.”
I don’t answer. Words won’t help now.
The informer produces twin daggers. She positions herself at my back without discussion.
The Orkan bartender doesn’t flee. She plants herself behind the bar, axe ready, eyes calculating.
Across the room, one of the patrons overturns a table and ducks behind it. Two others scramble to join him, dragging chairs into the gaps to form a makeshift barrier. Smart. They have no part in this fight, and they intend to keep it that way.
Torvan advances through the wreckage. Five warriors fan out behind him, moving with precision. Every one of them wears the black and crimson I once wore.
“Stand down,” Torvan orders, his sword held ready at his side. “Come peacefully and the king may show mercy.”
“The king.” I let shadows curl around my fingers. “Or the thing controlling him?”
His expression flickers. Surprise first, followed by fear, both quickly concealed behind a soldier’s discipline.
So he knows. They all know something is wrong. But they’re still here, following orders.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Torvan says, and I believe him. There’s regret in his voice. “But I will.”
“I know.”
The moment stretches between us. Torvan’s grip tightens around his sword while the warriors behind him shift into attack formation. We trained together. I know how each of them moves, where they leave openings and which direction they favor when they strike.
Beside me, the informer’s breathing changes as she prepares herself.
I reach into the darkness and call my shadow lynxes. They emerge soundlessly around my feet, their bodies taking shape from smoke and night. They were made for close quarters, for swift attacks and quicker retreats.
Torvan gives the signal.
I move first.
A lynx launches at the nearest warrior and knocks him from his feet before he can raise his blade. I am already moving past him, flowing through the shadows as another sword cuts through the space I occupied a heartbeat earlier.
The informer meets two warriors at once.
Her fighting style is strange and graceful, every turn carrying her just beyond the reach of their weapons.
Her daggers flash between them. One warrior staggers back, clutching a wound in his arm, while the other presses forward and forces her toward the bar.
Torvan comes at me with fire. Blue fae flame races along his free hand, bright and hungry, forcing me away from him. My shadow lynxes hiss and recoil as the light scorches through their half-formed bodies.
He remembers my weakness.
I circle him, searching for an opening while the lynxes prowl at the edge of the flames. They are swift, but their forms are fragile. One solid strike could scatter them completely.
A warrior charges from my left. I twist aside and send one of the lynxes across his path. Its claws rake through his thigh, dropping him hard to the floor with a cry of pain.
I don’t let myself dwell on the fact that I know the warrior’s name.
I trained beside Oberyn. I pulled him out of a collapsed trench outside Caer Myrddin six years ago.
I hate this. I hate fighting people I know, warriors I trained beside, people who saved my life and whose lives I saved in return.
But they stand between me and the door and none of them intends to let me leave.
The informer is bleeding now, a cut across her ribs and another along her arm, but she remains on her feet. One of her opponents lies motionless near the bar while the other keeps her pinned between two overturned tables.
Torvan sends another wave of fire toward me. It herds me across the tavern, controlling every step and driving me toward the wall where I will have no room to evade him.
I let him believe it is working.
He advances with fire in one hand and his sword in the other. His face is set with grim determination. He does not want to kill me, but he will.
Duty over friendship.