Edrik flinched at the accusation. “Of course not, Essan.”
He gestured to Danlin, who took several men to collect Rathe and Loro. While they lifted the two warriors, Edrik studied those lying on the ground. Crewmen, soldiers, a king and queen, all made equal by the powers of the Blood of Life and Munam a’Dett Order.
Thaeson made his study, as well. “A mercy that the Oracle instructed us not to kill these hapless fools.” As he spoke, the Shield of the Fathers began a slow retreat, first passing back over the ships, then coming to the riverbank. Though the crawling radiance still webbed the Shield’s surface, now there was no sound of rushing winds and waters. Thaeson had used that display to debilitate the outsiders—the deycath.
“Perhaps we should kill them,” Edrik said, struggling with the revulsion he felt at the thought of so much wanton murder. He eased his conscience with a glance at Nesaea, her face hidden by a tangled fall of dark hair. After what Jathen had done to her, she would likely welcome death upon waking.
Thaeson shook his head. “The Oracle assured Quidan Salris that these people pose no threat to the Shield of the Fathers, or to Targas.” His tone spoke of absolute faith in the entity that had guided the priesthood in ruling the Everlasting City of Light for five hundred years, but his furrowed brow betrayed underlying concerns.
Perhaps he’s only tired, Edrik told himself.
“Come,” Thaeson said. “Dawn isn’t so far off that we can dally, and I’ll not waste more of the Blood of Life to ensure the wall does not kill us with its touch.”
Edrik used a hand to buoy his aged mentor. The rest fell in line behind them, bearing Rathe Lahkurin, the Scorpion, the hope of Targas.
~ ~ ~
Sheltered within the protective embrace of the Zanar-Sariit, Algar stalked after Edrik and the others, glad he had refused Brother Jathen’s order to stop them from crushing the Lamprey. There had been a moment when he feared that decision was foolhardy, but now he sensed opportunity. After seeing what these folk named the Shield of the Fathers, and then a dragon transform into the man Thaeson, Algar understood that these folk had far greater powers at their disposal than just the ability to vanish from sight. Blood of Life, he mused, thinking of those golden flasks they drank from.
When they crossed a desolate band of ground—to Algar it resembled a dry moat—Edrik and the others paused to watch the silent advance of the Shield of the Fathers. Remembering what Thaeson had said about its touch being deadly, Algar moved well clear.
The dome, as Algar considered it, was massive and vaulted high overhead, but he saw that it was only an extension of an even larger dome. The smaller of the two halted when it reached the barren strip of dirt, and merged smoothly with the larger. The webs of lightning—only the portion of the dome he stood beneath burned with that undulating radiance—faded to a nearly transparent glimmering.
Thaeson nodded in satisfaction. “We’re safe.”
Before the old man could turn, Edrik caught his arm. “I trust Kyreen and the baby are well?” he asked, just above a whisper.
A scowl crossed Thaeson’s face, but he didn’t answer. Curious, Algar edged closer. Secret knowledge of your foes, potential foes, and even friends, was often more valuable than gold.
“Essan,” Edrik said, “my wife and child are well, aren’t they?”
“It’s best if we discuss this once we reach Targas.”
“I would know now.”
Thaeson sighed. “You need to trust me, Edrik.”
“Has something happened? Please, tell me.”
“Very well, but you must promise to do nothing rash.” Thaeson waited until Edrik nodded. “The last I saw Kyreen, she was still fat with child.”
“Last you saw her? You mean … she’s gone?” Edrik gasped.
Thaeson nodded sadly. “Like so many others of late, Kyreen has chosen to betray our cause by throwing her lot in with those who plot against the Munam a’Dett in a bid to destroy the peace and harmony of Targas.”
“Impossible!” Edrik flared.
Thaeson put a comforting hand on Edrik’s arm. “I visited a few nights past, as I’ve done every night since you departed. When I arrived, an empty house awaited me. I charged those we trust to find her, but they have found no sign of her anywhere. Nor has any of Kyreen’s family seen her.”
“Perhaps she was taken?”
“For all their faults, the traitors have never lowered themselves to seizing anyone.”
Edrik ran a hand over his shaved pate. “I’ll lead the next search myself.”
“Of course, my boy,” Thaeson said encouragingly, but Algar saw the hopelessness in his eyes that Edrik missed.
“We must hurry,” Edrik said, spinning away.
As he went, Algar noted something else the young man failed to see. His men, those who had followed his every command since Algar first spied them in Iceford, now looked upon Edrik with suspicion. What could make them turn so quickly? Algar wondered.
Following the company into a lush forest that looked to have never suffered a winter, Algar found a partial answer to his question in something Thaeson had said. “For all their faults, the traitors have never lowered themselves to seizing anyone.”
When there were traitors about, there was strife and discord. And where strife and discord existed….
Algar smiled to himself, the opportunity he had sensed earlier becoming clearer by the moment.
Chapter 27
“It feels warmer,” Queen Erryn said to Aedran.
They had marched away from Stormhold after the worst of the sickness had passed. Over half of her soldiers had suffered crippling fevers from the stings and bites of the glowing caterpillars. Most were still weak as kittens, but after spending a couple of nights guarding against the return of the spiny worms, and getting hungrier all the while, they had been ready to brave the unending snowstorm that had trapped them at the fortress in the first place. Likely, that storm probably still raged amongst the Gyntors’ highest crags, but down in the forested foothills, the snowfall was lighter.
“It might be a touch warmer at that,” Aedran agreed, surveying the soldiers clearing the way up ahead. The snow was only knee-deep here, allowing for a faster march. He glanced back to her. “I, for one, will be happy to set camp in a forest full of wood to burn.”
Erryn put on a wide grin. “A bonfire would be nice.”
Aedran blinked, seemingly confused by her good humor. Erryn remembered she was supposed to be angry with him, but truth told, she wasn’t angry at all. Disappointed that he had shunned her over some ridiculous custom, perhaps, but not angry. Besides, in some small way, he had made amends by forcing her to actually lead her army in defending against the glowing caterpillars.
“I also want food,” she said. “As much as I can stuff into myself.”
Aedran’s face lit up. “I could eat a horse.”
“And so you shall,” she said. The grueling march out of the high passes of the Gyntors had resulted in several more horses dying.
He laughed at that, and she laughed with him.
This is how it should be between us, she thought, a chaotic heat spreading from her middle to her cheeks. She looked boldly at him, refusing to hide her blush. For a long time, he didn’t look away.
When he spoke again, it was to suggest an early stop for the night. Erryn made a show of thinking it over before agreeing. All the while, a creeping tingle of longing threaded its way through her. Perhaps tonight my tent won’t be so cold … nor my furs so barren.
The army halted an hour later and began setting up camp. As they worked, many of the men grumbled under their breath. Of late, Erryn had noticed that air of discontent more and more.
“They’re just weary,” Aedran said, when she brought it up.
She paused in hammering a wooden tent stake into the snow between four hoary spruce trees. “I’ve seen tired men before, and I’ve seen these men tired before. This is different.”
“Half of them nearly died f
rom those poisonous worms. Most of them were still sick when we left Stormhold. They’re not faring much better now. Besides, the journey has taken longer than it should have, all with too little food and too little warmth to take their minds off their freezing backsides. They’re tired of marching, and ready for—”
“Gold and glory,” Erryn interrupted.
“Aye.”
“Gold I have in plenty, so when can I expect to give my men the glory they want and deserve?”
Aedran looked to the west, but there was nothing much to see besides a forest of gray-black trunks jutting from the snow. Higher, the setting sun peeked through the clouds and painted the sky a deep crimson. “Before any glory comes, we must travel many leagues north, until we reach the headwaters of the River Sedge.”
Erryn stifled a groan. She’d had her fill of marching. “What good does a river do, as it must be frozen over by now?”
“On the banks of the Sedge, there is a surprise waiting for you.”
That caught her off-guard. “What sort of surprise?”
Aedran avoided looking at her. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be much of a—” He uttered a startled squawk when she pelted him with a snowball.
“It’s unwise to keep things from your queen,” she warned, her smile belying the gravity of her tone.
Chuckling, he wiped snow off the side of his head. “I cannot tell you everything, but trust that it will make everything we’ve faced since marching out of Valdar worthwhile.”
She weighed a fresh snowball on her palm. “I suppose that will have to do,” she said slowly, though still wondering about Aedran’s surprise.
“If you promise to put that down,” Aedran said, “I’ll help you finish putting up your tent.”
“Is it the custom for a Prythian general to bargain with his queen?” she said, cocking her arm.
“Only when he’s twice her size and could, at his leisure, roll her about in the snow until he grew tired of it.”
“A good general would not dare.”
“No, probably not, but.…”
“If he did,” she interrupted, her voice lowering, “and his poor queen was left frozen through and through … what would such a general do to warm her?”
As he looked at her, the camp noise seemed to fall away. Aedran cleared his throat. “A good general would do whatever his queen asked of him. Such is his highest duty, and his greatest pleasure.”
Will he ruin my hopes again? Daring to ignore that silent question, she asked, “Are you a good general?”
A garbled shout soared over the camp before he could answer. Erryn turned to find the nearest Prythians had become frozen shadows. One man among them was in motion, spinning in a tight circle and growling curses.
“Is that Zander?” Erryn asked. The last she had seen him, he had been caught in a feverish delirium, pissing on the floor, and scratching at a rash of pustules spreading across his hand, a consequence of the caterpillar spines that had pierced him. Even with the deepening twilight, she could tell something far worse was wrong with him now.
“Restrain him!” Aedran called, leaping up and rushing toward the man. Erryn was quick follow.
At that command, Zander fell into a deep crouch, swinging a snow-tamper around his head so fast the rounded iron square whistled, driving back his fellows. One Eye Thal crept up behind him, caught the tool’s long wooden haft as it began to swing back the other way, and wrenched it away before Zander could react. As he wheeled to face the grizzled captain, another Prythian darted in and wrapped his arms around Zander’s shoulders. Bellowing, Zander snapped his head back, crushing his captor’s nose and shattering his front teeth. The man tried to hold on, but Zander butted him twice more, splitting the man’s lips and squashing his nose to a pulp.
Zander fought free and spun, his fist blurring in a wide hook that cracked against his assailant’s chin. The bigger Prythian rocked back on his heels, blood streaming from his mouth into his matted black beard.
Erryn watched the skirmish with growing alarm. There was something wrong with Zander’s face, but in the half-light, it was hard see clearly.
Hunched and making strange, gargling noises, Zander followed his foe’s stumbling retreat. Without warning, he drove a boot into the man’s groin. When he folded over, Zander pressed in, hammering away with his fists. One blow pulverized the man’s cheek and knocked his round helm askew. The next strike crushed his jaw with the sound of a snapping tree limb. Mouth hanging, jaw unhinged and crooked, the big Prythian fell with a grunt.
Zander sprang over the man and howled like a demon at those who had gathered about. Everyone pressed together, forming a many-layered circle of leather, fur, and steel. Zander fell back into a crouch, panting, his eyes darting behind a curly black cage of unkempt hair. A shuddery grin pulled at his lips.
“He’s gone mad,” Erryn warned.
Aedran raised an arm to block her from getting any closer. “Best to stay out of reach.”
“Enough with your damnable Prythian coddling,” she snapped, trying to get past his arm.
Aedran shoved her behind his back. “For your life, girl, do as I say!”
A retort froze on her tongue when Zander, snarling and clawing, once more hurtled into the circle of men. Someone hit him with the pommel of a sword, and he fell back, stunned. For a moment, everything went still. Erryn saw something leaking into Zander’s beard from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth. She thought it was blood, but what she saw was squirming, rather than running. At the same time, uneasy murmurs rose from her Queensguard. The men keeping Zander at bay began to expand away from him.
“Hold!” Aedran scolded, his tone sharp, uncompromising … and something else. Frightened, Erryn thought sure, her own fear deepening.
“Come away,” Aedran said, catching her arm.
This time, she didn’t resist.
Once more, Zander flung himself through the frosty air and slammed into one of his fellows. Instead of using his fists, he began gnawing at the man’s face.
“Stop him!” Erryn cried, her belly cramping with horror.
Before a handful of Prythians could pull Zander back, he had left ragged bite marks all across his screaming adversary’s face. His captors flung Zander to the ground, but he instantly leaped up again. Whatever her Queensguard saw close-up, prompted them to brandish their swords.
“Take him alive!” Aedran called.
One Eye Thal swept in and cracked the iron tamper against the back of Zander’s skull. The man’s raving cut off and he fell to his knees, head bowed. “Careful, lads,” the captain said. “I’d wager my stones that he’s still got some fight left in him.”
Zander suddenly sat bolt upright, head raised, hair swept back over his shoulders, eyes staring. Festering sores pocked his face. The same held for half the men in her army, but it was obvious that Zander had been digging at the raw wounds, ripping them open. A bloody slit had taken the place of half his nose, and one eye bulged horribly, as if something were trying to push its way out of the socket. No one had seen his ravaged face, Erryn guessed, because like most everyone else, he had probably kept his head buried in the hood of his cloak.
“Get it out of me!” Zander screamed then, ropes of bloody phlegm exploding past his teeth. Zander’s scream became a gagging hiss, his disfigured features going the black-purple of an engorged leech. He began clawing at his throat. His mouth stretched wide and silent; black blood streaked his teeth. He made a hoarse barking noise, spewing a bloody clot over his lips. He convulsed violently, now making no sound at all, and pitched over in snow.
Aedran stood as motionless as all the Prythians.
“Help him,” Erryn pleaded.
No one moved.
“Help him!”
Aedran gave her a hesitant look, and then shoved his way through the men. Erryn came after him, but halted at the sight of Zander. She could not make herself get any closer, let alone help. She wanted to turn away and run.
In the murk,
Zander lay curled on his side, a fevered sheen of awareness burning in one eye. The other had burst, leaving the socket teeming with a host of tiny, pale creatures.
Maggots, Erryn thought, dismayed, but knew that wasn’t true. The worms’ faint glow spoke of their kinship to those that claimed Stormhold as a sanctuary.
She drew back, one hand cupped over her mouth to restrain a moan of revulsion and to block the smell of the dying man, a muddy reek of stagnant blood and excrement.
Aedran said nothing as he hauled his sword free of its leather scabbard, the steel singing softly in the gathering night.
“He’s still alive,” Erryn said.
Zander’s breath came in hitching gulps, and his spasming fingers clutched and clawed through the snow. His good eye rolled, his mouth worked. Instead of words, she heard a gagging hiccup, and then a wave of worms boiled over his lips. She retreated a step farther, bile filling her throat and coating her tongue. More worms slithered like tiny white eels from Zander’s ears, from the tattered sores in his cheeks, from his staring eye.
“His back,” One Eye Thal warned, making a hasty retreat.
Distressed mutters filled the frosty air. Aedran tried to draw Erryn away, but she shook him off. She watched helplessly as Zander’s wolfskin cloak began to bulge and hump along the length of his spine.
“Those little caterpillars aren’t doing that,” One Eye Thal shouted, as Zander began to quiver. His good eye wavered, the iris half-covered by the wriggling girth of a worm. He said something in a pleading tone.
“What’s that, lad?” One Eye Thal asked, not coming any closer.
Erryn cocked her head, but could not command her feet to move any closer.
Zander’s quivering became worse. “Out….”
“I can end your suffering, brother,” Aedran said, the blade of his sword running with the first dim light of the rising moon. “Quickly and without pain. You’ve earned that much.”
Zander’s ruined face knotted, his lips rippled. “…. of ….” he gasped.
Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion) Page 21