The Wrath of the King

The Wrath of the King

Danielle Bourdon

Published by Wildbloom Press

Copyright © 2013

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

For the fans

Thank you for your support

Chapter One

He stared at the sky, watching a cloud scuttle by. They reminded him of puffy cotton balls, so white against a sea of blue. There was something serene and peaceful about it, luring him to lay there a while longer. And just what
was
he doing, anyway, languishing in a meadow of grass, flat on his back? He couldn't recall why he was there, didn't remember laying down in the first place.

Blinking beads of salty sweat from his eyes, Sander frowned. He had some place he needed to be, a destination other than here. Exerting himself, he tried to get up. Tried to move. It was a thought that didn't transfer to his arms and legs, which he realized he couldn't feel. He couldn't even get a finger to twitch.

What the hell was going on?

A moment after that, Sander understood his coherency had been compromised. He wasn't thinking straight, couldn't get a grasp on reality. The blurry edge of his vision cleared enough for him to make out lumps of black in periphery.

He wasn't in a meadow, he was on a road, with a hulking twist of metal to his left. Alarms clanged through his mind, sending urgent signals to
get up, get up, GET UP.

The harder he struggled to get to his feet, the more blatant his state of paralysis became.

Paralyzed. He was numb from the neck down.

A loud
boom
shattered the bubble of silence he existed in. All at once, an onslaught of noise battered his ears and heat seared his senses. Part of an arm flew overhead, severed at the elbow. Shrapnel hit Sander's shoulder and hip, his entire left side, like buckshot. Pain accompanied the blow, pain he relished because it meant he could
feel.
He wasn't paralyzed, only stunned.

In the distance, he heard a man scream.

Fire cracked closer, somewhere to his right.

The scent of burning rubber mingled with the acrid smell of charred flesh.

Accident. The caravan of Hummers he'd been traveling in had some kind of accident. He couldn't remember the impact or the details. Didn't remember being thrown free of the vehicle.

With extreme effort, more effort than it should have taken, Sander turned his head to the side. Stretched along the road was a minefield of debris. Bodies. Remnants of the Hummers. Fire.

It looked like a war zone.

A man belly crawled over the asphalt, using his elbows to pull himself forward. His leg was gone.

Sander opened his mouth to speak, to shout, to say
something.
Nothing came out. He couldn't find his voice, wasn't able to lift his arm more than an inch off the ground.

Get up, get up, GET UP
. His chest felt strange and heavy, as if an anvil sat there.

The crawling man slumped, went still. His body twitched once.

Sander gurgled a sound, then coughed up a mouthful of blood.

He wondered if he was dying, like the belly crawling man.

Dying under a bright sky and cotton puff clouds.

Darkness crowded the edge of his vision, diffusing the incoming light. He fought it, fought to stay awake. Fought to live.

The debris field blurred.

His last thought was of Chey and their unborn child. A boy. A child and a wife he might never see again. He held tight to her memory, her smiles, the love in her eyes.

Held tight until, against his will, she faded to black.

. . .

“Chey, stop being so stubborn and let me carry it!” Wynn tugged on the strap to an overflowing shopping bag, attempting to thieve it from Chey's grasp.

“I'm pregnant, not an invalid! I can carry it up the stairs.” Chey paused, one hand on the banister, the other gripping the loaded shopping bag. Half a flight of stairs to go. No problem.

“You look like you're about to have a heart attack, face all purple, huffing and puffing--”

Chey laughed at the exaggerations pouring from Wynn's mouth. She looked sideways, eyes narrowed in amusement. “You're so full of it, Wynnie.”

Wynn darted a look up and down the staircase. “Don't call me that where others might hear.”

“I think it's a cute nickname.”

“It's a ten year old's nickname, which was how old we were when you gave it to me.” Wynn, seeing no one within hearing range, relaxed. Carrying her own load of bags, she continued up the stairs with Chey.

“It was not. We were--” Chey didn't finish before Wynn cast her a mock withering look. Grinning, Chey changed the subject. “Anyway, it's good exercise. Keeps me in shape.”

“You can't see your feet,” Wynn pointed out. “That's too far along to be lugging stuff up all these flights of stairs.”

Chey glanced down. Her stomach protruded far enough that she only caught glimpses of her shoes on the next step up. Flats instead of heels, because she wasn't
that
confident in her balance. “That's just more incentive to keep going, right?”

Wynn exaggerated an exhale. “Don't make me wrestle you to the ground just to get the bag.”

Chey laughed. “You're a stick, Wynn. You couldn't lift my right leg, much less tackle me to the ground.”

“I've gained three whole pounds since I've lived in Latvala!” Wynn, smiling as wide as Chey, hit the landing and cupped a hand under Chey's elbow to 'help' her up the last step.

“Oooooh.” Chey did some exaggerating of her own, making her voice waver up and down. “That's
so
much weight.”

“If I'm not careful, I'll start waddling. Like you.” Wynn stepped out of swatting range.

“I don't waddle!” Chey paused at the top of the stairs, indignant. She refused to admit that she needed a little breather.

“I hate to tell you, Chey, but you do.” Wynn rocked back and forth on her clunky platform shoes.

Scoffing, Chey started forward again, heading down the hallway to the baby's room. “I'll show you waddling. If I wanted to, I could beat you in a race to the bedroom.”

Wynn guffawed. “That's a sight I'd like to see. Mama Bear, run-waddling down the hall.”

Chey laughed, too. Running was
not
an option this late in the pregnancy game. With less than three weeks to go, she was finally in the home stretch. She felt surprisingly spry most days, and kept up a rigid exercise regimen to remain strong going into delivery. Sander joined her in the early mornings for a long walk on the beach, a task she repeated in the late afternoon with Wynn.

Arriving at the baby's bedroom, Chey waited while Wynn let them in and lugged the bags over to a changing table set up against the wall. Plopping the bags on top of a thick pad in place to protect the wood, she turned to view the nursery with a typical buzz of excitement. Powder blue paint decorated the walls to a halfway point, where blue, white and yellow striped wallpaper took over. A strip of carved molding ran the circumference of the entire room. Unique pieces of furniture made by local craftsman dotted the space: a crib, changing table, double dressers, two rockers and wooden wall decorations depicting scenes from famous nursery rhymes. Although the baby wouldn't be staying in this room until he was a little older, Chey loved it and had spent countless hours with Sander, decorating to her heart's content.

“Every time I come in here, I fall in love a little more,” Wynn said, setting her bags down.

“I know, so do I. I'm glad we got it done early. Let's put all this in the right bins.” Chey unloaded the baby clothes from the bags and sorted them into clear bins lined up along the wall. There were already scads of clothes inside, folded neatly, waiting to be washed closer to the time of delivery. Since her time was near, the bins would make it easy for the staff to gather a bunch up at once when she went into labor.

“This kid already has enough clothes to see him through his entire first year.” Wynn smoothed a hand down the pencil skirt of black that she'd coupled with a short coat that matched. Accents of pink rimmed the collar and cuffs, as well as the buttons. Crouching near a bin, she refolded the slew of onesies she'd bought and set them atop the others.

“He does. It's hard to pass up the outfits when you see them in the store, though!” Chey closed the lid on one bin, then the next, to keep the dust out.

“Just wait until you have a girl.” Wynn bobbed her brows.

“We'll need five times the room.” Chey grunted, using the corner of a sturdy dresser to help get on her feet. Pressing both hands against the low of her back, she arched her spine, stretching the muscles. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror across the room and smiled to herself at the image she presented. The white maternity top fit snug through the bust and capped sleeves, gathering at her sternum to fall loose over the swell of her stomach. Baby blue shorts accented the tan length of her legs. She couldn't look more pregnant if she tried.

“I still think you should whisper his name to me. I promise I won't tell a
soul.
” Wynn gathered the empty shopping bags and folded them down flat.

“No way. You mean well, but I know you'd slip and say it in front of someone.” Wynn had been trying to weasel the baby's name out of Chey the entire summer.

“Excuse me, your Highness,” a voice said from the doorway.

Chey glanced away from the mirror. Three men stood just outside in the hall, each wearing somber expressions to match their somber suits. She recognized the lead speaker as Otto Thomsen, one of the lead advisers residing at Kallaster and often in Sander's presence during meetings. Blonde and blue eyed, Otto was every bit as rugged as Sander, a man built sturdy and thick through the chest. His age did not detract from the capable air of experience he brought with him wherever he went.

“Yes, Mister Thomsen?” Chey said.

Otto stepped into the room, holding her gaze.

That was Chey's first inkling that something more serious was wrong. The way Thomsen wouldn't look away from her face. She frowned.

“I'm sorry to say that there has been an accident,” he said in heavily accented English. He clasped his broad hands in front of him, never deviating from eye contact that seemed to forewarn her of impending, unpleasant news.

Alarm made the fine hair on the back of Chey's neck stand on end. “What kind of accident?”

Wynn arrived at Chey's side, hovering close.

Mister Thomsen paused, then said, “An attack on his Majesty's caravan. He is in critical condition and we need to take you to the hospital straightaway.”

Chapter Two

Fear made knots of Chey's stomach, and for the first time in months, she suffered nausea so strong she thought she might lose her lunch all over the helicopter floor. Thomsen's words on the limousine ride from the castle to the helipad haunted her.
Three vehicles affected, six men dead, seven in the intensive care unit not including Sander. IEDs—improvised explosive devices—looked to be the culprit.

The attack hadn't been happenstance, that much was certain. Sander was the target, obviously, and lucky to still be alive.

Wynn, sitting next to her in the aircraft, squeezed her hand. It was too loud to talk in private, a fact Chey was secretly glad for. She didn't think she
could
talk just yet, and didn't want to arrive at the hospital a sobbing mess.

After landing atop the hospital roof, Chey accepted a hand out of the helicopter and, ducking the chop of the rotor blades, headed for the elevator doors with Thomsen and Wynn. Thomsen greeted the waiting guards and escorted Chey from the rooftop to the topmost floor reserved for royalty.

This wasn't Chey's first trip here. She remembered the long corridors and rooms set up like bedroom suites. Instead of a regular suite, however, Thomsen led Chey into a different room on the left, adjacent to the nurse's station. It was large, like the rest, except this one had a wealth of technical gear and a stark, clinical appearance.

Her first glimpse of Sander was a shocking one. Tubes and wires led away from the King of Latvala's body to machines with digital screens. Extensive bruising colored one side of his face; small puncture marks indicative of shrapnel extended down his shoulder and an arm. Gone was the golden, robust man Chey had come to know and love; in his place, a pale shadow with bandages covering yet more wounds on his chest and opposite arm. Chey could only guess what other damage there might be that the blanket covered up.

Approaching with caution, as if she thought he might stop breathing any second, Chey covered her mouth with her hand, trying to stifle the anguish that raced up the back of her throat. Staring down into his face, she took in the slack features, the pliant shape of his mouth. No ventilator parted his lips, a detail she noticed in passing. He must be breathing on his own, a good sign or so she thought. When she reached her fingers to trace the line of his hand, she half expected him to be cool to the touch. Much to her relief, he was warm, pulse steady and strong under his skin.