Tales of the Vangen: The Dead King of Danic (Book 3)

Chapter 9: Cold Hearts

Whenever Fenris felt his facade begin to crack, he sparred in the training hall. He was alone this time, his only companion a straw dummy in the center of the room. It was quiet save for the gentle tapping of well placed steps, the hiss of good leather against strong wood. He held a practice sword with both hands, the tip pointed skyward as he advanced towards the dummy, his thoughts solely focused on the task at hand.

To kill.

He leapt, swinging the sword tip down in a surprising thrust, ramming it in the dummies head. Ramming it into Corvere's head, he thought with relish. He pulled back, imagining he'd been parried instead, turning in a pirouette that sent the sword chopping down in an arc.

Another heavy thump, another firm riposte, and the dummy careened sideways, the metal rod of its spine beaten and bent from prior sparrings. Fenris wouldn't relent. He chopped the opposite way, cutting into the guts, canvas skin aching to burst.

Not enough. It was not enough, he realized. The practice dummy he'd dueled a thousand times before swayed back to its original position, unbowed by his onslaught. Even worse, it appeared to have taken on Corvere's swagger, taunting him. "Still weak," it hissed in his ears. "Still never enough."

Fenris roared, pouring all of his frustration into the next swing, bringing it down like a thunderclap into the dummies neck. It's head snapped back, cloth ripping as it came free, thudding into a shadowy corner.

He shuddered in an aching breath, sweat dripping off his bare chest as he glowered at his kill. The dummy stood headless now, straw poking out from the stump in its neck. And yet it still bore the same, mocking swagger.

Not enough. Never enough.

"Fark," he snarled, throwing his sword down in a skittering clatter.

"I don't think I've ever seen you this angry," a voice called out.

Fenris turned, heart racing, worried it was the same man he'd imagined killing earlier. The throbbing ache in his guts settled as he realized who it was.

"Darendel," he breathed. The man swept into the training hall with all the grace of a snow feathered swan. His eternally tired gaze met Fenris over a row of shiny, perfect teeth, his beautiful long neck joined together by a set of strong, corded shoulders.

"Don't act surprised. You are the one who asked me to meet you here." Darendel paused to stare at him, looking very pleased all the while. "If you're trying to seduce me, Fenris, I dare say it's working. I do love a man when he's sweaty and bare chested."

For a moment Fenris wanted nothing more than to embrace Darendel, to breathe in his fresh flower scent and believe everything would be fine. But life was hard in the frozen north. You had to be hard to survive, and being hard meant facing facts. No matter how much it would hurt.

"Darendel," Fenris said again, smothering the love he had for the man from his tone. "We need to talk."

"But talking is so boring," the man cooed. "I prefer using my mouth for other things. Like what yours did to me the last time we met for example. I have to say, you were simply amazing."

"Corvere knows about us." Fenris stood there in ragged shock, surprised he'd possessed the courage necessary to say what needed saying. He wanted to take it back, to pretend everything would be fine. But nothing was fine and never would be, and he knew it.

"What did you say?" Darendel took a step back, the pale gooseflesh of his face draining into the color marble.

"I said, Corvere knows about us."

"But how? How is this possible?" Darendel's voice had gone shrill now, copper eyes wide and filled to the brim with fear. "We were careful. You said it was safe. You said no one else was in the sleep-hall that night." He rammed an accusing finger at Fenris, each stab a wincing pain in his chest.