navigated his way through the forest.
He couldn’t see, but he knew from
the crunching of the branches on the
ground that Hector followed behind
him with the other squirming bundle.
Luckily, they’d both been wearing
enough cloth that they could easily
gag these ladies and tie them up
before they continued their awful
screaming. The other three soldiers
were somewhere behind them, and
two were wounded—one badly so.
The Lytherian soldier who’d inflicted
those wounds was only alive because
the two princesses had started their
screeching when Varian had been
close to beheading him. Killing the
soldier had taken a backseat to
shutting them up, and instead of taking
his head off, Varian had settled for
knocking him out. It was why, instead
of five horses, there were now six,
one carrying the unconscious body of
a Lytherian soldier.
A sound touched Varian’s sensitive
ears and he saw what appeared to be
torches coming toward them.
“Shh!” he hissed, especially to his
squirming bundle who was still
screaming although gagged. She
ignored him and continued to make a
whiny kind of sound until he brought
the flat of his hand down on her rear.
“Quiet!”
***
Vulcan felt unease creep up his
spine as they moved through the
forest. He had the distinct feeling they
were being watched. And they
probably were, being that they were
moving through a Lytherian forest, at
the back of a Lytherian castle.
He drew his sword, and heard when
his men did the same. His eyes
scanned the areas that the light of
torch touched. He heard the snap of a
twig and a man stepped into the
clearing, sword drawn.
It took a while to recognize Varian,
but when he did, relief coursed
through Vulcan’s veins.
“Did you miss my company already,
brother?” Varian asked with an easy
smile as he moved to him.
Vulcan scowled down, and didn’t
waste time in biting into him. “Where
did you go? Why didn’t you report to
one of the generals?”
It was then Vulcan noticed that
others were moving into the clearing.
They were all upon horseback.
Hector, he made out, and three more
of his soldiers, and someone, a
Lytherian, if the cape and coloring
were any indication, was lying over
the back of a horse.
“I’ve brought you a present,” Varian
said, as if he just remembered
something. He whistled and Loki
sauntered forward slowly. Vulcan
noticed something squirming against
Loki’s back and lifted his brows.
Instead of answering his brother’s
unasked question, Varian climbed
atop Loki and turned the bundle so
she faced forward. Long tresses of
what appeared to be auburn hair fell
into her face, and green eyes flashed
angrily at him.
“May I present to you, your future
bride, Princess Mathilda St. Ives, the
Flower of the East,” Varian said,
holding the woman still as she
struggled against her bonds. Except
for the slight widening of her eyes
when Varian made his introductions,
the woman didn’t look at all afraid.
She looked angry.
Hector, who’d been holding on to
the other struggling princess, felt her
body go limp when Varian made the
announcement. Deciding she’d either
run out of strength or fainted, he
sighed in abject relief.
Chapter 4
The next day began early for the
soldiers of Morden and their two
captive princesses. Today would mark
the last day of the siege. Vulcan had
two important things that belonged to
Lytheria and one way or another, they
were getting him into that castle.
Varian, who looked less than his
usually calm self, as he’d had to deal
with the muffled cries and squirming
machinations of the Flower of the East
until she fell asleep, was dressed in his
leathers and a red tunic emblazoned
with the crest of the House of Mor’an.
He was to play the part of king’s
envoy today.
The rest of the soldiers, including
Vulcan, wore armor, and some even
had their helmets on. The only
weapon that Varian had on his person
was the dirk at his waist. He easily got
astride Loki, and turned him in the
direction of the front of the castle.
One of the squires presented him with
the white flag of the messenger as two
armor-clad soldiers flanked him on
each side. He passed Vulcan on his
way to the castle, and his brother gave
him a quick nod.
As they waited, someone from the
Lytherian camp began to blow the
horn. When they could see the arrows
poking through the slits of the
battlements, and some of the soldiers
standing upon the ramparts and the
barbican, Varian waved the flag above
his head and they slowly began to
make their way down.
No arrows rained down on them,
and when they were finally next to the
moat, Varian called out, “I am Varian
of Morden, messenger to King Vulcan
of
Morden.
Who
speaks
for
Lytheria?”
An answer came from one of the
soldiers on the battlements. “State
your purpose!”
Varian smirked. He intended to do
just that. “Our king has recently come
into possession of two things: one
rightfully belongs to him; the other to
Lytheria. Surrender to Morden and
accept my king as your liege, and no
harm will come to your prized
possession.”
The silence was so deafening that
Varian was about to repeat the
statement, believing they had not
heard him, when a firm feminine voice
called out, “What prized possessions
of ours does your vile king have?”
Varian had heard people call his
brother worse things but this hidden
female irked him with her words.
What right did a female have
discussing war with a king’s envoy?
“You would not believe me if I told
you so I will show you,” he said
curtly, and with that, he turned and
waved the white flag in the direction
of the soldiers who stood further off,
away from the reach of soldiers who
manned the battlements and their
deadly arrows.
***
Jaisyn watched in horror as two
soldiers rode ahead of the line. Even
before they pulled the dark cloths
from their captives’ heads, she knew
who they were. Her sisters! They had
her sisters! They were both gagged
and from the ever-present tossing of
Isolde’s red hair, she knew that her
sister was struggling. Her golden gaze
flickered over to Mathilda, who was
still, looking exceedingly small next to
the massive soldier who held her.
“Our king expects Lytheria to
surrender by noon this day or you will
never see your prized possessions
again.”
The messenger was speaking again,
but Jaisyn barely heard him. Nor did
she see him flash a deadly smile
before he turned and rode back
toward Morden soldiers.
They had captured Isolde and
Mathilda. Good Goddess, who knew
what they’d done to her sisters? If
their king was any indication on how
the people of Morden treated women
—
“What are your instructions, liege?”
Urian asked from beside her.
They were standing in the tower,
because it allowed them to see while
not being seen. His voice was sad, his
head bowed, his eyes lowered. It was
then she remembered. She’d asked
Malcolm to take her sisters to
Mitherie. If her sisters were captured,
then Malcolm was dead. He would
sacrifice his life to protect them and
that was what he’d done.
“I am sorry, Urian,” Jaisyn told her
general earnestly, feeling the urge to
weep bitter tears. Malcolm had been
as close to her as her brother, and
once more, Morden had taken a
brother from her. She cleared her
throat, blinked rapidly and focused
her thoughts on Isolde and Mathilda.
They were still alive. She had to get
them away from that monster who
called himself the Wolf. She wasn’t
going to risk having another loved one
taken from her.
“Prepare for surrender,” she said
softly. She could do nothing else. Her
army was half the size of the Morden
army, and they had her sisters. Any
resistance from them and she was
certain that Vulcan of Morden would
not hesitate to take her sisters’ lives.
In
that
moment,
she
regretted
wholeheartedly she hadn’t slit his
throat as soon as she entered his tent.
If not for her conscience…
“Yes, liege,” Urian responded and
he walked away, no longer his usual
brisk self. His posture conveyed his
utter defeat.
And as Jaisyn thought of that, she
decided
that
they
were.
The
Lytherians were defeated.
***
Vulcan sat facing the woman who
would have become his wife had
Lytheria not put up that ridiculous
struggle. She was beautiful, and he
could see why she would receive a
nickname for her beauty. What he
couldn’t fathom was why it was
‘Flower of the East’. She was more so
a rose, a very thorny rose, with her
fiery hair and waspish disposition. He
wondered briefly if she was the
princess who’d attempted to kill him
nights ago. However, as he looked at
her fair complexion and red hair, he
dismissed the thought. His princess
had been darker, with golden locks.
“Eat,” Vulcan said to her once
more, his voice hard and unyielding.
One of the squires had placed slices of
bread and strips of meat before her as
she sat upon a log, clutching her sister
to her. The other sister had eaten
some of the bread, at the insistence of
the redhead, before she’d turned and
buried her face back into the
redhead’s shoulder. The thought of
the other sister being the assassin-
princess never entered his mind. She
was too timid. Timid women did not
enter warriors’ tents with intent to slit
their throats.
His voice made the Flower jump,
but she glared at him nonetheless. She
looked away after a few seconds and
continued to comfort the sister in her
arms. From the way she was acting,
one would think that the redhead was
the older sister and the one with hair
the color of spun gold was the
younger. But that wasn’t possible.
Mathilda St. Ives was the redhead, the
youngest daughter of Wilhelm of
Lytheria. Varian had asked after the
Flower of the East when he’d
captured them and the redhead had
confirmed her identity.
Deciding that he had more important
things to do than try to persuade a
stubborn princess to eat, Vulcan rose
to his feet, and headed to where the
horses were kept. Their prisoner of
war was finally awake and just as
stubborn as the Flower. Perhaps it
was a trait among their people—
stubbornness. He hoped stupidity
wasn’t. If Lytheria did not surrender
to him by noon, he would have no
choice but to plan a surprise attack,
which would lead to more death. He
didn’t need to lose any more soldiers,
especially Lytherian soldiers. When he
left for Morden, who would then
guard his new acquisition?
As he came closer to the horses, he
heard Varian’s voice. His brother was
questioning the prisoner and from the
narrow slits that were his eyes, he was
getting nowhere.
When Vulcan approached, Varian