Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 58110 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58110 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
He frowns in my direction. "I'm sure you'd be more comfortable inside."
"I'm sure I wouldn't," I reiterate gently. A new fearful thought hits me—what if I go into my father's keep and he doesn't let me leave? There's no way I'm stepping foot in there. "My husband's men are out here, and I shall stay with them."
Sir Foyleton blusters on. "I'm sure you're all welcome inside—"
"No," I say firmly. "If my father wants to talk to me, he will need to come and greet me out here." Since my tone is sharp, I switch to a benign, vapid smile. "Which I'm sure he will want to do since he was terrified I was being held hostage. It's so strange, that. Why, if he was worried about such a thing, I question why he left me there before seeing to my marriage. Isn't that odd?"
He doesn't meet my eyes. Instead, he flags down a young boy. "You. Go and find Lord Purnav. Tell him that his daughter has returned."
"Visiting," I clarify. "I'm just visiting."
"Visiting," Sir Foyleton chokes out, agreeing.
Keeping the idiot smile on my face, I sit in the sunshine and gaze around me at the soldiers. I don't even know if they can be called soldiers. They don't have uniforms. Their tents are a sorry, muddy mess, and most of them don't seem to have armor. Is my father hiring everyone that shows up and can hold a sword? It makes me furiously angry, but I have to play this carefully. My horse prances in the rutted road, and I glance back at the men accompanying me. They might as well be stone for all the emotion they're showing. The hot sun bearing down doesn't bother them. The stares of the men on the side of the road leave them unfazed. Truly, does my father think he can win against Agakor? There's not a chance. No wonder my husband wasn't worried.
Even so, I don't like the thought of a fight breaking out over me. So I toss my braid back and glance over at Sir Foyleton, who still stands in the middle of the road, as if he's determined to supervise my appearance here. I keep my voice bright and cheery as I loudly ask, "Where have all these men come from?"
Sir Foyleton gives me a quelling look. He doesn't answer me.
That's all right. I don't need him to. I glance at one of my men behind me. One of the half-orcs—Throx—speaks up, cold and succinct. "Mercenaries."
"Mercenaries?" I echo, pretending to be surprised. "But how is that possible? Sir Foyleton, how is my father affording mercenaries? He doesn't have any coin."
Sir Foyleton's eyes bug and his face turns a dark shade of red. He rushes forward, trying to grab the reins of my horse. Alarmed, my mare prances, and there's a jingle of armor. The orc with me, a Broketusk warrior who only answers to "Red," snatches the reins of my mount away from my father's man-at-arms and glares at him. Foyleton retreats, and Red pats the nose of my mare, glancing up at me with a nod.
"Please don't touch my horse," I say sweetly to Sir Foyleton. "She's quite skittish. And you didn't say how my father afforded all these mercenaries when everyone knows he's quite poor. Do tell me. I'd love to know."
The knight doesn't answer. He continues to glare at us, waiting for my father's approach. It doesn't matter. I'm here to sow the seeds of doubt. I glance over at the encampments, and some of them are openly staring at me and my accompanying men. There are suspicious looks on their faces. If I can destroy the morale—or even peel some of the mercenaries away from my father's army—I'll consider my job here complete.
"Iolanthe!" My father's angry bellow strikes fear into my heart. For a moment, I'm a gangly young woman again, hunching her shoulders by the fire and trying not to be noticed as my father paces and screams at his steward for spending too much coin. I lift my chin, though my bravado is gone.
Father seems smaller to me today. His appearance hasn't changed, but when I compare him to the men at my back or my big, strong husband, my father seems puny and lacking. His beard is streaked with gray, and from atop my horse I can see the bald spot he tries to hide. His face looks lined and hard and unpleasant, and I wonder what my mother ever saw in him.
"What are you doing here?" he hisses as he approaches my horse.
Red puts a hand out to stop my father before he can march up to my mare and frighten her, and Father shoots a thunderous look in my direction. Inwardly, I cringe, though I do my best to regain the righteous indignation I had before. "I thought you'd be glad to see me," I call out loudly. "Since you're telling everyone that I was kidnapped. You know that's not true, Father. Everyone knows that you sold my hand in marriage to Agakor because he was wealthy and you had no funds to pay your knights."