Page 5
Story: King’s Warrior (Warriors #2)
Rufe swallowed hard and nodded. “I am.” He rose to his feet with Draylon’s help and doubled over, resting his hands on his knees.
Draylon sheathed his sword, glowered at the odious guards, and put an arm around Rufe to help him to the local jail, where the magistrate waited at his desk, uncharacteristic worry lines on his forehead.
He’d known both Rufe and Draylon since they were boys, training to be soldiers at the nearby garrison.
Any remaining fight went out of Rufe. A toady official might be one thing, but an old man who kept sweets on his desk was another. Rufe snagged a piece of honey candy from the familiar bowl for the comfort of its flavor.
“I’m sorry, Rufe.” The magistrate waved a hand to indicate the damning instruments and ink pots on the desk before him. “You know the law. The tattoo is required.”
Rufe remained quiet, merely sat by the desk stony-faced, extending his arm and trying not to grimace at the ink-dipped needle sinking into his flesh.
From now on, all who saw him would see a traitor, someone untrustworthy.
They’d gossip behind his back. Would his parents turn away in shame? He’d get no sympathy from his brother.
Draylon took Rufe’s free hand. Though Rufe couldn’t bring himself to look up and see disgust or pity, he took comfort in the quiet support. The magistrate put down his instruments, clearing his throat.
Rufe didn’t want to look. Looking would make the moment real, though his stinging hand told the tale of the last hour. No one spoke; they simply remained with Rufe until he summoned the courage to look up.
The magistrate had attempted an ornamental flourish, but the dark “T” for traitor remained clearly visible.
Being captured and surviving meant becoming an outcast. No one would respect him, and prospective mates might turn away. Maybe he could find mercenary work, but earning a living as a sellsword meant leaving the capital, Draylon, and all Rufe had known.
“What will you do now?” the magistrate asked, voice kind and eyes troubled as he gently dabbed blood away from the mark.
Before Rufe could say, “I don’t know,” Draylon replied, “He’s a soldier and now knows the enemy better than anyone. This mark means nothing. Fuck what others think; he’s more valuable to me now than ever.”
Draylon escorted a swaying Rufe from the jail to an inn, growling at anyone staring at the shameful tattoo. He paid for seven days and led Rufe upstairs. Rufe eyed the clean coverlet on the bed and the tapestried chair, then sank onto the floor.
Draylon lifted him with a firm grip under his arms and eased him into the chair. “I’m having a bath and food brought. I’ve also sent for a healer who’ll tend your wounds.”
“They won’t. They won’t want to touch me.” No one would, ever again.
“This one will.” A knock came at the door. Draylon opened to two tittering maids who eyed him appreciatively while bringing in a tin tub. Their eyes flashed when they spotted Rufe’s arm.
Draylon growled, “Tell the landlord you have displeased me greatly and kindly send others with water. Others who aren't so judgmental.” He slammed the door in their faces and placed the tub himself. “Sorry,” he said to Rufe with a sheepish smile .
Rufe shook his head, letting out a sigh. “Draylon, you can’t taint your good name by continuing to associate with me. What would your father say?”
“I don’t care what he says. Never have, never will. My brother sends his regards. That’s all I care about. I’ve also sent a message to your parents.”
“My parents!” They’d soon discover his new outcast status; Rufe wasn’t looking forward to the revelation. The news would give his parents’ servants more gossip other than him simply being a bastard, born while Mother and Father were both married to others.
“They’re concerned about your wellbeing and were worried when your scouting party didn’t return. I’ve convinced them not to come to see you, but only by telling them you’d visit when ready.”
Rufe’s parents hadn’t turned away?
Another knock sounded at the door. A tall, imposing woman with a pinched face entered the room unbidden.
The moment Draylon closed the door, she curtseyed.
“Your Highness.” She turned to Rufe and curtseyed again.
“Your Rufeness.” Many considered Talitha a witch, as much for her healing abilities as for her seeming not to have aged past thirty summers when she must be fifty.
She beamed and bent to hug Rufe. “I’m so glad to see you. ”
“Talitha. You shouldn’t be here. And you shouldn’t touch me. I’m filthy.” Another kind soul Rufe wouldn’t taint with his presence .
Talitha waved a dismissive hand. “People are too afraid of me to talk behind my back, and water washes off most dirt.” She stooped. “Now, I’m here to see to your wounds.”
“I need to bathe first.” Rufe wrinkled his nose.
Talitha eyed Draylon, then Rufe. “I’ll wait downstairs. Don’t take long. My hand gets unsteadier the more I drink.”
She opened the door to reveal two men standing outside in well-used clothing and smelling of the stables.
Both carried buckets of steaming water. They didn’t regard Rufe or Draylon; they merely performed their duty and left, returning several times with both hot and cold water.
On the last trip, they’d discarded their buckets for two tankards and two bowls of stew.
“I’m unsure if I want to bathe or eat first.” Both were answers to Rufe’s prayers.
Draylon swished a hand through the water. “Why not eat while bathing? You could use a good soak.”
Rufe pulled off the grubby uniform he’d worn for weeks and left the disgusting rags on the floor. They needed burning, but he had nothing else to wear unless Draylon went to the barracks to retrieve his things.
He stood naked in front of Draylon, keeping his eyes downcast so as not to witness his friend’s disgust. Between dirt, lost weight, half-healed wounds, and the tattoo, Rufe definitely was nothing to look at.
Draylon lifted Rufe’s chin with two fingers. “Never be afraid to look at me or for me to look at you.” Dray ran his gaze over Rufe’s body. “I did the best I could on the road. Talitha is a much better healer.”
Rufe sank into the heavenly water, hissing when his injuries stung. The discomfort faded. He rested his head on the tub's edge, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to be in the moment—no future, no past, only the here and now.
The scent of onions and other savory things reached his nose. He opened his eyes to find Draylon holding a spoonful of stew to his lips. “Eat.”
Rufe dutifully ate, cleaned himself, and climbed from embarrassingly dirty water.
Draylon helped towel him off with not a single lascivious look. They’d occasionally ended their nights in bed together, but there was no appreciation in Dray’s eyes now. Nor would there likely ever be again.
“Lie on the bed,” Draylon instructed. “I’ll get Talitha.”
Rufe must’ve dozed off, because the next thing he knew, Talitha hummed softly as she applied an herbal-smelling poultice to his leg wound that had never quite healed.
“Any deeper, and you might have lost the leg. But no matter the situation, I’ll always place my bets on you.
” She winked one blue eye. “Now, I’ve left Prince Draylon with tinctures and salves.
” She fixed her gaze on Draylon. “Send for me if he worsens.”
“Thank you, Talitha,” Draylon said, slipping her several coins.
Rufe mumbled something he hoped sounded like thanks.
“You’re both welcome.” Talitha adopted her sour face again and left the room.
Many thought her a witch because she believed in herbal remedies.
She treated any who came to her door regardless of their ability to pay, which made local doctors tell any lies and accusations they could to prevent her from taking over their businesses.
She was, in her own way, as outcast as Rufe, though many “upstanding citizens” sought her out under cover of darkness.
Draylon nodded and plopped down in the chair while Talitha whisked from the room,
“You don’t have to hover,” Rufe said, though he really didn’t want to be alone. Draylon had done enough already.
“I know.” Draylon slumped, folded his hands over his belly, closed his eyes, and soon snored. With him standing guard, Rufe managed a fitful sleep.
Draylon shared the bed on the second night, spooning against Rufe’s back.
On the third night, Rufe tossed and turned, unable to find sleep.
Draylon murmured, “Want me to make you feel better?”
They locked gazes. They’d relieved each other’s sexual tension many times in the past, Draylon proving his affection for Rufe hadn’t changed, though they’d never be more than friends and occasional lovers. But his caring proved Prince Draylon Aravaid valued Rufe if no one else did.
“Just stay with me.” After all the fear and uncertainty, Rufe wasn’t ready for them to indulge the physical side of their relationship. He fell asleep in Draylon’s muscular arms.
Sometimes Rufe cried in the days that followed, sometimes he raged, sometimes he took his frustrations out in all-encompassing sex with Draylon, but when they finally emerged, Draylon strode by his side.
They administered the occasional beat down together until the other soldiers got the message that the tattoo was to be ignored. One thing Rufe now knew for sure: Draylon didn’t see Rufe any different for his captivity.
They were still friends. “I won’t let anyone look down on you,” Draylon said after correcting two soldiers who thought Rufe fair game for cruelty. “And neither will you.”
And neither will you. Many things fell out of Rufe’s control, but he’d hold his head high, if for no other reason than to make Draylon proud.
His instructors already considered him deadly with a sword.
He’d become deadlier. They thought him lethal with a dagger.
He’d become more lethal. He’d also protect the helpless, like the farm family he’d seen slaughtered.
For himself, his fallen comrades, and for Draylon.
He'd be the best damned warrior Cormira had ever seen.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5 (Reading here)
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
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- Page 17
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- Page 47
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- Page 51
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- Page 65