Gareth looked forward, squinting at the forest growing ever closer. “I have many who are fiercely loyal to the Ironclads. They will fight for you, if it comes to that. I hope it won’t.”
“But if it does?”
“I will fight for you too.”
He rode on, rallying his legionnaires into double time. Annise urged her people to walk faster, too. There was no point delaying the inevitable conflict.
Beautiful was far too weak a word to describe the forest of Ironwood. Spectacular? Annise tried in her head, but even that felt understated by half. No, there was no right word to describe the beauty and magnificence of a forest sheathed entirely in iron.
Almost as awe-inspiring were the ranks of legionnaires set before the wood in perfect lines, their chins held high, their sword-bearing arms held stiffly at their sides. Others held bows tight against their chests. Many of them were Orians, their hair painted in eccentric colors—sunrise orange, fiery red, moonbeam silver, and others. And their eyes—not human, not animal, something in between. None moved to attack the refugees, however, and Annise considered it a small victory.
“They’re well-trained and organized,” Sir Christoff Metz said. Coming from him, that was a high compliment. “And their armor…” Annise chuckled at the awe in his tone. Leave it to Metz to get excited over well-polished armor.
Gareth gestured for them to stop, and Annise raised a hand to bring her peoples’ march to a halt. The eastern king rode toward the lines with confidence, like he owned this forest—which, of course, he did.
Annise hoped these soldiers agreed on that point. Beside her, she saw Tarin’s hand go to the hilt of his Morningstar. “Down, boy,” she said. “Don’t start anything.”
“I won’t,” Tarin promised. “But I will finish it if I have to.” The edge to his tone told her the wall between he and his monster was now paper thin.
“Only if I command it,” Annise said. “Until then, you won’t do anything.”
Tarin’s eyes flicked to hers, and she was glad to see the hint of a smile curl the edges of his lips. “Glad to have you back, Your Majesty,” he said.
“I wasn’t aware I’d ever left,” Annise said, though she knew she had. Back in the bowels of the mountain, she’d been lost. After being strong for so long, that moment of weakness out on the snowfields had been the caw of a rooster. If she was going to save her people, she had to be ever vigilant. Letting her guard down again could ruin everything.
I will not falter, she thought, a new mantra she’d adopted ever since setting foot in the east. More important than those four words was that she trusted herself again. The events from her aunt tumbling into the crevasse to their tumultuous exit from the mountain had reminded her who she was.
A Gäric, for all the name meant. The good, bad and strength. Her ancestors had been mighty and evil, good and dreaded, victorious and defeated. They had times of plenty and times of struggle. But they had survived.
And we will now, she thought, watching as one legionnaire split off from the rest, striding out to meet Gareth. He was tall and muscular and clearly Orian, his hair tinted green.
“General Jormundar,” Gareth said, loud enough for his voice to carry to Annise’s ears. “Glad to see you are well.”
“Why did you release me?” the Orian said, his catlike eyes overshadowed by a perplexed frown. “I committed treason of the highest order.”
It was Annise’s turn to frown. Treason? What had this man done? In the north, that very word carried the weight of execution.
“You were not of a sound mind before,” Gareth said evenly. “I trust you are now?”
“I—yes, Your Highness,” the general said. “I am.”
“Good,” Gareth said. “Now, please, provide an escort for our esteemed guests through the forest. I want them in Ferria by nightfall.”
“They can shelter on the plains,” Jormundar said. “Perhaps they would be more comfort—”
“Ironwood,” Gareth said. “Ferria. Don’t make me ask twice, general.”
Annise could see how difficult this was for the Orian. She understood. Had this man fought her people before? Had he lost friends, family in this war? Of course he had. They all had. But that didn’t mean they had to lose more, at least not at the hands of each other.
She broke away from the pack, squirming from Tarin’s grasp as he tried to stop her. “Stay there,” she commanded, using the tone she knew even he would obey. “King! General!”
The two men turned toward her, Gareth atop his horse and Jormundar from his standing position. “Your Highness,” Gareth said, taking her sudden appearance in stride. “I would like you to meet General Jormundar. Long has he served the iron throne. Most recently my father, and before that my grandfather.”
Annise knew all about the long lives of Orians, but still…based on his youthful appearance this man couldn’t be more than thirty-five. She quickly did the math. He would have to be approaching a century to have served three generations of Ironclads. “It is my honor,” she said. She wasn’t certain of the customs of the east, so she didn’t extend her hand. “And we are appreciative of the kindness of your people. Long have our kingdoms been plagued by animosity and war, but I have seen a greater threat with my own eyes.”
The general’s golden eyes bore into her, and she could see the hate in them. He committed treason and was imprisoned for it, she thought. He tried to reject the king’s decree to provide us refuge. Perhaps he’d even staged a coup. “And you want us to save you,” he said haughtily. “You want us to fight and die while you sup on our food, protected behind the boundaries of our iron stronghold.”
“You misunderstand our intentions, general,” Annise said, keeping any hint of anger or defiance from her voice. She sensed the importance of this meeting, and she needed to be a queen now, not the girl who wrestled boys into submission in the courtyard. “We will not shelter in the iron forest for long. Any and all of my people who are willing and able to fight will join your ranks and defend the east alongside you. I have seen the enemy with my own eyes, and they will not be thwarted easily. The Horde is our enemy too. And that makes you our ally.”
The man’s frown vanished, and he appeared surprised by the certainty in her tone. “And you? You will fight too?”
“I’ll do more than that,” she said. “I will conquer.”
The general nodded, seemingly satisfied by her response. “Come. We have prepared a place for your people to rest and eat. May the hospitality of Ironwood be to your satisfaction.” With that, he turned and gestured, the legionnaires parting in the center and filing into the forest via a broad avenue.
Annise noticed Gareth looking at her, wearing a wry grin. “Well handled. The general is not easily put in his place.”
“You gave him a second chance after he committed treason. Why?”
Gareth sighed. “It seems we end lives too easily these days. Perhaps it’s time we learned to forgive and nurture. Don’t you think?”
“Nurture?” Annise said, raising her eyebrows.
“Yes, nurture,” Gareth said. “Like a newborn babe to its mother’s teat.” He grinned again and strode into the forest.
“You’re incorrigible,” a voice commented from behind. Tarin stood shaking his head.
“Of course she is,” Zelda said from nearby. “She’s my niece, after all.”
“Look at their armor…” Christoff murmured.
“Aye,” Fay agreed. The blacksmith had joined them as well. She gestured toward Tarin. “It’s high time we forged you a new set of plate.”
“Fine,” Tarin said. “But this time I decide the specifications. Understood?”
“Stubborn mule of a man,” Fay muttered. “But yes, I will do my best, just tell me what you want.”
“I want to be a monster,” Tarin said.
Annise raised an eyebrow at that, but didn’t object. Perhaps they would all need to be monsters if they were to defeat the Horde.
Seventy-Four
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The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria
Tarin Sheary
“Thicker. Broader. Spikes. Add an adjoining plate between these two.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Just do it.”
Fay’s adept fingers sketched each of Tarin’s requests on a broad sheet of thin parchment.
“Aye, like that,” Tarin said, looking over her shoulder.
“It’s a fantasy,” Fay muttered. “You are not a blacksmith. You don’t know what is possible and what is not.”
“I already spoke to one of the Orian channelers,” Tarin said, and Fay looked at him, an eyebrow raised.
“You’ve been cheating on me, Master Lug?” There was no anger in her tone—only amusement.
“Nay, but I am requesting that you work with this Orian.”
“What’s a channeler?”
Tarin shrugged. The term was new to him too, but he’d managed to educate himself. “Channelers can control the ore in this forest better than others. This one makes armor for the legionnaires. I explained what I wanted, and I guess it’s possible.”
“Sounds like a hell of a woman. What’s her name?”
“You assume it’s a woman?”
“If she’s any good, then yes.” Fay smirked at her own jape.
Tarin sighed. “Yes, it’s a woman,” he admitted and Fay chuckled. Time and time again Tarin was learning not to underestimate the fairer sex lest they save your life. In fact, this Orian had come to him to inquire about his armor needs. She’d eyed him up and down with something akin to disgust. Aye, it was time for an upgrade.
“I’ll work with her on one condition,” Fay said.
“What’s that?”
“You grovel at my feet.”
“Done,” Tarin said, dropping to his knees. He might be the size of a tree, but he wasn’t above groveling.
After he’d groveled to Fay’s satisfaction, he started to leave the small forge Fay had been allowed to work in. “What color?” Fay asked, stopping him. He looked back over his shoulder, a question in his eyes. “What color for the armor?” she clarified.
He didn’t need to think about that one. “Black,” he said. “All black.”
Outside, Tarin was blinded by the reflection of light off dozens of iron structures. The buildings were not built around the trees and other foliage, but amongst them, in many cases making the trees a part of the structure itself. To the right was a three-story boarding house with a huge iron-sheathed tree sticking right out of its roof.
Metal bridges spanned gaps between the branches, crisscrossing the space above his head. Orian children ran along them without fear of falling, playing a game of sorts. A pair of bright yellow eyes watched him from another branch—the Orian channeler he’d met earlier. He nodded to her and she smiled, dropping deftly from the branch—a sheer drop of more than thirty feet—landing softly on her feet like a cat, requiring only one hand to balance herself before jogging inside the forge.
Tarin watched her disappear, hoping the two women would be able to work together. I prefer to work alone, Fay had once told him.
He turned away, striding through the marketplace, which, over the last few days had become familiar to him. The aroma of spiced and roasted meats assaulted his senses, but he wasn’t hungry. He was desperate to see Annise—well, more than see her. He needed her in his arms. Since they arrived in Ironwood, everything had been frantic and busy. The adrenaline had carried him for a while, but now he needed to stop and just be.
Annise was the only one he could do that with.
As he walked through the crowds of easterners buying, selling, and trading goods and services, he was acutely aware of how no one stared at him. Usually he was aware of all the attention he drew, but here he was aware of the opposite. Off the battlefield, these people were different than he expected.
He reached the far side of the crowd and turned left, using a shortcut he’d discovered the day before. The narrow path between the buildings and trees was a squeeze for him, but he made it, scraping through until he popped out on the other side where a wide thoroughfare awaited. Legionnaires both on horseback and on foot passed by, heading either toward or away from the large iron castle further down the road.
Tarin followed those going toward the castle. Several of them nodded at him and he returned the gesture, while others ignored him completely. Most of the latter were clearly Orians, their catlike eyes staring over his head, aloof.
He bit his tongue and willed there not to be trouble. General Jormundar seemed to have resigned himself to working with the northerners, but that didn’t mean those who’d agreed with his prior position weren’t still harboring ill thoughts.
Tarin wasn’t good at biting his tongue, however, and when another Orian passed without so much as acknowledging his presence, he said, “Top of the morning to you, mate.”
The man froze, his long turquoise hair swishing around his shoulders. He turned, and Tarin was certain his exquisitely polished and crafted armor would’ve given Sir Metz a heart attack. “This morning is a farce. How many easterners have you killed in your life, ogre?”
Hundreds, Tarin thought, but he didn’t say that. He would kill hundreds more if they attacked his people. We will kill them all if we must, a voice hissed in his head. “More than you’ve killed northerners, I’d wager,” Tarin said instead. “But I suspect it’s not due to lack of effort on your part.”
The Orian’s lip curled into a snarl. “We will obey our king and allow your ilk to infest our forest, but once the battle begins…”
“Are you threatening my people?” Tarin said in a low voice. Are you threatening my queen?
The legionnaire laughed. “Take it as you wish. Just know, in the heat of battle, blades have a way of finding bodies.”
Tarin breathed deeply, calmly. Inside, his monster was shrieking, tugging at its tethers, trying to unleash itself on this man. If Tarin gave himself over to it he knew he would tear the Orian limb from limb.
And then you would ruin everything.
So he just breathed, refusing himself another word as the Orian moved on, vanishing into the forest.
Tarin collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh.
Annise looked up from the sheets of parchment—maps—that were spread out over the rest of the mattress. She raised an eyebrow. “Tough day?”
Tarin looked at her face. Even marred by the brutal cut she’d taken on her cheek and missing a tooth, her expression was so warm and inviting with that twinkle in her brown eyes that he couldn’t help but stare at her with wonder. He knew it could instantaneously transform into an expression forged from steel, like she was an Orian channeler able to manipulate the ore onto her face. He’d never met another like her, not even Zelda. And he knew he never would again.
Suddenly, all his anger and frustration at the animosity he’d felt in the presence of the blue-haired legionnaire washed away and all he wanted was to…
“Oh,” Annise exclaimed as he pulled her to him, the parchment crinkling as they twined together atop it, covering the whole of the Four Kingdoms with their joined bodies. His lips were eager and he found hers were too, just like the first time. Just like every time.
Her hands were even more eager, plucking at the strings of his shirt, untying them, dragging the cloth over his head. Her lips brushed his jawline, finding his neck, lingering there as he closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was drinking him with hers, her tongue moistening her lips playfully the moment before she kissed his again.
The world was Annise and Annise was the world and Tarin couldn’t remember what he’d been so angry about.
She pulled at her own shirt and he helped her, the swell of her breasts emerging like a sunrise, but he was focused on her face, even as she pressed her warm body against his, focused on those lips, those eyes, that firm jaw and strong cheekbones and dark eyebrows, because she was perfection and everything else could be broken and it would not matter.
Because he was
hers.
They made short work of the rest of their clothes and Tarin melted into her.
Seventy-Five
The Eastern Kingdom, Ferria
Sir Christoff Metz
“Show me again,” Mona said in a strange voice. It was too deep and had a hint of something familiar in it.
“Are you mocking me?” Christoff said, frowning. He looked up from the piece of armor he was polishing. A gauntlet, the finest he had ever laid eyes on, a gift from the Orian channeler he’d spoken with earlier. It was already polished to a shine, but the motion calmed him.
“No, I would never do that,” Mona said, rolling her eyes.
“You are mocking me.” Christoff cocked his head to the side, considering.
“The question is why,” Mona said.
With Mona’s help Christoff had improved in his discernment of sarcasm, but understanding such humor was something as elusive to him as trying to capture rainwater in a sieve. “Why?” Christoff asked, having not the slightest clue.
“That woman you talked to earlier today. The Orian channeler.”
“What about her?”
“You sounded and acted like a horny adolescent pining after an older woman,” she said.
Christoff wasn’t surprised by her bluntness. It was something he’d always appreciated about her. “I was learning about her armor craft,” he said, which was the truth.
“What color eyes did she have?”
What was this, some sort of a test? “Violet, with a hint of sunflower in the center, near her pupils.”
Mona glared at him. “And her hair?”
“Rouge with accents of eggshell.”
Mona’s scowl deepened. What was she so fired up about? It hit him. Oh. Oh. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”
For a split-second, her expression softened, but then resumed its heavy glare. “Done what?”
“Offended you by accident. That woman…”
“Yes. What about her?”