He didn’t know why he even cared.
“I was beginning to wonder if my message arrived,” Niel said as Vulmar unbuckled the bridle. The second griffon wore one, too, though the reins were knotted to the saddle, the stirrups of which had been shortened to keep from flapping, riderless, in the wind. Niel stepped forward to help untack the second beast.Northwind, he thought the creature was called. His father only kept a handful, but Niel had never been fond of them.
“Oh, aye,” Vulmar said. Niel’s griffon snapped at him, beak the size of a man’s head closing an inch from his fingers. Niel glowered back at the creature—firmness was really the only thing that impressed them—and grabbed the bridle strap firmly just below its beak.
“We’ve lost food and fuel in attacks,” Niel said, moving to Northwind's side to remove his saddle. “The estimate I sent is wrong. We can maybe hold through February.Maybe.” The copper-brown beast stood stiffly, wings flaring and tail lashing despite his clear exhaustion, as Niel worked. The moment he dragged the saddle free, girth trailing, the griffon shook and puffed his wing-feathers.
“He’s none too pleased with you,” Vulmar said.
Vulmar wasn’t talking about the griffon.
“When is he ever?” Niel muttered, and set the saddle awkwardly on the cleared path where the inch-deep snow had been heavily trampled. His father didn’t know about the reduction of supplies. Niel had sent the message right when they took Blackfell, when all he had to report was the retreat from Ironcliff, the high number of losses his men had endured, and the fact that he’d conquered Blackfell and would wait there for reinforcements.
“It’ll work its way out, lad,” Vulmar said gruffly, and clapped a hand to Niel’s shoulder. Vulmar’s golden griffon, Sunchaser, now untacked, puffed her feathers and curled up in the pathway, blocking it entirely. She tucked her head beneath one wing.
Niel stripped the bridle from Northwind, who immediately turned to show the knight his backside. Niel hefted the saddle back up and looked at the golden griffon blocking the path to the castle.
“I’m so cold my balls might snap off,” Vulmar said. “You going to invite me in, or do I have to stab you in the gut and take over the castle myself?”
“As if you could, old man,” Niel said. He turned to the wall and searched the men there. “Kerr,” he called. The captain turned and raised a hand to show he’d heard. “Two men. Outside the stable. Polearms,” Niel called. No matter how recently the griffons had eaten, stabled horses, if unguarded, would provea temptation Niel couldn’t afford. Kerr pumped his hand in acknowledgement, then jogged off.
They’d want those horses, when his father arrived. Even if Nielhadalready told his soldiers to feed the horses on hay and dried grasses first, setting aside the oats and grains stored in the stable that humans could eat, if they needed to.
Niel led Vulmar through a circuitous route to avoid the griffon napping in the pathway. They rounded the well and the pile of charred wood before turning back towards the castle door. He was in no mood to tramp through snows up to his thighs, even if a fire awaited them. They set the griffon tack down inside the door.
The castle was cold. He’d had to make rules for what rooms could have fires built in them, to keep the men from sprawling out and using too much wood. Niel led Vulmar into the kitchen, the only room that was nearly always warm, where three soldiers diced at the central table and a fourth read a book, sitting on the floor beside the stove.
They were Eyron soldiers. They looked up to see Vulmar Cutthroat walking at Lord Niel’s side, and they stood, bowed, and fled in silence. Ignoring this, Niel grabbed two plates. He stood near the stove, feeling his whole body thaw, as he sliced two chunks of dense, half-risen bread from one of the morning’s loaves. He gave them each a wedge of hard cheese and a strip of the salted rabbit jerky sitting out, then brought the plates to the table.
“Since when is a prince a servant?” Vulmar asked, his voice drawling. The words were a bitter reminder that Nielwas, technically, married to the Aronthian princess. It was a fact that had been chafing him lately.
It’s not a real marriage,he told himself for the thousandth time.Just an alliance, really. Political. Nothing more.
He shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, and Vulmar raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not using that title,” he said. Niel went to fetch them water, wanting to keep his hands busy.
“You need to get used to it. You'll be king here someday.”
“Anyways, I don’t need men to do everything for me,” Niel said, changing the subject. “Or do you propose I have servants wipe my arse, too?”
It was the kind of humor he knew Vulmar liked, and the killer chuckled as Niel had known he would.
They took seats at the central table. Vulmar nearly emptied his cup in one go. The silver-haired man drew a deep breath, then slowly stripped off his riding gloves and loosened his heavy leather-and-fur coat. He flexed his scarred hands, the fingertips so pale from cold they were nearly white.
“In any case,” Niel continued after a moment, “I told you we lost food. We sent the servants outside the walls to stretch the stores longer. I’m not sure they’ll last until March, though, unless we starve ourselves, which makes for poor fighting conditions.”
“You aren’t staying until March,” Vulmar said.
The kitchen door opened and Niel’s eyes flicked to it, then to the woman standing in the opening. Ayla gave him a soft smile, then seemed to realize the second man at the table wasn’t one of the soldiers. Vulmar turned over his shoulder. Whatever look was on his face made her stiffen.
“Need something?” Niel asked, trying to keep the softness from his voice around Vulmar.
“I’ll just find Kerr,” Ayla said, whisper-soft. She turned and fled. Niel had a hard time not watching her go.
“No servants, eh? Then who’s she?” Vulmar wanted to know.
“My hostage. Blackfell’s wife.” Niel took a bite.
