49. Orders of the Morta
Orders of the Morta
Faren
Lord Haron’s maniacal laughter filled the Great Hall, his robes quivering as he quaked with glee. “ Oh, you should see your faces,” he crowed. “How long have I waited for this moment.”
All the knights in the room—both Fenriran and Lothgaimian Mighty, along with lesser Orders and countless guards—were braced with hands on hilts and handles. The noble attendees and servants were frozen, trembling, and aside from the faint clink of jewelry and dishes, no one made a sound.
Faren’s blood hummed with adrenaline; Oderin seemed just as tense beside him.
“Aren’t they beautiful? My creatures. My babies.” The Lord swept his arm out, addressing the Fenriran knights. “My knights, my legion. Fear not. These are your brethren. They will lead Fenrir to freedom.”
Chatter carried through the tables of attending knights and those standing guard.
Some grinned; others shifted uneasily. Faren was not surprised by the political divide.
Lord Haron had been sowing seeds of contempt for Marona for years, shifting the blame for Fenrir’s problems onto the kingdom.
There were those among the Fenriran ranks who favored Fenrir’s freedom at any cost, while others—like Faren and his friends—still believed that the realm was stronger in unity.
The division of opinions did not bode well for the rising tension in the room.
“Let us rejoice!” The Lord’s mouth curled into a crazed grin, revealing his stubby, rotten teeth. He gestured grandly at Heris Morvain. “Have they not brought us a most delectable prize?”
Heris spat a glob of blood on the shiny marble tile and sneered red.
Lord Haron only laughed harder.
Faren inched closer to his Major but kept his attention on the Morta.
They were hunched, subdued, their red eyes oddly vacant—but Faren had no illusions about the viciousness of their bites or the damage their talons could do.
His magic fluttered in the old scratch on his shoulder from when the Morta had struck him down in Yar, and he thought of what Mariana had taught him about fighting them, wondering how the Lord’s new Morta might differ from the those in the Western Wood.
“Did you know about this?” Faren whispered out of the side of his mouth.
In Faren’s periphery, Oderin shook his head. Of course he hadn’t—if he had, he would’ve never warned Lord Haron of the Valiant’s plot. This turned their careful plans to rubble.
What now? Faren wanted to ask his Major. What now? he wanted to ask the Fates.
Archer Loth sprang to his feet, his fists balled. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Victory,” Lord Haron answered smugly. “This”—he gestured at the pair of Morta—“is my victory.”
Archer Loth reached for the long dress dagger at his hip, setting off a cascade of brandished weapons among his knights. Steel sang and nobles whimpered.
Faren’s family remained seated, their backs rigid. His parents were staring at Archer. Rown was scowling at Lord Haron. Faren’s sisters were glancing between themselves, the rulers, and him, and they looked afraid.
They should be.
“I wouldn’t mobilize Daddy’s knights just yet, child,” Lord Haron said to Archer. He waved a finger at the sea of nobility. “I’d hate to see so many fine silks ruined with blood.”
A few of the attendees began to sob.
Faren looked to his fellows. Warner and Lee were surveying the room nervously; Shae was staring at the Morta, her jaw locked tight.
“We need to deescalate,” Faren whispered to Oderin. “Get these people out of here.”
“I say, let them bleed,” Heris Morvain piped up, drawing everyone’s attention. Standing between the Morta in his iron chains, he appeared small, but strangely unafraid. “The realm could use fewer nobles.”
Lord Haron began to laugh again, less amused this time, and more cruel. “You certainly tried, didn’t you?” He extended a hand toward Heris, as if presenting him to the room. “For those of you who don’t recognize my prisoner, see here! The man who tried to murder my predecessor.”
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
“See here,” Heris retorted, chin high, eyes locked on Lord Haron, “the man who framed me to steal my rightful claim to this throne.”
Murmurs turned into gasps, then raucous chatter. Faren frowned, disinclined to believe anything that came out of Heris’s mouth, but—
“I thought it was a rumor,” Oderin whispered to himself. “A fiction.”
Faren whirled on him. “What rumor?”
Oderin’s face had gone pale. “It seemed too outlandish.”
“What rumor?” Faren demanded.
“That Heris Morvain was next in line. That Lord Haron sentenced him in order to take the throne for himself.”
“The fuck?”
“I thought it was a rumor. It had to be a rumor.” Oderin met Faren’s eyes, his expression wild. “Faren, we can’t let—”
“Don’t believe me?” Heris appealed to the hall full of nobility. “Have your Arcane Adepts read the list of successors in the Ledger of the Sovereign. See whose name is written before his.”
One of the ledgermasters beside Lord Haron gasped. The other began to visibly shake. Either they already knew, or they’d gathered that—if they were forced to read the truth—Lord Haron would have them killed.
“Lies!” Lord Haron stomped his foot. “Lies!”
“Show them the Ledger, then,” Heris challenged. “Show them who is actually—”
The Morta on Heris’s left swung a spindly arm, knocking the Valiant leader to the floor.
His head snapped forward, colliding with the marble.
Sprawled on his stomach with his hands cuffed behind his back, Heris craned his neck to meet Lord Haron’s gaze.
A trickle of blood slid down from his temple and pooled in the socket of his missing eye.
“You’ve always been a greedy twit,” Heris coughed. “Too fragile to lead. Always overcompensating for your lack of magic.”
Another wave of nervous chatter filled the hall. Lord Haron’s magic had always been kept secret, but—
“Is that not why you’ve gone to such lengths to alchemically enhance yourself?” Heris taunted. “To become ageless in the face of your sterile line?”
The Lord’s young wife covered her mouth with a shaking hand, muffling her sob.
“Your side of the family always took their experiments too far—but that ends today.” Heris lifted an ear to the ceiling, as if he were listening to something with his magic. “You might have monsters,” Heris went on, “but I have an army.”
A commotion sounded from outside the double doors. Snarling and shouting, a clash of metal and flesh.
This time, it was Heris’s turn to laugh. “There they are. My creatures.”
The doors burst open. Knights—human, but black-veined, with antlers and claws—rushed in with weapons held high. They were on the Lord’s Morta in a moment, hacking at the abominations. Black blood sprayed the surrounding tables, sizzling as it met fabric and skin.
The room devolved into chaos, with nobles screaming in pain and fleeing in panic.
Faren was already moving, weaving through the tables to guide his family to safety.
Up ahead, Rown was urging his parents out of the fray.
Shae arrived at the table at same time Faren did, and she gripped Kate and Beatrice’s arms, shoving them toward a servant’s door at the opposite end of the room.
“Faren?” Eva squeaked, clutching at the sash over his breastplate. “I’m scared.”
He took her thin shoulders in his hands. “You’re brave,” he told her, turning her toward his friend. “Follow Shae.”
Persephone looped her arm through Eva’s. “Come on.”
Then they were ducking and dodging through the frantic crowd, away from him.
“Faren, what’s going on?” Warner asked, appearing out of the throng. “The fuck are those?”
“Morta,” Faren stated.
Lee arrived on Warner’s heels, his expression grave. “The Lord, he—” He broke off, restarted. “Did he truly create—” Battling his Oath, Lee pointed helplessly.
Faren’s silence seemed to be enough for his friends. Their faces slackened, but Faren couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for them in this moment. Though he understood the betrayal and shock they felt, it was a relief for them to know.
“Fates,” Warner swore.
“Finally,” Faren breathed. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t warn—”
“You tried,” Warner said, watching the mayhem unfolding. “It’s obvious now.”
Lee’s expression hardened. “What now, then, Faren? Captain? What do we do?”
The new title was foreign to his ears, and though he didn’t feel entirely worthy of the authority, Faren surveyed the room, considering.
A mass of antler-crowned men was hacking at the two Morta, while knights with black breastplates rushed in after them, weapons drawn.
Heris was dragged up by one of his men and guided out of sight, the gap quickly filling.
None of them looked familiar, but Faren couldn’t help but search their faces, desperate for a glimpse of tawny skin and wavy black hair.
“Who are you looking for?” Lee asked.
“Mariana,” Warner realized. “I knew it.”
“Not the time for gloating,” Faren replied.
He tore his attention from the melee, trying to focus.
Oderin was with the innocents, shouting orders and trying to rally to the surrounding knights as he pointed a blonde, slender woman—his sister, Phina—toward the exits.
To Faren’s surprise, Archer Loth had not fled—he was standing among his Mighty Knights with a borrowed sword in hand, looking like he was about to do something stupid.
The last thing the realm needed were two territories on the brink.
If Archer died here, on Fenriran soil, Lothgaim would retaliate, and the two territories would devolve into conflict.
Marona would have no choice but to step in with its considerable might, and with the alchemy of the Morta out in the open, there would be no telling how far the damage would spread.
“We need to get Archer out of here,” Faren decided.
Lee swung his superior vision toward the double doors. “That won’t be easy.”