In a Wolf's Eyes Page 6

  “Sire?” I asked, trying to get past the royal troops. “Are you all right?”

  He scrambled to his feet with the aid of his guards, flinging dust, dead grass and curses everywhere.

  “Get away from me, you stinking shits,” he screamed.

  Sharp blows followed his curses, his pale slender hands striking, slapping, hitting those who tried to help him. One unlucky trooper received Broughton’s riding whip across his face. As though having tasted blood and reveled in it, Broughton began to beat him in earnest. His blows hit the poor man’s face so quickly that he sudden attack, so violent, so uncalled for shocked me into immobility. Horrified, I could only stand in numb shock, sickened, as Broughton’s anger vented against a man who had done naught wrong.

  Unable to fight his liege lord and master, the poor soldier could only stand and dumbly accept blow after blow of the crop to his face and shoulders. The whip’s heavy leather lash cut his face to ribbons. Blood ran redly into the stiff collar of his purple and gold uniform.

  Rannon tried pulling me away, in case Broughton, no Brutal, raised his whip, or hand, against me. I shrugged him off. No matter what, I could not stand by and watch a hapless man who had done naught to deserve such a beating.

  “Nay, Broughton,” I cried, dashing forward. “Cease this madness.”

  I grabbed his arm midswing, forcing the whip to miss its target. His whip hand rose again, the lash swinging skyward for an instant. He turned on me, much as I expected him to, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth, his dead brown eyes alight with fury and hate. Insanity lurked deep within those ordinary brown depths. Yet ’twas what I didn’t see that frightened me the most. I saw no spark of humanity in those eyes at all.

  “Strike me if you must,” I said, inwardly praying he would finally see reason. “I failed to warn you about that horse. I deserve your anger, not this man.”

  My status as the Kel’Hallan royal heir and his bride-to-be protected me, to some small extent. I felt even he would control his temper enough to avoid losing me, and ultimately Kel’Halla, should he spill my blood this day. If he cared little for my royal status…well, I still had my sword. He might hit me once. He would not hit me twice. I hoped my warriors might escape the carnage that would follow. Yet, should I go down, they would go down, fighting, at my side.

  As I suspected, and hoped, Broughton dared not hit me. A tiny shred of good sense finally filled those awful eyes. Yet the rage did not leave. Despite his visible temper cooling, he remained as angry as when he first tasted dirt. I could feel it emanating from him in waves. Yet, the blind fury at last died away and his whip hand dropped to his side.

  The brutalized soldier stumbled blindly away, none daring Brutal’s wrath by offering him aid or comfort. The rest of the troopers, uncertain and frightened, stepped back. I, too, followed their example and moved out of anger range. Yet many soldiers trembled in raw fear, knowing that to bring on Brutal’s attentions meant receiving the nasty cut of his whip. I might not protect them a second time.

  His dreadful eyes remained on me. “I’ll thank you to mind your own business,” he snapped.

  Unable to say anything to that, I curtseyed low, hoping against hope my obvious deference distracted him. Men with his kind of ego found the groveling of others comforting, I always suspected. Perhaps I was right, for he turned away from me and glared at his men. Brutal, not one for admitting guilt, roundly cursed them for not assisting him.

  “Help me, damn you, or I’ll see you all drawn and quartered.”

  I sidled sideways, out of trouble, while the troopers’ hands dusted him off. His lank brown hair hung in his eyes, his dead brown eyes still alive with fury and humiliation. Gaining some semblance of control, he straightened his clothing and slapped the few remaining hands who sought to clean him off. Yet two troopers had no lack of courage, I suspected. Those brave souls tried to straighten his clothing. Brutal punched one in the face, and roundly backhanded the other.

  “Get that stupid nag back here,” he bellowed. His bellow fell far short. It sounded more like the shrill shriek of an irate fishwife.

  I knew my presence added fuel to the fire of his humiliation. We Kel’Hallans rode horses before we could walk and riding came to us as natural as breathing. As my husband, he no doubt sought to equal me in that regard. His male ego would never permit him to admit to himself he couldn’t as well as I. Hence the flashy piebald stallion I had once admired. With it, the knowledge that I, too, rode a stallion, a stallion of exceptional quality and training.

  I glanced affectionately toward Mikk, standing quietly with his reins on his neck, watching me watch him. Brutal’s impossibly huge ego fueled his shame of my witnessing his obvious lack of riding skills. That shame burned in him like a forest fire. I could see it in his eyes. I sighed. Why couldn’t he have picked a less fractious mount? Lady above have mercy.

  I allowed him some semblance of privacy to regain his composure, and royal dignity, and went to help the pair who caught the rebellious piebald. They led him back, a rein from each on either side of his bridle, ready to beat about the head and ears should he even think about misbehaving again. The piebald seemed chastened, his neck held not quite so much pride as it once had. He didn’t need beatings, I mused. More exercise and an education on manners would serve him more than a beating ever could.

  The troopers held their own mounts back while I checked the girth and the bridle, making sure nothing important had come adrift during his session as a bronco. It just wouldn’t do to have Brutal fall off again because the girth wasn’t tight enough. The piebald eyed me quizzically and I wanted to rub the nose he extended to my hand.

  Brutal, his fury spent and his wounded pride patched, watched me. I had no doubt should I dare give the vile beast some much-needed affection, Brutal would add me to his shit-list. I sighed again. I wanted to laugh and tell him to get his big-boy pants on, inform him that dirt diving was an event every good horseman looked forward to, and quite simply to grow up. I also knew such would get me, and my mouth, into big trouble.

  I decided a more feminine method might work. “I’m right glad to see you unharmed, Your Highness,” I murmured, my eyes downcast.

  Brutal gave a tiny start and harrumphed. I peeked up at him through my hair and smiled, hoping he would not see the ironic gleam in my eyes. He obviously didn’t, for he puffed himself up at my seeming female frailty and offered a stiff smile in return.

  “No harm done,” he said gruffly. “Might as well go on, shall we? We have much to discuss, you and I.”

  I suspected a stroke to his ego might offset his humiliating dump in the dirt. I could, on a rare occasion, bring on the charm. I cynically felt like a fraud, but did it anyway.

  “Certainly you are a very strong man to withstand such a toss, Your Highness.”

  “Of course I am,” he replied expansively, straightening his already straight tunic. “These things happen, eh? Naught but a bruise or two.”

  At his gesture, the troopers brought the piebald up and helped him remount. However, they retained the leading reins from each side of his bit and rode to either side of the Prince. They would tolerate no repeats of the bucking, it would appear.

  I walked to Mikk, who still stood where I left him. A trooper followed to assist me. Biting off a polite request for him to bugger off, I allowed him to boost me onto Mikk’s back. I did have some brains, and even used them on occasion. Should Brutal witness my usual method of mounting, which was grab a handful of thick mane and vault aboard, he might suspect I secretly laughed at him. I guessed he could happily live out the rest of his days never knowing his suspicions were indeed correct.

  Prettily, I thanked the trooper for his assist and nudged Mikk over to Brutal.

  “If Your Highness might permit,” I began tentatively, again playing the idiotic coquette.

  He nodded grandly, permitting me to continue speaking, his eyes staring straight between the piebald’s sagging ears.

  “I could teac
h this animal to carry you with the royal dignity you deserve,” I said, deceptively mild and sweet. In truth, I itched to get my hands on the piebald, for he had a swift intelligence and an athletic conformation I liked very much. “He would make a mount worthy of Your Highness.”

  Prince Broughton eyed me sidelong for a moment, his expression neutral. What was that deep within his eyes? Hatred? Contempt? Something I knew I didn’t care much for. Before I could analyze it, his expression changed, brightened, and he smiled a small smile. He was very good with those sweet smiles.

  “Why, that is very kind of you, my dear. I know how much you people love your horses. But remember.” His finger lifted before his face in an amiable warning. “Once you are crowned my Queen, the horse breaking shall be done by those more suited to it.”

  I bobbed my head in a swift bow. “Of course, Sire.”

  “We should allow those who excel at breaking wild spirits to practice their craft.”

  Why would that calm remark set my stomach tumbling over itself? Somehow, I knew Brutal’s mild words spoke of something quite evil. In context, his words were correct. Yet, I felt the razor edge of a sword at my throat. He meant something very different, my gut violently informed me. Despite the early hour and the sun not high enough in the sky to make the day hot, sweat trickled down my ribs. I hoped I imagined it, but my instincts told me something was very wrong.

  We rode on, side by side once more, with the exception of a royal trooper between us. I thought he would continue our previous discussion of our marriage contract. Instead, he launched into a history lesson.

  “More than three thousand years ago,” he began expansively.

  I quashed my irritation at his subject matter and decided it gave me a goddess-sent opportunity to think. Brutal spoke about the founding of his great Federation, and I knew bloody well it wasn’t founded three thousand years ago. More like one thousand, I guessed. Even that was a stretch. Kel’Halla herself has existed for close to five thousand years. Long before the Khalidians built their first castle.

  I let his words flow over and past me, nodded in the right places and offered exclamations in the right places, and considered what Kel’Ratan told me earlier that morning.

  “Is that so, Your Highness?” I murmured. I half-saw his nod as he happily carried on his long diatribe about his great-great-grandfather. Or was it his great-great-great-grandfather?

  I knew now I couldn’t remain here and trust that my status as his wife and Queen would keep me safe. I just witnessed Broughton’s evil firsthand. I had the evidence of his brutality; Kel’Ratan was right. Those rumors were not malicious lies spread by his enemies. Broughton was as brutal as his nickname suggested. My marriage to him would not guarantee my safety. Or keep Kel’Halla safe. Yet, I must marry him. Sweat broke out anew at the thought of the marriage, just a month away.

  Even if he kills me, Kel’Halla will still be protected, I thought. He, by law, is forced to honor the treaty our marriage engendered. Should I die, Kel’Halla will remain an independent monarchy, with Kel’Ratan as king, after my father. Brutal had no choice in the matter. Down the line, Kel’Halla would one day find a way to break out of this scorpion’s nest and be free again.

  Blessed Nephrotiti, forgive me, but I am not yet ready to join you. Must I marry him? Could I escape and still keep Kel’Halla safe? I must escape, I thought as I savagely chewed my lip. I don’t want him to kill me.

  We have to leave, and soon, I thought. Within the next few days, anyway. Yet how? I knew damn well I couldn’t just tell Brutal I’d had a change of heart and was going home. That would not only injure his male dignity, it would mean he’d never add Kel’Halla to his Federation. If someone were to report us packing and riding our horses out of the stable, the royal troops would be on us before we got through the gates. Brutal wouldn’t content himself with a troop. He’d send a battalion.

  I caught a swift glimpse of him watching me, and offered a quick smile and a nod in return. Satisfied, he returned to his lecture. Wait a minute. The wedding was more than a month away. In two days, the Festival of Summer would hold sway over the entire city. Thousands upon thousands of people would flock into the streets. Could we not just ride out to see the sights, to see our first Khalidian Festival of Summer, and simply…vanish?

  The idea appealed to me. With all the bustle and chaos of a street festival, Brutal would be busy with his own Festival duties as the Crown Prince and royal heir. I doubted he’d miss me much, especially if I informed him I wanted very much to join the festivities. He’d think me an idiot, but that hardly mattered.

  I glanced up in time to see him frowning slightly. I quickly masked the concentration I knew he saw in my face and changed it into a slight frown of puzzlement.

  “I’m not sure I understand, Your Highness,” I murmured.

  He thin pale lips stretched into a tiny enigmatic smile. His dead-looking eyes watched me from a mere few feet away, as though seeing right through me. As though seeing right into me. Why didn’t he blink? Normal people blinked every now and again. Never before had I ever beheld anyone, man or woman, who blinked as seldom as Brutal. Rebellious sweat once more trickled down over my ribs.

  I wanted to protect myself with my sword. I stiffened my spine by silently calling Brutal every vile name I could think of and the fearful urge passed me by. His eyes and his smile eventually returned to face forward. I began to breathe again.

  The more I thought about it, the more my plan had merit. We’d be gone for two, maybe even three days before Brutal missed us. We must go and soon.

  Then what happened to Kel’Halla? Would we find allies in the neighboring nations? They hadn’t helped in our wars for self-preservation so far, I remembered morosely. As always, Kel’Halla stood alone.

  I could protect myself, I thought, cheering a little. If I showed him I’ll fight him tooth and nail to survive, perhaps he might call a truce. I’d remain his Queen and he could continue his hobbies. A grand idea, that, but inwardly I wilted. I couldn’t just sit by and permit him to torture people without trying to do something about it. Brutal may kill me, but as long Kel’Halla was safe…Kel’Ratan would make a most excellent king.

  The ride ended more quickly than I thought, ending my inner should we, shouldn’t we argument, for he rambled on for only another ten minutes or so when we clattered into the stable courtyard. I slid down from my saddle, handing Mikk’s reins to a groom. With a final stroke down his neck, I allowed the groom to lead Mikk away. Brutal dismounted clumsily, his troops still holding tight to the piebald’s bridle. Around me, grooms ran to take troopers’ horses, and those of my three Kel’Hallan escort. Slaves arrived, offering cool drinks, chilled fruit and spiced wine.

  I curtsied to Brutal, opening my mouth to thank him for a pleasant ride, irony kept firmly in check. He forestalled me. He took my hand, smiling that rather sweet, boyish-shy smile he had. The tiny enigmatic, evil smile had disappeared.

  “Wait a moment,” he said, “I do so wish to show you something, my little Ly’Tana. Please remain a moment, will you?”

  His dead brown eyes lit from within. “I want you to see this.”

  While I wanted to exit with all due speed and consult with Kel’Ratan, I knew his request wasn’t a request. I curtseyed. “Of course, Your Highness.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said warmly, his hand embracing mine. He kissed me lightly on the cheek, his face alive with joyous hope and happiness. “We are going to be so good together, you and I. The perfect couple, don’t you think? Together we will rule the world, eh?”

  What could I say? I conjured a smile in return. “Absolutely, Bru—Broughton.”

  “Attend, please. You’re going to simply love this.”

  Sweat returned to course down my ribs. This can’t be good, I thought, my mouth suddenly dry. Hackles rose on my neck. I knew not whence this instinctive alarm came from, but if I could I would have drawn my blade. My right hand, the hand Broughton held, itched to have the hilt o
f my sword in it.

  His hand still enclosing mine in warm friendliness, Brutal turned toward me slightly. “Unsaddle my royal steed,” he commanded, his eyes still bright and cheery. Chilling cold settled into my bones. Why was his hand so warm?

  Grooms removed the heavy cavalry saddle, leaving on the bridle, still held by the two attending troopers. The piebald stood calm, docile, eyeing the men around him with quiet trust. He munched his bit, then yawned, his beautiful blue eyes rolling back into his head. I looked from Brutal to the horse, then back, my fear growing. What was he going to do? All this ceremony to unsaddle a horse? To unsaddle the horse that threw and humiliated him?

  Realization dawned inside my thick skull. Goddess, nay, Nephrotiti, please don’t let him do what I think he’s going to do—

  “Tie its legs together.”

  He spoke over his shoulder, his brown eyes alive and warm, that sweet, boyish smile still in place. Yet I knew calculation when I saw it. I tried to pull away, but his hand in mine clamped down tight. Glory, he was stronger than I thought.

  Obediently, grooms ran to tie heavy ropes to the piebald’s pasterns. The two soldiers who attended him suddenly dropped his reins and bolted out of the way. Handing the ropes to mounted men, the grooms also ran out of danger. I tried again to pull away, Rannon trying to squeeze himself between the Crown Prince and me.

  “Drop it.”

  Taking up the slack, the men tied the ropes to the pommels of their saddles. The piebald tossed his head in alarm when the ropes tightened. He had no time for much more than that one act of fear before the troopers whipped their horses, and the troopers hauled the piebald off his feet.

  He hit the ground harder than Brutal had, but fought to get up. He thrashed, bewildered, panicked, trying to kick free of the binding ropes and rise to his feet.

  I think I cried out. I know Brutal gripped my hand hard enough to hurt. Yet, with Rannon’s aid I broke free, clawing for my sword. I scrabbled, when I never in my life ever fumbled when it came to drawing my weapon.