The Blacksmith Queen

by Aiken G. A.

  Caid walked on the left side of Keeley’s pallet, hyperaware of any strange sounds or changes in bird flight patterns. Anything that was out of the ordinary. Because at this point in their journey, there was no cover. There were no trees to hide their progress or tunnels to escape through. They were out in the open until they hit Amichai territory.

  As they moved along, though, he kept expecting Keeley to wake up. Kept expecting her to raise her arm to shield her eyes from the two suns. Or simply ask where she was or where her family was. Maybe ask for some water. Anything that would tell him she was getting better. Anything that would tell him she would live.

  But when they finally stepped onto Amichai soil, there was still nothing from Keeley. No sign that would give him hope.

  A situation that made him sad for many reasons, but especially because he would have loved for her to see that which so few humans had seen. Her father being one of those few.

  Many believed that the Amichais lived on the mountains, but that was wrong. The Amichai Mountain range actually encircled hundreds of thousands of leagues, land ranging from vast forest to open plains to hill-riddled grasslands. There were lakes and rivers throughout that ensured clean water and a good supply of prey animals for food.

  The importance and beauty of these lands was why the dwarves, elves, and centaurs worked so hard to keep them closed off from most humans. Between humans’ constant need for war and their insistence on destroying all they touched so they could “rebuild,” the Amichais knew it would take little time for mankind to destroy all they loved.

  But Keeley was different. She would love it here and Caid knew—in his hard, spiteful heart—she would take it upon herself to protect the creatures of this land as she protected the wild horses near her home and a boy stranger she’d never met before.

  Just seeing her expression as they stood on the ridge that led down into the centaur valleys would have made his bleak day shine.

  Sadly, she didn’t wake in time to see or comment on any of that.

  She also had nothing to say when Caid’s hooves touched centaur tribal lands and their travel party was immediately greeted by armed centaurs drawing down on them with their bows and nocked arrows.

  If it had been Caid’s clan, he wouldn’t have been too concerned. Unfortunately, it was the Clan of the Red Rivers. Another protector clan like the Scarred Earth, except these centaurs were a smaller breed and instead of antlers, they had curled horns. Although smaller than Caid’s people, they were still extremely dangerous and often thought that Scarred Earth didn’t do enough to protect the tribal lands—like kill any human on sight. Even before interlopers reached the mountain range.

  Even worse, this battle unit was being led by the young son of the clan’s leader. Diarmad constantly expressed his belief that his father should be the chieftain, ruler of all the centaur clans.

  Of course, for that to happen, Caid’s mother would have to step down. She had no intention of doing that, and the other chief leaders wanted her to stay in power. So, Diarmad and his kin did what they could to cause problems. Something Caid and Laila usually tolerated in order to keep the peace. But this was the wrong moment to point arrows at Caid’s sister.

  And that wasn’t because Caid was, to say the least, a little tense these days.

  “Diarmad,” Laila called out to the centaur male she used to beat up when they were yearlings.

  “Laila. Happy to see that you and your brother have returned. Alive.”

  Yes. Of course he was. “Thank you. Now if you’ll just—”

  Diarmad held up his hand, then used his forefinger to point. “What is that?” he asked.

  Laila glanced in the direction he pointed and found the burning eyes of Keeley’s demon wolves staring back at her.

  “Pets,” his sister replied, forcing Caid to briefly lower his head to stop himself from laughing.

  “And that?”

  Now Laila didn’t look, simply answered, “That’s my friend Gemma.”

  “You’re friends with a human War Monk?”

  “Someone has to be. All that piety makes a being lonely.”

  “Laila, you know I can’t allow any of these . . . things in our camp.”

  “You can and you will because they are part of the queen’s entourage.”

  “The queen? Last we heard the queen was with Prince Marius.”

  “The Witches of Amhuinn confirmed two queens. The one we do not want is with Marius. The one we definitely want is here and she needs a healer.”

  Smirking, Diarmad began, “You’ll have to wait here until I—”

  “No, no.” Laila moved until she stood right in front of Diarmad. She towered over him and her swishing tail told Caid she was quickly losing her patience. “I’m not playing this game with you. The queen needs a healer and my friends need food and water. I will not let you waste our time with your bullshit. So fucking move.”

  Caid looked toward his sister, saw that Diarmad’s team had all their bows now aimed at her. Not wise. Not wise at all.

  Not because of Laila. Not even because of Caid. Neither of them had any doubt that Diarmad would never risk his life or the lives of his clan by killing either of them. Instead, he was doing what their kind sometimes did. Starting shit to prove how strong and in control he was, even though he’d be thoughtful and rational when he backed down.

  But he was so busy doing all that, he wasn’t really paying attention to what was moving up behind him and his oblivious battle unit.

  Light gold eyes locked on Diarmad through white and blond hair. Taller than Caid and equally wide, Caid’s brother Quinn broke into a run at the last minute, a sword in his hand. He leaped up, all his legs off the ground, the sword now over his head, both hands on the hilt. And with a roar of anger, he brought that weapon down on Diarmad’s hind quarter.

  Laila took several steps back; Caid and the rest of their party moved in turn like one well-trained military unit.

  Diarmad fell to his front right knee, letting out his own roar that had birds scattering from the nearby trees and rocks. He tried to crawl away, but Quinn wasn’t done. He was never done. Not until he’d made his point.

  Pulling back his arm, fist cocked, Quinn rammed it forward and into the wound he’d opened upon Diarmad.

  Laila’s entire body cringed at the action, because both of them knew Quinn was wrapping his fingers around Diarmad’s femur . . . and tugging.

  “Stop it, Quinn,” Laila finally barked over Diarmad’s desperate screams; his Red River kin were becoming restless and angry.

  “Not until he understands,” Quinn said, his voice disturbingly calm. “Because no one aims arrows at my sister. I should tear this leg off just for that alone.” Then he tugged again.

  “Quinn!” Laila bellowed when Diarmad screamed out once more.

  Quinn leaned in and softly said against Diarmad’s ear, “You’re so lucky my sister is kind and forgiving. But keep in mind, dear Diarmad . . . that I am not!” he finished on a chilling bellow.

  He yanked his hand out, blood splattering. “Take him to the healers. But not Petra”—the strongest healer in the camp—“Laila needs her for her friend.”

  Diarmad’s fellow centaurs helped him back to their camp and Quinn pulled their sister into a big hug, his blood-covered hand leaving prints on the back of her chainmail shirt.

  “I’m so glad you’re home,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

  “You have to stop doing that to our people,” she admonished him. “It’s grotesque.”

  “It gets my point across. And quickly too. Most importantly, no one threatens one of us without repercussions. You know that.”

  When Quinn saw that Diarmad and his unit were gone, he looked at the rest of them and asked, “A human War Monk and demon dogs?”

  “Wolves,” Caid corrected.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Laila? Why are you trying to bring crazy into the camp?” Quinn grinned. “Thought that was my job.”

  *
* *

  Gemma was ready to throw her sister over her shoulder and make a desperate run for it. She’d been fooled by the calm and easy ways of Laila and her brother. But like all beings, human or otherwise, there were many different kinds in any group. Obviously, the centaurs were as dangerous as everyone else. Her father had been a fan, but Gemma wasn’t so sure.

  Especially when Laila’s eldest brother—Quinn, she’d called him—walked down the line of their retinue. He barely glanced at his brother, muttering “asshole” under his breath.

  Caid muttered back, “Fucker.” But that was about it.

  Quinn looked down at the demon wolves growling at him, their bodies tense and trembling with the unspent need to rip the centaur’s throat out.

  “And why are these things here?” he asked Laila.

  “They’re friends of the queen.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel confident in some way?”

  “Don’t care if it does, Brother. They’re coming with us.”

  Quinn sighed dramatically and continued to move around the group. He reached the end of the first line, stood at the foot of Keeley’s pallet, and gazed down at her prone form.

  “Gods, look at those shoulders.”

  “She’s a blacksmith,” Caid said.

  “A woman blacksmith. How progressive for the humans.”

  He moved on, reaching Keran. Stopped. Stared. “Keran the Unforgiving . . . yes?”

  Keran’s grin was wide. It wasn’t every day that someone remembered her fight name.

  “It is.”

  “I lost a thousand pieces of gold because of you.”

  “Foolish to bet against me.”

  “I know that now.”

  Quinn passed Samuel, barely glanced at him. “A virgin trainee monk. How odd.”

  He stopped next to Gemma and said to his sister, “A War Monk. You really brought a War Monk into our territories. Father’s going to love that.”

  “She’s the queen’s sister.”

  “And probably ready to sacrifice all of us to appease her angry, war-loving gods.”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Quinn. She’s as welcome as the dogs.”

  “Wolves,” Caid corrected again.

  Quinn, so big in his centaur form, leaned down and whispered to Gemma, “I haven’t seen War Monks in an age. Not since I killed three of them when they tried to burn a healer woman as a demon witch.”

  “That is an unfortunate tale,” Gemma replied before rubbing her nose. Once. Twice. Then she sneezed, her head going forward hard so that her forehead collided with Quinn’s smug face.

  Gemma heard his nose crack, but she didn’t think she’d broken it. And he didn’t cry out. He simply held his nose as he moved past her, ignoring the blood that poured from it . . . Okay, maybe she had broken it.

  “Oh,” she said, “sorry about that. Maybe I’m allergic to horse hair.”

  Caid snorted, quickly turned his head, but Laila laughed out loud, punching Quinn’s shoulder when he reached her.

  “War Monk she may be,” Laila told her brother, “but she’s funny.”

  He motioned toward the camp. “Take your queen to the healer. Tell the guards you have my permission.”

  “Thank you, Brother.” She put her hand on his shoulder to lower him a bit and kiss his cheek.

  As their little group moved on, Gemma glanced back at the massive and clearly insane Quinn. He was putting his own nose back into place, his light gold eyes watering as he did so. But his gaze was locked on her and did not waver.

  “Your brother watches me,” Gemma said to Laila. “Is he a vengeful sort?”

  “Very!” she tossed back with a smile. “But don’t worry. You’re with me.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “That he’ll give you ample warning before he has you killed.”

  “Oh . . . that’s . . . lovely.”

  * * *

  Beatrix moved through the remnants of the witches’ fortress, annoyed but silent.

  How did they manage it? All the books were gone. All of them. Not burned by the prince’s ridiculous use of fireballs flung at the mountain walls—she had recommended a raid instead, but Marius had refused to risk his substantial troops—they were simply gone.

  That frustrated her. She wanted those books. Wanted to absorb their knowledge. But if that wasn’t possible, she definitely didn’t want the bloody witches to have them. Who knew what they could do with all that information at the ready?

  Now she’d have to make a contingency plan.

  “There are none here, my lord,” one of the officers told Marius.

  “They’re all gone? There are no bodies at all?”

  “We’ve only found a few.”

  He shook his head. “How is that possible?”

  Beatrix wondered the same thing. Those witches with their “math, science, and logic” horseshit. They must have some magick skills if they could move so many books and women away from the site of the onslaught so quickly.

  Marius glared down at her. “This was a waste of my precious resources. Now we don’t even know where the bitches are!”

  He stormed off as he liked to do. Like a petulant child. Already she bored of the petty tyrant.

  “They’ll make themselves known in due course,” she said to Maila, who stood nearby. “No need to worry.”

  Maila motioned to the soldiers lurking close, sending them after Marius.

  When they were alone, the Dowager Queen grabbed her arm. Her nails bit through Beatrix’s dress and into her flesh. It took all of Beatrix’s will not to slash the old bitch’s throat.

  “Yes, mistress?”

  “We had an agreement,” she whispered.

  “We still do, my lady.” Beatrix did not bother lowering her voice.

  “What you did to the generals . . . that was not planned. And the situation could have easily turned very badly, very quickly. For both of us.”

  It was the first time they’d been alone to have this conversation. Beatrix had known it was coming but she wasn’t too concerned.

  “Not planned but necessary. They were a threat to you.” She pulled a folded parchment from a pocket in her dress and handed it to her.

  “What is this?”

  “Their plans for your death. For some reason, my lady, they felt you were a threat.” Beatrix forced a smile. She knew this one to be “sincere.”

  “It was always about protecting you, Dowager Queen,” she lied. “Always about protecting you.”

  She flashed a “friendly” smile and saw Maila’s entire body relax.

  “So,” Maila said, “what is our next move?”

  “To get me married to your son . . . and then to secure the lands around the Old King’s castle. That will be what Marius’s half brothers will attempt to capture once again and we’ll have to stop them.”

  Maila linked her arm with Beatrix’s. “And how do you suggest we do that?”

  “Don’t worry. We won’t let those pretenders to the throne even get near your son. He will be the next Old King.”

  They started back toward the soldiers outside, walking over the smoldering rubble.

  “And us?” Maila asked.

  “Together we will rule beside him,” Beatrix lied.

  CHAPTER 16

  Gemma waited outside the healer’s tent, pacing back and forth for what felt like hours.

  As she paced, she knew she was being watched by the centaurs of various clans walking past her, their gazes locked on the blood-red rune on her hauberk. She knew what they feared and she couldn’t say that she blamed them. War Monks had a fearsome reputation—and with good reason. But Gemma refused to look down in shame. Refused to pretend she was anything other than what she was. Not when all she really cared about was her sister.

  She had attempted to stay in the tent with Keeley but the healer wouldn’t allow it. She’d pushed Gemma out with Caid and Laila, Samuel, Keran, and the gray mare. The demon wolves, though, would
not be pushed anywhere and they stayed, moving into a silent pile in the corner of the tent, their burning eyes locked on everything the healer did.

  Gemma stopped worrying about her sister’s safety after that. No one was getting near Keeley while those wolves were near.

  Eventually, the healer leaned out of the tent flap and waved at them.

  Gemma rushed in but when she stopped, she had a small battle unit of beings crashing into her back, including the gods-damn horse!

  The healer turned around and blinked wide when she saw the small crowd.

  “I see. She has many friends.” The healer’s accent was thick, Gemma realized, because she was not originally from the Amichai Mountains. Seeing the white blond hair that she wore in a long braid down her back and hearing that accent, Gemma would guess she was from the Steppes of the Outerplains. How the centaur had made it this far . . . Gemma had no idea.

  “Well?” Gemma pushed. “How is she?”

  The healer shrugged. “Could be much worse.”

  “What does that mean?” Caid asked.

  “Amhuinn Witches did good job. She should be wake. She should be up, moving.”

  “But she’s not,” Laila noted. “Why?”

  There went that shrug again. “If I guessed . . .”

  “Don’t guess, Petra. We don’t want guesses.”

  She took a breath. “She is not in there.”

  Gemma glanced at Laila, and together they asked, “What the fuck does that mean?”

  * * *

  Caid had no idea what Petra Azhischenkov of the True Horse Blood of the Black Sea of Pain and Longing in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains—and yes, dear gods, that was her entire fucking name—was talking about. And not because of her annoying Outerplains accent either. For once, she was making no sense.

  “I mean what I say,” Petra insisted. “She is not in there. Her body heals, but her soul”—she flittered her fingers into the air—“it is somewhere else.”

  “Did someone do that to her?” Caid asked.

  “No. She did to self.”

  “So she’s in so much pain,” Laila reasoned, “that she’s taken herself out of her body?”