“My Queen?” he rasped. He couldn’t hear her anymore. His body felt like it had after battling Redstar atop Mount Lister, broken. Freezing to the core.
He planted a hand on the stone of the courtyard and felt cool liquid run over it. Finger’s quaking, he brought them to his mouth. It was water, bubbling forth from the broken fountain. He sighed in relief.
A cacophony of whispering broke out all around him, all blending. He could perceive none of it over toll of the bell or the deep ringing in his eardrums from hitting his head.
“Oleander…” Torsten said.
He crawled farther, until his knuckles brushed against hair, soft as velvet. He patted along it, finding her face. His palm covered a patch of mottled, scarred skin, finding the smooth side as he stretched his fingers across. Her skin was colder than the stone beneath him.
“Oleander?” He said, drawing himself closer, wrapping his massive hand around the back of her neck and lifting her head with no resistance. With his other, he patted for her chest, desperate to hear a heartbeat, but instead, he found the shaft of an arrow sticking from the center.
Suddenly, form came to the whispers closing in all around him.
“She’s dead.”
“The Queen’s dead.”
“By Iam, the monsters did it.”
Fear caught in Torsten’s throat and made him feel like he was drowning. He pulled her closer and pressed his ear against the top of her chest, scratching his cheek against the arrow as he did. Blood filled his earlobe, still leaking from a pair of fang-marks on her neck—marks, which Torsten shared.
“Sir Unger!” Lucas called out. “Sir Unger!”
Torsten could hear the boy’s injured foot dragging along the stone but didn’t care. Guards barked for citizens to get out of the way, and nobody dared resist this time.
“Sir Unger, Sir Hystad will make it, he—” Words got stuck on the tip of Lucas’s tongue as his voice grew nearer. “By the light of Iam… What…”
Torsten felt hands on his shoulders. He shook them away and pressed Oleander closer.
“Oleander…” Torsten whimpered, strands of her hair stuck on his bloody lips. “Oh, my Queen.” He squeezed her face against his, feeling all the valleys and crags of her scars, and her tears running through them.
“Sir Unger, you must—”
“Don’t touch her!” Torsten shouted, silencing Lucas in an instant. All the gathering crowd gasped and backed away in the face of his thunderous roar.
Torsten turned back toward his broken Queen and ran his fingers over her forehead. Her eyes remained open, gazing upward into the darkness of the night sky. He fought his uncontrollable shaking to close them.
“Is this what she deserves?” Torsten asked in the direction of the church spire. Since he’d lost his sight, he’d found solace trusting in Iam again, knowing it’d been for a purpose, that it was the cost for his shattered faith when he lay locked in the dungeon of his own kingdom, branded a traitor.
“I couldn’t save you…” he whispered. Now, that was all he knew. Whatever had happened, he’d been tossed aside by her killers like a blind, old, useless man. “For all my words. All my promises.”
“Is that Codar?” Lucas said.
“He tried to save her,” answered a nearby guard, voice gruff like his was severely injured.
“Nobody could save her,” Torsten said. Slowly, he rose to a single knee, then another. He ignored Lucas’s attempts at helping him, until he stood upright, Oleander’s body draped across his arms. Her head lay over his arm, that long, slender neck which had inspired so many songs of beauty, hanging limp.
More gasps sounded from the sight of her denuded body as he turned, beaten, bloody, and broken. Torsten trudged toward the streets, again refusing Lucas’s help. He felt like he was wading through white rapids.
“Iam save us all,” someone said.
“Look how frail she is,” said another.
Torsten heard the nervous footsteps of citizens backing out of his way. He listened to their shock. From guards to the very men of South Corner who’d rioted and caused so much chaos, bound and restrained against the cart they’d flipped. Few loved her, many hated her, they all feared her, but there wasn’t a soul who’d ever seen her weak. The towering beauty who could turn men’s hearts to ice was cradled in Torsten’s arms like a hunted fawn, not just weak, but gone.
Torsten didn’t cover her. He left her exposed for all to see, their true queen. And all those citizens who might’ve doubted the parts of the stories about how she’d sacrificed her beauty to save Pi and the Kingdom, suddenly could deny it no longer.
From every angle, Shieldsmen and soldiers arrived, begging to help. Torsten ignored all of them. He carried Oleander one heavy footstep at a time back up the road toward the castle gates. He knew the way. All he had to do was follow the chiming of the castle’s warning bells, which drowned out that of the church’s all too late.
“Open the gates!” Lucas shouted ahead.
“It’s too dark. Who is that?” a guard called down from above.
“Open the gates, you sorry sod!” Lucas shouted. “It’s the shogging queen!”
A portcullis cranked open, then heavy doors swung, the hinges screeching like angry specters. Torsten never stopped. He continued his march, hearing the flood of footsteps at his back as, suddenly, hundreds who would have cringed at the sight of their wicked Queen, followed behind her.
Men of the Glass approached from all directions, desperate to figure out what happened while they were holed behind the castle walls in defense of the Crown. Lucas struggled to keep them at bay, but still, Torsten waded onward. His fingers dug into Oleander’s flesh, bracing against the onslaught of curious and confused hands, against the heat of torches brought close by men to see her with clarity as if they didn’t believe it.
“Torsten,” Sir Mulliner’s voice carried. “Torsten, is it true, is it… Shogging exile… Back away from him, Marcos, or you’ll be on the streets by morning! Let him through.”
Suddenly, Torsten found himself pushing through less confusion. He waited until the frantic voices and clattering armor began to echo in the Castle’s grand hall entrance, reverberating amongst the glass spires above. Then, his impossibly weakened legs finally gave out and collapsed to his knees.
“Torsten!” Mulliner and Lucas said at the same time. They grasped his shoulders to keep him from face-planting, Torsten’s nails clinging into Oleander as he’d once seen Pi clutch his orepul. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to let her go.
“Sir Unger, we’ll take her from here,” Lucas whispered.
“When Iam kills me, you will!”
Sir Mulliner squeezed Torsten’s shoulder. “I should have been out there. Yig and shog, I should have been there!”
Torsten managed to pry his left hand loose from the Queen’s supple thigh and clutched Sir Mulliner’s jaw. “Is the King okay?” he said. “Is Pi, okay?”
“He’s fine, he’s—”
“What’s happening?” Pi’s small voice filled the hall. All at once, every guard, servant or noble in the castle was rendered silent. Torsten could only imagine the way they regarded him then. Like a wounded deer.
“Your Grace, you should return to your room,” some new member of the Royal Council said.
“Out of my way,” Pi demanded.
“Your Grace, please.”
“Out of my way!”
The boy’s tiny footsteps were all that could be heard over the distant bells. They grew faster and faster until their cadence became a run and Torsten heard his labored breathing.
“Sir Unger,” he squeaked, his voice trembling. “What happened?”
Torsten turned his blind face toward the sound of him. It was blood-drenched and streaked with sweat that felt like the tears he was unable to produce. Finally, both his hands came loose, and the Queen’s body rolled across the floor. There seemed no better place for it then on that cold marble, icy as the frozen dirt of the lan
ds from which she hailed.
“What happened!” The boy broke down and ran to her. “Mother… mother? Someone fetch the Royal Physician! Help her!”
Nobody answered. Everyone merely backed away, giving their king space as he wept uncontrollably. Everyone but Torsten. He crawled toward the boy and wrapped his arms around him. He didn’t care about being appropriate. He didn’t care about any of it. All he felt in his embrace was the heaving of a crying boy who’d lost his mother; who’d already endured more than any man, woman, or child ever should.
“She’s gone, Pi,” Torsten whispered. “Your mother is dead…”
Speaking the words out loud made his chest sting, but he forced them for Pi. Whatever the king said next was indiscernible through his tears.
“I—I failed her…” Torsten said.
He held Pi tight, not fighting as the boy’s tiny fists beat against his chest in agony until he no longer had the energy. Torsten never allowed his grip to lessen. He held Pi upright, and nearly as much, Pi kept him from collapsing from sorrow and exhaustion.
The ‘Flower of the Drav Cra’ was dead, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it…
XXVI
THE THIEF
Grass rustled beneath them, and mud sloshed as they snuck back through the graveyard toward the other side of town where the Drav Cra were still capturing everyone unfortunate to have been in Fettingborough. Whitney knew stories about the raiders, every Glassman did. They usually burned and looted, but they’d barely caused enough stir for anyone to have a chance to run. Judging by those dead, they’d silently eliminated the town’s few guards, then dragged everyone out of their homes and taverns before a soul could fight back.
Whitney had to wonder why they didn’t just kill them all and be done with it.
Celeste burned somewhere bright above, but she was cloaked in a blanket of storm clouds. Rain drove at their necks and lightning flashed in every direction as it often did in this area of Pantego. Thunder rumbled as if Iam was tossing boulders. The conditions were better for sneaking than Whitney could have hoped for, but he thought the description of them “sneaking” was generous since Rand’s sword sheath kept clanking against his boots like a bell tower.
Grint waddled behind. The dwarf was surprisingly quiet, given the dwarf’s typically loud nature. The dwarf was still grumbling about how Rand had untied Whitney, but Whitney wasn’t listening. All he could think about was Darkings, and Gentry, and Aquira, and Sora.
He longed for the days when he didn’t care about anyone or anything other than himself.
“Here it is,” Rand said. He lifted the slain Drav Cra scout’s bow and held them out for Whitney.
Whitney snatched it and slung it over his shoulder, then took the man’s quiver. He turned and nudged the body with his foot.
“Think you can carry it, Grint?” Whitney said.
“Ye flower pickers think yer sooo much stronger because ye can see over a horse,” Grint groaned. He stopped alongside the body, bent over, and started to lift it. Rand offered help, but the dwarf swatted him away. “We dwarves are built for…” He drew a deep breath, then heaved the corpse over his shoulders with a loud grunt. “Power.”
“Quiet,” Whitney warned.
Grint’s face went redder than ever, but he balanced the body and started moving. “Quiet,” he grumbled. “I’ll give ye quiet.” He was surprisingly strong, carrying the dead Northman warrior over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Grint was so short that the Drav Cra’s head up front and toes behind practically dragged in the dirt.
“I still don’t get the plan,” Rand said. “Are you sure you understand it?”
“I’ve killed a goddess,” Whitney said.
“No, you didn’t,” Rand snapped. “You were part of a team who supposedly killed a giant spider, and I am positive the whole team understood the plan before going bare-assed into the middle of a Drav Cra horde.”
Whitney spun around. “Why are you bare-assed?” He smiled. “We just need to thin the ranks a bit. Twenty to three aren’t good odds no matter how many cards you have shoved up your sleeve. Can Darkings fight if we get him out or does he just flap his arms around like a little girl?”
Rand had fire in his eyes but said nothing.
They continued, passing unmarked gravestones and makeshift Eyes of Iam made of twigs and wilting vines.
“Okay, in there.” Whitney pointed to another alley he guessed to be close enough to the Drav Cra without being fully visible.
The walls on either side of them were nondescript, but from Whitney’s explorations, he’d placed them between the cobbler and a coin bank. Another time and Whitney might have found himself drooling over the opportunity to slip into the vaults and relieve Fettingborough of their stored wealth.
A loud grunt pulled Whitney from his thoughts. Grint threw the warrior off his shoulder.
“Meungor’s axe,” Grint said, stretching his shoulders. “I can’t believe I’m trustin ye.”
“You know better than any you can trust me,” Whitney said. “I stole the crown just like you asked. This is nothing.”
“And ye lost it just the same.”
“And I believe that was mostly your fault, wasn’t it scraggle-beard?”
“Ye take that back!”
“Okay, okay,” Rand said. “Stop it. Are we just going to bicker with one another this whole time? Besides, it was me who stopped you after you broke the crown.”
“And who do you think had the other half?” Whitney said. “And I took it from him too.”
Grint snorted. “Yeah? Don’t see it on ye no more.”
“It’s uh…” Whitney paused. He realized he had no idea where it was. To him, it seemed like years ago when he and Sora had been toying around with it on a ship bound for Panping before Kazimir arrived and they vanished. It didn’t join him in Elsewhere, which meant that Sora was the last to have it as far as he knew. And knowing her, she probably tossed it into the sea just to make a point.
“None of this matters,” Rand said. “Can we focus? The sooner we figure a way out of this, the sooner we don’t ever have to see each other again.”
“Took the words right out of me mouth,” Grint said.
Whitney let out a grunt and then a sigh. He said, “Well, just follow my plan, and we’ll be fine.” He stepped toward the front of the alley, which was now close enough that he could see without needing lightning for aid, not that it relented anyway.
In the square ahead, a Drav Cra warrior spat orders. Two sides of a long, braided mustache hung on either side of his bare chin. His muscles bulged, each bicep bigger than a normal man’s head.
Closer now, Whitney had a better sense of things. Twenty or more Northmen stood around, unconcerned and confident. They were imposing, all with battle axes or warhammers, draped in furs, matted and mottled from the heavy rains that had barely let up in weeks. From there, thankfully, Whitney couldn’t see anyone painted or with bones rattling from their robes, which meant they didn’t likely have a warlock with them. That would have complicated things even further.
One wagon, filled with those in Whitney’s troupe, was already loaded and being sent off with half the warriors. A dire wolf snapped at zhulong heels, keeping them moving briskly despite their proper owners being absent. For a moment, Whitney considered ducking and running after it, taking his chances alone against a dozen Drav Cra. Those odds weren’t much worse, and he could easily leave Barty to the wolves.
Before Whitney could decide, Grint hocked up a wad of spit and rubbed it between his palms.
“Gross,” Whitney said.
“Ready?” Grint asked.
Whitney and Rand nodded. Then, together, Grint and Rand hefted the Drav Cra corpse into a standing position as Whitney moved to the back end of the alley and drew an arrow. The warrior’s head lulled to his chest, lifeless, but it was stormy and dark. Plus, they were still a fair distance from the gathered Drav Cra horde. When the man was upright, Rand turned back
to Whitney. Whitney urged him with a nod. Rand shook his head in resignation.
“This is for you, Siggy,” he muttered, then lifted his chin. “I’m done with the wench,” Rand shouted in his best Drav Crava accent—which was terrible, but it was still far better than Grint’s earlier attempt when they’d decided Rand would do it.
The body’s butt rested on Grint’s head. Whitney stifled a laugh. It was what the little bastard deserved. Steal from the King…
“This girl’s ripe. Who’s next?” Rand called, waving the dead man’s hand around to make him seem alive.
Whitney could only pray his plan would work. Problem was, he had no idea who to pray to about a scheme involving a dead man coaxing a bunch of warriors into an alley to rape a woman.
“There you are, Gorvan,” one Drav Cra replied, apparently having wondered why their scout never returned. “Let’s go!”
“What’s the rush?” Rand said. Grint made his best impression of a woman screaming.
“Go on,” said one warrior. “We’ll catch up.” Several comments in Drav Crava followed. Whitney assumed they were lewd, which made the next part even easier than it already was. The sounds of the wagon pulling out of town and its zhulong mewing carried on the air. It was better than Whitney could’ve asked for.
Together, Rand and Grint pulled the warrior back into the alley a bit until they were out of sight, then dropped the body and ran back toward Whitney.
“How many are coming?” Whitney asked, but it was too late.
A few warriors already appeared in the mouth of the alley. As Whitney let the arrow fly, he realized it was the first time he’d shot an arrow since the day in Troborough when the Black Sandsmen attacked. In truth, that was only half a year or less, but to him, having endured time in Elsewhere, it was more than half a decade.
To his surprise, the arrow found purchase in a neck—but there were so many of them, he would’ve had to have tried in order to miss. Whitney had another arrow nocked before the warrior could raise alarm. Another shot later and the second one was down. But it wouldn’t be enough. Whitney was disgusted by how many of the warriors had shown up for a chance at some poor young girl. Then he remembered… it wasn’t just some poor girl. It would have been Franny.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 34