returned to normal. So long ago, he had taken command of his anger, harnessed its energy to work for his benefit alone.
So what had just happened?
"Bolvadur s é h ú n," he muttered. He had simply wanted to tend her wound. To dress her in dry, warm clothing. Instead he had allowed himself to be provoked, and he had become exactly what she had called him. A barbarian.
Remembering the insanely fierce surge of desire he'd experienced for the perplexing young woman from his past, he rubbed his palm against his forehead.
Alone. Alone. It was best he remain alone. He and his silent companions. Even now they danced on the wall, shades doing their very best to haunt him. Always there— in reality or as creations of his frozen conscience, he knew not—those remnants of souls he had sent into the afterlife. He had never attempted to make peace with them. Why trouble himself, when more would be added to their ranks? As was his custom, he ignored them. To acknowledge them in any way would make them real.
Instead he turned his attention to the mundane. He perused Ranulf's chambers. He had slept in better. He had slept in worse. The bed was large enough for his frame, and that was all that truly mattered. Sleep and seclusion were the only two luxuries he insisted upon for himself and his demons.
The day had been long. With steady hand he hung his hauberk and helm upon the wooden armor tree that had been Ranulf's. He folded the remainder of his clothing in an orderly bundle, and set his boots beside the fire to dry. Upon a stool he sat, the flames warming his back. With reverence, he oiled his sword and sheathed it in its scabbard. He commanded no servant to tend to his armor, to stoke his hearth.
He had always been alone and had somehow grown to prefer it so. Upon his birth he had been an unwanted child. His slave mother had cast him into the snow to die. Raised ever since by men of war, he was never without companions, without a brotherhood.
But somehow, always alone.
Finally he examined himself for injuries, running his palms over his abdomen, shoulders, and thighs. 'Twould not be the first time he discovered an injury without first suffering so much as a slight irritation. His fingertips lingered upon the narrow gash upon his cheek, laid there by the princess in her fury. Each scar upon his body was a mark upon the path toward an inevitability he had long since given up trying to escape. This time he found no injury greater than a scratch.
Too easy. He was somewhat disappointed at how easy the taking of Calldarington had been. He had walked the rows of the Saxon dead, not once, but twice. The man he had come to challenge did not lie among them. Coward, to run and hide when the others died for him. For their families and their land.
Kol took up his knife and polished its blade. Tomorrow he would lead a force into the uplands in search of Norsex's craven king.
And once Ranulf had been eliminated—what then?
Although Kol's future held no happy ending, he could no longer ignore the wishes of his men. They could accompany him on his quest only so far. The rest he would travel alone. Perhaps soon he would truly be alone. In recent years his men had grown less satisfied with the mercenary way, despite the riches it brought. He smiled. He could not imagine Vekell as a simple farmer, married and with children.
Children. The smile faded from his lips. A memory of the princess, holding her child close, came forth from the dark place in his mind. Long ago he had renounced the pain and regret that came with the knowledge he would never sire a child of his own.
But something about this place challenged his inner peace.
'Twas her.
He moved toward the far side of the room to stare at the wall that separated them. She was there. Even with the thick barrier between them, he could feel her. He even imagined her scent transient upon the night air, sent aloft by the warmth of her beauty and hatred.
In the king's prison he had lain like
So what had just happened?
"Bolvadur s é h ú n," he muttered. He had simply wanted to tend her wound. To dress her in dry, warm clothing. Instead he had allowed himself to be provoked, and he had become exactly what she had called him. A barbarian.
Remembering the insanely fierce surge of desire he'd experienced for the perplexing young woman from his past, he rubbed his palm against his forehead.
Alone. Alone. It was best he remain alone. He and his silent companions. Even now they danced on the wall, shades doing their very best to haunt him. Always there— in reality or as creations of his frozen conscience, he knew not—those remnants of souls he had sent into the afterlife. He had never attempted to make peace with them. Why trouble himself, when more would be added to their ranks? As was his custom, he ignored them. To acknowledge them in any way would make them real.
Instead he turned his attention to the mundane. He perused Ranulf's chambers. He had slept in better. He had slept in worse. The bed was large enough for his frame, and that was all that truly mattered. Sleep and seclusion were the only two luxuries he insisted upon for himself and his demons.
The day had been long. With steady hand he hung his hauberk and helm upon the wooden armor tree that had been Ranulf's. He folded the remainder of his clothing in an orderly bundle, and set his boots beside the fire to dry. Upon a stool he sat, the flames warming his back. With reverence, he oiled his sword and sheathed it in its scabbard. He commanded no servant to tend to his armor, to stoke his hearth.
He had always been alone and had somehow grown to prefer it so. Upon his birth he had been an unwanted child. His slave mother had cast him into the snow to die. Raised ever since by men of war, he was never without companions, without a brotherhood.
But somehow, always alone.
Finally he examined himself for injuries, running his palms over his abdomen, shoulders, and thighs. 'Twould not be the first time he discovered an injury without first suffering so much as a slight irritation. His fingertips lingered upon the narrow gash upon his cheek, laid there by the princess in her fury. Each scar upon his body was a mark upon the path toward an inevitability he had long since given up trying to escape. This time he found no injury greater than a scratch.
Too easy. He was somewhat disappointed at how easy the taking of Calldarington had been. He had walked the rows of the Saxon dead, not once, but twice. The man he had come to challenge did not lie among them. Coward, to run and hide when the others died for him. For their families and their land.
Kol took up his knife and polished its blade. Tomorrow he would lead a force into the uplands in search of Norsex's craven king.
And once Ranulf had been eliminated—what then?
Although Kol's future held no happy ending, he could no longer ignore the wishes of his men. They could accompany him on his quest only so far. The rest he would travel alone. Perhaps soon he would truly be alone. In recent years his men had grown less satisfied with the mercenary way, despite the riches it brought. He smiled. He could not imagine Vekell as a simple farmer, married and with children.
Children. The smile faded from his lips. A memory of the princess, holding her child close, came forth from the dark place in his mind. Long ago he had renounced the pain and regret that came with the knowledge he would never sire a child of his own.
But something about this place challenged his inner peace.
'Twas her.
He moved toward the far side of the room to stare at the wall that separated them. She was there. Even with the thick barrier between them, he could feel her. He even imagined her scent transient upon the night air, sent aloft by the warmth of her beauty and hatred.
In the king's prison he had lain like
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