Page 33 of Nightingale (The Broken Kingdoms #1)

R ian woke with a start in his heart that felt as though someone bottled and brewed a lightning potion, forced his jaw open and poured it down his throat. His joints felt alive, buzzing with a newfound excitement that shocked him like a bucket of water had been dumped atop him, filled with ice and everything chilling.

His body jerked upright, pain lancing through his shoulder as he blinked several times, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings. He grunted, hands going to his left shoulder where the Blackleg had pierced him, just above his heart luckily, feeling the rough linen under his palm. He pulled his chin down to see the healing fabric that wrapped around his shoulder, under his arm and around his chest to secure and staunch the wound. A browned stain of what appeared to once have been red was the only sign that he’d actually been hit by the creature. Alongside the numbing pain that radiated through his tense muscles.

“Try not to move.” A deep voice called from the corner. “It will only worsen it.”

Rian’s attention immediately shot to the shadowed figure in the alcove of the tiny tent, which barely had enough room for his bed, let alone the chair that the massive mammoth of a man sat in.

“You have been drugged to keep your vitals stable, and you will be feeling drowsy for quite some time.” He informed him, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his thick thighs. “We will be leaving tomorrow morning.”

From the angle, Rian could make out almost black eyes, dark skin that neared ebony, and a round face that held no hair. There was a stern, stoic expression plastered into his features as the clearly important man rose from the seat and casually wandered over to the side of his bed. There was a looming threat that hung with each of his steps, as if he wanted Rian to fear him.

He swallowed, “Who are you?”

His resonance cracked, and he reached for the glass of water that had been set on the small, four legged table that held nothing else.

“Do not worry about that.” He said quietly.

Rian chugged half the glass, wiping at the underside of his mouth and setting it back down. “And yet I feel as though you’re implying that there’s something else I should be worried about.”

Something akin to a creeping smile broke out on the man’s face, something that provided a gnawing sensation in his bowels.

Danger, his gut warned.

Run, his head said.

Death, his instincts cried.

“You are smart.” His tone was the rumble of thunder, the eye of the storm, the sands that could whip up a massive hurricane. “I expected that from one of Carylim’s children.”

Rian scowled. “I’m not a child.”

“You are, compared to me. What are you, thirty something? Late twenties?” He retorted, raising his head until his full height was complete. He was tall, taller than Castil had ever been. The man nearly had to crouch in order to fit into the tent. “Younger than the Princess, perhaps?”

“Something around there.”

“But none of that matters. I want to know why you are here.” His harshness on the single word implied that there was no room to refuse his demanding question.

Predator, his senses chimed.

Threat, his stomach hissed.

Peril, his heart thrummed.

“Are you not happy to see your last Princess here, unharmed? Untouched?” Rian couldn’t help the sarcastic smirk that rose. He supposed that she wasn’t untouched, since he’d had his hands all over her several times now, inside her on the journey.

“Besides the fact that I will always expect the death of one of my leaders, regardless of their gender, I am always happy to see them safe and sound. But it does not change the fact that you, Prince Rian Moordian, of Carylim, who is known for slaughtering my people and my rulers in cold blood, have been the one to guide her back to our borders. I suspect foul play, or something akin to it.”

“I’m surprised that you didn’t use my two middle names.” He snorted in amusement, swinging his legs out from the blanket and placing them flat against the swept dirt floor. There was no carpet, there was no wood, there was nothing but the rough-hewn earth. As if this tent had been erected simply for him, in a quick manner.

Rian wouldn’t put it past them.

They wouldn’t have put him in just any area, not when there were hundreds upon hundreds of war tents stuck on their side of the border. He could have easily slipped out of any of them, which meant that he was most likely stationed somewhere towards the front of the line. Near wherever Vrea was, if he had to guess. And since there was only one man inside the tent, even if he was twice Rian’s size in both sheer body mass and what appeared to be height, then this man was someone close to the royal family.

Especially with the nature of his questions.

“I do not know your middle names.” He responded gruffly. “Therefore I could not use them.”

Rian stretched, wincing at the slight ripple of pain. The guard seemed to find enjoyment in that.

“I’ll tell you what.” He began and stood, forcing the man to move back three, large paces. “I’ll tell you my middle names, and in return, you can tell me one of yours.”

The man carefully eyed him up and down, taking in the lack of shoes and shirt, the simple pair of trousers that were certainly not his, and the bandage around his upper half.

“My name is Captain Amir Mikale, of Queen Casta Greenvasses’ army.” He introduced himself after deeming it appropriate to finally fill Rian in. He held himself high as he said it, pride clear in his rumbling voice. As if serving the Niroulian leader was one of the highest honours.

For him, it probably was.

“Nice to meet you, Amir.” Rian swept into an improper bow that caused Amir to grimace. “Now, for my end of the deal. Next time you try to impose your massive self on me, or attempt to threaten me without so much as a word, use my full name. Fifth Prince of Carylim, and fourth in line to the throne, Rian Cillian Ezra Moordian.”

Amir lifted a thick brow and frowned. “Four names seems excessive. I do not even have three.”

“Blame my father. He thought it would extend our titles, make us sound even more regal and fit to lead the country, nay, the realm.” He didn’t back down, and wouldn’t cower. His father wouldn’t, and nor would he. “If you think mine are bad, just wait till you hear my siblings. Castil’s is particularly mouthy.”

Amir lifted a massive brow. “Oh?”

Rian spread his hands out.

“Castil Davien Theon Moordian.” He chuckled and groaned as a ripple of heated pain tore through him. “Again, blame my father.”

“Trust me, little Prince,” He came closer, a hair’s width away. “I blame him for many things.”

Rian didn’t falter, even with the slight growl that toyed in his chest-deep baritone. “I’m sure you do.”

They stood there for a minute or two, staring at the other in some sort of contest of wills. Rian grew tired of the plain-to-see intimidation act and sighed loudly.

“Where is Vrea?”

“The Princess is with the men, making the rounds. She will come to see you shortly. But do not get your pretty head in a twist, she was alerted the moment you woke.” He flashed his teeth, which stood out in stark comparison to his dark skin.

“Ah, you think I’m pretty. I’m flattered, Captain, but you’re not my type.” Rian took a closer inspection, finding the Niroulian fighting leathers in a charcoal grey, mixed with dangles along his arms. There was a black ring around his bicep, tapped in ink that matched the three dots under his left eye. There was other ink around him, images that Rian couldn’t quite make out with the way the armour fit around him splendidly. A warrior, honed from perfection, carved from stone.

His father would have killed to have him on his side if he knew about the sheer strength locked away in the powerful mass. If he couldn’t have him on his side, then he would try to put him down before the man could have been used against him.

“I was not insinuating any romantic engagement. I am happy enough with my wife.” Amir rumbled. There was a short sword attached horizontally at his back, peeking out with the gold, circular handle and a broadsword at his left hip. Two nasty, curved daggers were placed at his chest, right against his pectorals.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to get married.” Rian murmured, peering around him.

“What are you looking for?” Amir interrogated without trying to hide his true intent, folding one large arm over the other. “Something to take? Something to hurt me with? Something to hurt her with?”

“My weapons, good sir. It seems that I’ve lost them.” He peered down at himself, “As well as most of my clothing.”

“They had to be removed to check your wound. And when we brought them back to dress you up once again, they were in no salvageable state. So we found you other accommodations.” He grinned wickedly. “One’s more suited for your title.”

Unquestionably servant’s garb, then.

“Why am I here?” Rian asked as Amir pointed towards a small pile of fabric left on the end of the makeshift bed. It rested on a wooden platform that rose two feet off the ground, with a sheep’s skin as the bottom layer and a couple blankets piled on top. There was one pillow, flatter than a rock. How he’d been black-out asleep, he knew it was only because of whatever they’d used to drug him.

Lavender oil, if the floral residue that coated his throat was any indication. Mixed with something else he couldn’t put his thumb on.

“Because the Princess refused to allow me to end you. I suggested that we leave you behind for the Blacklegs to finish off, or kill you ourselves.” He explained and stepped back even further to allow Rian to dress.

He didn’t turn around, however.

“She’s grown fond of me, what can I say?” The Prince chortled and slipped the pewter tunic over his head, angling his arms until they reached the end of the sleeves. He tied them off, tightening the pressure at his wrists and assuring that the shirt wouldn’t fall off. It wasn’t too tight, but it was a bit loose on his form.

“ That is precisely what I’m worried about. And rightfully so.” Amir grumbled, refusing to turn his back on the male as he plucked one of his old boots off the floor. “I do not like the way you seem to have a hold over her. Not once, has she spared one of you an act of mercy. Now, three years later, she returns from her mission to kill you and she refuses to let even a Blackleg do the job.”

The horses were nowhere to be seen, along with their supplies. He’d chased after them, only to see another long-legged Blackleg crawl out from the furthest tunnels, charging back towards Vrea before they both could die on their own. How the horses slipped past, he wasn’t too sure.

They most likely hadn’t.

Rian pushed his foot in, adjusting until it felt right. “Here I thought that would be better than trying to kill her. So far in my book, I’ve set her free from Hawksmoor Keep, clothed her, fed her, defended her and even saved her life a couple of times. Looks like it might be you who owes me.”

The guard hissed out an unpleasant sound that reminded Rian of a sand-snake’s rattle. “The only reason that you still have your head attached to your neck, is because I listen to the Princess, not you. If she did not care about your wellbeing, for some foolish reason, then my sword would be halfway through your carotid artery by now.”

“Sounds wonderful.” He jested, flicking his brows up in a challenge. “Let’s go see her then, shall we?” He went to exit the tent by the flaps.

Amir blocked him with a tossed out hand, an armguard latched over his wrist and forearm. “Try anything, and I mean anything, and I will skewer you from balls to brain without so much as a dash of hesitation.”

Rian grabbed his hand, shoving it off him. “Careul, Amir. You’re showing me just how badly you want me to try something. I can see the bloodlust for my death reflecting in your eyes. Allow me to let you in on something.” He dragged his chin upwards in a move that he’d seen his father do several times before when trying to intimidate an opponent.

“Enlighten me.” He said, bored.

Rian grinned, tugging at the collar of his new shirt as he pushed outside, the tall guard following him. “I don’t care who you are. I don’t care where I am. The only thing I care about is her getting home, alive. So you can try to stand in my way but I assure you, I am not leaving until I see her all the way back to Vasthold.”

“ That is what concerns me.” Amir rotated to his right, allowing him to pass. “I guess we will just have to see how far you get, Moordian Prince.”