Beasts of the Frozen Sun

by Jill Criswell

  A wooden vessel waited for us and we clamored into it, barely able to fit. The boatmen pushed off, ferrying us into the sloshing tides. A hooded woman stood in the bow, holding up a lantern, and wherever she pointed, the boatmen steered in line with her finger, avoiding the most turbulent currents. She was guiding us. This must have been clan Selkie’s Daughter of Aillira—a god-gifted tide-teller.

  The water was a swirling mess. The boat rolled and shuddered, knocking us about like marbles in a jar. Spindrift dampened my skin and coated my tongue as I held fast to the thwart, sandwiched between two guards. When the bow slammed down into a deep trough, several warriors started to topple overboard. A wave broke over us, and the men grabbed onto one another, pulling back those about to be swept out.

  No one could get across these waters without a boat and a tide-teller. There would be no escaping the fortress. It loomed over us, the end of our journey.

  The end of Reyker’s life.

  Cold, wet, and tired, our party climbed the long, winding stairs cut into the rocks that led to the stronghold. My legs were numb by the time we reached the top. Fort Selkie, its black walls glazed with salt, looked more like a haunted castle than an active stronghold. I followed the men into the damp, meandering passageway.

  Torches burned in sconces, lighting the gloom. Voices and laughter seeped from the centrum, and a cheer went up as we trickled in. A hundred men from at least fifteen clans crowded around tables, gorging themselves on food and ale, already drunk. The Sons of Stone were the last to arrive, but they caught up quickly, draining ale-filled tankards as they talked and laughed and slapped one another’s shoulders.

  There were several mercenary clans here as well. Bog Men with mud smeared across their faces and bodies, venomous spears and bows strapped to their backs. Others who wore armor that looked like fish scales, or shirts woven from horsehair, or vests studded with tiny metal spikes. The two groups—mercenary and nonmercenary—interacted cautiously, keeping their distance, making me wonder about what I’d overheard Torin and Madoc discussing when I’d been caught in Torin’s library all those weeks ago: the possibility of the mercenaries allying with the Dragonmen.

  I picked at my cold plate of food and watched the clans’ raucous behavior from a bench near the back. These were the men who were supposed to save us from the Westlanders? I shook my head. “We’re all doomed.”

  Next to me, Sloane bristled. “Men strategize better with food in their bellies and drinks in their hands. Reminds them what they’re fighting for. Lord Aengus taught us that.”

  “Didn’t think to teach you about moderation, did he?”

  Everyone’s attention was suddenly drawn to the front of the room. I turned to see Torin taking his place like a performer on a stage, pulling the metal leash, forcing Reyker to stand before the rowdy warriors who’d stared at him since he was led in. Reyker kept his head high, his expression defiant.

  The centrum fell silent, waiting for the show to begin.

  “No doubt you’ve all heard rumors that the Sons of Stone have gone mad,” Torin said, his voice intimidating, commanding. The voice of a fearless chieftain. Or possibly of a demented, vengeful god speaking through him.

  “Rumors that we captured an invader, taught it to speak. That we aim to use the beast to help us kill other invaders and drive them from our lands. I’m here to tell you it’s true.”

  Torin’s eyes swept the room. “The Westlanders and that yellow-eyed giant who leads them are a menace, and no longer to just the coasts. They’ve breached inland, burning and stealing, taking our people as hostages and slaves, establishing long-term camps where they can. They aim to destroy us and claim Glasnith for themselves.”

  This was information I’d garnered from Reyker and reported to the council, but I didn’t know it had all come to pass. Glasnith was in more danger than I’d realized.

  “Our tactics are antiquated. Predictable.” Torin tugged the chain and Reyker stumbled. “His aren’t.”

  There were jeers from the clans.

  “If you doubt it,” Torin said, “step forward and fight the beast. To the death.”

  Sloane’s arm clamped down on mine as I tried to rise. “Stay in your seat.”

  “He’s not an animal to be gutted for sport. Torin cannot do this.”

  A colossal warrior swaggered to where Torin stood. There was a harbor seal emblazoned on the man’s tunic—the symbol of the Order of Selkie, our hosts. “I’ll fight the filthy Westlander,” the man said as his clan hooted and clapped. His belly spilled over his belt, but his arms rippled with thick muscles as he drew his sword.

  Torin motioned to a sentry, who removed Reyker’s manacles and handed him a sword. His collar stayed on, but Torin let go of the chain and turned the floor over to the two men.

  I counted the seconds.

  The duel was over before I reached thirty.

  The seal was rent in half. Reyker had dodged the warrior’s heavy blows, ducked under his guard, and slit him up the middle, from navel to breastbone. The man toppled like a tree, landing in a puddle of his own blood.

  The room filled with gasps.

  Reyker spun, sword dripping, assessing the mob. Calculating how many men he could take out before they cut him down.

  “Lira!” Torin called. My name bounced off one wall, slapped against another, filling the air. I nearly fell off the bench. “Come here.”

  I padded to the front of the centrum, feeling every eye watching me. One set stood out from the others—warm brown, lit with humor and affection. Sitting with the representatives from clan Fion, the warriors known as the Hounds of Vengeance, Quinlan smiled at me, but I didn’t have it in me to smile back.

  Torin put his hands on my shoulders. “For those who don’t know, this enchanting maiden is my daughter.” There was a mocking edge to the compliment. “Lira, bring me the invader’s sword.” He pushed me toward Reyker.

  Did he know Reyker wouldn’t hurt me, or was he gambling with my life?

  I stared at my feet, forcing my legs to move. I lifted my eyes to look at Reyker. I forgot to breathe.

  Invader. Ally. Friend. Beast. The traits were all there, rioting in him, like he wasn’t sure which one to wear. He wanted to keep the weapon. He wanted to use it.

  I held my hands out, palms open. “Sword,” I tried to say, but I was mute; I only mouthed it. I tilted my head, let my hair fall across my face to shield it from the spectators so I could drop the mask and let him read my expression. Please, Reyker. They’ll kill you. Please don’t.

  Some of the savageness drained from him—clenched muscles loosening, shoulders dropping. He lowered the sword. Slowly, he angled the blade toward himself and placed the sword across my palms. For you, his eyes said. Never for them.

  I took the sword to my father, hating his triumphant smile. I held on to the weapon a second too long—long enough to see Torin realize I’d contemplated stabbing him myself—before surrendering it. Maybe it was punishment, or maybe he’d planned it all along, but the next words out of his mouth made me wish I’d gored him. “Daughter, bring me the invader.”

  I went rigid.

  “I won’t ask twice,” Torin said under his breath.

  Jaw set, I stomped back to Reyker. Swallowed the bile in my throat. Picked up the end of the chain. Led him to Torin, like he was a dog. I slapped the chain into Torin’s hand. He put the manacles in mine. “Shackle him.”

  A thousand curses ran through my head. I bit down on them.

  Reyker held his forearms out. I felt his eyes on me, but if I looked into them I might fall apart. I fit the metal cuffs around his wrists, as gently as I could, clicking them shut.

  Torin kept me by his side. I was his shield, should Reyker turn violent. He jerked on Reyker’s leash. “Tell them what you are,” he ordered.

  Reyker looked at the clans. At Torin. At me. “An invader fr
om western lands,” he said. “My island is Iseneld. What people of Glasnith call the Frozen Sun.”

  Shock flowed through the centrum. The beast can speak our language.

  Torin took out his dirk. “Our people tell elaborate legends about the invaders. The beasts of the Frozen Sun. My prisoner here fights with the wisdom of a warrior twice his age, the strength of a warrior twice his size. He’s a savage. A brute. But a man regardless. With a man’s weaknesses.” His eyes flickered to me. “The Westlanders are not gods, nor demons, nor beasts.”

  Torin kicked the back of Reyker’s legs so he fell to his knees. The chieftain grabbed a fistful of Reyker’s hair, holding him in place as he sliced the dirk shallowly across Reyker’s neck, just above the slave-brand. “Gods do not bleed,” Torin said, swiping a finger through Reyker’s blood, lifting it for all to see. “They are flesh and blood, mortal men. And all men can be defeated.”

  Cheers exploded throughout the room.

  “Tomorrow we shall talk of methods for crushing our enemies. But tonight, my fellow warriors, my honored friends, let us celebrate our impending victory!”

  The men beat the air with their fists. Jumped up from the benches. Howled at the ceiling.

  Hungry for war.

  I leaned on the windowsill, sipping wine, staring at the waves crashing on the foot of the islet. Behind me, men clinked tankards, chugging more ale. Some passed out at their tables. My guards had downed enough drinks to forget they weren’t supposed to let me out of their sight.

  Torin was in deep conversation with several other chieftains. He surveyed the room, cold eyes falling upon me. The hard lines of his mouth deepened.

  “There’s the enchanting maiden, subduer of savages, tamer of beasts.” Quinlan appeared at my side, looking handsome and mischievous as ever.

  I punched his shoulder. “Not to mention a harpy, slanderer, and sorceress.”

  “Ow.” He rubbed at the rising bruise I was sure I’d given him. “What was that for?”

  “I’ve not heard from you in ages. You couldn’t send a letter to let me know how you fared? Or … Or if you’d heard anything. About Garreth.”

  His expression softened. “There’s been no word, Lira. I would have come to you straightaway if there had been, I promise you.”

  “Oh.” There was no hiding my disappointment. I took another swig of wine and said, “I’m sorry for what happened … for what we spoke of that day in the harbor. I never wanted to damage our friendship.”

  “You didn’t.” He inched toward me, leaving little space between us. “And no apologies are necessary, though I’m sorry as well.”

  “Careful. Torin won’t appreciate us standing so close. It might raise questions about my virtue. He plans to marry me off soon.” I was trying to sound glib but failing miserably.

  “I heard.” Quinlan’s grin faltered. “I think we’re safe. They’re too busy plotting or getting pissed to notice us. All but that one.” I followed his gaze to find Reyker, chained to a table, watching me. “Did you give him a black eye too?”

  “I held a knife to his throat. And I tried to stab him. Twice.”

  “Well. A black eye can’t compete with that. Must be love.”

  I choked on my wine. “No,” I said, swiping at the juice spilling from my mouth. “I’m his—” Keeper? Companion? What was it that lay between us? “It’s not like that.”

  “Don’t worry. Only a jealous heart would notice the way you look at the invader. But every man here saw the way he looked at you. If he keeps it up, he won’t be long for this world.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You have no idea, do you?” He cocked his head. “Most men look at you and see just another pretty girl. Some of us see past that. We see the fire in your soul. It speaks to us.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Perhaps. But I hear it. So does he.” Quinlan nodded at Reyker, being led away to the dungeons by guards, glancing over his shoulder to look back at me.

  “What I hear is a stronghold full of drunken idiots, screaming for a war they aren’t prepared for.” I put down the chalice. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’d rather go sleep on a hard cot in a dreary bedchamber than stay here any longer.”

  “They summoned a Daughter of Aillira to torture him,” Quinlan said.

  I went cold all over.

  “That’s what your father is whispering about over there. Tomorrow, the pain-wielder will ply the invader for information. She’ll make him tell Torin everything he knows. And if he doesn’t, he won’t be leaving here whistling and dancing a jig.”

  It wouldn’t be Torin and the other chieftains beating Reyker until he answered their questions. It would be a pain-wielder, a Daughter of Aillira skilled at making an art of agony. I’d met a pain-wielder when I visited Aillira’s Temple as a child. She’d shown me the instruments she used—blades and spikes, bone crushers and boiling oil. My stomach had turned just looking at the tools. And now those vile devices were going to be used on Reyker.

  My hand shook, knocking into the chalice.

  Quinlan caught it before it fell off the sill. “I can sneak you into the dungeons to warn him. Meet me at yonder stairwell.” He polished off his ale and disappeared into the throng of carousing warriors.

  The spiral staircase was narrow and cramped, its turns tight as a corkscrew, ending in a desolate hallway. Quinlan showed me to a heavy iron door, the back entrance to the dungeons. “There’s no guard?”

  “Only one, stationed at the front. They don’t bother guarding this side. Truth be told, I think the Selkies love letting prisoners escape, watching them try to swim for shore.” He slid the metal bar out of the way and cracked the door open. “No one’s ever made it, so I don’t recommend letting your man try.”

  “Why are you doing this for me, Quinlan? He’s a Westlander.”

  Quinlan was silent a moment. “Because even after what his people did to your village, to Rhys, you still looked at this invader like it killed you to shackle him. Like witnessing his torment was breaking your heart. Some men only dream of being looked at that way by a woman. If you were mine, and I was in this dungeon, I’d be dying right now. And I’d be praying someone would help you find your way to me.”

  His usual swagger was stripped away. I saw Quinlan for the man I’d always known he was—noble, kind. I took hold of his jaw and turned him toward me. “One day a woman will look at you that way. I’ve no doubt.”

  I kissed him lightly—a brief, sweet touch of lips—and was rewarded with a warm blush that lit up his entire face.

  The stronghold’s cellblock was bigger than Stony Harbor’s, built deep enough into the rocks to make captives feel as if they’d been buried alive. There was only one other prisoner and he was passed out, snoring loudly. I crept to the other side of the dungeon.

  Reyker sat in the corner of his cell, knees pulled to his chest, head tilted back, eyes closed. I called his name softly, and his eyes shot open. He rushed to the bars. They were vertical rods rather than a grate, heavily rusted by the salt air, but otherwise the same as the ones we were used to. “How?” he asked.

  “Quinlan—a friend—snuck me in. I don’t have much time. Tomorrow, Torin is going to use a Daughter of Aillira to interrogate you. You have to tell the chieftains what they want to hear, give them something they can use, or the pain-wielder will kill you slowly. She’ll make you beg for death.”

  There was weariness in his face, emptiness in his eyes. “I don’t care.”

  “Don’t be stubborn.”

  “Me? You are stubborn, always giving me orders.” He spoke in a falsetto voice, imitating me. “Do not fight, wear chains, sleep in cages like a dog, tell my people secrets of your people.”

  “That sounds nothing like me.”

  “I live, Lira. I live for you!” He raked a hand through his hair. “When
will this end? When will I have peace? If I die in a cage tomorrow, or I die in a cage in ten years—what is the difference? A cage is not a life.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Tomorrow I will tell them nothing. I will die and hope I wake in Skjorlog Felth. Even being damned to the Mist would be better than this.”

  “No.” I gripped his hand through the bars, fastening us together. “I won’t let you.”

  “Why?”

  What could I say? How could I explain to him what I didn’t understand myself? Because I found you, I saved you, and that makes you mine. Because my soul is tied to yours, for reasons beyond my comprehension. Because without you, my life is as icy and dim as this dungeon. “Because I can’t!” A paltry excuse that didn’t come close to answering his question.

  The threat of his death had hovered over us since the day I dragged him from the harbor, an invisible blade that could fall any moment. I’d erected flimsy shields of lies and excuses to slow the descent, but it wasn’t enough. The blade would fall. The times when I let that truth sink in were crushing. It was happening now. Before it overtook me, before I fell at his feet, weeping and pleading and making a spectacle of myself, I turned my anguish into anger.

  “Listen to me, you stupid bloody Westlander.” I grabbed the collar of his tunic. “You think letting Torin kill you makes you a hero? He’ll tell stories for the rest of his days about the weak invader who broke so easily. Is that the tale you want to be spread about you, that Reyker Lagorsson was a lily-livered milksop?”

  I’d gotten up on my knees, my eyes level with his, exhaling in furious pants, like a bull about to charge. He glared back, but his lips twitched. “Milksop?”

  “Yes, milksop! It means you crumble like soggy bread.”

  He snorted.

  “It’s not funny,” I insisted, fighting a smile. “It’s a damning insult.”

  He snorted again, and it was too late, we were both laughing—quiet, reserved, but laughter, nonetheless. Reyker’s hand moved to the nape of my neck. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against mine through the gap between bars.