C H A P T E R S E V E N
hea stared at the Warsword, realising too late that Audra had already cantered off back in theT direction of the fortress. ‘Why you?’ She tried to keep the rising anger from her voice. Of all the escorts she might have had, she was stuck with the one who had opposed her the loudest? The one who had stolen her dagger and tried to have her kicked out of Thezmarr? To her frustration, she noticed that when he wasn’t scowling, the lines of his face softened and there was no denying that he was handsome.
But her appreciation was fleeting because his scowl returned with a vengeance. ‘The Guild Master likes to remind me of my place from time to time.’ Thea’s brow furrowed. ‘What does that mean?’ But Hawthorne pinned her with a glare and turned his horse towards the rolling hillside, not deigning to respond. ‘Why aren’t we taking the Wesford Road?’ Thea squeezed her mare’s sides with her heels and followed, clenching and unclenching her teeth. ‘Because, Alchemist, there are faster ways to Harenth and I, for one, don’t want to waste more time than necessary on this tedious escort.’ ‘My name is Thea,’ she bit out before she could think the better of it. ‘Like I said,’ the Warsword eyed her warily. ‘I don’t want to waste time.’ But before Thea even had a moment to process his disdain, he was off.
Cursing him, Thea followed.
The sun rose high above the midrealms as they rode hard through the outer lands of Harenth, leaving the moody skies of Thezmarr far behind. Despite the surly company, Thea drank in the sights like a parched vagabond. The dipping hills and valleys were carpeted in luscious, long grasses, a different world from the jagged edge upon which the fortress sat.
For a time, they followed one of the many rushing rivers that carved through the verdant lands, heading east, and Thea realised with a start that this was the furthest from the fortress she’d ever travelled. She wished Wren was here to see it.
The hilts of the Warsword’s twin blades glinted in the sun and she found herself staring at his broad, armoured shoulders with heated resentment, his harsh words from the council room echoing in her mind. What had she ever done to him? His refusal to speak made her all the more aggravated, stewing in the silence. That he was ever-so-slightly attractive only made matters worse. A tapered back of defined muscles or not, the man himself was a barbarian.
By late afternoon, they still hadn’t stopped to rest, and Thea’s entire lower body was throbbing.
Her back ached, her tailbone felt bruised, and her inner thighs were burning. Not that she’d complain.
Not in a million years. Though, she was concerned she might not be able to walk when she eventually did dismount… Her stomach gurgled; she hadn’t eaten anything all day except a chunk of bread she’d swiped from the kitchens on her way to meet Audra.
It wasn’t until the sun dipped behind the hills that Hawthorne brought them to a halt by the edge of a river. ‘We’ll camp here for tonight,’ he said, the first words he had spoken in hours, jumping down from his stallion in one graceful motion. ‘Right,’ Thea replied, her voice croaky from disuse. She waited until his back was turned before she attempted to slide from her saddle. When her boots hit the ground, her legs buckled and suddenly she was falling.
Large, warm hands encircled her waist, drawing her upright and steadying her. Heat radiated from Hawthorne, his fingers brushing her hips, his towering body only inches from her own.
Thea’s pulse quickened, and a thrill stirred beneath her skin, as did her awareness of every point at which they touched, at which they might touch.
Hawthorne peered down at her, his gaze firm and intense, as though assessing her.
Flushing, Thea drew back, praying that her legs would cooperate. ‘Thank you.’ The Warsword’s hands fell away from her in an instant and he shouldered a quiver of arrows and a bow, turning towards the nearby woods. ‘I’ll hunt,’ he told her. ‘You rub the horses down and start a fire.’ ‘So in other words, women’s work.’ The remark flew out of her mouth before she could think.
To her surprise, a fleeting glint of amusement shone in Hawthorne’s eyes and he held out his bow to her. ‘By all means, you catch the dinner.’ Thea’s cheeks reddened. ‘That’s what I thought,’ Hawthorne scoffed.
Thea took a bold step towards him. ‘Show me how.’ ‘I’m not here to be your teacher or hold your hand. Tend to the horses. Start the fire.’ He stalked
off into the woods.
Thea swore. ‘I heard that,’ his reply sounded from the trees.
Thea inhaled the crisp air, allowing herself two minutes to let her anger subside, along with her curses about the insufferable man before she set about her tasks. She ignored her screaming muscles as she removed the heavy saddles and tack from the horses and rubbed them down. Hawthorne’s stallion was enormous and she had to stand on a boulder to reach certain parts of his back. The beast was gentler than she expected, even nuzzling her shoulder as she led him and her mare to the river to drink their fill.
Thea watched, longing to throw herself into the water and scrub her sticky body clean. She could feel the grime of the day’s ride caked onto her skin, and she knew she smelt like horse and sweat. But there was work to be done and she refused to rest until Hawthorne did. If he didn’t believe she had what it took to be a warrior of Thezmarr, she’d damn well show him.
She left the horses to graze in a nearby clearing and started gathering kindling for the fire. Part of her still couldn’t believe where she was, let alone who rode with her. And then there was her destination to consider, the Heart of Harenth - King Artos’ palace, where she would petition to join the shieldbearers.
Thea searched for the best spot to build their fire, settling on a position near the edge of the woods, but close enough to the river. She took rocks from the riverbank and created a rim around the base layer of sticks she’d collected, and placed the kindling on top before scouring the ground for stones to light it with.
The last of the daylight was fading and with the right rocks in hand, Thea crouched by her handiwork and hit them together. Her whole body ached and she wanted nothing more than to lie down in the dirt and sleep, but her persistence was rewarded with sparks shooting down into the kindling. She blew air into the lit embers and, finally, it caught alight.
She stoked the fire, feeding it larger logs, ensuring it would continue to burn. ‘Who taught you how to make a fire?’ came Hawthorne’s voice as he strode into view, his bow and quivers over his shoulder, two dead hares hanging from his hand. ‘You thought I couldn’t?’ ‘Why would an alchemist know how to camp in the wilderness?’
‘So you were setting me up to fail?’
Hawthorne shrugged. ‘Who taught you?’ ‘None of your business.’ Evander had taught her, but Thea would have sooner walked barefoot on the hot coals than tell the Warsword as much. She watched as he skinned the hares and speared them on two long sticks, balancing them over the flames. Soon, the aroma of roasting game had Thea’s mouth watering. ‘I’m going to wash,’ Hawthorne announced, lighting a torch and leaving her to rotate the meat.
Soon, Thea heard splashes from the riverbank, warmth flooding her at the thought of seeing those broad shoulders stripped bare, at imagining the formidable Warsword without his armour. She licked her lips, her chest tightening. Nearby, the Hand of Death was undressed and dripping wet.
Her traitorous eyes glanced towards the river, where she saw a flash of tattooed skin beneath the moonlight. Even from afar, she could see that every inch of him was corded with hard muscle — Idiot, she berated herself, forcing her attention back to the meal and turning the roasting hares with more vigour than necessary. Whatever physical reaction she was having to the Warsword was just that: physical, and she was more than capable of separating her mind from the rest. There was a certain beauty to his brutality and that was all, she told herself. Though her reasoning didn’t stop her imagining that powerful body carving through the water, nor did it stop her recalling the imprint of his hands on her waist.
Hawthorne returned to the camp, the ends of his hair dripping as he swept it up and tied it back in a knot. ‘The meat will keep a little longer on the fire if you want to freshen up.’ Thea nodded, hoping he didn’t notice her flushed cheeks. She took the torch he offered and fled, utterly mortified by her own thoughts.
The water was icy and Thea bit back a yelp as she dipped her bare foot in. But there was nothing for it, she was filthy and she doubted she’d be able to sleep smelling as bad as she did. She made quick work of peeling off her pants and shirt, already regretting that she’d have to put them back on over clean skin. She only had two changes of clothes and she needed to be presentable for the king’s feast in a few days’ time.
Naked, she waded in the shallows, shivering as she rubbed away the dust and sweat from the road. She wished she had thought to bring a bar of soap, but water would have to do for now.
The hair on her nape stood up, goosebumps rushing over her skin. She glanced back to camp, where she could see the flicker of the campfire. Hawthorne was there, staring into the flames. But almost immediately, he seemed to sense her eyes on him and his head snapped up, his attention
locking onto her across the distance.
Face flaming, Thea turned away, wrestling her clothes over her wet, tingling skin and muttering a string of curses to herself. She needed to pull herself together.
When she trudged back to camp, Hawthorne handed her a portion of roast hare. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
It was the best thing she’d ever tasted. The meat was rich and succulent, and she had to suppress the urge to moan in satisfaction as she bit into it.
She stole glances at the Warsword as she ate, unable to shake the feeling that sharing a meal before a campfire with him was something few experienced. His gaze slid to hers, sensing her
attention. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What’s it like?’ Thea heard herself ask. ‘You’ll have to be more specific.’ ‘Being a Warsword. Being the youngest Warsword in history? What’s it like?’ Hawthorne wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and took a long swig from his flask. ‘Full of adventure?’ Thea prompted. ‘Glory?’ He gave a dark laugh. ‘There’s a lot more adventure and glory when you’re not on escort duty.’ Thea drew a sharp breath, anger bubbling. ‘We have two more days’ ride ahead, and then another
three on our return.’ ‘I can count.’ ‘So why not be civil? We could pass the time more easily.’ ‘I’m not usually civil to thieves.’ ‘What?’ But then Thea saw his hand move to her dagger. ‘I told you, that was a gift. The dying wish of a Warsword, in fact. And actually, I’d like it back.’ Hawthorne scoffed again. ‘Not a chance.’ ‘What’s it to you?’ she snapped. ‘It’s no more yours than it is mine —’ ‘I’ll hear no more about it,’ he cut her off. ‘It’s Naarvian steel, Alchemist. You know what that means. Besides, you’ve no right to a weapon.’ ‘Yet.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me then, why are you so desperate to be a shieldbearer?’ ‘Not just a shieldbearer,’ Thea snapped. ‘I am far more ambitious than that.’ ‘A Guardian of the midrealms, then.’ ‘Try again. And no,’ she added. ‘Not a commander, not a master of weapons. Something more.’ After a pause, Hawthorne’s brows shot up. ‘You think you’ll make it through the Great Rite? You think…’ ‘Why don’t you tell me what it is, and I’ll tell you if I’d pass.’ ‘I wouldn’t tell you if Enovius himself had a blade to my heart.’ ‘You despise me that much?’ ‘The Great Rite is sacred, and known to only those who would dare undertake it and emerge victorious. It would betray my vows as a Warsword to tell you what it entails.’ ‘I will emerge victorious,’ Thea replied. ‘Although they have not given me the same opportunities as others, I will face it and triumph. With the right mentor, I could —’ ‘Mentors are overrated,’ Hawthorne cut in. ‘If you want someone to hold your hand through the trials of becoming a warrior of Thezmarr, then you’ll be disappointed. You’re better off staying an alchemist if a teacher is what you’re after.’ His voice was laced with bitterness.
Thea cracked her knuckles in frustration. ‘I don’t need someone holding my hand,’ she ground out. ‘All I ask for is the same guidance.’ ‘A word of advice, Alchemist,’ he said, voice low. ‘If you want to achieve anything in these realms, do it yourself. Rely on no one.’ ‘Is that what you did?’ she bit back.
He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Go to sleep. We ride hard again tomorrow.’ ‘Can’t wait,’ Thea muttered.
Anger still simmering, she went to her saddlebags and retrieved her bedroll, setting herself up a few feet away from the fire, silently cursing her resentful escort.
He might be one of the most powerful warriors in the realm, and his presence might stir a certain physical response… she allowed. But Hawthorne is also an arse.
Dawn came all too soon, and Thea felt as though a herd of cattle had trampled her as she staggered to her feet. Everything hurt.
Hawthorne’s sleeping mat was already rolled up and placed neatly by his saddlebag, but there was no sign of where he’d gone.
Good, Thea thought. She didn't feel like talking to him. If it was to be a Warsword to accompany her, why not the golden-haired one? He seemed friendlier. Perhaps he would have told her the story of how he’d fought off not one, but two cursed bears. That she would have liked to hear.
Bracing herself against the early morning chill, Thea eased into some stretches, whimpering at the pain lancing through muscles she didn’t even know existed. If she was ever going to train as a shieldbearer and graduate to a Thezmarrian warrior, she’d need to harden up.
As she ate an apple, she set about readying the horses for departure. Splitting the core between the two beasts, they withstood her clumsily cinching their girths and securing their bridles. Another lesson learnt from Evander. At least he had been good for something. Now, she remembered their time together with sinking embarrassment. Her eighteen-year-old self had thought the stable master’s apprentice handsome and knowledgeable, but in hindsight, he’d been nothing more than a narrow- minded prat. She still carried a piece of hurt with her, not hurt that it had ended, but that her dreams somehow made her a pariah: unwanted, ugly and ridiculous — ‘You’re awake.’ Hawthorne was striding towards her, one of his swords unsheathed in his hand. ‘Observant of you,’ Thea replied before nodding to his gleaming blade. ‘A little early to be slaying monsters, isn’t it?’ ‘I was training,’ he said, voice clipped. ‘A discipline you’re unfamiliar with.’ Thea finished attaching her saddlebags to her mare. ‘I train.’ ‘Fumbling in the Bloodwoods while you spy on the shieldbearers is hardly training.’ Thea whirled around. ‘I don’t fumble, and how do you know about that?’ ‘Not much goes on in the Bloodwoods that I don’t know about, Alchemist. Your pitiful excuse for a sparring session being the least of it.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’
‘Not worth my time.’ ‘But reporting me for my dagger was?’ The edge to his voice returned when he spoke again. ‘That was different. That dagger didn’t belong to you. You insult and risk all of Thezmarr by wielding it. Not to mention —’ ‘Who else saw me in the Bloodwoods?’ Thea asked, changing tact.
‘No one.’ Realisation dawned. ‘Then it was you… You shot the arrow at me!’ Hawthorne mounted his horse in one effortless motion. ‘Figured you needed a warning.’ Thea gaped at him, outraged. ‘You could have killed me.’ ‘Not with my aim,’ he said and started forward, his stallion’s tail swishing.
Thea scrambled to mount her mare, muscles protesting. ‘You’re unbelievable,’ she said to him when she caught up.
Hawthorne simply raised a brow at her. ‘You have no idea.’
