Page 12 of King's Warrior

He’d lost track of endless stairs and hallways, relying on his escort to drag him a portion of the way. Why wouldn’t his legs hold his weight?

“Not much farther,” one of his guards said.

Good. Rufe didn’t know how much farther his legs would allow. These two men were likely considered strapping for mountain folk, but neither could carry Rufe’s weight alone. Where had they taken Draylon? How about Yarif? Was Yarif lying about being King Niam’s cousin? Rufe would’ve lied, too, to save their lives.

Then he gazed into gorgeous green eyes set in a concerned face, surrounded by copper curls. Rufe must be dying if the goddess sent one of her servants to fetch him. He reached out to touch, but instead sank into darkness.

Rufe jerked awake, reaching for his sword. He found only a pillow. Right. Rescued. Captured. Something. A bed. He lay in a comfortable bed, with a fire crackling merrily in a nearby hearth, warming his face while his rapidly pounding heart calmed.

Warm, for the first time in what seemed like forever. Soft snores came from nearby that didn’t sound like Draylon’s, and Yarif’s impeccable manners wouldn’t allow him to do something so crude as to snore.

Rufe scanned the room. Rough stone walls, a blazing fire. Tapestries and rugs gave the room a homey spot of color while helping to keep the chill at bay. Woolen blankets covered the bed, designed for warmth rather than fashion.

The culprit of the snoring lay sprawled in a nearby chair, mouth open. His hair fell around his shoulders, kept long in the style of many Highlanders. Standing, he probably reached a full six feet, slightly taller than Rufe. No one else appeared to be in the room.

The man choked off a snore, eyes snapping open. Yes, a seasoned soldier who stayed on guard even while asleep. He appeared overly young at first glance until Rufe noticed the lines at the corners of his eyes. The insignia on his uniform didn’t match any of the Cormiran military. Still, judging how he’d been the spokesman who’d accosted Rufe and Draylon at the cabin, he must fill some leadership role.

The man slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees, blinking hard a few times. He appeared to be of an age with Rufe and Draylon, in his mid-thirties. His voice was a clear tenor when he spoke unintelligible words. He sighed, rose slowly to his feet,crossed the floor in a few long strides, and opened the door to talk in hushed tones.

He returned to the chair and poured liquid from a carafe into a cup he handed to Rufe. Rufe sniffed, though many poisons mixed undetectably in wine. But why would anyone go through the trouble of bringing him here, making him comfortable, only to kill him now?

Rufe probed at a few injuries, only to find bandages. Someone had tended his wounds. He accepted and dutifully sipped the wine.

“Casseign,” the man said, patting his chest with one enormous paw. “Cass.”

“Rufe,” Rufe replied.

Casseign smiled. “Friend of Yarif.” The Renvallian words came out stilted, but Rufe caught the gist. Perhaps Yarif was known in these parts, which only caused more suspicion over Renvalle’s ties to Delletina. If knowing Yarif helped Rufe’s case, he’d claim they’d been bosom buddies since the cradle, though he’d left the cradle long before Yarif’s birth.

All right, maybe nottoolong.

“Friend of Yarif,” Rufe confirmed. “How is he?”

The man simply nodded. “Yarif.”

The door opened to reveal a woman, who immediately fixed a curious green-eyed gaze on Rufe. Gray-flecked red hair framed a heart-shaped face. For a moment, Rufe recalled the goddess’s messenger he’d sworn he spotted earlier, but the messenger had been decidedly male.

Casseign stood, slapping an arm over his chest, then gave an awkward bow. The woman must be of some importance.

The woman acknowledged Casseign with a nod and a slight smile. She spoke in perfect Cormiran to Rufe. “So, you’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been in a battle I barely won.” No use lying. The soldier now standing by the chair likely missed little about the situation.

The woman gifted Rufe with a congenial smile like a doting mother might wear and seated herself in the chair vacated by the guard. “I believe there’s a reason for that.” She sidled the chair closer. The guard placed himself between Rufe and the woman. She pushed him aside with a scowl. “I’m perfectly safe, captain. This stranger is no threat to me. He’s a patient.” To Rufe, she said, “You must forgive Captain Casseign. He’s the king’s most trusted guard for good reason. I’m Nera, the healer, but I have also spent time in other lands and learned to speak their languages. What are you called?”

“Rufe,” Rufe answered. No need to discuss rank or anything else until he knew more about these people.

“Well, Rufe, let’s chat, shall we?”

Nera appeared too gentle to be much of an interrogator unless Casseign slipped drugs into the wine after all. “What shall we chat about?”

“I believe we’ve worked out the basics of what happened, but we have questions. Will you answer them?”

“You have me at your mercy.” Literally. Rufe couldn’t have defended himself from an overzealous butterfly at the moment.

Nera chuckled. “I seriously doubt that. It appears that you and your hulking companion entered our mountains to rescue Prince Yarif of Renvalle.” She narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t responsible for his horrific condition, are you?”

What? “Never!”

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