Fortune Favors the Cruel Page 13

  Bastian shifted with unease as the men with halberds began to move, pulling Quinn from her thoughts of the body behind her.

  They delved deeper into the woods, off the trodden path, leaving her no choice but to follow.

  Chin held high and knife gripped tightly, Quinn held the reins with one hand and led them into the forest, not knowing if they would come back out.

  They rode through the morning, till the sun was high in the sky, before the mountain men slowed to a crawl. Trickling water sounded in the distance, growing to a dull roar as they turned the corner of the rock face they walked along.

  A spray of white water rained down between two large boulders, hitting the flat stone beneath it and flowing out into a gentle stream that ran down the mountain and through the dead trees. One by one the warriors stepped through the waterfall and didn’t come back out.

  “What are they doing?” she asked as the man with the horn approached them. Hours later, she still held her knife in her sweaty palm and the man took notice. His pale eyes gleaming with something foreign that she didn’t understand.

  “You come,” he said, gesturing for them to get down. Lazarus moved first, sliding from the horse and stepping towards the waterfall. The man with the wolf pelt waited, offering her his hand. She ignored it and swung her leg over, loosening her hold on the reins as she fell two feet and landed on the hard ground. It was just as jarring as all her dismounts had been, but she didn’t feel as if she’d topple sideways at any moment. Guiding Bastian with one hand and holding tight to her weapon with the other, she followed after Lazarus who looked irritated that the Cisean warrior had offered her assistance.

  One corner of her mouth turned upward as she swaggered forward and came to a stop beside him. Lazarus’ eyes swept from her to the other man, the one who watched her without wariness or fear.

  “Go there,” he said, pointing to the waterfall.

  Lazarus grabbed her wrist holding the knife and pulled her forward with him to the edge where the ground turned soft and a slight mist of crisp water splattered her face. She leaned forward, squinting into the darkness behind the falling water.

  The hand at her wrist jerked as Lazarus stepped through the onslaught, pulling her with him. Quinn let out a yelp at the sudden cold, glaring at him as he continued leading her forward, trudging deeper into the cave they’d found themselves in.

  “You could have warned me,” she snapped, pulling at her wrist. Lazarus stopped, turning to tower over her.

  “You saw them go through just as I had,” he replied. She pursed her lips.

  “And dragging me around like a savage?” she asked, her voice rising an octave, causing the two warriors in front of her to turn.

  “If you consider this to be dragging, keep playing games with the boy behind us and find out what happens,” he answered, the words fixed with a slight growl. Quinn narrowed her eyes, her lips parting as the spluttering curse behind them signaled Draeven’s arrival.

  Lazarus dropped her wrist and motioned for her to go first.

  Quinn muttered an N’skaran curse under her breath and strode deeper into the cave. No … this is not a cave. She looked up the cavern walls that would be too dark to see if it were truly a cave, following it down farther to the very end where two of the masked men stood. Waiting.

  Light poured in from behind them. We’re in a tunnel…

  They stepped to the side as she approached, and her knife came up. A warning of what she’d do if they tried anything, but they simply stood there as she stepped out into the light of day.

  The breath she’d been holding finally exhaled out of her lungs as she took in the nettles on the forest floor that came from the most towering of trees. They stood tall, so tall she had to crane her neck back to even see the tops. The green leaves and bursts of color were jarring.

  Her jaw dropped as she stared up at the dwellings that sat in the trees.

  She’d heard stories of the Cisean mountains. Stories of savage men who brutalized any and all they came across. Whispered words of what one might find were they to enter these mountains without the tribe’s consent.

  She didn’t expect to find such beauty inside of the mountains. She took note of her surroundings as sunlight spilled through the breaks in the leaves, shining down on her. Laughter snapped her to attention as two boys and a young girl came climbing down the rope ladders she hadn’t noticed and proceeded to run through the forest barefoot without a care in the world.

  That was until a woman leaned over the railing, high above. Her red hair spilled over her shoulders, framing a lovely face that was flush with exasperation as she called out in a foreign tongue. The children came to a stop and looked over at Quinn.

  Two seconds was all it took and they bolted through the trees, out of sight.

  “Come,” said the voice behind her. The pale-eyed warrior made no move to touch her as he fell into step at her side. Another presence, one of darkness and burning fires came up on her other side. She didn’t need to look to know who was there.

  “She-wolf has name?” the man asked. Quinn smiled to herself, and just because it would piss Lazarus off, she gave it.

  “My name is Quinn. What’s yours?”

  “Vaughn,” he answered with a nod, his full lips coming up to smile back at her. Even with the skull of a wolf on his head, she found it charming. Enough to stow her dagger as they walked through the winding path of the forest floor.

  They came to a stop beneath a tree that had a base as wide as she was tall. “We go up,” Vaughn said.

  “What about the horses?” she asked, wariness in her reply. He smiled and it was almost boyish.

  “Borsht and Hakt take care.”

  “Alright,” she replied, dropping the reins. Lifting her knife to her teeth, she bit down on the edge and reached for the rope. No matter how nice Vaughn might seem, she wasn’t taking chances with whatever waited at the top of this ladder.

  Ignoring Lorraine’s muttered displeasure of her manners, Quinn started climbing and didn’t stop till her hands gripped the edge of a wooden floorboard. She curled her fingers around, hauling herself over the edge. Her leg came up and as soon as her boot found purchase, she rose to her feet.

  Two eyes—as red as raksasa demons—looked back.

  She pulled the dagger from her teeth.

  “Who are you?” she asked, striding forward into the large room. Warriors stood at either side of what she could only call a throne. A sapphire rug covered most of the wood past the door she’d entered through. A woman dressed in furs was sprawled across the lap of the man sitting on the throne, without a worry or care.

  Quinn wrinkled her nose in distaste, focusing on the brawn of a man with long orangish-red hair and a beard woven in braids. He wore furs like the group that surrounded them, but his mask—if it could even be called that—was not that of any ordinary creature.

  It was the skull of a dragon, and he didn’t wear it on his head, but mounted it on his wall. The man clicked his tongue and said, “I am Thorne, leader of the tribes that guard the Cisean mountains.” He patted the girl’s thigh and she slipped off his lap, not offended in the slightest. She slid to the floor and walked across the room out of the only open door Quinn could see, and onto the deck that overlooked where they’d just come from. He rose to his feet and came to stand before her, a full two heads taller with fists as large as her face. “Who are you?” he asked.

  Quinn opened her mouth to reply when another voice cut her short.

  “This is Quinn,” Lazarus said by way of greeting. “She’s a member of my house.”

  He didn’t say more than that as the red-eyed man watched him.

  Apparently, he didn’t need to.

  “Lazarus Fierté,” the man said in a booming voice. “My old friend.” He smiled as Lazarus strode forward, stepping in front of Quinn so the King could clap him on the back.

  Two things became startlingly clear to her in that moment.

  The first—whoever Th
orne was—he was the reason they were there.

  And the second—by the look in their eyes—Thorne and his other warriors had taken a keen interest in her. One that Lazarus was obviously not alright with, if his gritted teeth and tense shoulders were any indication. Judging by the gleam in Thorne’s eyes when he looked at Quinn, the Cisean man saw it too.

  Though he attempted to disguise it with his distance as he took a step back from Quinn, Lazarus was fooling no one. Least of all himself.

  Necessary Friendships

  “There are no true friends, only great allies and even greater enemies.”

  — Quinn Darkova, former slave, fear twister, vassal of House Fierté

  “Leave us.”

  Whether it was in deference to his guests or simply because he felt like it, the Cisean leader, Thorne, abandoned the use of his language completely and slid into a heavily accented Norcastan tongue as he returned to his seat.

  The warriors nodded in unison and exited the room quietly and efficiently. “Not you, Vaughn.” The pale-eyed warrior paused on the threshold and looked back. “Take Joachim with you and please allow my friend’s vassals to assist in preparing a place for them to stay.”

  Vaughn cast a glance at Quinn as he nodded, but it wasn’t Quinn that moved when Thorne turned an expectant eye on Lazarus. “Lorraine. Dominicus,” Lazarus said. “Follow him.”

  They nodded, trailing after Vaughn as he finally left what had become clearer to Quinn was the Cisean leader’s throne room. A heavy silence lingered around them. Draeven kept his gaze sharp and trained forward on the large man. Red eyes slid over Quinn. She didn’t flinch away but met them head on which seemed to amuse Thorne a great deal.

  “You’ve brought me some interesting entertainment, Lazarus.” Thorne turned his demonic ethereal gaze to Lazarus as he spoke. “We didn’t expect you for several weeks. You had my men in an uproar.”

  “Our plans had to change,” Lazarus replied stiffly. “I apologize for the inconvenience—”

  Thorne waved his hand, cutting Lazarus off. “Please, my friend. I am not like your aristocratic kin. No apologies necessary.” A smirk stretched his lips. “However, had you not been recognized by Vaughn, things may have turned very bad for you. You are lucky.”

  “I will be sure to give him my thanks,” Lazarus replied. Quinn didn’t believe he would, not for a second.

  Thorne nodded, shifting in his seat as he perused Draeven and then Quinn. “I recognize your left-hand, but the girl is new.”

  “As I said before”—Lazarus leveled Thorne with a look—“she is a member of my household.”

  Thorne nodded. “Yes, you did say that, but what kind of member I am wondering.” His smirk turned roguish. “Has the great dark heir been tamed?”

  If it were possible, Lazarus stiffened even further. Quinn frowned as she observed them, curiosity tickling the fringes of her mind. But instead of the abrupt or rude comment she expected from Lazarus, he took a deep breath, the tension in his shoulders releasing all in one go, and with it the tension in the room fizzled out as well.

  “A cad as always, Thorne. She is a new vassal. Nothing more.”

  Quinn lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.

  Thorne nodded, the grin still on his face as he turned towards Quinn. “And does this new vassal speak at all?”

  “I speak well enough,” Quinn said, “when I have something to say.”

  Lazarus shot her a look that she ignored in favor of focusing on the man before her. Thorne rose from his seat once again and moved forward. “You are an interesting one, aren’t you? And you are obviously not from Norcasta.” He reached for a lock of her hair, his fingers just a mere breadth away from a long silver strand when a dark, tanned hand locked around his wrist.

  Quinn blinked, turning her gaze away from Thorne and up to Lazarus as he invaded her space. “My vassal does not like to be touched, Thorne.”

  On the other side of Lazarus, Draeven’s mouth hung open for a brief moment before he snapped it shut and controlled his features once more. “Protective, hmmm?” Thorne didn’t seem offended as he tugged his hand away from Lazarus’ grip.

  “It’s not me he’s protecting, sir,” Quinn said pointedly with a small smile.

  “Oh?” Thorne looked her over curiously. “You think he means to protect me?” Behind the Cisean leader’s back, Draeven’s eyes widened as he shook his head rapidly at Quinn.

  “Well, he doesn’t mean me.”

  Thorne blinked, the smirk dropping from his lips before he burst into laughter. Lazarus glared at her with a silent promise of a later scolding. Quinn didn’t care. She’d rather get it from him than Lady Manners any day.

  “If that’s the case, then you’ll have to watch out, my friend. Your vassal—Quinn, was it?” He turned his eerie red eyes back on her and she nodded. “Quinn is a very beautiful woman and you know how my warriors feel around beautiful women.”

  “Oh?” Quinn stepped forward, once again ignoring Lazarus even as, this time, he put his hand on her arm, intent on holding her back. “And how do they feel about beautiful women?” she asked.

  Thorne laughed again. “They are just as protective over their women as your master seems to be of you, little one. Because I can assure you that he is not necessarily thinking with his larger mind and therefore, he cannot be thinking about me.”

  Quinn grit her teeth at his arrogance and shrugged off Lazarus’ hand. “I can protect myself.”

  Thorne’s laughter faded as he examined her—noting the way she held herself, apart and separate from the men, but still close enough as though she were an equal. She did not mind stepping in front of them or alongside them. With a sharp look to Lazarus, Thorne nodded at her. “I can see why you are so vigilant,” he said.

  “Quinn is of no concern to your men, Thorne. She is merely a vassal on a mission with me. If you are so inclined, I would like to start our treaty discussions.”

  Quinn glanced back at Draeven, confused, but the blond giant merely shook his head and nodded for her to take a step back. Although she bristled at being commanded, Quinn recognized that her being silent and not the point of interest made it easier to catalogue their interactions. She took a step back and let Lazarus approach Thorne.

  Quinn’s brows drew down low as Lazarus leaned forward and spoke to Thorne in a tone just low enough that she couldn’t make it out. Thorne’s head didn’t move, holding still for a brief moment before he began to nod. “Of course, my friend, we can talk about that in more detail at the feast tonight.”

  Lazarus shook his head. “I’d like to discuss it now, if possible.”

  Thorne looked to Quinn and Draeven. Without turning, Lazarus spoke to them. “Draeven, take Quinn and join the others. I will be with you shortly.”

  “But—”

  “Go, Quinn,” Lazarus cut her off.

  Draeven didn’t waste any time. He had Quinn by the arm and was dragging her out of the treehouse hut before she could think of anything further to say to get him to allow her to stay.

  “You have a death wish, don’t you?” Draeven asked with exasperation.

  “Of course not,” Quinn answered seriously.

  They strode along the pathways, over the bridges that had been strung up between the homes built into the sides of the large oaks. Several men, sans animal skulls, walked by. It didn’t escape Draeven’s notice that many stopped along the way and allowed Quinn to walk through, all the while giving him analyzing looks.

  He snorted.

  “What is it?” Quinn asked.

  Draeven shook his head. “Lazarus has his work cut out for him, that’s all.”

  Bargain’s Struck

  “In times of desperation, sacrifices must be made to ensure that the worst does not come to pass.”

  — Lazarus Fierté, nobleman, dark Maji, collector of men

  Thorne watched as Quinn went with Lazarus’ left-hand. “She’s a wild one, that woman,” he said as soon as they were out of earshot. “Her a
ura is rather untamed.” Lazarus shot him a look and Thorne shrugged with nonchalance. “I’m just warning you now, my friend. I’d watch that one very closely if I were you. She’s obviously unaware of the Cisean customs, especially for women. She might well be taken from you before you realize it.”

  “For all her faults, I doubt that Quinn is someone who goes back on her word and even if she wanted to forsake me, she has sworn a blood contract with me. Still, I will take your counsel into consideration,” Lazarus said, careful to keep his words neutral and not let on how much the very idea of that got under his skin.

  Thorne gestured towards an open doorway to the side of the small throne room. “Come, I’m sure you’re thirsty after your long travels. Let us get a drink and then talk.”

  Lazarus nodded, following behind the Cisean leader as they strode into a separate portion of the treetop hut—a tiny room with a table and two chairs. His wife, Siva, entered, still dressed in her furs. Her long blonde hair spilled over her ample breasts, held up by a fur covering the Cisean’s considered clothing. Lazarus said nothing as Thorne smiled warmly. “Get us a few ales, my love, would you?” She nodded, casting a curious glance at Lazarus before disappearing again.

  Thorne groaned as he settled into his chair. “Alright, speak,” he said. “What is it that you wished to see me about.”

  Lazarus sat back, steepling his fingers as he said, “Claudius is not well.”

  “Yes, and his blood heirs are sniveling children despite their age, with little to no knowledge of what it takes to lead a people,” Thorne replied as Siva came back with two large mugs of amber liquid. She set them down on the table and leaned over to press a quick kiss to the Cisean leader’s lips. She said something quietly in their native tongue and Thorne shot Lazarus a quick glance before nodding.

  Lazarus lifted a brow as Siva left, and Thorne grinned around the rim of his mug. “Caught that, did you?" he asked, taking a long drink. “Seems it’s already started.”