Page 5 of King's Warrior

They’d killed everyone, man, woman, and child. Rufe’s blood ran cold. He’d sympathized with Lars because of their common bond. Not anymore. Rufe would starve himself to death before he’d kill innocent farmers enjoying an evening meal.

Dishes still sat at the table, with Lars’s cutthroats cleaning the plates of the ones left behind, then reaching with grubby hands for more bread. The scent of the roasted meat and vegetables should’ve made Rufe hungry. His stomach roiled instead.

He curled up on the floor, tied to the foot of a bed, while Lars settled on a soft mattress where the farmer and his wife likely had slept. There was no good in Lars. He spared Rufe for reasons, but the moment those reasons were gone, he’d dispatch Rufe as remorselessly as the farm family.

Rufe needed to plan accordingly.

The men fed Rufe barely enough to keep him alive through the next few days, making him watch as they glutted their way through stores likely meant to last all winter. A few sent assessing glances Rufe’s way, but a growl from Lars had them averting their eyes.

Rufe lost track of days. How long had he been in captivity? Had the ransom demand reached the capital? What if the runner didn’tdeliver the message, or Emperor Soland tossed it into the fire? No one would pay his ransom except for Draylon, who’d have no way of knowing Rufe’s circumstances unless he heard of the massacre in the village and came to investigate.

Lars put Rufe to work, cutting firewood and doing other chores while some men rode out during the day and returned at night. After the threat of the first night, no one approached Rufe, and he hadn’t seen his attacker since arriving at the farm. His circumstances would no doubt change when they realized they had the wrong man.

Winter hit in earnest, the snow falling hard all night. Lars remained in the manor during the day, drinking stolen ale. Rufe made several trips to the woodpile, but his guards got drunker as the day progressed. He hefted the ax. One good swing and…

A noise had him glancing into the tree line. A lone figure dressed in Cormiran red and blue. One of the Craicians? Or an actual scout? Rufe allowed himself a modicum of hope for the first time since his capture. The figure vanished into the trees.

One of his guards barked out something he recognized as “Work!” and jabbed him with a knife—another shallow cut to add to the others they’d inflicted, some of which were infected. Rufe resumed swinging the ax.

Throughout the day, men and women left the house to attend the privy. Scouts could easily discern the number of Lars’ company, given time, if the Cormirans really had arrived. Many brigands had passed out in the house, while some botched trying to cook the meager remains of the farmer’s stores.

Rufe waited, listening. “I have to go to the privy,” he said. No one paid him any attention. Of course, he wouldn’t get far if he ran, not in knee-deep snow with no horse, and the horses were more heavily guarded than Rufe. Could he reach the trees and find the scout? Or would someone kill him immediately, assuming he was one of Lars' men?

He slipped out the farm’s back door unwatched, used the privy that stank more at each visit, and stood under a starry sky, breath fogging before his face and moonlight reflected by the snow. Lights showed from most windows in the house, but the sight wasn’t homey or inviting.

Oh, to be in Cormira, enjoying the warm waters and bright sun. Or even on his father’s estate. Would he ever see his father again? His mother?

A hand slapped over his mouth as a powerful arm wound around his waist, dragging him backward, away from the privy. Rufe nearly yelled in startlement, decided whoever had him beat the ones in the house, and didn’t fight.

Warm breath teased his ear as they reached the shelter of the woods. “You have a Cormiran prisoner. Where is he kept?”

The hand didn’t move to allow an answer. Something about the voice, though, and the well-muscled arm. Rufe clawed the hand from his mouth. “Draylon! It’s me!”

“You!” Draylon spun Rufe and studied his face. “Rufe!” He enveloped Rufe in a hug. “Thank all the deities. I’ve found you!” He pulled back, gave three piercing whistles, and hugged Rufeagain. “You’re shivering.” Draylon whipped off his cloak, putting the warm wool around Rufe. It smelled of Draylon and comfort.

Rufe had to be dreaming, right? Another man approached from the shadows. “I’ll get this man to safety,” Draylon said. “Rufe, is there anyone else in the house we must rescue?”

Rufe swallowed hard and shook his head. “Only rogue Craician soldiers. They killed the farmer and his family who lived here, burned the nearby village, and killed the scouting party I rode with.” He lowered his gaze, unable to meet Draylon’s eyes. “I’m the only survivor. The… the leader took my sword.”

Draylon told the newcomer, “Do what you will with those inside, but bring me the sword marked with the imperial seal.” He threw his arm around Rufe and led him away. Soldiers poured from the woods, surrounding the house.

Such a beautiful sight. Draylon came for him. Life might not be great from here on out, but Rufe would soak in the feeling of safety emanating from his friend.

From a camp beyond the trees, Rufe heard the screams of the dying at the manor before flames shot into the sky. He hung his head and cried. Fire. What a horrible way to die. But Rufe was safe for now, having seen the man he loved once more.

Even if he could never sayso.

By the third day, Rufe figured out the soldiers with Draylon weren’t merely allowing an injured man privacy; they avoided him.

The soldier bringing Rufe a bowl of venison at day’s end didn’t make eye contact and kept his fingers well away from Rufe’s. Only Draylon treated Rufe like a fellow Cormiran soldier and a friend. Though the party included a healer, Draylon himself tended to Rufe’s wounds and subsequent fever, sleeping in his bedroll next to Rufe’s. At dawn, he helped Rufe into the saddle of the horse once belonging to Captain Anjoix.

Draylon ensured Rufe ate and drank while recounting the battle and the Craicians’ crimes, but didn’t discuss personal feelings, not when he felt wrung out by his experience.

As they lay down to sleep one night, Draylon murmured, “We’ll be at the capital tomorrow. Are you ready?”

Had time passed so quickly? Rufe imagined the capital, possibly telling his story over and over. Abusing soldiers wasn’t uncommon for outlaws, so many would assume the same happened to him. Then there was the matter of him now being considered a traitor. How could they know he hadn’t gone with his captors willingly? Would they even care? The law was stupid but clear.

He answered truthfully. “I don’t think I am.”

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