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Forged
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To Iandra, Lyrien was little more than a shadow in the
near-darkness of the muggy tent, but she didn’t need to
see his face—nothing more than a silhouette—looming
over her own to lose herself in his presence. His breath
smelled faintly of spiced cider, and of the morsels of
chocolate she had hand-fed him earlier. He leaned in, his
short dark hair and the stubble of his unshaven face faintly
backlit in the predawn glow, and they shared a kiss. She
grabbed at the back of his head, holding him there,
wanting that kiss to exist forever.
It was what the queen needed right then, to let herself
be consumed in the moment, the now, forgetting about
the world beyond the inside of her tent. Instead, she concentrated
on every tiny part of Lyrien, feeling the individual
whiskers nudge against her face as he continued
that kiss, knowing that he held it because she so desperately
wanted him to. She closed her eyes and sank deeper
into the embrace, sighed softly as he entwined his fingers
with her own, pressing her hands down into the cushions
on either side of her head and raising himself up
again.
Iandra half-opened her eyes and stared up at that face
she could barely see, the face of the captain of her guardsmen,
her champion. She felt safe with him there, con-vinced that nothing outside those tent walls could get in,
not so long as she alone could have his fierce, unwavering
resolve to protect her. Merely summoning him to her
bed could do that, could make everything right. She believed
because he believed it.
So while the world outside was made to wait, Iandra
tried to pull a hand free to draw Lyrien down to her again,
and he wouldn’t let her. She broke into a faint smile because
she could sense that he was going to start teasing
her then. She could feel him holding her hands down and
not letting her go, could feel him shift, could feel him stir
against her leg, and she knew that he would pause, waiting
for her to try to wriggle beneath him to get closer, to
force the issue. She giggled softly and opened her mouth,
only her head rising up, working against his weight on
her hands, trying to reach up and kiss him again, tease
him right back.
“Wait,” Lyrien whispered suddenly, holding perfectly
still. “Did you hear that?”
Iandra ignored his words, drinking him in, the spiced
cider and the chocolate blending with his own musky
scent, which lingered in the still, heavy air. “No,” she
whispered, shaking her head and trying again to lean
upward to kiss him. “Not yet,” she said, imploring her
captain to keep the world out for just a little while longer.
But Lyrien held himself still, listening, as his warm
flesh pressed against her naked body where they were
tangled together in the thin, damp sheets. The queen felt
him nudging insistently against the inside of her thigh
and wanted to pull him down to her, feel his mouth close
over hers, run her hands through that short, coarse hair
and across the scruffy stubble, but she knew not to disturb
him. When her captain of the guard acted that way,
she knew to trust his instincts. Iandra tried to still her
own breathing, rapid with her need, to listen along with
him.
A shout, a startled cry of anger, arose from somewhere
outside, in the camp. Then Iandra heard the ring of steel
on steel, faint, in the distance. The roar of a musket startled
birds sleeping in the cattails on the shore of the swamp
near the tent. They departed with a cacophony of honks
and splashes. In the still, sultry air inside her pavilion,
the sounds seemed to come from all around.
Lyrien was off her in an instant, scrambling on hands
and knees toward the opening of the tent across the carpet
that served as the floor. Iandra watched as he yanked
aside the tent flap and darted outside, letting the glow of
the early morning intrude into their sanctuary. Her heart
was thumping in her chest, but it was no longer arousal
that boiled her blood.
Lord De’Valen, she realized. She shifted to her knees
and then stood, kicking away the damp cushions at her
feet. How did he find us? Damn him!
Iandra stalked toward the tent opening. She reached
the doorway and poked her head out. The air was slightly
cooler outside, though it was no less damp. Lyrien had
not gone far. He was crouched near the roots of a massive
cypress tree, peering into the distance, a flintlock
pistol in his hand. The pink light of dawn revealed the
scar where a musket ball had skimmed the back of his
shoulder, and she caught herself thinking of the countless
times she had gently traced it with her fingers as he
brooded after their lovemaking, his back to her. The glow
also revealed the sad collection of tents belonging to what
remained of her army, Ilnamar’s army, though they were
smothered by the heavy mist that cloaked the edge of the
swamp, making them seem insubstantial, like the ghost
of some long forgotten battlefield.
A commotion was pouring through the camp, soldiers
wearing the black and red of Lord De’Valen’s banner
sweeping between the tents. A few of Iandra’s own men
stumbled forth, fumbling for weapons to defend them-selves, but the surprise was complete. The black-and-red
clad mercenaries serving the usurper put down anyone
who confronted them, all the while making a line for her
tent.
This wasn’t just surprise, Iandra realized. It was betrayal.
Even then she could see some of her own soldiers,
men supposed to be on watch, working with De’Valen’s
thugs rather than against them.
“It’s over,” Iandra said softly, feeling bleakness wash
over her.
“Not yet,” was all Lyrien said, spinning back to her,
heedless of his nakedness.
The queen ground her teeth to keep herself from trembling
at the thought of Lord De’Valen, still chasing her
despite already claiming and overrunning her kingdom.
He would not be content until he had claimed her as well,
it seemed. Only Lyrien seemed convinced that it was not
a foregone conclusion.
“Into the swamp,” the captain said, grabbing Iandra
by the arm. “We’ll hide there.”
Iandra resisted for a heartbeat, knowing it was futile
and wanting only to show some dignity in defeat. She
was afraid, truly afraid, for the first time in a long while.
Lyrien tried to steer his lover around the side of the
tent and toward the back, but still Iandra held her ground.
“Wait!” she said, half-indignant, half-terrified. She tried
to dart inside. “Not like this! My clothes!”
Lyrien yanked her back out and to him and gestured
into the cattails with his other hand, the one that held the
flintlock pistol. “There’s no time!” he hissed. “Run now!”
And he pushed her ahead of him. She gave one quick
glance back at her captain and stumbled deeper into the
swamp, feeling rather than seeing him behind her.
Back in the camp, the shouts and sounds of fighting
grew louder. Despite her overwhelming trepidation,
Iandra was surprised that there was not more gunfire.
She stumbled into the shallow water on the shore of the
swamp, splashing and startling more birds, mostly loons
but also a single great black bird. The creature went aloft
awkwardly, screeching in irritation at her intrusion, and
perched upon the blackened stump of a long-dead cypress
not far away. It preened itself as it watched her, its
head cocked sideways.
“That way,” Lyrien said as he caught up to Iandra,
gesturing with the flintlock toward a spit of land ahead
and to their left. “Follow the path.” Then he nudged her
forward.
Cattails and vines slapped and scratched at Iandra’s
naked skin as she picked her way through the growth,
crouching low in an attempt to stay hidden from the pursuit.
She found the path Lyrien indicated, really nothing
more than a game trail, and turned down it, pushing
deeper into the moss-draped cypress trees, putting distance
between herself and the shattered remains of her
troops.
Iandra couldn’t really blame her soldiers for the betrayal,
she realized as her bare feet thumped along the
muddy path. Deep down, even she had known her resistance
had become a lost cause. Only Lyrien had seemed
unwilling to admit defeat and had continued to lead her
army with some grim, willful determination. The worse
things seemed to get, the more driven he had become.
Still trying to prove something to his father, she supposed.
But the troops had long since lost hope, the queen
lamented. They were simple men, and in the end, none
of them truly cared who ruled Ilnamar, when it came right
down to it. One leader instead of another was better than
death for a cause.
The path ahead of her turned, and as the queen
rounded the bend, she saw that it split into two directions.
“Which way?” she asked as she slowed a step. Three
black crows went swooping by, cawing at her as they
glided past to settle in a patch of thick brambles.
“Either,” Lyrien grunted behind her, pushing her
ahead again. “Just pick.”
Without thinking, Iandra charged ahead and to the
left, but her foot struck against a cypress root and she
went sprawling, landing with a splash in the shallow
water beside the trail. The black birds seemed to laugh at
her as they cawed and crackled from the shrubs. Behind
her, someone shouted, a sound that was too close. The
pursuit was on.
With one arm, Lyrien hoisted Iandra back out of the
water and shoved her ahead of him. “Go!” he insisted,
still glancing back the way they had come.
Ignoring the mud and leaves that clung to her, the
queen scrambled forward again, churning along the path
and pushing the cattails out of her face as best as she could.
She was stumbling along blindly with no idea where they
were going.
Part of Iandra wanted to give up the fight, like her
soldiers had done. She had grown so weary of running
all the time. Surrender with honor and be finished with
it, she had found herself thinking more and more often,
but every time she had begun to lose hope, she had remembered
her grandfather and his continued resistance
to Lord De’Valen’s conquests. She needed that image right
then, of the defiant gleam in her grandfather’s eyes—even
when he was lying on his deathbed—to stiffen her resolve
against those bleak thoughts. She was Ilnamar’s
queen and bore her grandfather’s legacy. That responsibility
had driven her onward when almost nothing else
would, that and the icy chill she got each time she remembered
the lust that gleamed in De’Valen’s eyes whenever
he looked upon her. He could take her lands, but he
would never touch her. She prayed that Lyrien had a plan.
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