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She could have chosen to leave and found an inn still taking guests for the night. She could have also put the guards to sleep and opened the gate, she had the magic to do so, but she could just imagine Amelia’s disapproval. After all, Fionna was here on diplomatic business.
There was a third option which better suited her annoyance.
Taking flight once more, Fionna located the bedroom of the warlord high up in a fat tower with big windows left open for some fresh night air. She easily slipped inside.
What she didn’t expect?
To be met by the tip of a sword.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sleep eluded Kormac. It had been a fortnight since he’d sent a message to the witch queen. The reply he’d received had indicated a witch travelled to give aid and promised an arrival date that had passed. Not surprising since the distance between their territories spanned hundreds of miles and the mountains separating them were impassable. The witch would have to deter via Ulkruuba, adding to the travel time. Knowing that didn’t quell his impatience.
Lomar, while not worsening, had not improved either. While his humor remained positive, Kormac could tell the waiting taxed his friend. Every night Lomar, even with the glowing medallion, claimed to hear the voice of the spirit possessing him, telling him to remove the chain. Lomar hadn’t obeyed, but given he feared a moment of weakness, they’d taken to tethering him at dinnertime until morning as a precaution, an action that didn’t go unnoticed by the guards stationed in the dungeon.
Rumors swirled. People whispered. Despite swearing his men to secrecy, word of what happened at the garrison had leaked. The citizens were restless and afraid. It didn’t help that refugees from two villages at the base of the northern mountain had been trickling into Wexkord. They told stories of not justthe dragon hunting their flocks, but of other monsters usually only spoken of in old legends, such as the bithok, a creature that fouled crops and rendered the soil infertile for a few seasons. There’d even been some swearing they’d seen an ogre toting a tree over its shoulder.
He'd sent out a battalion to check into the claims but had yet to hear word from them. He feared the worst. His father, whom he’d seen just that morning, had nothing to advise unless, “Things will sort themselves out,”counted.
What if they didn’t? What if what afflicted Lomar began to spread? Or the monsters left the mountain area? He didn’t have enough men to send to all of the villages. Nor could he leave Wexkord, the most populous area, unprotected.
With all that weighing on his mind, he remained awake, and thus heard the soft scuff of movement at his window. It seemed unlikely an assassin could scale such a height, but he never assumed anything. He silently and quickly positioned himself by the opening, sword ready. When the cloaked figure slipped in, he had the tip of his blade poised, ready to stab, only to pause at a feminine voice.
“A week of travel and this is how you greet me?”
He didn’t drop his sword but growled, “Who are you?”
“The witch you arrogantly summoned and I am in no mood for games. It’s been a long trip.”
Finally. “If you wished a proper greeting then you should have?—”
“Entered via your main gate? Tried that, your soldiers were most insistent I return in the morning,” was her disgruntled retort.
“And instead of listening you thought it a good idea to climb to my window and almost get yourself impaled.” Her lack of intelligence didn’t bode well.
“Climb?” She snorted. “That’s for goats. As to being impaled…” She slapped his blade aside with more strength than he could have expected given the slight form muffled by the cloak.
He took a step back but didn’t lower his guard. “How do I know you are who you claim?”
“Do you have many women appearing in your bedchambers, claiming to be witches?” She spread her hands and all the lanterns in the room suddenly illuminated.
It startled Kormac but he didn’t let it show. “Nice trick.”
She made a noise of annoyance. “I told Amelia this was a bad idea. If you don’t believe in magic, why summon a witch?”
“Because we’ve tried everything else.” An admission he hated to make.
Slender fingers reached to tug at the hood and to his surprise, a youngish woman appeared, slender of features, her auburn hair bound in plaits pinned to her head. Her brilliant blue eyes perused and her lips pursed. “You don’t smell as bad as expected, unlike me after days of travel and a lack of bathing facilities in your godforsaken plains.”
“Why would I smell bad?” He couldn’t help but sound confused.
“Don’t most people who muck around with horses all day smell of manure?”
He snorted. “That would be the stable hands, and there is something called soap to handle the scent.”
“Good to know your people believe in it—and beds.” She glanced past him at the massive frame holding his mattress.
“Exactly how primitive do you think the Sraythian are?”
