Summary:

The trolls are invading the south, and there is nothing else Prince Geoffrey can do but to ask the Warlord of Hull for help. But the warlord wants something in return, something Geoffrey might not be ready to give.


1

Wolfgan was patrolling the frontiers of Hull, nervous calloused hands twitching, sharp unkind eyes scanning the fences and limits, waiting for a threat that never came. His stallion was huffing, trotting angrily, looking for trouble as much as he was. They made a formidable pair. His hands were bloody from the bear he helped to hunt, but the adrenaline was still pumping in his veins, fierce believers of an invisible enemy.

The only threat to the country nowadays was the occasional ice bear and packs of giant wolves that plagued the villages closer to the mountains. No war, no battles. Wolfgan spent the last seven years making himself known as the scarier warlord to ever been born, and it paid in respect and fear from his enemies. He didn't need to be here to kill these animals, his soldiers could very much deal with it, he came just for fun. Besides, he knew people liked seeing him around. It gave them the feeling of protection he was glad to provide.

He shifted his attention, without moving his gaze from the horizon, to the fast trot of a horse in the distance. He knew it was Villa without even looking, the man was always desperate on a horse, always worried for some reason. The heavy breathing got closer and Villa tried to scream his message but choked on his own words.

The soldiers accompanying him chuckled at the screeching voice coming from the pale, clumsy guard. He chuckled too at the thought that Villa could be a southerner. He was mighty small for a hullian, with his six feet. Wolfgan had prohibited him from fighting, but he insisted on being at least a messenger or a domestic guard.

"Siath, we've captured the whores in the north gate," he panted. "But Gaghald and Kalifar caught a spy between them, from the south!"

Wolfgan huffed like an old lion to the stressed messenger, and his warriors relaxed when did so. If Wolfgan wasn't worried, than no one else was. He nodded from his tall black stallion and the messenger bowed and joined the end of the party, still looking wild but tamer now under his watch. That boy needed a man, but he was very resistant to Kalifar's advances.

Kalifar was a good captain, but Gaghald was a little brainless and despite being his second in command, only gave him headaches. There were no spies from the south, he snorted to himself, only curious little wayward soldiers, sticking their noses in somebody else's business. Wolfgan liked to give those southerners to one of his men, warriors tended to like those pretty mithlornians, and it was amusing to see them trying to escape the clutches of a hullian. Some of them ended up liking it, but usually it scared them so bad they either broke or ran away to spread nasty rumors about Hull.

Good. He didn't like to look soft.

He called the small party of soldiers he'd chose to patrol with him, and headed back to the fortress. His fortress. His castle and his frontiers and his territory.

His grandfather was the first barbarian to challenge the old tribe and create an actual empire. Some followed willingly but it took them years to convince the rest old tribe to join them.

Wolfgan was born right in this new, different transition. With time, everyone began to notice the advantages of having a home that you couldn't carry on your back. Twenty-five years old and carrying on the old man's legacy, being the warlord of an established territory, he found he liked it. It was great to have a place to call yours, after all. Homes that put roots on the ground and demanded you to look after.

Despite a lot of talking between his soldiers that the wild life was something to miss, Wolfgan found he liked looking after.

But a fight now and then wasn't much to ask for. These days he only had these petty barbs to solve and wild animals to kill.

Getting closer to the fortress, he took a second to appreciate the building. He had a castle, the Goligan Castle, and it was a new acquisition, but rarely used by himself despite it being his official home. He did like it better than the fortress, but the emptiness usually left him uneasy. Not the emptiness of the castle, but of company. Soldiers, maids, whores… They weren't good company. It had been impossible to get his father out of the old fortress and into the Goligan Castle, so despite the old man rarely leaving the library where the portrait of his deceased spouse hanged on, Wolfgan slept a lot in there. Poor vaderka.

Before Wolfgan's heart could work out an anguished beat at the sad memory, his attention was caught by a commotion on the outside. Women screaming.

Wolfgan got down from his horse, fur cloak blowing with the snowy wind, and he could already see the problem ahead. Gaghald was baiting them like predators circling the prey, Kalifar was looking confused, and those small women weren't native, they were outsiders. They were terrified.

His soldiers had put them on a line by the stone wall inside the hall of the fortress and they were hurting their little hands clutching the wall for support while his men laughed. Wolfgan's heavy boots made a loud sound on the stone floor and his beasts, three forest wolves he raised, came right behind him trying to get his attention.

He could see that Gaghald was in front of someone, and he gave Wolfgan a wicked smile.

"This one you're gonna like, Siath," and he cringed inside but didn't show it. It was probably a male whore, and Wolgan just wasn't in the mood to deal with them today.

"Alright, back. All of you," he said, in a bored but firm tone. His soldiers immediately took a step back and Gaghald showed him the "whore". His heart skipped a beat when he realized who it was and he had to restrain himself from taking out his sword and beating Gaghald to a pulp.

"You know who this is, you should have called me before," he told Gaghald in a drawled voice. The big man shivered at the bad omen. Wolfgan tsked at him and turned to the "whore" grabbing the trembling man by the elbows to forcefully turn him around.

Harles was a tall, eighteen year old boy that was all angles, bones sticking out everywhere. Curly black hair and bluish eyes, he was one of the princes of Mithlond, a country south of Hull. He looked more like the Queen than the King, more delicate than other mithlonders in his manners, but more wicked as well. They said he ran away from his family to become a whore but that didn't last long. Soon after he started to work for the temple of Calim owned by his brother, Prince Geoffrey.

"King Wolfgan," he said wavery in hullian, with such a weird accent he almost didn't grasp it. Scared blue eyes looked up at him.

"Harles, what are you doing so far from the temple?" Wolfgan spat, angry. "Where is your brother?"

Harles just shook his head, not understanding a word and searched his clothes for something. He brought out a letter and trusted it in Wolfgan's hands.

"Geoffrey sent me," Harles said in his own language, and Wolfgan snatched up the letter. Wherever made Geoffrey send Harles into Hull's fortress just to give him a letter was probably worth to read.

The letter was a simple folded paper that said "King Wolfgan Arylinn Onkmet Voakin, Son of Haomath" in the front and it was sealed with golden wax. Only Geoffrey called him by this long title.

He opened it and was faced with a hullian that Geoffrey had managed to make it look soft even written. Wolfgan never understood his need to do that, but he supposed that, like everything the prince did, it was designed to throw him off his guard.

The letter opened with a simple "Wolfgan."

It followed:

"There is a very important matter that I need to discuss with you, in regards of the Calim land. You will certainly be pleased with what I have to offer, in case you accept this mission. It cannot be said in a letter, however. You need to be here to discuss this with me."

The ink got tick, as if it took a lot of time for Geoffrey to spell the words.

"You must know, Wolfgan, that you would be the last person I would ever ask help to. But as it happens now, unfortunately, I need you.

Please come."

Then, in quick sentences, as he got back to his element.

"PS: I would be very grateful if you didn't punish Harles for trespassing, as giving you my message was his only mission. It would be very kind of you to escort him to the temple at the beginning of the capital. You know he's no threat, make sure you tell Gaghald the same thing.

I will of course give you a refund for your troubles, in case you do not want to hear about the mission. I have a very priceless sword I made myself, with the gods blessings. Of course, you need to be here to receive it. And I meant you, not a messenger, nor a soldier. You bring me Harles, you get shiny gifty."

Wolfgan growled at the letter, even as his heart ached in memory of the familiar insults. He wasn't an animal nor a stupid brainless beast. Geoffrey must be itching for trouble, he could almost see his little smirk growing as he wrote these words.

"Furthermore, knowing hullian's inclinations to the male gender, make sure none of your soldiers, nor you, lay hands on Harles. We have a truce that I wouldn't want to break, and I am sure these men, as well as you, want to have heirs one day. It would be a shame to lose the means to."

As if he would touch Harles scrawny arse, Wolfgan snorted. It ended with a quick elegant scrawl.

"Sincerely,

Prince Geoffrey Wylcey Mirandir."

Wolfgan frowned, pursed his lips, then glanced to the whores. The letter hadn't mentioned them. He shook his head and called the soldiers. "Take the women to the dungeons. I'll take Harles to Calim."

Harles gasped in outrage.

"No! They come with me to the temple!" Harles said, and the soldiers looked at him in confusion, and them to Wolfgan for instructions. Harles turned his pleas for him too. "They were lost, trying to reach Calim's temple, I swore to show them the way, please!"

Wolfgan tried a huski Mithlorn, temper rising.

"Harles, they're going to the dungeons and that is my word. Do not challenge it."

Harles looked at him in defiance.

"I'll tell Geoffrey!" he squeaked in falty hullian.

Wolfgan huffed, like a very pissed old lion.

~.~

After settling Harles and the whores in a wooden cell connected to the horses, Wolfgan ordered his soldiers to get them some blankets so they wouldn't freeze and went to gather some personal supplies from his own stash he took on every long trip. He stopped at the library to warn his father he was leaving for some time.

"He calls and you go, just like always," Haomath said from his seated position on the big armchair. The powerful stature and posture hadn't left him, though his hair was getting whiter every year, along with the sadness and despair in his eyes. Wolfgan remembered this armchair, it was his mamka's favorite. He shook his head from the memories, refusing to be caught in the same depression, refusing to look at the portrait on the wall beside him.

"It seems important. He wouldn't have begged if it wasn't, you know the creature," he said, walking away from the comforting warmth of the place. His mamka loved it.

"Yeah, yeah. Oh, and Wolfgan?" His father called.

"Yes?" he said, turning around.

"Tame him this time, eh?" His father laughed. "Show him who's the Warlord, for once."

Wolgan smirked. "Yes, vaderka," he said.

His father wanted him to settle down, and he wasn't opposed to that as he once were. Hullians came from barbarians. That was true. But they weren't, mostly. Their system of government was different from most countries out there. Firstly, there wasn't a king. There was one Warlord and one only. A Warlord was the man that commanded the country with his voice and his sword, and had to be able to take on any other man that challenged him. Also, he had to be on the field, always. So despite that position coming from heritance, he was the Warlord, not his father. Haomath was fifty-two now and he would live a long healthy life because of his giant blood, but he was not in any shape to lead an army.

Not because of age, but because of grief. An unexpected grief, that shouldn't have come as early as it came.

Wolfgan stopped at the door, clenching the frame in his hands. "You… you should move on, vaderka," he said, in a cautious voice. "It's been two years. You could still be leading this country with me."

His father's eyes went glassy, as they always went when they stepped in this subject.

"I… It feels pointless without him," he said finally, and Wolfgan's eyebrows went up at the confession. It was the first time Haomath didn't straight up ignore him and walk away from the conversation.

Henry had been the most close thing to a motherly figure Wolfgan had and the one that married his father. But he, of course, wasn't the one that birthed him. Even if he had been a woman, he wouldn't have birthed Wolfgan. Because the Warlord had to be on field, he also couldn't afford to be hurt or die. It could be the death of their empire. So their family came from a legacy of children born from frost giants. If the child was born a woman, the giants took her away. If it was a man, he would be the next Warlord.

Wolfgan never knew who the one that birthed him was, but it didn't matter. Henry was his mamka. He was worse than Wolfgan in his tantrums sometimes, he remembered, smiling, finally giving in and glancing at the pictured that didn't do him justice. Elves descendents aged slower in appearance, and despite Henry always denying his elven heritance, his complexion gave it all away. His father could barely handle him, the older he got the better he was in getting his way like any elf did - by persuasion. But he was such a soft spoken man, innocent in his playful ways.

Wolfgan opened his mouth to say something else, but his father shook his head, and went back to his book. He left the library with a heavy heart.

Wolfgan still couldn't handle his death, or rather, his disappearance either. Because that's what really happened. Nothing final. He just vanished into thin air, as if he'd been a dream all along. Two years ago, a cold winter night, a broken bridge and his mamka calling in a broken, soft voice…

"Do not come any closer, my son."

He was barely on his forties, his father was struggling in a battle with a giant and those last words would be carved on the walls of his mind forever.

~.~

When he told Kalifar he'd decided to hear Geoffrey out about this mission, the man winced in sympathy.

Kalifar, who had a long hair that he kept tied and a black beard that he tranced, trotted his horse along with him, in the front line. He supposed his party of soldiers was too big, but you never knew with Southerners. It wasn't as if he was showing off.

Maybe he was, a little.

"That one, eh?" Kalifar said, walking on thin ice. No one ever knew where the line crossed when the subject was Geoffrey. Wolfgan was confused himself.

One thing was sure, no northern ever wanted to speak with Prince Geoffrey. It was because he could be extremely pleasant, and use that against you. Also because he could manipulate and twist your words when he wanted something from you, and he would never tell you what it was.

Any other person like that wouldn't survive a week in Hull because they tended to kill first and question later. Geoffrey, however, had a way with hullians no one else had.

Hullians in general descended from mountain giants which was why they were taller than the average human, and the grunts and growls meant more than it seemed to. Mithlonds descended from elves, and that was why they had ridiculous pointed ears like that. Also their language was more sung than said. The hullian language was a pride to the country, because it was the hardest to non-hullians and downright impossible to Mithlorns

The Damned Prince from Mithlond managed to not only learn the language in two months, but to make it soft and pleasant - the growls more like moans, the grunts more like sighs - and no northern that meet him ever forgave him for doing that.

"Kill him." Wolfgan had said, after Geoffrey walked away from the hall of the castle, swinging his hips in those ridiculous druid clothes that were in no way woman-like, but Wolfgan made a point to tell him that every time they met. "He disrespected you."

"Of all the things you ever said," Haomath'd drawled with a pensive expression, "That was the greatest one you did not meant."

That day, Wolfgan decided he hated Geoffrey. Sometime later he decided he was also irrevocably in love with him, and that's how he felt about the subject since.

It took some time to realize that he craved Geoffrey. And when he did he tried to convince himself that it was just the male body, and not the person.

The whores that were sent to him as gifts to pacify him, he used to experiment with man. The ones that looked wanton, he fucked. The beaten and scared he send away or made servants out of. There was one thing only he wanted to hear when he was inside of a man, and it wasn't crying.

But every time he lay down with a whore, it was Geoffrey he was thinking of taking, possessing his body with all he had, giving him no choice but to enjoy it. Dominating him entirely.

If Geoffrey was a woman, or any low citizen, Wolfgan would have bought him a long time a ago from his father, and tried to win him when he was secured in the castle. With the way fathers in Mithlond married off daughters like insane men looking for money and status, it would be an easy deal. But that wasn't the case, he was a royal Prince, so Wolfgan couldn't have him. And if the couldn't have him, he should ignore him.

But at the end of the day, his heart was in such a fragile situation with Geoffrey. He didn't think even the prince knew how much power he had over him, otherwise he would surely be using that to his advantage.

Wolfgan never really understood why he had to want him of all people. How could anybody actually like that man? That annoying, disrespecting, untamed and uncontrollable creature.

Especially Wolfgan, who liked to control everything he owned.

Kalifar cleared his throat, startling him from his daydreams. The snow was ending in the surreal way that gave Hull country it's fame, and they were entering Calim's territory.

"Hullian temper, I suppose." Kalifar said. "Prince Geoffrey, I mean."

Wolfgan nodded.

"You're right. Hullian temper, mind of a southern. He has always been trouble."

"Would make a good queen, thought." Kalifar grinned, using the Mithlorn term. Wolfgan shook his head, smiling softly.

"Make me crazy, that's what he does."

~.~

His party arrived in the temple of Calim with very low panic from the citizens. Actually, most of them bowed for him, and even said some hullian words of praising. Interesting, but supposedly expected since Calim was joined at the hip with Hull. The temple was a big building made to train druids and hunters, different from the ones where priests studied the old books.

Wolfgan saw the people gathered in front of the temple moving inside, while some of them called Geoffrey's name. They seemed wary but trusting. Wolfgan watched a familiar figure walking from inside the temple, and the afternoon sun lazily shone over the long golden hair. Those grey suspicious eyes narrowed over the amount of soldiers Wolfgan brought along, but Geoffrey's expression and slight nod said he was already expecting it.

The regal creature waited for everyone to settle with a patience Wolfgan didn't have. He was always so proper, so put together. The right rings on his long aristocratic fingers, the well brushed hair, the soft skin on his pale hand that had never seen the rough end of a well worn sword but certainly knew how to yield an expensive one. His robes weren't plain ones either. They usually had patches of gold and silver, sewn with several symbols, some for protection others as ornaments. They frustratingly always went over stupid breeches made of strong looking cloth, and Wolfgan always thought they were useless.

His high cheekbones and angular jaw molded a masculine face that was gentle and trusting. Like mages, druids were usually scrawny, but hunters types like Geoffrey had to climb up trees and actually trek the woods more than enough times to give him a more healthy complexion. A mix of druid, hunter and priest, he was slender but he wasn't soft.

"Son of Haomath," he heard the deep soft voice. Wolfgan trotted his heavy horse from side to side in the green grass of Calim, as greeting. Geoffrey clenched his jaws when he looked past him and to the wooden cage, that rattled as a soldier opened the bars and let the women and Harles past through. His face showed anger but he didn't say anything. The women and Harles ran inside the temple and out of the hullian's view. The air was tense and Wolfgan wondered if it was all of Geoffrey's angry aura contained.

He walked down the stairs of the temple as if protecting everything that was inside. People looked at him like he was a saviour and he knew it. Wolfgan had seen the way women looked at him, as if they wanted to be in distress for a little of his attention.

To his warriors and the hullian people, Wolfgan was an uncontrollable monster. Except he was a monster on their side and they wanted to keep it that way. He was seven feet of muscles, anger, and pride, just tickling, waiting to explode at the first opportunity and as often as he could.

To Geoffrey he was a barbaric animal with no morals, no rules and imprevisible. That made Wolfgan want to act like a barbaric animal towards him, but he knew that would only prove his point and make no good.

Wolfgan knew the feeling he caused to others when he walked right up at them. He dismounted his horse, dragging along the three gigantic beasts at his heel. Geoffrey may never run, but he still liked the way he trembled, just a little, when he walked up to him like this. He loved it. Only for Wolfgan, he did that, or at least that's what he liked to believe. Rationally he chalked it up to his tall and bulky frame, it was intimidating, but sometimes he liked to think it was something more.

Fantasize and imagine was all he could do really, because Geoffrey would rather die than to wake up in his bed everyday, and he knew it. Every time he thought about it a wave of anger went through him, accompanied by something deeper, darker, that he didn't want to call sadness. It was rare for him to see a thing he wanted and not to be allowed to have.

When he got close enough, he stared down at Geoffrey for some seconds, waiting for him to feel small and petty in his presence.

It never worked.

Geoffrey only started right up at him with that little tilt in his lip, as if waiting for him to stop the tantrum.

"Where is my prize?" Wolfgan greeted in tick hullian, face somber and serious, and lifted an eyebrow feigning disgust. The soldier's eyes widened in apprehension.

Geoffrey smiled, but not in a nice way. Never in a nice way for the Hullians. He parted his heavy robe to the side and drew out a sword that was tucked in his belt. Wolfgan saw the heavy silver glinting in the sun, the warm energy coming from it, and came forward.

"I'd say is good to see you again, but I don't lie," he said, in that soft but firm voice of his, that always made Wolfgan's crotch give a twitch.

Kill him, a mocking voice said in his head. He disrespected you.

He took the sword and passed his finger on the carvings. It was hullian.

"There is no war in the tribe." A quote from an frost giant's legend, about a great frost giant warlord and his weaknesses. His people, his family and his enemies. There was one special sword for each one of them. Wolfgan was impressed by the thoughtful gift, it looked just like the ones in the old drawings.

He showed his gratefulness by getting the letter from his belt the throwing it at Geoffrey's feet.

With flick of Geoffrey's fingers, the wind slowly went by and the paper went fluttering in submission into his open hand.

Wolfgan didn't let his amazement show.

Look bored.

"Is that a no?" Geoffrey pouted, folding the letter in his hands and hiding somewhere in his robes. Wolfgan was distracted by the little patch of skin that showed over his hips for a while.

He frowned trying to recall the conversation. "It depends on what you have to offer, and what is it that you seek," he said at last, noticing the resignation in his voice, hating it.

Geoffrey smiled and turned to the temple.

"Follow me, Warlord. We will discuss this inside where is warmer."

The words sent a shiver in his spine, but he quickly reminded himself who he was talking too, and focused on looking bored.

"Is Siath, you know it. And what about them?" Wolfgan said, not moving.

Geoffrey turned.

"Your soldiers are welcome to enter. There is food we hunted and prepared for them. But make sure they behave," Geoffrey said in mithlorn. The mixing of the languages didn't confuse Wolfgan anymore as it once did.

Wolfgan let out a grunt and told his soldiers to follow.

~.~