Free Under A Colder Sun (Khale the Wanderer Book 1) by Greg James

cry.
    Milanda was awake.
     
    *
     
    “What happened to me? Where am I?”
    Khale came into view, and she recoiled from him.
    “You. I remember you from a dream. Your head, your face, your voice, and I was in a devil’s fog. Who are you?”
    “I am Khale. I took you from your bed, and we are now about two days ride or so from Colm.”
    He stood over her, making sure that she could see the hilt of the two-handed sword strapped to his back. He needed her to know that running was not wise.
    “You took me?”
    He nodded.
    Her eyes were wide and white. She was trembling, though he could see her muscles tensing here and there. She was trying to master herself.
    Your blood is not so weak, Alosse, he thought. Maybe even with a few seeds of strength born in it.
    “My father will send men to rescue me.”
    “He will not.”
    “Why?”
    “Because he’s dead. I killed him.”
    He watched her lose herself. The trembling shook her from head to toe. Tears ran from her eyes and she cried out bitterly, “You, why?”
    Always that word, that question; they could never think of anything else.
    “Because he asked me to.”
    “Lie.”
    “Is it? Do I look like a liar to you?”
    “Liar! Evil bastard! Cunt!”
    Khale’s lips curled, amused. Some strength and language he had not expected from a King’s bloodkin. “Well, forgive me, my Lady, but I’ll be sure to wear my finest silks and most embroidered cloth next time I speak an untruth so that you will believe it of me.”
    “My father wouldn’t ask to die,” she croaked. “He wouldn’t.”
    “Would he not? Did you know him so well? Did he love you so kindly over the years?”
    “Shut up.”
    “Then you admit I could be speaking true?”
    “No,” she said, tears wetting her eyes. “I don’t care if it’s true. He was my father!”
    She threw herself at him.
    He caught her by the wrists and held her, careful not to break bones. He did not want her wounded. He continued to look at her, unblinking, showing her the sick yellow of his eyes.
    “Stop staring at me with those ... stop it ... leave me alone.” She kicked at him but her slipper-clad feet did him no harm.
    He put her down and waited, letting her weep as much as she wished.
    After a time, she asked him a question, “Why did you do it?”
    “I told you, girl, because he asked me to.”
    “But you didn’t have to listen to him. You’re not one of the guards. You’re a brigand, and you don’t follow orders, do you?”
    “I did it because he was my friend once, when he was young.”
    “Your friend?”
    “Aye, we rode together before things in the world got this rotten. We hunted, we pillaged, and we stole. Don’t believe your father, the good King Alosse, could be a thief, do you? Well, he was. All kings are thieves; it’s how they get to where they are. People, land, ideals: you’ve got to steal these things yourself before you can convince someone else to believe in them and fight for them on your behalf.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    “And I don’t care if you do or you don’t,” Khale said. “It never did him any good in the end. He got old, and he hated himself for it. I put my knife through his heart and I could see it on his face. What I did for him was a mercy killing.”
    “... bastard ...” Milanda whispered.
    “You’ll have to come up with something stronger than that if you want to hurt my feelings, girl. I’ve heard them all. I’ve been called just about everything else there is under the sun. Not that we see much of the sun these days.”
    Milanda sat in silence with her arms wrapped tight around her body. Her eyes were fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance. Her fingers occasionally twitched. The toes of her slippers scratched in the dirt. After a time, she laid down. She wept quietly and then passed into sleep.
    Khale sat down on a fallen slab of the henge and took out a small whetstone. He unslung his two-handed sword and began to work the blade with it. The