Warrior by Violette Dubrinsky

she would receive a
    nickname for her beauty. What he
    couldn’t fathom was why it was
    ‘Flower of the East’. She was more so
    a rose, a very thorny rose, with her
    fiery hair and waspish disposition. He
    wondered briefly if she was the
    princess who’d attempted to kill him
    nights ago. However, as he looked at
    her fair complexion and red hair, he
    dismissed the thought. His princess
    had been darker, with golden locks.
    “Eat,” Vulcan said to her once
    more, his voice hard and unyielding.
    One of the squires had placed slices of
    bread and strips of meat before her as
    she sat upon a log, clutching her sister
    to her. The other sister had eaten
    some of the bread, at the insistence of
    the redhead, before she’d turned and
    buried her face back into the
    redhead’s shoulder. The thought of
    the other sister being the assassin-
    princess never entered his mind. She
    was too timid. Timid women did not
    enter warriors’ tents with intent to slit
    their throats.
    His voice made the Flower jump,
    but she glared at him nonetheless. She
    looked away after a few seconds and
    continued to comfort the sister in her
    arms. From the way she was acting,
    one would think that the redhead was
    the older sister and the one with hair
    the color of spun gold was the
    younger. But that wasn’t possible.
    Mathilda St. Ives was the redhead, the
    youngest daughter of Wilhelm of
    Lytheria. Varian had asked after the
    Flower of the East when he’d
    captured them and the redhead had
    confirmed her identity.
    Deciding that he had more important
    things to do than try to persuade a
    stubborn princess to eat, Vulcan rose
    to his feet, and headed to where the
    horses were kept. Their prisoner of
    war was finally awake and just as
    stubborn as the Flower. Perhaps it
    was a trait among their people—
    stubbornness. He hoped stupidity
    wasn’t. If Lytheria did not surrender
    to him by noon, he would have no
    choice but to plan a surprise attack,
    which would lead to more death. He
    didn’t need to lose any more soldiers,
    especially Lytherian soldiers. When he
    left for Morden, who would then
    guard his new acquisition?
    As he came closer to the horses, he
    heard Varian’s voice. His brother was
    questioning the prisoner and from the
    narrow slits that were his eyes, he was
    getting nowhere.
    When Vulcan approached, Varian
    shook his head and walked off,
    probably to try to persuade their other
    captive to eat.
    “What is your name?” Vulcan asked
    the man. He was covered in grime,
    sweat and blood alike, and looked like
    some sort of unwashed golden dog.
    What was no doubt some form of
    blond hair stuck to his head, along
    with dark filth.
    The man did not reply so Vulcan
    continued,
    “Will
    your
    people
    surrender to Morden?”
    The man blinked and shrugged.
    Vulcan crossed his arms before his
    chest and said coldly, “What is your
    name? I will not ask you again.”
    The man continued to keep his
    silence until finally, he lifted his head,
    his eyes staring directly into those of
    the king. He spat out, “Malcolm.”
    “If Lytheria surrenders to Morden,
    will you challenge me?” Vulcan
    assessed the man as he sat there, rope
    binding his arms and legs. He’d
    wounded two of his warriors, and had
    put up a good fight against Varian. He
    took no pleasure in killing good
    fighters and men loyal to their
    countries. But if this man answered
    wrongly, he was taking his head. He’d
    had about enough of the Lytherian
    resistance.
    The man cleared his throat, and
    replied slowly, “ If Lytheria surrenders
    to Morden, I will not fight it.” The
    way he said “if” told Vulcan that he
    didn’t expect any such surrender.
    Vulcan’s jaw locked angrily. If
    Lytheria didn’t surrender, his men
    were going in through the secret
    entrance, and slaughtering anyone
    who stood in their way.
    As it happened, thoughts like that
    turned out to be unnecessary. When
    noon arrived, and Vulcan, carrying
    the wrongly named Flower before
    him,