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The sea guard wasn’t at his post. I drew my sword, scanning the shadows for movement. Nothing. The trouble was,nothingwas perhaps the most unnerving of all.
“Shields,” I called out.
Grunts and groaning leathers rolled through the patrol unit in a wave. Wooden shields were positioned on the outer sides, creating a kind of wall around our unit, and in the center, all the young ones were quiet, their short blades in hand.
I took the lead.
“Daj . . .” Aesir began, but cut off his own words, remembering where we were.
I looked over my shoulder, giving the boy a smile and nod.
Once as a young fae, I went to hunt with the king and his sons. I returned to a dead mother and brother, and my kingdom under attack. I’d always wished I had one final smile, one final word, to cling to before they were torn into the Otherworld.
I never left my wife and four children without a last look. Titles be damned, for a breath, I was his father first.
Sol clapped a hand on Aesir’s shoulder. A mute assurance my boy wasn’t alone, for my son’s ease or mine, I didn’t know. Didn’t matter, for it brought a bit of peace to my racing pulse knowing the Sun Prince would shield Aesir like he’d shield his own son.
I smiled. “Hold steady and think of those tales to tell the girls at the dawn.”
His three younger sisters adored the boy, and Aesir always made himself nauseatingly heroic. He gave me a faulty smile. Kari’s smile. Truth be told, the only thing Night Folk on the boy were his dark eyes and tapered fae ears. The rest was pale and Timoran.
I pounded a fist to my chest. Aesir did the same.
With a nudge to my horse, I left the protection of the shields.
“Vidar,”I called out, scanning the docks for the watch guard. The heated sensation on my neck crept over my scalp.
Stieg and Laila moved into their positions on either flank. Without looking at the princess, I pointed to the higher knolls.
Laila whistled sharply, and her fellow archers broke our formation, ready to rain destruction over any threat. Another gesture, and Stieg whistled much the same, drawing out the men who followed his order toward the water’s edge.
I swung a leg over my horse. Another blade in hand, I stepped onto the docks. “Vidar?” Again, my call was left unanswered.
Something was wrong here. I rolled one blade, pointing the tip down.
The docks were empty, eerily silent. Halfway down one of the planks, a wave slapped harder than others and spilled water over the laths. My heart went still. Water, dark as ink, coated the wooden boards.
I held up another arm and flicked my fingers in a deliberate gesture. Movement followed. Warriors formed a line of defense at my back, shielding the docks on all sides. Laila gave a hushed command above us in the hills, and the taut stretch of bowstrings filled the night.
“Vidar, in the name of your king, you will answer, or we will take blades against you.”
Glass crashed in the dock house to my left. Made of smooth stones, it was a larger house where the dockers could drink warm ale and eat a meager meal under a roof to escape the cold winds.
Sword outstretched, I blew out a long breath, then kicked the door in.
It happened in an instant. A broad body rushed at me in a frenzied, but sloppy, attack.
My blade caught the belly of the man. He cried a wretched sound, almost more animal than human, and scrambled back into the shadows. The moment he disappeared, a knife flung at me. Much the same as the body attack, it was weak and poorly aimed. With a simple dodge of my head, it rammed into the opposite wall.
“Circle the young ones!” Tor’s voice rose over the cries.
I rolled my sword in my grip and struck. The edge of my blade cut into a chair when the bastard lifted it overhead. The bloody sheen of the moon soaked his features. Or what was left of them.
“Vidar?”
The Timoran watch guard’s blue eyes were wild and unfocused. Veins of black coated the whites. His mouth was scabbed in dried blood, and his teeth were dark with rusted stains. His leathery skin was battered in bite marks and blade lashes, and deep gouges were carved into his brow and cheeks.
He had enough wounds that he shouldn’t be standing.
