ASMSG Scifi Fantasy Paranormal Emagazine August 2014 | Page 25

barricade. Their hands rested on the pommels of their
swords. Assorted palace guards hastened to encircle the
queen in a ring of bristling weaponry.
Hel snorted. “I have not forgotten all civilized
behavior. I come unarmed.”
A man dressed with austere elegance in close-fitting
black leather stepped forward. “I am High Lord Ari
DeTano, Primo Signore of the Second Tetriarch, and
Consort to Queen Constante. You may address your
concerns to me.” His bearing and commanding voice
conveyed the expectation of obedience.
Hel casually examined the High Lord of Verdantia.
So, this man led the forces that defeated the Haarb. “I
heard the Constante queen had taken two lovers. My
words are for our monarch, not the men who warm her
bed.”
DeTano stiffened and his cool gaze became arctic.
A tall, blond man of ethereal beauty moved to stand
beside the High Lord. “I am Visconte Doral DeLorion and
Segundo Signore of the Second Tetriarch—the other
lover. Who in the seven hells are you.”
The blond’s quiet voice held menace. If Hel wasn’t
mistaken, the man had palmed a throwing knife into his
right hand, poised for a lethal strike. Hel suspected either
man would prove formidable in combat, but something
about the slender blond suggested the killing edge of a
well-honed razor. He must be DeTano’s assassin.
A third male crossed his arms over his chest and with
a low rumble of laughter, relaxed his stance. “DeHelios.
Ha! The last time I saw you, you sprawled unconscious in a
shrub leaving a lovely piece of horseflesh in need of an
owner.”
Hel studied the speaker. He knew that laconic
drawl—but its owner was a criminal with no love for
Verdantian nobility. What was this man doing here?
“Ramsey DeKieran, you nefarious thief! You owe me the
price of that fine horse. You fell on me from a tree, you
coward. I never had a chance.”
Ramsey snorted. “Still an egotistical ass. You should
be grateful I took only the horse. Your head is still nicely
attached.” He caught the eyes of the other two men.
“Gentlemen, that tower of smelly fur is ‘Hel’. You may
know him by a different name. The Haarb called him bás
dtost—the silent death.” Ramsey rolled his eyes.
Hel raised his lip in a snarl at Ramsey’s mockery.
“Such illustrious company, DeKieran. Your status in the
world seems to have risen—but then it could hardly have
fallen lower.”
Ramsey grunted. “Unlikely, eh? You may address me
as Lord DeKieran, Fifteenth Earl of House DeKieran, and
the striking redhead preparing to unman you from ten feet
away is my wife, Lieutenant Colonel Steffania Rickard of
the Queen’s Blue Daggers. Be careful with your words,
Hel. My vixen is wicked with a throwing knife