7. Seven
seven
The sheer number of undead they had faced still wasn’t sitting right with Erqis two days later.
Even less so with Qavor, it seemed, who hadn't left his side long enough to take a solitary piss at any given time.
"You're hovering again," Erqis told him tersely.
"The forest ends up there," Qavor replied with a shrug, as if that explained his mother-henning. "See, it's getting brighter."
"So it is. Still. Back off."
"No." If anything, he veered closer as they walked side by side.
Erqis didn't remember the last time his boots hadn't been damp. His shirt felt perpetually stuck to his skin, and each breath was more suffocating than the last.
Nor could he remember a time when he been so relieved to see an overcast sky, when they at last stepped out from the endless trees and onto a stretch of what could almost be called a meadow, spanning from the edge of the forest to a very distinct moat surrounding the high stone walls of the distant fortress, so vast he couldn’t see where it curved around on either side.
By nightfall, they were joined by the remainder of the army. The reports from the commanders only left Erqis feeling more unsettled – his unit was the only one that had been set upon by the Dread King’s undead forces. Had he faced Erqis with all he had, or were there more stashed within the castle?
The undead had returned to their proper – dead – state after he had killed the Dread King, but it felt naive to assume they would face only the living within the castle ahead. After all, the dead should not have risen in the first place, and there was truly no telling what other horrors still awaited them even now that the enemy king no longer drew breath.
In the long, dreary hours it took them to march across the wilted meadow, almost as soft underfoot as the forest and bogs had been, the horror stories of his soldiers fighting off corpses had spread throughout the whole army. In the safety of daylight, no matter how weak and grey it was, those stories only bolstered their belief in Erqis and his cause – Brightmere was a cursed, wrong place, and they were doing the right thing, the brave thing, to wipe it from the map. Their cause was a righteous one, and with the Grey King leading them, they would be victorious. They would save the whole of Malvea.
They marched with grim determination, ready to lay siege for as long as it took, and to be brutally swift and merciless in a fight.
Yet no sentries were spotted on the walls. No arrows cut through the sky. No unfortunate messenger was sent to meet them as they halted at a safe distance across the few patches of firmer ground they could find.
All there was was a crumbling stone bridge, slick with moss, wide enough for four men to walk abreast without fear of being jostled into the moat below.
And massive gates beyond stood open.
"This is a trap." Qavor grabbed Erqis’ shoulder before he could set foot on the bridge. His gaze flicked nervously, across the bridge, along the walls, even back towards the tree line, as if he was expecting to be ambushed at any moment.
Erqis couldn't even begrudge him that.
"Only one way to find out."
"At least let me go ahead."
"Anything and anyone that comes over that bridge is in the same bottleneck as us, brother." A tendril of smoke spilled from the corner of Erqis’ mouth, the sear of rising flames licking the inside of his chest. "You don't want to stand in front of me when that happens."
Silently, Qavor rolled his eyes, but swept out an arm for his king to go ahead.
"Why thank you. So gallant." Erqis grinned at the flat look he was thrown, and the two men made their way across the bridge, followed by half his legion.
The gates loomed almost as high as the wall. Beyond them, Erqis spotted houses lining the broad main road up to the sprawling, grey castle, the streets tidy but empty. Just behind the gates stood a small group of people, a handful of men in fine clothing, wringing their hands – the realm's officiars, no doubt – and a slightly larger assortment of men in leather armour spread around them.
Erqis strolled through the gates like the place already belonged to him, his hands clasped behind his back. It was a display of casual arrogance that Qavor absolutely abhorred, he knew, but it never failed to throw enemies off.
"I assume you are the welcome committee."
"My Lord," said one of the officiars, coming towards him for all of two steps before he was halted by the one guard that wore a cape. The guard had a hard look about himself – the officiar, not so much.
"Your Majesty," Erqis corrected, and when the officiar blinked in confusion, he put a palm to his chest, fingers splayed over the hard, dark brown plate of his armour. "I have bested your king. All of this…" He gestured towards the silent town, the looming castle. "Is mine now. You will address me accordingly."
The man gaped like a fish out of water and another stepped in, a sweaty fellow who at least extended effort into his expression of servitude. "King Erqis, we have come to welcome you, indeed." His watery eyes looked anywhere but directly at him. "We yield the castle and the realm to you."
"Smart man." Erqis patted his head, making him sputter for a moment. "Now. I'm sure there is somewhere cosier we can talk about your calculated surrender."
There truly wasn't. The fortress of Brightmere was as quiet and uncomfortable as a long-forgotten tomb.
"Colder than I thought it would be. Harder ," Erqis griped as he sat on the grand throne. The hall had been built for voices to carry, but aside from a smattering of chuckles echoing against the high, domed ceiling, the throne room was eerily quiet – as were the palace halls beyond the engraved double doors. An unusual sensation, to not hear screams and cries and fire devouring what it could, but certainly not entirely unwelcome. “If I’d known Brightmere didn’t even have cushions for the royal arse, I would’ve stayed home. You should’ve made that widely known, perhaps.”
He received a few nervous chuckles from the assembled officiars
His own throne hall was bright and grand, lavish in its luxurious. Here, even the throne itself lacked decor, a square, massive seat carved from white stone without artistry beyond its natural colouration. No drapings graced it, no carvings depicted great victories of the past. The right armrest, however, sported a few shallow grooves, tiny crescents.
Still, cushion or no, he was relieved to be able to sit somewhere dry. Erqis' boots had been black when they had left home to begin their march on Brightmere. Now they were a filthy brown. He tapped one heel against the floor and watched dried mud flake off to mar the plum rug that ran from his feet all the way to the door.
How easily these people had yielded; he swept his gaze across them. There was a look of sickness to them, of desperation. Even the air tasted stale.
The heavy silence was suddenly disturbed by a commotion out in the hall, the doors opening a moment later. The captain of the guard stepped in first, his face set in grim lines, but he wasn't the source of the noise; no, that source was dragged in behind him.
The woman threw herself against her bonds. Her hands were bound in chains behind her back, the metallic clinking loud but drowned by her curses. Two men flanked her on either side, one on each holding onto her upper arms, struggling to hold her despite their brawn. Her hair, dark as a moonless night, hung wild around her shoulders down to her hips.
She was also very naked.
Erqis shifted in his uncomfortable seat, leaning forward with an elbow on his thigh. There wasn't an eye in the room that didn't cling to her – well. The palace guards seemed very keen to look anywhere but at their wild-eyed charge, traitor’s guilt painted clear as day on their faces.
"Princess Neira of Brightmere," the captain announced, as if this was a formal event, his tone flat. He stepped aside for his men to drag the woman to the foot of the dais.
Erqis took her in. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, narrowed in a pretty face flushed scarlet by the indignity of her situation. A full mouth pulled into a grimace, baring her teeth at him. The flush reached down her neck and halfway towards her heaving breasts. She was beautiful, but that was not what drew his attention. Much more striking was the fire with which she held his gaze – and the way her pale skin had turned red where the soldiers were grasping her. There was a dark bruise on her hip, the size of a fist.
"Let her go." Their hesitation inspired a disgusted click of his tongue. " Now ."
One dropped her arm, and the princess yanked the other from the second man herself. She tossed her head impatiently, some of her hair settling in front of her small, high breasts.
A pity.
Erqis leaned back again as the woman straightened, her spine like a steel rod. They'd even taken her shoes. She stood before the man who had invaded her fortress, murdered her father, in nothing but her own haughty pride, and refused to cower.
"A pleasure to meet you, your Highness."
"I'd return the sentiment, but I am not in the habit of lying through my teeth." Her words dripped with venom.
"You'd do well to emulate your regiars' willingness to wisely yield, considering your situation."
"Those are some big words for a common brute," she said, the mock-awe cutting like knives. Beside him, Qavor shifted. "Did someone write them down for you? Would you like to read your little speech aloud, so you won't blunder it?"
"I can see why you chose to give her up," Erqis told the captain before motioning to the woman, two fingers curling at her. "Come here."
Something unreadable passed over her face before she obeyed. Each step was slow, deliberate, until she stood between his knees. The princess refused to lower her chin, looking down her nose at him. She was a tall woman, but even so his eyes were level with her chest as he sat. He had to tip his head back, just a little, to meet her eyes.
"Sit."
Contempt rippled across her face. "You are in my seat."
"Oh, no, Princess. Today, I am your seat." It took him little effort to move her, seating Neira on his lap even as she stiffened. His hand rested in the soft curve of her waist, just above the generous flare of her hips. "Good girl."
With his arm threaded between her bound arms and her back, she couldn't squirm away.
Her low hiss of indignation was drowned under his next words. "I am not entirely without mercy, your Highness. Ask me anything, and it will be yours."
"Take that pretty dagger of yours and open your own throat." Her smile was serene, terrifying.
Erqis chuckled. Under different circumstances – no, even in these, especially in these, the woman was a feral delight. She was more use to him alive than dead, but even if she hadn't been, he liked to think he'd have kept her around for a bit. "Anything within reason, pet. But I do enjoy the murderous streak."
Neira huffed. "I assume leaving and never darkening my door ever again is out of the question also?"
"Afraid so."
The princess fell silent, and once again the palace reminded Erqis of a mausoleum, if not for the warm skin of the woman on his lap. She sat almost primly on his thigh despite her state of undress, and seemed to deliberate carefully. She clearly didn’t want this opportunity to go to waste with rash demands.
He was happy to wait, watching quietly how the angry red slowly faded from her skin until she was pale as the moon. Her lips were the same rosy colour as the nipples peaking through her long hair.
"Those who have betrayed me," she said eventually, the edge gone from her voice, "shall forfeit their lives."
Erqis hummed. "Would you like to do the honours yourself?" No doubt she'd cut a stunning vision enacting her revenge, splatters of blood adorning her bare skin like liquid rubies. He felt his cock thicken at just the thought of it.
Neira's dark eyes settled on him, one slender brow raised. "You'd trust me with a blade?"
"Good point. No." He caught Qavor's eye, inclining his head towards the man who had opened the gates for them, a rotund man in fine clothing, who spluttered at the attention. "Start with him."
"Your Highness, please -"
"I want this one for myself." The princess' gaze fell on the captain.
"Done."
The commotion was immediate. Neira’s guards and the rotund regiar found a gruesome but quick end of the edge of blades swiftly drawn. The captain of the guard chose his life over his honour and made a mad dash for the doors, but was overpowered before he could flee the throne room.
“Imprison the rest,” Erqis called out, watching the fray with disinterest. Castle guards who spent their days sitting on their asses and polishing their armour were never any match for real soldiers, especially not soldiers who had spent months on campaign.
Even less of a threat were the regiars, who were being cornered by a single soldier like a gaggle of terrified sheep.
“I assume you do have dungeons?"
"Would you like to inspect the cells yourself?" Neira asked sweetly.
Erqis grinned. No doubt she would try to lock him in one of the cells if given half a chance. "Only if you give me a guided tour. I can think of a few ways to pass the time between us until someone finds a key."
Qavor saved her from having to answer; as the soldiers dragged the regiars and a handful of surviving guards away, he pulled the cloak he wore from around his shoulders and held it out to the princess. In his other hand, he held a ring of keys.
The heavy shackles fell to the floor with a loud clang when Qavor unlocked them, and she quickly wrapped the offered cloak around herself when Erqis allowed her to stand.
"Thank you." The words came hesitantly, as if pulled from her with pliers.
"I should lock you up alongside them for ruining a perfectly good arrangement here," Erqis drawled, rolling his eyes at his huntsman’s chivalry. Trust Qavor to ruin something perfectly delightful. "All right. Let's find somewhere more comfortable to sit and talk. You do have comfort here, yes? It’s not all stone and depression and a total lack of taste?"
Neira bristled visibly.
"Perhaps let her dress first?" Qavor suggested. He was speaking softly, moving slowly, trying his best to make himself seem as non-threatening as possible, Erqis realised.
Unfortunately for his brother, this woman would sooner rip out his throat with her teeth than extend a modicum of early trust.
No, the princess wasn't stupid. Nor was she a coward. She had been stripped and chained, to humiliate her in front of the very same men that likely ran her life when her father wasn't here. She had not cried or begged for mercy, knowing such a display would only humiliate her further if Erqis had proven to be cruel.
Her expression now was flat, but her dark eyes were assessing them.
In another life, she would have made a competent general. But even without military training, Erqis felt she might still be useful to him.
"Of course," Erqis said smoothly, extending a hand that she icily shunned. "This arrangement can be highly beneficial to both of us, your Highness. I wasn't lying – I will give you anything in my power."
Flies, honey, all that.
"Aside from what I want."
"My throat slit? Us gone? Yes, I do believe I made that clear." A smirk tugged at his lips, but there was no humour answering his from Neira's stoic face. "Let's… my huntsman is right, actually. Let's get settled, and then we can speak."