“Those look like bear clan reinforcements,” he called to the sentry. “But let’s wait for confirmation, just to be certain.”
The fleet parked outside, sending a message about the group’s intentions, then a mountain of a man clambered out of the lead Rover. He wore a full beard and flowing brown locks that looked as if they had never been cut, bound away from his face in a leather tie. Even at this distance, there was enough of a resemblance to the old bear that Dom tentatively identified him as Beren’s heir. At a gesture, the rest of the men fell in behind him. None of them dressed like the other bear guards in the hold, however. Instead of uniforms, they wore heavy gray greatcoats of leather and sheepskin and leggings tucked into heavy boots.
“Open the gates,” he shouted.
Running the stairs at top speed, he managed to get there in time to greet the new arrivals.
At least the fires are out.
But he didn’t look forward to giving this man the bad news. As the bear party arrived, Dom stretched his neck to make eye contact.
That means he’s two meters tall, if not more.
The width of this man’s shoulders was intimidating, broad as a sequoia compared to the other bear warriors, and Beren hadn’t been small.
“I received a distress call from my uncle’s second,” the great bear rumbled.
When he put out a hand, Dom took it, and the other man crunched his knuckles in a grip that was probably meant to be firm, not punishing. “Dominic Asher, master of Ash Valley. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”
“Callum McRae. You didn’t blow up your own hold, so I don’t hold you accountable.”
That’s a relief.
If the old bear had been all bluster, there was an iron composure about his heir. Dom had the feeling Callum would crush anyone who wronged his people, slowly and methodically. Stepping back, he waved the group into the plaza, and once the forty men cleared the gate, he signaled for the sentries to lock it down. That might be pointless since there were so many breaches in the wall, but it wouldn’t help to drop their defenses even in disarray.
“I suspect you want to see your uncle?”
“That’s where we’ll start,” the other man said grimly.
Then Callum turned to his men. “Find the bear survivors first. Afterward, render aid wherever possible.”
“To everyone?” The bear warrior who spoke sounded as if he’d been asked to complete a particularly distasteful mission.
“Yes, everyone. Our kindness and compassion must extend beyond the order, beyond our clan. We’ve spent too long apart, and look at the result.”
That’s right. Beren said something about his heir taking a vow of celibacy. So these bears are from… a monastic order?
His gaze must’ve contained an undeniable question because Callum sighed. “The Order of Saint Casimir, at your service.”
“Thank you for coming. If things hadn’t been so chaotic, I’d have notified you myself.”
“I understand. Please… may I see Uncle Beren now?”
“This way.”
Dom didn’t bother with small talk; it seemed improbable that a monk would be uncomfortable with silence. Besides, the hold wasn’t quiet. Though the first chaos had passed, there was still a lot of confusion, people running, and those who couldn’t stop crying. With Animari senses, it hovered on the bearable side of overwhelming.
Callum seemed to take in everything with cool, assessing eyes, but when they stepped into the temporary morgue, he drew in a breath. Even in the cold, the smell of death permeated each inhalation, as if you were taking that loss of life into your lungs. The chill might be slowing decay, but the specter remained, grim and inexorable.
“Where is he?” The low timbre of the question could have been created by two boulders grinding together.
“Here.”
With no fanfare, he pulled the sheet from the bear lord’s face. But that wasn’t enough for his heir. The monk removed it entirely to gaze on the magnitude of the wounds that had brought his uncle low. Beren’s clothes were tattered and bloodstained, and Dom glanced away from the mangled limbs, crushed torso, and partially obliterated face.
“Would you give me a moment?”
“Of course.”
No words would suffice anyway, so he stepped out and closed the door behind him. He imagined the massive bear warrior imploding in silent grief, and an agonizing ache woke like live coals in his chest.
We’ve lost so many. I don’t know how we’re going to rebuild the hold, let alone take the fight to Tycho.
Plus, he had so many doubts about that final exchange between Slay and Talfayen, and the unquestionable wrongness of it raised more questions about the secret meetings between them.
Not Slay, he wouldn’t. No matter how pissed he was, he wouldn’t.
Despair the like of which he hadn’t known since Dalena died threatened to drown him.
A few minutes later, Pru peeked around the corner. Her small face was smudged with smoke to the point that he couldn’t make out her freckles, though the dirt brightened her eyes by comparison, two beacons in a life that offered only an eternity of starless nights.
She hurried toward him as if he’d confirmed a suspicion. “What happened?”
Stunned, he raised his head, unable to believe that she knew. “How…?”
Sometimes, through a powerful mate bond, couples came to share each other’s emotions. Dom would’ve sworn it was too soon yet she was here in response to his mood.
Pru lifted a shoulder in helpless confusion. “I’m not sure. I just… my chest is really tight. I mean, it has been for a while. How could it
not
be? But this feeling seems like it’s yours, not mine. But if I’m wrong, if—”
“No.” Quietly he elaborated on recent events, including the arrival of the Order of Saint Casimir, and closed with, “No matter why you came, I’m glad you’re here.”
With a tentative smile, she went into his arms and held him without asking anything else. At the moment, she might be the only person who didn’t want his head on a pike. Even if they didn’t admit it, most of the pride probably blamed him for letting the Golgoth execute this attack. They also wouldn’t understand why he’d chosen to shelter Prince Alastor, which was why he’d asked the royal to keep a low profile.
“We’ll get through this,” she said.
If anyone else had said it, he would have dismissed it as empty reassurance. Somehow, when Pru spoke those words, they metamorphosed into liquid titanium, infusing his spine with the necessary fortitude to keep going. Breathing deep, he pulled the comforting scent of her into his lungs and held her so tight, he half-expected her to complain. But she only held on harder, until the tears receded from his throat and eyes.
“Thanks for your understanding,” Callum said from behind them. “Now you’ve only to point me at the enemy, and they
will
fall.”
P
ru wished it
were that simple.
But a week later, they were still putting the pieces back together. They’d set up a dormitory for those rendered homeless in the bombing, and the lack of privacy, even among allies, was starting to wear thin. Conditions were worse for the Golgoth because they were squatting in a damaged building, well apart from the others. While Pru understood the reason for the segregation, sadness also overwhelmed her whenever she delivered supplies.
“You grace us again with your presence, dear lady.” Prince Alastor was visibly thinner, yet he still swept an elegant bow as her party came in with boxes.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. Conditions should improve soon… and I see you’ve been working independently on repairs. Thank you for that.”
“Let’s not pretend I’m a valued heir any longer. The pretext is wearisome. I trust we both know that my brother sees me as a stain he’d prefer to scrub away.”
Pru didn’t know what to say to that, but she soon rallied. “He feels that way about a number of us, I gather.”
“Well said.” Despite his smile, there was a core of sorrow, laced with bitterness, that no light banter could touch.
“Everyone is tightening their belts at the moment. Our hothouses were damaged, reducing our available food stores. We’re hunting as we can, however, so we should be able to offer more fresh meat soon.”
“Whoever planted the charges knew a great deal about Ash Valley resources.”
“Yes,” Pru said, sighing.
That was one of the issues hindering the reconstruction. There was division among the Animari, as the bear clan didn’t care about Ash Valley and wanted to go Golgoth hunting. Raff had chosen to stay momentarily, mostly because they hadn’t done a complete recon mission yet. He didn’t want to lead his surviving soldiers into an ambush. These days, Dom hardly slept, and she could tell he felt like he was failing on all levels, but with massive damage to infrastructure and serious casualties, it would be irresponsible to commit to an external offensive without seeing to his own first. Pru had said,
What’s the point of fighting a war when our warriors won’t even have a safe place to return to afterward?
Eventually, he’d listened to her, but his caution didn’t impress Raff or the new bear leader, Callum.
“You look pensive. I’d offer you a coin for your thoughts, but I fear our currency is soon to be worthless.”
“Not if your brother has anything to say about it,” a Golgoth soldier muttered.
Pru paused in the midst of starting a pot of soup for the hungry men. “What did you say?”
A few others tried to shush him, but the young Golgoth shrugged their hands away. “It isn’t like Tycho’s drive to conquest is some big secret. If he has his way, he’ll crush all resistance and become the sovereign ruler of all Numina.”
That was a very old word, one they had chosen to describe themselves, entirely different from pejoratives like “freak”, “beast” and “monster” that humans had preferred during the Great War. To the best of Pru’s recollection, it meant a sort of divine will, or an energy that pervaded them, which clay men lacked. Some humans had taken umbrage over the term, asserting that the Numina thought humanity lacked a spiritual element they called the soul. But she wasn’t a philosopher or a theologian, even if she knew more history than most.
With a crooked smile that didn’t touch his eyes, Alastor said, “I stand corrected. It’s not our currency that’ll be devalued but everyone else’s, should my brother’s plan come to fruition.”
“I know you don’t want to the throne,” the young soldier went on. “But if you don’t fight for it, so many will suffer.”
Given the stories about the Golgoth, faint surprise kindled in her. But of course it made sense that they couldn’t
all
be heartless monsters. Not all Animari were feral beasts, after all. Along with everyone else, she waited for the prince’s response.
“I’m not meant to be king,” he said softly.
Pru spoke without thinking. “For every born leader, there are a hundred normal folks who stood up and tried their best because it was all they could do.”
Prince Alastor let out a caustic laugh. “I do believe you’re trying to
rally
me. How novel. Do you imagine history gives a gold star to well-meant failures?”
“I know history books better than you, I’ll bet. And you shouldn’t be thinking about that before the first battle is fought.” She kept her answer calm and quiet as she put the finishing touches on their soup.
Though they had to be tired of eating the same thing, day after day, the Golgoth didn’t complain. The strange loyalty these soldiers showed to a capricious prince who—by his own admission—was no leader puzzled her; their culture prized strength above all else, but he didn’t fit the ideal of the Golgoth brute, eager to grind others beneath his heel. If she could do it, solving that mystery might prove useful.
Something icy and sharp flashed in Alastor’s gaze. “You used to be Latent, didn’t you, pride matron?”
Since that was no secret, she merely nodded. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had mocked her for it.
“I commend you for overcoming that handicap.” To her surprise, he sounded sincere. She couldn’t get a handle on his character at all. “I’m sure nobody’s ever used that word with you before. They might even have said it’s not a big deal—to your face—nothing to be ashamed of, yes? But I’m equally certain they made you
feel
lesser, as if being locked to one form is the worst crime you could commit, and it wasn’t like you chose to be that way. It just happened.”
“Yes.” Pru bit her lip and breathed through her nose. There could’ve been no bracing for the verbal barrage that fell on her like napalm truth.
“Then you’re uniquely qualified to understand me. Come.”
It didn’t occur to Pru to question the command. Quickly she handed the spoon to the nearest soldier and ran after Prince Alastor. He took her to the far corner of the room, where he’d clearly made camp. A battered trunk with brass fittings looked as if it had survived multiple explosions, and he opened it without hesitation, removed everything inside, and pulled out a false bottom. At the very base sat a small case; he drew it out and showed her the contents: six slender vials filled with pale blue liquid.
“I’m showing you my weakness,” he said in conversational tone.
“Excuse me?”
“This is why I can’t fight my brother. I’m addicted to this stuff, and I’ll die without it. I was born with a genetic condition, and my mother… well. She implored the doctors to find some way to save her defective runt. My father would’ve bashed my head in with a rock and left me to rot on a hillside, as in days of yore.”
“You need it to live. That’s not what I’d call addiction.”
The prince shrugged. “My point is, I have six days left, pride matron. Do you think I can conquer the Golgoth in that time?”
Taking her silence for agreement, he put away the case and sealed it up in the trunk. Then he sauntered away with a bright smile affixed in place. Her heart ached, watching him. Now that she understood him a bit more, she wanted desperately to help. But she had no idea what he took to keep his condition at bay, and analysis would take a while, even if they had equipment on site.
As she stepped into the hall, the young Golgoth who had spoken before hurried after her. He caught her arm and let go when she flinched. Immediately he dropped to his knees before her. “Please, save him.”