Warrick the Chained
Torrath
“Will you accept the honor of my hand?”
Marry this prideful, haggard monstrosity? If Warrick’s joy at seeing the Stars of Anhera on her fingers had not already bled into fury, he would have laughed in her golden horror of a face.
Best that he did not. Laughing before the queen’s man could translate her proposal would reveal that Warrick understood her northern tongue as well as the eastern tongue—just as he perfectly understood the warden’s southern tongue.
He hardly listened as the serjeant began relaying the proposal. Marry her? No. He would kill this gilded monstrosity for what she’d done to the people of Galoth when she’d stolen Anhera’s jewels.
Though killing her would not be easy. Not while she wore those rings. And they could not be taken from her. She had to remove them willingly.
But the monstrosity might remove them for a man she meant to marry.
“Why marry a convicted thief?” he asked when the serjeant had finished the recitation. “Your queen cannot even tolerate the smell of me.”
Only with effort did Warrick keep the sneer from his expression. She’d removed the gold silk from her face long enough to propose. Now she breathed the perfume again, her every inhalation a grotesque, wet gulping.
“He asks why you chose him,” said Iarthil in the northern tongue—which the warden spoke not a word of. With grim amusement, Warrick watched confusion overtake the warden’s fool face, yet the man did not interrupt. Instead he stared at the golden monstrosity with a deference bordering on awe.
A goddess, the warden had called her. Was that what she believed herself now, wearing a true goddess’s rings? If so, she was a goddess of sickness and death and greed. Exactly the sort the warden would worship.
Her response was muffled by the silk kerchief held between her bejeweled fingers. “Tell him of the witch’s prophecy. Tell him we seek a barbarian in chains so that his axe might fell my uncle.” Her voice quavered slightly. “But do not say how we will know whether he is the right warrior.”
Prophecy? Not one spoken by a true witch of the Dead Lands, that was certain. No one from that realm would ever use magic for so frivolous a reason as fortune-telling.
“She requires a warrior from the Dead Lands to remove the usurper on the Aleronian throne,” Iarthil told him. “Her kingdom lies north of the Glass Mountains and is home to riches that most cannot even dream of. You would be well rewarded for your acceptance of her proposal.”
Warrick’s eyes narrowed. “If she owns such wealth, then she only need hire a warrior. Not marry one.”
Iarthil hesitated before saying, “The queen has not long to live. In the eyes of Aleron, a widowed king consort who secures his queen’s throne to fulfill a vow will be celebrated. Whereas a mercenary warrior who slays the usurper will be called an assassin.”
Not long to live. That was certain.
Yet now Warrick looked at her more closely. She was of advanced years—of that there could be no doubt. Though she’d attempted to conceal her age with a gold mask, the paint had settled into every wrinkle and crease in her skin.
And her eyes. He couldn’t make out their true color in the dim light, yet their watery paleness suggested her sight was clouded by cataracts and time, with a pinched tightness at the corners that said she rarely appreciated the sight of anything she looked upon.
Those were unmistakably the eyes of a bitter old woman.
Which likely explained why, ten years past, she’d stolen Anhera’s jewels. Feeling her age, hoping for immortality, uncaring of anyone else. Mayhaps the goddess’s stars had given her strength. But if she was nearing death after only a decade, they’d not given her enough.
To tack a scant few years onto the tail of a selfish life, she’d cursed an entire kingdom.
Yet apparently her greed had no limits, for even at the end of her life, she wanted to claim a throne. And use Warrick to do it.
Mayhaps she wished to use him for more than that. Disgust shriveled his balls when he witnessed the lewd crawl of her rheumy gaze from his chest to his thighs.
But that interest could be used against her.
Suddenly Warrick knew exactly how he might relieve her of the jewels. “Is your queen still a virgin?”
Offense stiffened the serjeant’s expression. His outraged glare was his only answer.
“If she is, know that she will not be after we wed. I will not take a wife that I cannot fuck.”
A muscle in the serjeant’s jaw twitched. Again, he did not respond.
The monstrosity did. “What does he ask?”
Face rigid, Iarthil struggled for a moment, as if searching for the proper words. “He asks if you are untouched, my queen. He wishes for a true marriage.”
Her gaze flew to Warrick’s. He could not mistake the revolting eagerness that sparked in her eyes. “Assure him that I am a maiden and that he may share my bed.”
“I will share her bed beginning this night,” said Warrick when her response was relayed.
Without consulting his queen, Iarthil shook his head. “You will not be wed yet. Not for five days hence.”
“Then I will not fuck her until we are married. But I will share her bed.”
“You will not. The Radiant Queen is only to be touched within the bonds of marriage.” Abruptly the serjeant’s rigid control snapped and he spat, “Have you no respect, warrior? If you wish for a whore to use, reject my queen’s proposal and I will see that the warden sends one to you.”
“Serjeant?” Though her voice rose nasally, as if she pressed the silk harder to her nose, with that single word she demanded to know what was being said.
Bright pink overspreading his face, the man closed his eyes and drew a deep breath before turning to her. “He wishes to sleep at your side, Your Highness. Beginning this night.”
“He knows that I must be a maiden at my wedding?” The query was followed by another wet gulping.
“He does.”
“Then he may.”
Fiery satisfaction rolled through Warrick’s veins. “I will wed her, then.”
Chin high, she gave a single, regal nod after Serjeant Iarthil translated Warrick’s acceptance. Then she turned and retched, spitting out a thin and stringy mess onto the stone floor.
“Her chair!” Iarthil barked, catching her crown as it toppled from her head.
The porters rushed forward with her litter, followed by a stout, gray-haired woman who fluttered like a ruffled hen around the heaving queen. The gilded monstrosity wiped her mouth and clambered shakily into her chair. Quickly the fluttering hen drew the curtains closed but could not shut out the sound of the queen’s gagging and gasping for breath.
“Escort the queen outside and into the fresh air, Nurse Chardryn. I’ll finish here.” With the crown tucked against his side, Serjeant Iarthil waited until the gaggle of attendants had disappeared into the passageway before turning back to Warrick. “I suggest that you bathe before you come to her.”
Warrick would more likely need to bathe after. His own stomach heaved at the thought of touching her. Her age was no impediment. But he had hoped to at least respect the woman he finally bedded.
Yet too much was at stake to let his revulsion show. He could not risk losing the jewels. And he need not fully fuck her. Only make her crave his cock so badly, she would make herself vulnerable.