Chapter 21

A/N: As usual I apologize for the delay in updates. This chapter is more-so a filler but still, I truly hope you enjoy :)

A low bellow from a horn rouses me the following morning, pulling me from sleep. I feel Claire's body shift beneath me as she too is awakened. It's a familiar noise, one I've heard many times over my life in the military. My mind is foggy and a dull headache has found its way into my brain—compliments of the ale and shed tears the night before. It takes the horn sounding a second time for the meaning to register.

My eyes open and I sit up, cursing under my breath. Claire lazily pushes herself up on her elbows as I fumble with my boots. Dawn has arrived, casting a dim light in the tent. "What is it?" she asks in a soft, tired voice.

I give my head a rapid shake, not having the time to explain. The horn sounds a third time and I've yet to even lace up a single boot. Grunting, I toss it off and decide to go barefoot. Turning to Claire—whose hair is a tousled mess from sleep—I place a kiss on her forehead and sprint out of the tent. As I make my way towards the tree line where I believe the horn was originally blown, I see other men have found themselves in the same predicament as I have: some stumble out of their lodgings half-dressed while others seem to search where they had last placed their weapons. Not knowing where my own sword lies, I pick up the nearest one I see resting against a barrel and continue running towards the forest, almost crashing into Morgan. He catches me by the forearm and pulls me to a halt.

"We aren't being raided," he says just as the fourth and final blow sounds. It's then I noticed that he isn't wearing his eye patch, leaving his marred scars on display. Markings from a courtesan's bites are scattered on his neck as well.

"Still, a Bulgin has been sighted have they not?" I ask, pulling my arm from his grasp. "Come," I demand, though I am no longer sprinting. Together we reach the end of the woods and I see Warren leading the search party on horseback—the ram's horn still in hand. A large portion of my men have gathered around forming a semicircle and I have to weave my way through to get to the opening in the center.

Warren and the other men dismount and close the distance between us. Peering around Warren's slender shoulders I see that on the back of one of the horses is a dark skinned man hogtied and gagged. His chin is split open and blood still trickles from the wound. Our eyes make contact and I look away, focusing on Warren. I raise a silent brow, asking him to speak.

"We found where Rory made camp—if you can call it that anyways. He made a fire and fell asleep when a group of scouts came across him in the night. It appears there was a struggle, a good one at that. There was some dried blood but we couldn't tell whose. We assumed they got the upper hand and took him and when we came across this one headed back he confirmed our suspicions," he says, gesturing to the man on the horse behind him with his thumb.

"Is that all?" I ask steadily.

He gives a brief nod. "When we told him who Rory was, he said he would only talk to you."

Biting the inside of my lip, I clap him on the shoulder. "Thank you, friend," I say before turning around to the others. "I want twice as many men on shift on watch," I announce in a loud and clear tone. "No more ale, no more courtesans, no more anything until this war is over—understood?" They all stand a little straighter and offer nods though I do see a young man up front who rolls his eyes, clearly unhappy with my orders. Pressing my lips together, I walk over to him and get satisfaction as he immediately becomes nervous. He has medium length blonde hair that is pulled back into a low bun and stands a few inches shorter than myself. His face is somewhat recognizable, though his name escapes my mind which is expected given the thousands of men that fall under me.

"What's your name?" I ask evenly.

"Brandon, your grace," he answers quickly.

"Brandon," I repeat. "Do you have an issue with my orders?"

His dark eyes grow wide and he shakes his head. "N-no! Not at all your grace."

Pursing my lips, I give him a smirk. "Really? Because a moment ago I could have sworn I saw a look on your face that would disagree." He goes to give me whatever excuse he can come up with, but I raise a hand. "What are your duties here at camp, Brandon?"

He looks to the right at his friend before fixing his gaze back to me, slightly confused. "I'm one of the stable hands, sir." His face flushes and he looks down at my bare feet.

I contemplate for a brief moment if I want him to switch with one of the dishwashers, but I decide against it. Perhaps this little bit of public embarrassment was enough for the lad. Turning on my heel, I give a nod at Warren. "Bring the captive to the meeting quarters for questioning," I demand. Not waiting for a response, I begin to make my way through the crowd who parts for me before they all begin to disband themselves, each headed towards their daily tasks.

As I walk back to the tent, my thoughts go to my brother as I wonder if he is safe. Surely he must be? Only a fool would bring harm to someone of royal blood, especially the brother of the general who is leading the war. Nonetheless, this action of theirs has undoubtedly expedited the efforts that's for sure. It's only a matter of a few days at this point that we will meet on the battlefield.

Nearing the general area of my lodgings, I see that the women—both the nuns and courtesans—have gathered near the dining area, their exchange sounding more like an argument. Not having time to deal with women's plights, I'm about to ignore the matter until I see Claire standing in the middle, her arms wrapped protectively around Beth Ann. Her features are buried from view in Claire's shoulder, clearly distraught. Sighing, I head in their direction to squash whatever squabble they are having.

Drawing nearer I realize that Helen—one of their leaders who is middle-aged and has graying hair—points accusingly at Claire and is flanked by Nadine and Anya. Frowning, my pace quickens. Darla steps forward and slaps Helen's hand away from Claire.

"Don't you speak to her like that!" I hear Darla shout when I'm in earshot. "She doesn't owe you a single shilling—none of us do!"

Helen's mouth drops open and in one swift motion slaps Darla hard across the face who immediately cusps her cheek in pain. "You lay another hand on me and I'll have it cut off with a dull knife, you senseless girl!" she screams. I watch Claire release Beth Ann and step forward before shoving Helen with all her might. She crashes backwards and is caught by a courtesan whose name I do not care to know. Anya's eyes narrow and she's about to swing on Claire when she notices me as I walk up.

"Are you alright?" I ask Claire before looking to Darla. They both give me a nod but I take a moment to examine Darla's face anyways, gently taking it in my hand. Not seeing anything serious, I turn around and feel my eyes tighten at Helen. "You better have a good explanation as to why you have not only verbally assaulted my guests, but physically as well," I demand in a dark tone.

Helen smooths the wrinkles from her skirt before giving a huff. "Your guests owe me and my girl's coin. I want what's mine Thomas," she says curtly.

I give my head a shake, confused. "You're going to have to explain. They don't gamble, nor drink, nor borrow what they don't already have so I cannot fathom a situation where they have come to owe you anything, much less money," I state, growing annoyed.

Helen scowls. "Do not think we failed to notice that more than a few of your men were occupied with them—yourself included," she sneers.

Clenching my jaw, I take a step forward. "It's no business of yours who we spend our time with. And I can assure you that none of my men laid a finger on these women last night given they are women of the cloth," I say. I do not doubt that some of my soldiers might have had a few ales while chatting away with them, but that is solely because they have grown to appreciate the nuns and have befriended them—nothing more.

She rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to spout something else out but I raise a hand, quickly putting an end to it. "I've had enough of your squawking. Go see Morgan to make sure you and your girls are paid for what they earned, then leave our camp immediately." I can see she still disagrees but she says nothing, only giving me a curt nod before telling her girls to wait for her by their wagon.

Exhaling slowly, I turn to face the nuns and rub the back of my neck. "I apologize about that," I say to all of them, my gaze landing on Claire's.

Darla gives a shrug of her shoulders. "I'm just glad they'll be gone. They weren't very kind to us last night either," she mentions.

"Are you sure you're alright?" I ask her, eying her swollen cheek.

She flashes a smile, her brilliant white teeth contrasting against her dark skin. "I am, thank you Thomas. Nothing more than hurt feelings really," she says. At this I raise a questioning brow. Darla sighs and glances at Beth Ann, debating on if she should repeat whatever was said. I look at Beth Ann for the first time and notice that her eyes are red and puffy, making it quite obvious that she had been crying before my intervention.

Claire gives a caring squeeze of Beth Ann's hand and a reassuring nod. Beth Ann sniffles and wipes an eye with the back of her hand. "That girl Anya was upset after you left last night," she begins. "She came up to Nikolas and Max who were comforting me...trying to take my mind off of Rory and such. She tried to get either one of them to go with her and they both said no so she turned to me and sa-" she says, but her voice hitches in her throat. "She said that the reason Rory left was because he couldn't stand to be around me anymore or see my horrid face."

I feel the corners of my mouth draw down at this, wishing I had known that while the courtesans were still standing around. "Beth Ann I can assure you that there are no truth to her words. Rory isn't good at handling strong emotions–I'm sure that you have gotten to know that about him?" I ask rhetorically.

She gives a small nod. "Is there news of him? I figured with the commotion earlier and all..." she trails.

Oh, right.

Letting out a slow exhale, I run a hand through my hair. "Yeah actually. He was Warren and the others came across his camp in the forest. It appears that he was taken by a group of Bulgin scouts. We have a prisoner for questioning," I reply, and watch as Beth Ann's face shifts to a look of horror.

"Taken?!" she exclaims, fresh tears sliding down her face. She then buries herself in the crook of Claire's shoulder again, her body shaking as she cries.

Claire rests her cheek on the top of Beth Ann's blond head and offers comforting words. Even in such circumstances, I find seeing Claire being so nurturing to her friend rather beautiful as it reflects the type of person she is. "Will he be alright, you think?" she asks, looking up at me.

I give a reassuring nod. "They'd be fools if he wasn't."

Darla gives a shake of her head and heads off to begin preparing breakfast. Alma takes Beth Ann by the hand, telling her that it's best to keep busy and the rest of the women follow, leaving just Claire and myself alone on the dirt path.

"Will you be okay today?" she asks me.

I give a shrug but nod. "Have to be," I say. "I admit you surprised me, shoving that woman I mean. I didn't think you had a mean bone in your body," I say, changing the subject. In truth, I found it to be rather attractive–standing up for herself and the others. Claire has proven to be quite something over the time I've gotten to know her. She has a gentle and kindhearted soul but is brave when she needs to be.

Claire blushes and she bites her lower lip before looking up at me with her azure eyes. "I know we aren;t supposed to be violent but didn't appreciate her striking Darla, or threatening her any further for that matter," she explains.

I offer a small smile and take her by the hand. "You did the right thing, love." I run my thumb over the soft skin of her hand, taking notice of the blue veins that lie underneath her pale skin. Raising it to my lips, I place a kiss on it before releasing her hand. "Before I get too busy today, I want to thank you for being there for me last night."

She shakes her head earnestly. "You don't have to thank me for that Thomas. It's the least I could do," she replies. "Really though, will you be okay today?"

Pursing my lips, I raise a shoulder. "Yes–I have to be for not just myself but my men as well." If their leader–their king–were to crumble under the weight of the last 24 hours, it's safe to say that the possibility of losing the war would be high. Morale can make all the difference on the battlefield.

She nods and then turns to join the others to begin breakfast. I watch her as she walks away, appreciating her beauty both inside and out. The past 24 hours has not only brought me grief, but a new appreciation for the red headed nun as well.

Returning to Claire's tent, I grab my boots and make my way to the river and bathe. Typically I joke around with the men who share the cool water with me, but this morning I kept to myself, only asking to borrow soap when I realized that I failed to bring any. After I'm washed I make my way back to my quarters and change into a fresh set of clothes. I decide to give myself a shave in the wash bowl, tired of the dark stubble. Satisfied, I grab my small blade and fasten it to my belt loop--unsure if I'll need it later when I'm questioning the prisoner. I have no intentions on hurting the man, but if something were to happen I figure it's a good idea to have it.

Stepping back outside, I spot dark clouds in the distance and curse at the promise of rain. Making the short walk to the medical tent, I greet Noah who acts as one of the lead doctors.

"Morning, Tom," he greets, looking up from his mortar and pestle. He's a tall gangly man in his late thirties that I've known for years. Though he's shite with a sword, I personally asked him to accompany us for this war, taking him from his quarters in the palace. He's got a steady hand and his knowledge in healing knows no bounds. I've seen him save many lives when most of us believed that his patient was beyond salvaging.

I wrinkle my nose, glancing at the green past he mashes in his mortar. Whatever he's making is foul, smelling of bile. "What are you working on?" I ask curious.

He gives a chuckle and sits his concoction down on the wooden table. "A mixture of mold, sugar, and other herbs. I believe it will have sanitizing properties," he answers. I give a nod, confused how such ingredients could do such a think. "What can I do for you?" he inquires. A breeze blows from the brewing storm causing his collection of herbs that hang from the ceiling to sway.

"Just something to fix a split lip," I answer, the face of the prisoner coming to mind. Perhaps the best strategy to get information is to be kind.

Noah gives me a concerned look, obviously knowing which patient I must be referring to. He values the wellbeing of others and will often put another's life before his own, but he draws the line at helping anyone he deems as an enemy. I've seen him walk over dying men on the battlefield that only wished for final sip of ale in order to give our own soldiers a swig who were simply parched and needed water. Still, he turns and rummages through a large leather bag and passes me a small bottle of spirits and clean cloths. "Not much we can do for a split lip but this will certainly help it heal," he says to me.

I give him a grateful though lazy smile. "I appreciate it," I say, taking the items.

He gives a shrug and frowns. "Can't say Rory is being treated with as much courtesy," he grumbles.

"One could hope Noah," he reply, exiting the open tent. I then head to breakfast, stopping briefly enough to grab two servings and make my way to where the prisoner is being held. As I draw near, I see he is being guarded by Gale and Sven, both hands rest on the hilts of their blades. They offer me a nod, stealing a glance at the items I carefully balance in hand. Gale grabs the heavy canvas flap and I duck inside, letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

When they do, I see that the dark skinned man sits against the main support pole, his arms fasted behind him while his ankles are shackled together. He's been gagged, so when he tries to say something to me it comes out as a mush of sounds.

I say nothing and walk over to our large table where our meetings are held, relieved that someone had enough brains to clear it off so they wouldn't give the prisoner any tips if he were to escape. Sitting the items down, I walk over to the man and cross my arms over my chest staring down at him. His gaze never breaks from mine.

"Hungry?" I finally say. He gives a slow nod.

"I brought you breakfast and something for that lip. Sorry to say but I don't trust you enough to unbind you so I'll have to feed you myself. That alright?" I ask. He nods again. Turning on my heel, I grab two wooden chairs and carry them over to him, helping him get to his feet before allowing him to sit down. I then retrieve the food and bandages before sitting across from him, balancing everything on my lap. Leaning forward, my fingers work on his gag as I untie the knot behind his neck. When it's off completely, he licks his lips and gives a small cough.

"Thank you," he says in a deep, husky voice. Picking up a bowl, I quickly slurp down it's contents without giving it a glance, though my tastebuds tell me it's a mixture of watered oats. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I sit the bowl down on the ground and look up at the man. "Would you rather eat first or have me tend to your lip."

"Eat," he replies curtly.

Giving a nod, I grab the remaining bowl and scoot forward, holding it out to his face. He looks at me skeptically and I roll my eyes. "If I wanted to kill you I would have done it earlier," I state.

His dark eyes examine the plain looking meal before he slowly begins to drain the bowls contents anyways. When he's done, he licks a single dribble away. "Tastes like shite," he grumbles and i can't help but to let out a genuine chuckle.

"Yeah well, this is a war camp not a palace kitchen," I say, still grinning. "You can't sit there and tell me that your lot is eating a full spread for breakfast can you?"

He gives a smirk. "No, guess I can't."

Putting his bowl within my own, I grab the bottle of alcohol and dab it with a strip of cloth before leaning closer to examine his cut. Stitches are not needed but it will still take few weeks to heal on it's own. Without a word, I gently press it on the wound, causing him to jerk his head backwards. Shooting him a look, he lets out a sigh and allows me to tend to him. After I've done what I could I return everything back to the table before and take my seat once more making sure to scoot it backwards a few inches.

"What's your name?" I inquire, figuring it's the best place to start as any.

He purses his mouth for a moment before answering. "Shadrach. Most call me Shad though."

"Shadrach," I repeat, finding the name quite foreign. "Why did you say that you would only talk to me?" I ask, curiously.

His brawny shoulders raise in a shrug. "Figured you should be the first to hear about what we did to your brother."

My eyes tighten and I fold my arms across my chest, growing worried for Rory. "Go on then."

Swallowing, he shifts in his chair making himself more comfortable. "What you man said--Warren I believe--is true. A group of us were in the are and came across your brother Rory while he slept in the night. We assumed he was apart of your camp, perhaps someone who was recently banished" he says, shrugging. "We were going to kill him with Zoltan said he recognized him as one of the princes so we took him captive. I volunteered to stick around to still scout when your men came across me after a while."

"Hm," I hum, imagining the events in my mind. "How many were you?"

Shadrach pauses before answering. "Eight," he grunts.

Rory is an excellent fighter--especially in hand to hand combat--but still, he's no match for eight men. Noting his annoyance, I decide to pry. "He hurt one of you badly, didn't he. Perhaps even killed?"

Shadrach rolls his eyes, looking away from me. "First he made sure to gouge Rikon's eyes out with his bare hands before taking a chunk out of Zoltans thigh with his teeth after he was bound. Damn shame about Rikon though," he answers.

I do not attempt to hide my smile, proud to hear that Rory wasn't captured so easily. "So what else can you tell me? Where is he held? What is your leader Lugo's plans?"

Shadrach scoffs. "I am just a foot soldier by day and a scout by night, why do you think I know of such plans?"

Pursing my lips, I sit back. Have to agree with him there.

"Do you have siblings?" I ask politely. "A brother, perhaps?"

He gives a shake of his head. "Only a sister, a twin. Shae," he replies curiously.

"And you care for her," I state rhetorically.

Shadrach gives a curt nod. "Aye. I'd give my life for her without a second thought."

Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees and look him in his round dark eyes. "So what would you do in my shoes?"

He thinks this over for a while before answering. "I really couldn't say."

Folding my arms, I sit in silence as I try and come up with a plan when an old story my father told me about comes to mind. I could sit around and draw out this war with my brother still in captivity. Win or lose, I'm sure a Bulgin will take his life at the conclusion for good measure. Or, I could visit the Bulgin camp myself and see what will come of it.

Giving myself a nod, I make a decision. Standing up, I clap Shadrach on the shoulder. "You're free to leave. Thank you for not being such a difficult prisoner," I say with a smirk.

He blinks at me, confusion plastered across his face. "What?"

I walk over to the empty bowls and begin to collect them along with the medical supplies. "I've no use for you, really. You don't have any real information to give me and I'd get no pleasure from torturing you," I answer.

"But I'd be one less foe on the battlefield," he says, still taken aback.

"Let's hope we don't come across each other then when the time comes to it," I say, walking over to the heavy canvas flaps before holding one open for him. He looks at me long and hard for a moment before finally standing up. He slowly walks over to the exit and as he's about to leave he turns to me.

"All I know is that the have a few old iron cells in Lugo's quarters. Perhaps your brother is in there," he says. I give him a thankful nod and together we make our way through camp, earning many wary stares. When I see young Max, I call him over and order to escort Shadrach to the edge of the forest. Max looks at me wide-eyed for a moment then turns, sizing up the Bulgin who is almost twice his size. Unnerved, he gives me a bow then motions for Shadrach to follow. Before he does, he gives me one last glance before turning on his heel to the woods. Sighing, I decide that I need to find Morgan and the other generals of my army to let them know of my plan.