Far From Home One: The Warlord's Chosen-- A M/M Fantasy Romance

2- The Loyalty of Servants

GEIR—

The beauty of the children of King Groban of El'kahr was spoken of as often as the greed and cruelty of that self-same king. We had all heard the stories, of his eldest daughter's harsh, almost cold beauty. Her hair black as the moonless night, her skin golden as the Goddess Ki, as if she had been born in the image of that great goddess. Of the second daughter's stunning hair, the color of pure darkness, and her laughter like an angelic choir.

And of his son's beauty that rivaled that of both of his sisters, his gentle nature, and his genius that may have turned the tide of our war on them. If he had stepped even one spoiled foot out of the turrets of his father's castle. But to our luck, and El'kahr's detriment, he had stayed hidden and safe, a cowardly move, and we had prevailed almost too easily.

Blessed by the gods, the siblings were said to be.

It was too bad their father couldn't keep his damn hands to himself.

He had greedily stretched his claws into the lands of my ancestors, envious of our riches he claimed we deserved not. And the Council of Akar, the eight Tribal Chiefs of my home land, had sent me, their avenging devil, to bring hell down on the King of Greed. To end his lust for our lands, our riches, our people, whom he like to call slaves.

The Chiefs had chosen me for my experience in war and bloodshed. For at thirty-nine summers I was one of the remaining survivors of the Wendrent War, that had almost decimated our tribes. But we had held strong, and that war had shot me up in ranks until I was now Chief Warlord of Akar.

As I had been tasked, so I did. Bring an end to King Groban's greed I had. In a campaign of slaughter that had lasted only fourteen months, I had pillaged and destroyed my way through El'kahr until I received a message of surrender, and an invitation to peace talks with Groban.

How I was looking forward to him groveling at my feet. One of my old comrades from back when I was still only a warrior-in-training had been in one of the villages hit during one of Groban's sanctioned attacks. His body had been found surrounded by dozens of dead El'kahrians. He had died in honor, a warrior's death.

I mourned him greatly.

We could hear the shout go up as we reached the gates of Veil Castle, the city surrounding it being the capital of El'kahr, and they were opened with brisk efficiency. We were soon surrounded by the hardened, cold eyes of the occupants of the king's castle.

I motioned for Briggs, my first commander and closest friend, to keep an eye out. It wouldn't do for us to get this far only to fall to a poorly thought-out trap.

Even if we fell, there were thousands of my men that would descend on this brick and stone monstrosity before the sun fully set against the mountain that backed the castle.

However, the crowd never made a noise, never tried for violence. They only watched us with disgust and barely concealed loathing. I knew the stories that had flown before us. Of my defiling the bodies of the dead. Commanding armies of the undead. Eating the corpses that littered the battlefields, and drinking the blood down like water.

Nonsense, of course. But I never truly denied the stories, and sometimes even purposely perpetuated them.

How many times had we managed to bring a city or town to its knees only by the rumors and horror stories that had traveled before us? We preserved more lives with those silly rumors than I could hardly count.