Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(110)

Finally alone, with only the grass and the skies for company, he looked south.

Wild Winds sat astride a horse, waiting on a far rise. He turned his mount and headed toward the Heart.

Joden followed.





Chapter Thirty-Eight


Marcus awoke in an instant.

His training kept him still and silent, with no change to his breathing. His eyes closed, his other senses provided the information he sought.

He was bound, spread-eagle, but not painfully so. There was a pallet under him, the scent of crushed grass in the air. His jaw throbbed with his pulse.

No sounds of warriors, or horses, no smell of a fire.

He was still armored, not stripped. No sense of the sun, but there was light on his eyelids, so— “I know you are awake,” came a dear, longed-for voice.

His eyes snapped open, taking in the tent above him, the sides all rolled up. The sun was waning but not yet set, and beside him, beside him— Liam of the Deer sat crossed legged by Marcus’s feet, two daggers in the grass next to him.

“Marcus,” Liam’s voice and face were stone-cold, but so precious. Marcus looked his fill for a long, sweet moment. Still so handsome, but with new crinkles in the corner of his eyes, and some grey in that long flowing hair. His chest still just as gorgeous, his belly still as taut. A hunger flooded through Marcus, but then steel entered his soul.

Marcus narrowed his eyes and growled, “I told you that if you—”

“Yes,” Liam sighed. “You would take yourself off to the snows. And I will follow behind.”

“What?” Marcus tried his bonds, but the leather straps held his wrists tight. “What do you mean?”

Marcus’s eye widened, taking in the fact that Liam was dressed only in thin white trous.

He glanced around, seeing only grass in every direction.

“Do you remember,” Liam asked. “When you were injured? Burned so horribly that none thought you would live? Keir of the Cat saved you then, his caring and your sheer stubbornness.”

Liam’s eye drilled into his, the bond weaving glittering in his ear. Marcus could not look away from the pain in those eyes.

“Keir brought you back to me,” Liam continued. “I had understood, when you said you would serve him, I had understood when we separated so that you might serve. One last campaign, you said.” Liam drew a deep breath. “Keir brought you to me, and I welcomed you in, and you rejected me. Rejected our bond.”

“To protect you,” Marcus whispered.

“I did not seek protection when we bonded,” Liam said. “I sought forever. I thought we’d found it.”

Marcus looked away. “You had honor and status within the People, and were overdue to take your place on the Council. I did not know if I would survive, and I could not let you throw it away. The fire burned my ear away, and with it, our bond.”

“You never gave me a choice,” Liam snapped. “Never asked. Never listened to one who deserved your first thoughts.”

Marcus snarled, tugging at the bonds. “You wouldn’t have listened.”

“You never gave me the chance,” Liam snarled right back. “So I stayed as a Warlord, offered support to Keir, hungered after any mention of you, even—” Liam snorted. “Even courted the Warprize so that I could learn more.”

Marcus turned his head. Strong fingers brought his head back around as Liam leaned in.

“So I have claimed my prize,” Liam whispered. “You, beloved.”

Marcus jerked his chin up, away from Liam’s touch. “No,” he said. “I told you—”

“I know,” Liam’s voice was in his ear.

Marcus turned his head back, and Liam was there, ready. His lips were dry and soft and the kiss was agony. Marcus closed his eyes and returned it eagerly, like a man drinking from a dry well. Tears streamed down his cheek, and whether they were his or Liam’s didn’t matter so much as the love that— Liam broke the kiss and cut his bonds.

Marcus blinked at the loss of Liam’s mouth and the sudden freedom of his hands. Liam placed a dagger at Marcus’s side, and then rose to move to his feet, sitting with his back to Marcus.

Marcus stared at his love, outlined by the setting sun.

“If you choose the snows,” Liam’s voice shook. “I will follow. I will not look on you again. The smell of your blood will tell me your choice.”

Marcus sat up, took up the dagger. It felt cold in his hand, the blade sharp. He leaned down, and cut his feet free. “I could leave,” he growled. “Return to the Warlord and the Warprize.”

“Yes,” Liam nodded, not turning his head. “So be it.”

Marcus stood, hesitating. “What will you do?”

“I will go to the snows,” Liam said.

“No,” Marcus growled. “You are needed. Hisself needs you to—”

“No,” Liam said. “If our bonding ended in fire, if you are no longer who you were, I should have done it long ago.” Liam’s back was straight and rigid. “At least I had hope before. If you leave, I have none.”

“You stubborn, stupid man,” Marcus shouted, his hands shaking. “I should kill you now.”

“You already did that,” Liam said. “When you rejected me.”