“It’s Kaiden Brawn. And Hurti!”
“Show us your sword, Warlord!”
“Did you really kill a ghost? Was it bigger than a barn?”
Jaw tightening, Blainor trained his eyes ahead.
A chorus of disappointed cries gave way to loud cheers. Trisha swung around in her saddle and caught a glint of steel as it sliced through the air. Then, Kaiden’s hand—moving fast. He caught the thrown dagger by its blade, flicking the sharp weapon, and tossed it back to Fjorten.
“You’re soft, Shield Master. Kids don’t need cheap thrills. They know what awaits after summer.”
With a shrug, Fjorten stuck the belt-knife back in its sheath. “Better leave them with other memories to talk about.” He waved at the children before facing the road. As his gaze fell on Trisha, worry darkened his brows.
Biting her lip, she focused on guiding Dapple, but couldn’t banish the gnawing unease.
Walls of weathered wood and stone flanked the busy path where women in their brightly colored dresses curtsied, and the men in their dark felt hats stopped to bow. Their eyes, following the Warlord, paused on Trisha beside him, and a glimmer of surprise widened their stares. Her skin crawled.
Trisha tried to parse Blainor’s mood. Perhaps she could ask him about their reaction, help decipher what it meant. She pressed her heels down in the stirrups, sitting straighter. Blainor would just spin into one of his endless evasions. He seemed to find far too much enjoyment in provoking her. A curious reaction for a man who enjoyed absolute obedience from his men.
The band trod through the open gates, entering the bailey where a group of people were already waiting. The wind swirled the dry earth, dust clouding beneath their horses’ hooves.
At the forefront stood a tall, sturdy man, dressed in a dark jacket and tan breeches. Sunlight gleamed on his auburn hair, frosted with age. His face bore wrinkles of hardships endured,and a trimmed beard covered his chin. The way he carried himself suggested that this was a man who found great pleasure in challenges—and enjoyed overcoming them even more.
Blainor dismounted, boots hitting the ground with a loud thud and puff of dust. Only then did Chief Lichtal speak.
“Warlord,” he said in a deep voice, stepping forward. “Welcome to Lichtal’s Keep.”
Blainor clasped his hands on the chief’s arms. “It’s good to see you, Orin.”
Chief Lichtal dipped his chin, and Blainor released him.
“You were gone longer than I anticipated,” Orin said. “I hope for good news.”
“You hope in vain. King Leopold’s distrust is stronger than his sense.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Orin said, adding more slowly, “Have you considered that we don’t need him? It’s been quiet for years.”
Blainor scoffed. “You sound like Naddod.”
“Chief Falkvinds knows just like I do that trouble is bad for trade. Naddod needs his men at home, not patrolling the borders of Everfrost.”
The brazen comment startled Trisha. Blainor responded, his voice like steel. “Advising me again, Orin?”
“Of course not, Warlord.” Orin bowed. “But Naddod’s opinion is gaining traction. The others need more if you’re to convince them in Midsummer.”
“Perhaps a promise of a raid will do just that.”
An eager twinkle brightened Orin’s eyes. “A raid, my lord?”
“King Leopold set an ambush on our way back. I lost one good man; Ilker Steiken’s now with his ancestors,” Blainor said. “Come spring, we shall ride and make the king pay.”
Trisha bit her lip to keep her silence, but she swore toherself she wouldn’t forget. She wouldn’t be marching with him to war. Not now or spring.
“Indeed, my lord. We’ll raise mead for Ilker Steiken tonight and avenge him in the springtide.” Orin gestured to the waiting servants to take their horses. “Edith’s lit the fires already—we’ll feast for him and your return.”
“That would please him and his family.”
“Fjorten Tifbrunn, Hurti Yewren, and Kaiden Brawn. You took your best with you. The Baron must’ve wet his pants.”
