Deathsworn (Wattys 2018 Winner)

12 - The Day of Execution

The dawn rays formed a shimmering bond with the ice-white hair.

I'm alive. Bard hadn't been entirely sure he would wake and so had planned not to risk sleeping at all. Orel Orldotter hadn't given him a choice in the matter.

She had silenced Bard with a kiss when he'd tried to beg a question at the door, then robbed him of any remaining energy soon after. He would have been perfectly fine with it all, of course, had it not complicated matters further. She thinks she's bedded a Green Country lord, not an imposter who means to murder her brother.

Her scent permeated his thoughts and made the formation of a stringent plan impossible. Bard shifted his arm and Orel turned to face him, a softness to those salt-sea eyes that promised to blunt the sharpest axe. He felt rigid as a board. He found he didn't care.

'Good morning, Lord Eran.'

'Good morning, my lady. Did you sleep well?'

She spoke with her head on his bare chest, 'I'm still here, aren't I?'

'That you are. When shall you return to your chambers? If your father-'

'Do you spend all your days worrying, Lord Eran? Or just the ones with me?'

Bard noticed the mischief in her tone and realised it was futile to try and subtlety push her in any direction. She was a Mountainwoman, born and raised. What's more, she had a unique stubbornness to her that made Bodkin appear easily-swayed.

'I'm sorry, my lady, I only meant that I do not wish to insult Orl Ejjar. I would hate to return to Oakhold with him thinking ill of me.'

Orel giggled. 'I wouldn't worry about that too much. He likes you, Bard.'

'He does?'

'You would know if he didn't, believe me. When my sister, Oyvaa, first brought a suitor into the castle, father put salt in his ale and fed him goats arse instead of beef. With Ola, he nicknamed her husband 'Green Pup' and tried to make him sleep in the kennels with the bitches. He invited you to stay in his keep for the rest of his tourney. He likes you.'

'I shall be sad to leave ...' Bard heard himself saying. He cursed the Elders for his impossible predicament.

'Maybe you don't have to,' Orel replied, her fingers slipping beneath the furs.

Bard lurched upwards as she groped, 'W-What?'

'You could stay here, at Hammar, for the thick of winter? Your men could stay too, I'm sure. We could do with another master-at-arms, I'm convinced Torf mistreats Ulf and the others when my father isn't looking. Your Islander is the biggest man I've ever seen, he could teach my little brother the sword.'

He could teach him a few things. The sword doesn't come into it though. Bard ran a hand through Orel's hair and smiled sadly. 'Would that we could stay, my lady, but we cannot. Perhaps one day I will return.' The words forced their way through his teeth like a shovel through baked earth, but he would not give her false hope. I will win her favour, use her to get into the castle and lay with her, but I will not make promises I cannot keep. The hero I am.

'Perhaps one day you will. Perhaps you will return to find me wed.' Orel spoke lightly, but Bard knew enough about women to prick his thumbs on the hidden thorns of her words.

'It is not so simple as you think, Orel. There is much to consider.'

And there was. Part of Bard wondered if they couldn't take Orel up on her offer and remain at Hammar after the end of the tourney. That would give them more time with which to kill Erikk ... No, when the tourney ends we lose our cover. All it takes is one unanswerable question, one slip-up from Weasel or Toyne, one person who sees through the bluff and realises we're not who we say we are. It's a wonder it hasn't happened already. Too much to consider ...