The Wandering Warlock's Fated Mate: M/M Gay Paranormal Romance Page 3

“You bitter little wretch,” Vasant spat, but Athansius forced a ruthless smile upon his face.

  The demigod replied, “Casting a curse so powerful you can’t even break it, isn’t that impressive?” Vasant sneered. Quick to anger, he made disasters in his rage. “None of your children want to govern the land of the dead, yet you come and curse the one person who does want that title, ensuring your husband - my father - can never retire. People keep dying, and you can only see him six months of the year because you were too jealous to allow his eldest son to inherit.”

  “You were a mistake. If he had waited another decade, I would have claimed my title and our connection would’ve been made!” Vasant bellowed. All around him, ivy grew. Seeds caught between the cracks came to life once more. Moss softened the stone.

  Athanasius reached out to Castor. Not to speak with the warlock but to verify that his worries needed to continue. Faster and faster, Castor raced toward a dangerous forest with a god almost as ruthless and cruel as Vasant, and there was nothing Athanasius could do.

  “And still, none of your children would want to be trapped. They are children of spring. Can you blame them for wanting to spend more time than the position would allow on Earth?” the demigod retorted, and the god of spring could not argue.

  Every time, he swore the next one would be it, and though he had almost two dozen siblings, none of them wished to inherit the dead. Athanasius half expected his godly father refused his stepfather’s advances to enjoy the break from having children. Perhaps he had enough sense to realize no amount of children would produce the replacement he had conceived Athanasius to have.

  Unable to get the upper hand, Vasant vanished, leaving only the ravens behind. Glaring at them, Athanasius huffed. “You could have stopped this too.”

  Always busy, the god of death did not answer even if he did watch. Pragmatic at his core, the god couldn’t disagree, but the curse destroyed any chance he had of Athanasius being his heir. Vasant used the boost of numerous sacrifices all to bind the demigod to a title that he had no right having. Whatever excuse Vasant used to prevent more powerful gods from interfering as it would take a full half-dozen of the most powerful gods such as the god of death to undo, Athanasius better suited death or warfare rather than some ridiculous protector title. One he would only inherit officially once the curse broke.

  “Once you have a child, you’ll understand,” his stepfather always teased, but with a body scarred and trained for war, Athanasius couldn’t imagine the changes a child would bring.

  Covered in blood - cursed by the dead who he had believed his penance would be in serving as his godly father’s inheritor - the demigod knew he did not deserve Castor or a child. Born for death and built for war, how could he be a protector of life? He would only ruin everything, and the sooner Castor realized that and gave up on him, the sooner Vasant would be forced to admit his mistake, and finally - finally then, Athanasius hoped - his curse would be broken, and he could finally join his human mother, his human stepfather, and his human half-brother in the halls of the dead. At least he had served them well.

  Chapter Four

  Despite racing forth from the castle, the prince’s curse meant he had not been aware of the direction the battalion containing his beloved had been sent.

  “My father constantly sent armies to attack and conquer villages to expand our borders. He could’ve been sent to any of them,” Artair grumbled when they reached the first crossroads. “Can’t you use your magic?”

  With a huff, Castor retorted, “If I could track someone at a whim, I would’ve already found my own mate.”

  The prince frowned, but with a glower at both roads, he guided his horse to the left. “I would’ve thought a man such as yourself - free to travel as you like - would have already found your mate.”

  “It isn’t as easy as it sounds.”

  “It’s fate,” Artair replied. “You’re like two sides of a coin.”

  Castor shook his head. “Poetic, but fate doesn’t always give us such clear paths.”

  Chuckling, the prince glanced over his shoulder. “Our meeting wasn’t easy. I never expected Myrddin. When we first met, he insulted me, and we fought. I thought myself the better man for my title and training, but this - this skinny boy with knobby knees and a mess of black hair called a staff into his hands and knocked me on my ass.”

  “And you were instantly smitten?” the warlock queried, but the prince shook his head.

  “I hated him,” Artair confessed. “For a long time, my father favored Myrddin. As the most powerful wizard contracted to his service, Myrddin became a throne in my side. Wherever my father went, there he was. Whatever mission I tried to undertake, Myrddin proved invaluable. Eventually, my father elected to place us together, giving Myrddin to me as my servant.”

  Giving another’s life so easily irked Castor. If he could combine every curse he ever cured, they would not be enough to punish the king as the warlock longed to do.

  “So if his competence failed to woo you, how did you realize your destiny?” Castor pushed, longing to silence the fury of his own raging thoughts.

  Artair sighed. “He drank poison for me.”

  “Huh - he must have liked you.”

  But the prince shook his head. “No. He hated me just as fiercely as I hated him.”

  “Then the contract?”

  “He told me of the poison, and I dismissed him. He held no further duty to me. In fact, he embarrassed me and my father at court by what he did,” Artair explained. “My father wanted to let him die, but...but I couldn’t bear it. At first, my ego demanded he not die proving himself better than me, but after I managed to save him, I saw him in a new light. As much as he hated me, he went above and beyond what any other magic user would do to ensure the happiness and safety of our realm. The entire castle loved him. Every knight who I called a friend and was free to pursue a lover chased him at one time or another.”

  “Jealousy?”

  “A bit.” Artair smiled even as he urged the horse just a bit faster, seemingly growing more and more certain of the path they were taking. “I realized I trusted him more than anyone. When I had to make important decisions, his opinion was always the one I sought.”

  Castor smiled, imaging the long and winding road which led Artair and his Myrddin from bitter rivals to friends to the realization of what fate had in store for them. “And when did you realize you were fated?”

  With a laugh, Artair confessed, “My father demanded Myrddin look into my cord. He wanted to betroth me, but despite his claims that we were human, he requested Myrddin look into it behind my back.”

  “So, of course, he told you.”

  “He did. I told him it had to be him. We went on a hunt, and by a lake deep in the forest, we sat together and when he cast the spell to see the face of my fated one, the water he planned to use to project the face, so I could see, ended up raging. As it rained down around us, we both saw the red string which bonded us, one to the other,” Artair explained, and his wistfulness seemed infectious. Castor’s heart raced. “We made love on that shore. When we returned...my half-sister had attacked. Next I knew, there you were.”

  “Three months later,” Castor informed him. When Artair stiffened, the warlock’s eyes widened. “Oh seven hells, did none of us tell you?”

  Swallowing, the prince paled. “It doesn’t matter. We’re going to spend the rest of our long - long lives happily together.”

  “He could be anywhere. Why don’t we stop? I can do a tracking spell,” Castor suggested, but the prince shook his head.

  “I feel him. Not an ounce of magic in me that I could use, but I can feel him reaching out. I know the way,” Artair announced, and as the horse sped into a run, he fell silent, and with the wind racing around them, the warlock could only hold on once more.

  As the prince focused on following whatever instinct he believed led him to his beloved Myrddin, Castor focused inward. Somewhere - wherever the curse trapped him even if i
t were in his mind alone - the warlock’s mate paced. Like a caged beast, he prowled with anxious intent. The resignation which characterized their relationship crumbled when faced with the impatience and fear radiating from the dark-haired man. His black hair fell in braids and waves about his shoulders. The metal bindings glinted as bright as his quicksilver eyes. Muscles rippling with each step, Castor’s fated man released a low breath.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so nervous before. Where was this when I slept with that bearded fellow?” Castor teased.

  His mate rounded on him, frowning. “You don’t even know the man’s name, why would I care if you fucked him?”

  “I don’t know yours either,” the warlock pointed out.

  Clucking his tongue, his mate rolled his eyes. “I’d rather you find someone better suited to you. We’ve discussed how unhappy I would make you.”

  “A point of contention, I assure you.”

  Running his calloused hands over his face, the warlock’s mate groaned. “Don’t you understand that I’m trying to save your life?”

  “Don’t you understand I don’t want a life without you?” Castor retorted.

  This old argument led nowhere. Despite his words, his mate clung to him just as fiercely in their dreams even if he never seemed to respond sexually. However, he encouraged Castor to explore his sexuality and find partners to discover what he enjoyed. Perhaps his motive was to push Castor to find someone, but as his fated mate, the dark-haired man had to realize how pointless that was. The warlock preferred to believe his mate simply wanted him to be better trained to ensure their mutual pleasure - or when he was drunk, he held fast to the belief guilt over his own experience pushed his mate to set aside his feelings.

  As the silence dragged on, his mate bit his scarred lip. “Nasi.”

  Castor’s brows furrowed. “Pardon?”

  “I won’t be able to convince you to leave the prince on his own, will I?” his mate retorted as if that answered anything at all.

  Castor laughed. “The more nervous you get, the more certain I am that it’ll lead me closer to you.”

  “It won’t,” his mate insisted. “It might just kill you.”

  “And Nasi?”

  “My brother used to call me that.”

  Castor’s eyes widened. His heart leapt up into his throat, and if he hadn’t mastered the art of balancing his physical body while his mind wandered, he would have fallen off the horse. “Your name…”

  His mate - his Nasi - shrugged. “Part of it.”

  “More than you’ve ever given me before,” Castor reminded him - reminded Nasi.

  Flushing that delicate pink, Nasi huffed. “I’d tell you more if you stopped this ridiculousness.”

  His offering tempted the warlock, but if Nasi wanted to bribe Castor from his course, his prior attitude left the blond-haired man all the more convinced of the path he had chosen. Though Nasi seemed determined to protect Castor from his curse, the warlock refused to be cowed. Cowardice served no purpose in the pursuit of love.

  As a forest rose in the distance, a curl of smoke and the smell of iron drew the warlock back into his body. Lush green surrounded them, and the tops of trees glistened in the distance. Not long ago, it had rained over there. Up the steep side of a hill, they rode, but something was wrong. A sick feeling pooled in his gut. Artair blanched first. His nose perhaps catching the scent before it drifted to the warlock’s own.

  Cooked meat filled his nose followed by something foul and rotten. Iron and sulphur - the blur fires of brimstone, and over the crest, they came. Only blood and bodies lay before them. From the base of the hill to the forest and even hanging dead from the trees first in line, bodies charred beyond recognition lay.

  “Whoa!” Artair called, pulling on the reins. High on the hill, the pair stared out at the destruction, and stumbling from the saddle first, Artair half ran and half slipped down the slope, but the prince stopped just shy of where blood pooled painting the ground red. “Myrddin!” Again and again, he called his mate. “Myrddin!

  Blinking, the warlock swallowed back the tears rising to his burning eyes. His eyes caught upon the tattered remains of a bloodstained flag - the flag of Aelion. Even if this was not where Myrddin had been posted, these soldiers had belonged to Artair’s father. But who had they been fighting? This wasn’t a border. No other humans lay dead in the field. Even if they had been surprised by the attack, the scent of magic overlay the rest - crackling and like too thick air. The wizards should have managed to take at least one other down, but they hadn’t. Whatever attacked destroyed them completely.

  Smoke tickled Castor’s nose, but the crackling scent came from somewhere besides the battlefield which laid wrecked before them. Tearing his eyes from the devastation, the warlock pulled his pack forward, and horror choked him.

  “Fuck!” he screamed, and reaching into the enchanted bag, he summoned the kindling which had burst so unexpectedly into flames.

  Parchment shot into the sky. Like fireworks, they exploded. Bright flashes of broken spellwork made red by the blood which bound them into being. No rain could put these fires out. Every attempt to summon water and pull them down from the sky failed.

  “No-no-no, I can fix this. I can fix this,” the warlock chanted, but his words failed to reach Artair.

  On his knees, the prince stared out at the field with wide eyes. Tears streamed down his face, and as blood saturated the ground, painting layer after layer burgundy, he wept silently. Charred remains prevented identification. Whatever bond existed in life shattered in the afterlife. Unreachable until both parties once more walked the same plain. Even if Myrddin’s ghost wandered the fields or stood at his living lover’s side, only a necromancer could be able to tell.

  As the last contract flew out of his bag, Castor managed to snag it from the sky. The edges burned. Death burst them from the other side, announcing the contracted magic users no longer lived, but the one in his hands seemed to sizzle with a different purpose. Runes melded together, making it unreadable. Whoever signed this contract may yet live, but whatever had them pulled at their bindings. Offering it to Artair as possible proof that his lover lived served no purpose. It would only kindle false hope. If this one lived, they wouldn’t be alive for long. Some section of the contract had left the person open to some strange magic. Not a curse - not something so simple that Castor might trace its source, but something ancient and vicious.

  Covered in ash as the contracts continued to explode - each torn piece bursting anew until black cinders rained down on their heads, Castor pulled out a mirror from his side. Fannar ignored his calls more often than not, but if he could contact Ronan, the warlock had a way of taking the taciturn Fannar around.

  “Ronan,” Castor called. “Ronan, can you hear me?”

  As the mirror rippled, a familiar face came into view. The brown-haired warlock smiled brightly at the sight of his friend until his eyes studied the heavy lines of his face - and perhaps heard the terrible booms of the explosions overhead. “Castor, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m in Aelion, and I need Fannar’s help. The king forced blood contracts, and they’re exploding. It is a massacre, but I think -” before he could finish, Artair’s hand covered the mirror. “What are you doing?”

  The prince’s empty eyes met the warlock’s. All his emotions drained and left only cold determination in their wake. Suddenly, he looked far more like his father than he had in the short time which Castor knew him. “This is Myrddin’s contract.”

  “It-it could be, but the words blurred. Something powerful has whoever -”

  Again, Artair interrupted, “This is Myrddin’s contract. He is alive. I will find him. Your services are no longer required.”

  “Castor?” Ronan called from the mirror, his voice colored in confusion.

  “Don’t be a fool!” the blond warlock roared. “You have no idea where he is or what has him! I can help!”

  Shaking his head, the prince stepped aw
ay, taking the reins of his horse in hand. “Thank you for your assistance, Warlock Castor, but I must find him alone.”

  “Why? Did fate tell you that? I’m a warlock. I can do magic. I’ve traveled this land long before you were born, and you should damn well respect that I would undoubtedly do better against whatever has him that you,” Castor bellowed, waving the sizzling contract in the air between them.

  Without a word, Artair stole the contract from his fingers. He folded it, tucking the parchment - even as it still burned - into the inner pocket of his jacket. With each explosion, a red light crowned him. If the prince survived, he would be all the more fearsome for it. A nod of his head ended their association, and off the man went into the midst of the bloody field. Corpses piled and rotting on either side, but Artair paid them no more heed. Whatever drove him forward, Castor prayed it was more than foolhardy hope. Whatever or whoever served in the name of that contract had stumbled upon something far more powerful than anything Castor had come across in his wanderings.

  “Idiot,” the warlock murmured.

  In the mirror, Ronan called to him. “Castor, are you safe? I can open a portal -”

  “No need,” Castor replied, forcing a smile. “It seems my services are no longer required.”

  “But are you safe?”

  It seemed such a silly question in the face of all that lay before him, but despite his talents in battle magic, Ronan decided upon a kinder path. “I’m safe, Ronan, but I need to head back on the road.” Short goodbyes followed even as red light flashed, and Castor’s eyes traced the white steed and golden-haired prince before he became too small upon the horizon.

  As the explosions ceased and only the blood and ash remained, he tucked his bag beneath his cloak and turned his back to the scene. They had come from a road, and back to the road, he would return. Though he slept regularly all his life, Castor did not sleep for three straight days as he raced from the country. Even as he crossed the rough boundary between Aelion and its southern neighbor, the warlock went straight through the first two towns before collapsing in an inn at the third.