Chapter 6
Chapter Six
WINDSONG
T he groan of weathered wood and the grinding of linked steel was a welcome sound as the portcullis rose.
They’d been gone nearly a month, and they were no closer to getting answers than when they left. There were no signs of struggles where the missing fae had last been seen. Only circular patterns of charred ground with strange, unidentifiable symbols scratched into the ashen debris.
All Eirik and his men had to offer the king was a growing list of victims. And one sickening confirmation that whoever—whatever—was responsible, they were not of this realm.
Lord Venderson was waiting when they rode into the back courtyard. Along with three High-fae from different royal houses. Eirik mentally switched hats–from an elite member of the king’s private regiment, the Warborn–to political courtier.
He had hoped to avoid the King’s Authority, whose steely gaze was fixed solely on him, for at least a few hours. Long enough to get a hot meal, a bath, and a strong mug of ale.
Which was why they had taken the back entrance. Given the late hour, the castle guests would be well into their cups, celebrating the day’s victories in the great hall. Allowing the Warborn’s arrival to go relatively unnoticed.
“So good of you to return,” Lord Venderson said by way of greeting. “Before the closing ceremonies."
“We figured we’d let the others win a few,” Fenrir, gods bless him, replied. “Give them a little hope.”
The three fae beside Venderson didn’t look amused. Eirik threw a leg over his horse and landed beside the steed. All four of his brothers in arms did the same.
On the road, none of the Warborn adhered to rank. They each brought vital skills to their unit. Not one of them thought the others inferior or superior.
But in this world, where wars were waged with titles and manners, Eirik sat at the king’s table. Etiquette was expected of him. Princely decorum held his leash.
A groom raced up and he handed over the reins. Eirik smiled at the boy then turned and faced the King’s Authority, somehow managing to keep the expression on his face neutral as he said, “Forgive us, Lord Venderson, we ran into bad weather.”
“Among other things…” Chogan, their best sniper grumbled, rifling through his saddlebag.
It didn’t go unnoticed. One of the males beside Venderson looked pointedly at the black-haired warrior. “Such as?”
“Topics the king should hear first.” Zaire tossed his belongings over his shoulder and started across the courtyard.
The three royals quickly moved out of his way when it became clear Zaire, nearly seven feet tall, had no intention of stepping around them. Fenrir followed him, slipping past the High-fae with a wink and a smile. Borgen, dangerously unassuming, inclined his blond head as he passed.
Chogan hung back, always last. Eirik knew his comrade wouldn’t find what was in that saddlebag until Eirik made his way toward the castle door. Likewise, Venderson wasn’t going anywhere until he got something out of this little exchange .
Eirik decided to save them all some time and addressed the King’s Authority, “As Zaire stated, I can relay nothing until we meet with Calian. If you will excuse me.” He made to pass. “I am in desperate need of a real bed.”
“Your uncle and brother are here.” The sentence stilled Eirik in his tracks. “I look forward to seeing the famed Bastian LaGoryen in the matches,” Venderson said. “I imagine he has learned a lot from his time spent at the Temple.”
Eirik continued toward the keep. “I imagine he will live up to your expectations.”
“Considering he barely made it here at all.” One of the fae royals sneered. “I doubt he’ll impress much of anyone.”
Eirik’s head whipped around, Chogan right at his side. “What do you mean?”
The elegantly dressed male grinned. “A contestant that can’t make it to a tournament without nearly dying, surely, won’t be much of a threat to the rest of us.”
Eirik’s gaze went to Lord Venderson. “What is he talking about? What happened on the road?”
“There was an encounter ,” the King’s Authority said simply. “Your brother should be the one to tell you of it.”
Eirik bit down on his annoyance. He hadn’t been back ten minutes, and the games had already begun. By avoiding Venderson at the front gates he had set the first piece on the proverbial chess board. Sending a clear message his loyalties were to the Warborn. This was the Authority’s checkmate.
“Let’s get some food,” Chogan urged from beside him. “Find your brother and uncle, and get the full story.”
Eirik nodded curtly to the King’s Authority and his vultures, and let his friend lead the way. He would get the full story. The bath and food would have to wait. Just not the ale.
B astian was just about to retire for the night when cheers echoed through the castle, down the halls, getting louder.
He didn’t have to wonder who prompted them. Not as the Warborn entered the far end of the great hall.
Bastian had never laid eyes on the four legendary, broad-shouldered, towering warriors who traveled with his brother. But as they made their way between the tables, mugs of ale and wine raised high in salute, it was easy to tell who was who. Their descriptions had not been inaccurate.
Brogen, the smallest of the five, with a head of blond hair. The last to be provoked into a fight, but the first to finish one. He was clever, quick, and quiet as a wraith. Their lead informer and a High-fae healer.
The second was Fenrir. Disarmingly handsome, charming, and an absolute beast with a sword or a dagger. The male also possessed a rare form of chaos-magic; the ability to harness and manipulate chaotic energy. Making him a triple threat on the battle field.
Next marched Zaire, a mountain of a fae. As dark as the night sky, the warrior was the oldest of them all. Stoic, humble, and no-nonsense. He also possessed the ability to shift into a bear. It was said that the Warborn had no leader, but if they did, it would be Zaire.
The three continued toward the raised dais where he and Teakin were seated with King Calian. But Bastian’s gaze remained on his brother, bringing up the rear with the last member of his unit, Chogan, who possessed the same russet-brown skin color and raven-black hair as Calian, his cousin.
The similarity between the two males didn’t end there. Chogan was an exceptional fighter, same as the king. Unlike Calian though, Chogan wanted nothing to do with the station of his royal birth. He preferred the forest to the cities, the wild to the refined, his falcon form to High-fae.
In the short amount of time Bastian had spent in Calian’s company these past few hours, he wondered if the king wouldn’t also prefer such a life. Which might explain why his court was as conniving as a den of vipers.
It had taken little more than simple observation to ascertain the true motives of nearly everyone Bastian had been introduced to. Overreaching, power-hungry corruption ran rampant in Windsong’s court.
The worst part, though. Calian didn’t seem to notice it. Not because he was na?ve. More like he had just checked out. He’d turned his kingdom over to the ones that enjoyed politics. Put too much trust in people he shouldn’t.
Bastian looked to Chogan taking a seat among the soldiers. They all patted his back, filled his cup, and piled food high on a plate for him.
Bastian glanced back to Calian, surrounded by political spiders. The king smiled as the other four members of the elite unit approached his table, but there was something distant in his eyes. Some disconnect.
The brief observation cost Bastian the attention of his brother, now standing before Teakin.
Their uncle stood and clasped Eirik’s forearm from across the table. “Nephew.” Teakin beamed.
His brother smiled back. “How long can you stay?”
“Long enough to watch you get thrown from your horse in a joust or two.”
Eirik grimaced. “My ass still hasn’t recovered from the last one.”
They both laughed, then turned to Bastian. He could have sworn the room got quieter. Could feel gazes shifting their way.
“Brother.” Bastian nodded. “It seems you–”
Eirik was already halfway around the table. Then within reach, grabbing Bastian, and dragging him in for a tight hug. “It’s good to see you,” he said.
Bastian embraced him back, relief and happiness colliding. “It’s good to see your ugly mug, too.”
His brother squeezed him harder, then stepped back. Every eye in the great hall was on them now. The first time anyone had seen them together in this realm. Side by side– the Chosen Ones .
Eirik, never one to miss a beat, turned to their audience and swept an arm in Bastian’s direction. “The asshole I’ve been telling you all about.”
The hall exploded with bouts of laughter and raised cups.
“My brother!” Eirik’s smile grew as he glanced sidelong at Bastian. “And my best friend.”