no excuse for his interruption. Instead,
he walked briskly to head of the table,
over to Jaisyn. At first grateful for the
interruption—Jaisyn had come close
to marching from the table and
challenging Kegan to a duel—she
soon realized from the severity of the
expression on the general’s face that
something was amiss.
He knelt beside her and whispered a
few words into her ear. Though no
one else heard what he said, everyone
saw her face pale before a murderous
expression appeared upon it.
Looking directly at her general,
Jaisyn
murmured
three
words.
“Ready the men.”
The general nodded and quickly left.
The
warrior
accompanying
him
followed.
Jaisyn stood and surveyed her
guests, “You will excuse me, my lords
and ladies, for this hasty retreat but
Morden soldiers have been spotted at
Galtan Pass.”
Galtan Pass was a Lytherian village
that bordered the kingdom of Galtan.
A few gasps came from the
bluebloods around the table, who
were no doubt shocked that an
impending battle was being discussed
in their presence.
Jaisyn continued in her strongest
voice. “They seem to be heading for
our city. It would be in your best
interests if you returned to your
homes by taking the route to the
west.”
With that advice, Jaisyn dipped her
head, stepped from behind the table,
and strode from the Great Hall in the
direction of the armory. When she
entered, dressed as she was in black
finery, the soldiers who were being
helped into their armor paused and
stared. Malcolm was one of those
soldiers and he immediately read the
look in her eyes.
“Your Highness, it will be safer for
you within the castle walls,” he said
immediately. Jaisyn ignored him.
Instead, she moved to the door on the
far side of the armory that she used as
a changing room.
“Oregon, send for Magda,” she
called to the squire who began to trail
after her.
“Yes,
Your
Highness.”
He
immediately turned and ran to do her
bidding.
“Your Highness?” came a tentative
voice.
She knew it was Malcolm calling
her but she continued into the private
rooms. She’d pulled the black veil
from her face and was undoing the
buttons of the dress when Malcolm
barged in.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he
began, but she could read in his eyes
that he was only being polite. “But I
must insist that you stay within the
castle walls.”
Although he topped her by many
inches, Jaisyn glared down her nose at
him. “You will excuse yourself,
Malcolm. Do not forget to whom you
speak.”
A muscle in Malcolm’s jaw worked
furiously. “I am well aware of whom I
address, Highness, but I cannot allow
you to risk your life unnecessarily
when there are others who would
gladly do so for you.”
“Malcolm,
I
understand
your
concern, but I am quite capable,
perhaps even more capable than
some,” she paused for effect, “of
protecting myself.”
“I know that—” he began only to be
cut off.
“Now that we have that sorted, you
can show yourself out.” Her tone left
no room for argument and though she
could see he wanted to argue with
her, Malcolm bowed, turned on his
heels and left.
***
Vulcan Frederick Viktor Mor’an,
known to both enemies and allies alike
as the Northern Wolf, sat atop his
magnificent grey steed, a gift he’d
received from one of the smaller
countries of the North, which bred
these beautiful creatures. Shadowfax
had been bred for a warrior, for him.
The stallion’s entire body was
muscled and he was bigger than most
of the horses in the Morden stables.
He also had a temper that could only
be described as nasty. Many stable-
hands had received bites and kicks
from Shadowfax when they least
expected it. He’d even attempted to
bite Vulcan, but animal instinct—it
had to be, for what else could have
stopped such a beast and made him
recognize a temper worse than his—
had shown him the error of his ways.
Man and beast were equally
matched. Like the horse, Vulcan was
a powerful contender. He was six feet
seven inches of broad, muscular, foul-
tempered man. He had a thick head of
straight black hair that touched right
below his shoulders, and eyes the
color of dark night that contrasted
with the stark paleness of his
complexion. Those contrasts, coupled
with his overpoweringly masculine
features—thick eyebrows, a strong
jaw and chin, lips that were slashed
across
his
face—made
him
a
handsome man. It was the ever-
present scowl on his lips that kept
most of the women, except for the
ones that he selected, at bay.
As he sat atop Shadowfax wearing
the red-and-gold colors of Morden,
and that great scowl on his face, any
passerby would recognize him as the
Northern Wolf. He hadn’t been
awarded that title for being a friendly
person.
Surprisingly, there were no passers-
by. No farmers holding market. No
herders carrying their sheep, goats, or
cows from one location to the next.
The cottages and smaller farms on the
outskirts of the city looked deserted.
Even the towns they’d ridden into to
enter the kingdom had seemed
sparsely populated. The few people
had scurried out of his way as if
Rika’s very hounds chased them.
“Varian,” he called to the man
flanking him on the left. “What strikes
you about the city?”
Varian, who’d been staring at the
empty cottages from his vantage point,
turned his multi-colored head toward
his king and curled his lip.
“It appears deserted,” he told him
casually, as if they were discussing
their next meal or a wench they
intended to bed. “It appears that they
are preparing to receive us in a
particularly hostile way.”
Vulcan’s glance swept the outskirts
of the city once more before he turned
to Chevan, one of his generals, who
flanked him on his right.
“Tell the soldiers in the front to be
wary of traps.” Chevan nodded and
called to one of the squires behind
them.
When Vulcan turned to scan the
area once more, he noticed that
Varian was staring at him with a
peculiar expression on his face.
“Something wrong?” Vulcan asked
of the man who’d shared his
childhood. His younger brother from a
different mother. The now dead King
Frederick of Morden had remarried
after the untimely death of his first
wife, and thus Vulcan had been
blessed with a loyal brother who
served as both warrior and one of his
most trusted advisors.
A cynical smile touched Varian’s
lips as his light eyes twinkled. Lesser
expressions than these had made
women of Morden swoon. “I was just
thinking that this is one hell of a
reception you’re receiving from your
future in-laws.”
Vulcan would have smiled had it
been his nature. Instead, he grunted
and continued on. He looked to the
front of their procession and noticed
the banner of the House of Mor’an
was flying high—red background,
outlined by gold, featuring two
snarling wolves perched to attack each
other.
Suddenly a cry went up from the
front of the procession and Vulcan
tensed,
hand
reaching
for
the
broadsword at his hip. He soon
realized that someone was calling to
him—a squire by the looks of it.
“My liege, the Lytherian soldiers are
blocking our entrance into the city,”
the squire finally related once he’d
caught his breath. “General Akos is
waiting for your orders.”
Vulcan’s
eyes
narrowed.
The
Lytherian soldiers were blocking their
entrance? Feeling his anger mount
rapidly, Vulcan passed a look to
Varian and broke rank, moving
Shadowfax to the side of the
procession so that he could make his
way to the front. Varian was behind
him, then next to him as they pulled
up in front of the men carrying the
banner. About a mile away, soldiers,
all dressed in heavy armor, stood in
battle formation. The banner of the St.
Ives family, a blue ground with silver
and white edges, with a falcon
swooping down upon its prey in the
center, flew against the mounting
wind.
Shadowfax, feeling the tension in his
master, reared and tossed his head,
snorting as if he intended to charge
forward. Vulcan calmed him and
turned to the ranks.
“Has
anyone
from
Lytheria
explained this?” Vulcan snapped,
glaring from the lines of soldiers to his
general. Akos Yalaran, almost as tall
as he was, and battle-scarred , simply
shook his head and replied, “They
haven’t made any motion to come
forward.”
Vulcan swore. Exactly what were
they playing at? His men hadn’t come
here to fight. They’d come to escort
their king to Lytheria, where he would
enter into marriage with one of the
princesses. It was only as a precaution
that they were all wearing armor, and
travelling in such large numbers.
“Line the men up. Cavalry to the
front, riders behind them, have the
archers take their positions where
they can find cover. Have two
generals and a lieutenant to each
sector.”
He turned to his brother next.
Varian was staring at him with still
eyes, awaiting whatever assignment
Vulcan would give him.
“Before we crush the Lytherians, I
want to speak with whoever is leading
the army. I want you on my left and a
general on my right.”
His brother nodded and immediately
found Hector.
Before long, the three men, without
helmets and followed loosely by two
Morden soldiers, were riding slowly
toward the intersection. Vulcan waved
a white flag, a flag symbolizing a
partial truce and calling for the leader
of their army to come forward.
Hector, Vulcan and Varian had
stopped at the midpoint when three
soldiers broke rank and came at a
slow pace, bearing the same flag,
toward them.
As soon as they stopped before
them, Vulcan demanded in a voice
that left little room for arguments,
“Which of you is in charge?”
The man in the middle man spoke
up, his voice a deep baritone. “I am.”
Vulcan continued, addressing him,
“I am Vulcan of Morden, High King
of the North. Who blocks my
entrance?”
At first the man didn’t answer and
as if catching himself, he countered,
“What is your business in Lytheria,
Vulcan of Morden?”
“I am here for my kingdom and
bride,” Vulcan ground out, wishing
that he could see the man’s face
under his helmet. All he could make
out were dark brown eyes.
The man stuttered, “Your—your
what?”
Vulcan, on the verge of attacking
whoever was under that helmet,
opened his mouth to say something
quite biting only to hear Varian say,
“Vulcan Mor’an, High King of the
North, seeks entrance to Lytheria to
collect his bride, as promised by the
late King Wilhelm, and to secure the
rule of Lytheria. Your king promised