Page 27 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame (Fated for Hael #1)

Atriposte, ruler of Kolyath, lounged atop his gilded throne, perusing the battle report that had arrived via rock dove.

Kolyath had triumphed against Luminaux’s armed forces, moving his kingdom toward the area’s strategic goal: the enemy’s most active, lucrative mine.

Atriposte bared his teeth in a self-satisfied smile.

Their last encounter with Luminaux had scattered his army during its retreat.

This time, his men returned the courtesy with blood.

It was progress, warranting a celebration.

He slid the scroll into his throne’s left secret compartment, the compartment on the right concealing his favourite throwing dagger.

Then Atriposte snapped his fleshy fingers, a mute servant appearing a moment later.

Frowning at the delay, Atriposte twisted to unleash a torrent at the sluggish wench, but the drudgling was already pouring his wine.

He snatched it, swirling the rich red in its goblet and eyeing the servant through narrowed amber eyes, his hand drifting towards his hidden dagger.

He was recalling the thrill of its swirling steel when a figure in gold armour burst in.

Impatient, he watched Sullian, Commander of the Kingdom Army, traverse the vast expanse of the great hall.

Above them, hammers forming the heraldry of Kolyath adorned the vaulted ceiling, a relic from the bygone era of Kings and an enduring symbol of the reign of Stewards.

Sullian’s gait, paired with the perturbed look to his face, could only mean bad tidings.

But then, Atriposte already knew why Sullian was here.

Standing to one side at the foot of his throne was Jarett, Sullian’s brother and Commander of the Kingdom Guards.

Jarett’s face was draped in a smirk, his own armour less battle-worn yet still capable of crushing a man’s ribcage with a punch from his plate gauntlet.

Jarett’s large, jutting brown eyes basked in Sullian’s penance to come.

‘Your Excellency,’ Sullian rasped, chest heaving. ‘I have word.’

‘And is that word “failure”?’ Jarett arched an eyebrow.

Sullian’s face reddened with the intensity of his anger.

Jarett laughed, a harsh sound that echoed through the hall.

‘Do not be too hard on him, Your Excellency. My dear sibling merely lacks the finesse required for this line of work.’ His rivalry with Sullian for Atriposte’s favour was well-known.

Less so, Atriposte’s practice of baiting one with blatant disregard for the other, a winning tactic since the brothers had joined his kingdom ranks.

‘Well, Commander Sullian? I am waiting.’ Atriposte drummed his fingers on the armrest.

‘The girl blacksmith and Lord Terryl eluded my men,’ Sullian managed to grate out.

Atriposte’s face didn’t betray his thoughts racing inside.

Of course they did, Atriposte, you irredeemable fool. Your own brother would have seized them before they reached the gatehouse. He earned his position as Father’s successor. He would have known. But Markus cannot, can he? And why is that?

Atriposte’s jaw clenched against the errant question, knowing the answer.

Because you killed him.

Atriposte made a show of examining an invisible speck of dust on the polished floors, the white marble patterned with cracks instead of swirls, as if lightning was trapped within it. He paused to eye Sullian’s dishevelled state, the sheen of sweat lining the man’s face.

Curling his upper lip in sour distaste, Atriposte exhaled sadly. ‘Ah, Sullian, my once-mighty Commander. You disappoint me.’

Sullian flinched, before pulling himself up to his full height, features tight with the burden of failure.

Because you killed him. Atriposte indeed had, and the words echoed through his mind. But there was no time for guilt now when the room was fraught with such stupidity.

And that girl blacksmith… He recalled her filthy face, vaguely. There was something so familiar to it…

‘You have failed me,’ Atriposte told Sullian, his voice exuding a most deadly calm.

He dared to slip his fingers into the slit of the armrest’s compartment, yearning for his blade.

Clutching the handle, he drew it free of its sheath.

The red diamond of his signet ring flashed in the rake of sunlight burning from the high windows. So did the glittering blade.

Sullian’s face twisted with unease, his stance wavering at the sight of that dagger. ‘Your Excellency,’ he said, ‘I bear ultimate responsibility for the failings of my men.’

Before Sullian could go on, his brother cut in, a sardonic smirk playing on his lips. ‘Yes, you do,’ Jarett chimed, crossing his arms. ‘You had one job, and it seems capturing a girl was too much for you.’

Sullian’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘And you?’ he snapped, words dripping with contempt. ‘You let her and the lord escape in the first place!’

‘At least when I erred, it wasn’t a second time.’ Jarett’s eyes taunted.

As the brothers broke into a cacophony of accusations and countercriticisms, Atriposte struggled to decide which he would rather hurl his blade at.

‘And what of my prized army, Commander? Did it not occur to you to give chase at the gate?’

Sullian began, ‘It is the Wilds, and as Jarett himself experienced, the Wildspeople—’

At this, Atriposte’s head snapped up. ‘The Wildspeople what? Slay trained soldiers with their pointy sticks?’ He pinched the bridge of his nose, hissing an exhale. ‘One of these days, Commander, I shall tire of your tenantless intellect. Both of you,’ he muttered.

The brothers flinched, then glared at one another.

Yet despite the scores Atriposte had put to death for minor deeds, he stayed his hand with Sullian and Jarett. Not due to favour, and certainly not any loyalty, but a likeness between the three of them.

Yes, they were alike. In their ire, in their desire to prove themselves. In their resultant ache for violence.

Because you were always Father’s second-best son, until you culled the competition. And just in time, too.

‘I don’t want excuses,’ Atriposte ordered, leaning forward. ‘I want her. And him.’

Sullian stood tall, defiance in his eyes. ‘It is only a matter of time,’ he said firmly. ‘These people do not travel inconspicuously and we have narrowed their likely routes.’

Atriposte’s mind wandered as Sullian droned on, anger ebbing into icy determination. He would have this Cahra girl, and the merchant Lord Terryl, and he would have them alive. No mistake from Sullian or anyone else would stand in his way.

Do not give him too long a leash. You saw what happened with Father. One minute, they are on your side. The next, their knife is in your side.

Atriposte had seen his father execute Commander after Commander in this very room.

Not only did it fail to solve incompetencies, it eroded loyalty.

Not to mention that it had prompted his father’s own untimely death.

For Atriposte, it was a lesson of import: no ruler is invulnerable.

Unless they possessed a large enough deterrent.

Thinking of the weapon, Atriposte smiled.

So, he had begun his reign by purging his father’s council.

This had been followed by Atriposte reigniting the kingdom’s war rhetoric – and his subjects’ unity and loyalty – by raising low-born taxes to support his new advisors in their courtly patronage, blamed on the lofty expenditures of war and leaving Kolyath’s base residents too starved to mount an uprising.

Then, his favourite: practitioners of scrying magick hung by their ankles, disembowelled and left to putrefy in his kingdom’s execution square.

He had learned from his father’s mistakes.

Terror and violence were not enough, nor were bullying, torturing and killing, like his father had, with the tormenting of his own sons.

Atriposte’s strength had to prevail for a reason, one that people would condone.

Hael’stromia and the weapon were that reason, the war the vehicle; the outcome, prosperity and stability.

And Atriposte would take it through force.

Neither Luminaux’s weakling King Royce nor Ozumbre’s barbarous King Decimus would take the capital’s ultimate weapon from him.

Kolyath was the perfect fit, as it had been the last time it controlled the weapon and Hael’stromia.

The last time any of the tri-kingdoms had done so, before the city’s loss.

We shall see. Whether your unregal blood dooms you to life as a sitting imposter, or whether the prophecy has something to offer you, Steward.

At the foot of his throne, Jarett spoke. ‘Please, Your Excellency, do not coddle him. Let him attempt to remedy this most egregious of mistakes. If he can.’

‘I will find them and cut down any and all who stand in my path,’ Sullian growled.

A sly smile forming, Jarett mused, ‘Perhaps start with that old mule blacksmith.’

There it was, the thirst for violence. Atriposte could see it in their faces, eyebrows carving a murderous line.

It was precisely what the Commanders were good for, and why he kept Sullian and Jarett all these long years: the rabble feared him, feared Kolyath.

Atriposte’s soldiers and guards were the plate-fisted enforcers of his grand cause.

Realising the Commanders had fallen silent before him, awaiting his next orders, Atriposte waved a hand at Sullian. ‘If you must.’

Shooting a glare at Jarett, the army Commander bowed, turning to go.

‘Halt,’ Atriposte ordered. ‘I was to send for you, and you have saved me the trouble. Your presence is required to greet a valuable guest. It seems an accord has now been struck,’ Atriposte continued, as Sullian eyed him warily, ‘and I am to receive a gesture of goodwill from our new sister kingdom comrades.’ He reluctantly sheathed his dagger at his side, then rang a shrill bell to signal the attendants in reception, booming, ‘Come!’

He watched as first Jarett then Sullian spun, drawing their swords in unison when they beheld who, or more precisely, what, entered the room.

The Commanders’ blades gleamed as a breathy laugh rasped and rumbled like nothing Atriposte had ever heard. Certainly nothing human.

‘You’ll not end me with that, young one,’ the figure taunted, garbed in an off-white hooded robe, ripped and tattered at the hem. A shiver of sheer delight fluttered from the nape of Atriposte’s neck down the length of his spine. This…

This was worth partnering with Ozumbre for.

The nefarious figure, every line and curve of its silhouette radiating danger, turned. ‘Atriposte, blood of Stewards. We meet at last,’ the figure said, his voice chillingly casual.

The sound made Atriposte’s hairs stand on end, his every instinct screaming.

Instead, Atriposte managed to grant a seemly smile in return. ‘And you, Grauwynn, Oracularus of Hael’stromia.’ His tone was almost respectful. Almost.

The elderly Seer reciprocated, amused. ‘You shall warm to our gifts, my good Steward, that we promise, especially when you hear of the All-seeing’s latest revelation.

’ Grauwynn withdrew his ghostly cowl, revealing drab beige skin pulled taut over his bones, wrinkling like crepe in the hollows of his face.

The wiry man’s eyes shone a disconcerting shade of violet as he beheld the Commanders.

‘Yes?’ Atriposte eyed his fingernails, looking bored. Theatrics were of the utmost importance.

To one side, Jarett, who had silently observed the exchange, began to laugh. Sullian’s face tightened, but he remained silent, his grip on his sword easing.

Yet nothing in Atriposte’s life, tallying middle years, had prepared him for the boon laid before him as Grauwynn said, ‘Your fugitives.’ The Oracle gazed into Atriposte’s eyes. ‘I know where they are going.’