Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion)

by James A. West

  “Would you leave me behind?” she snapped.

  “As you pay my way, I’d not let you out of my sight.”

  “They’re your men—my men!”

  “And they died for you here, much as others died for you at Valdar.”

  “That’s not the same.”

  “Death is death. If it makes you feel better to think they died for a cause, then believe they did so protecting the camp against frost leopards, or mayhap a hunting demon.”

  I should never have led them here, she thought with a touch of helpless frustration. Her army had come too far to turn back without running short on supplies, but going forward would only lead to more dead and missing men.

  “We have to find shelter!” She might not be a good and wise queen, but she was no fool. If they didn’t get out of the storm, none of them would live to see the Iron Marches.

  Aedran laughed. “Unless you can claw a hole into these mountains with your bare hands, how do you expect to find a safe place?”

  “There must be something. Even a cave would do!”

  “A cave big enough for over a thousand men and near on four hundred horses?” Despite his doubtful tone, something flashed in his eyes, a glimmer of recognition.

  A round of muted curses turned Erryn.

  Several men were struggling to keep a horse standing upright. The beast tossed it head, stumbled, and crashed over on its side, taking three men down with it. After much effort, the men got back on their feet, buffeted by the wind, swaying with weariness. The downed horse lifted its head once, then gave up the fight.

  Erryn spun back to Aedran, but he was still looking at the men and the horse. “There must be some place we can go. If not, we won’t last the day.” She thought about that flicker of recognition she had seen in his gaze, and in her memory heard him telling how best to get over the Gyntors, and something else.

  She grabbed his arm with a gloved hand and pulled him around. “You said you knew the safest ways around the places where men once lived. If men ever lived here, they didn’t do so out in the open.”

  “I also told you those were places where only the dead walk.”

  “But there is shelter,” she insisted. Shadenmok and their savaging hellhounds were creatures to fear, but not ghosts.

  He hesitated. “Aye,” he said at last.

  “Take us there.”

  He pulled away. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said?”

  “Obey me, or I’ll find another who will.”

  He didn’t bother denying the possibility that one of his men would gladly usurp his position, but his laughter was dry as dust. “You know not what you’re asking.”

  “I ask for nothing,” Erryn said. “I am commanding you to help us survive.”

  He looked into the howling face of the storm, then shrugged. “Who am I to deny a queen what she wants?” There was wry amusement in his voice, but it failed to reach his eyes.

  He’s just cold and tired, Erryn thought, refusing to believe she saw fear in his gaze. “We should also bring the dead horses.”

  “Do you wish to honor them for their service?” he scoffed.

  “If we’re going to wait out the storm, we’ll need something to eat.”

  He gave her a startled look. “You might make a fair warrior queen yet!”

  “Only if I survive long enough for anyone to hear of me,” she said, trying her hand at a bit of dire Prythian humor.

  “Aye,” he said, without a hint of mirth. That peculiar sheen had come back into his eyes. She told herself again that it could not be fear she saw, but it sounded very much like a lie.

  Chapter 10

  Captain Ostre sent word that the Lamprey was ready to sail before dawn’s first glimmers began to brighten Iceford. The runner, a rat-faced crewman who introduced himself as Gnat, also let Rathe know that if he and his companions were not aboard within the hour, the Lamprey would sail without them.

  “We could use an extra pair of hands,” Rathe said, reaching for his coin purse. Other than the Lamprey’s crew, he had never been around sailors, but guessed such men craved gold as much as any.

  Gnat proved him wrong.

  “Don’t have a moment to waste toting baggage,” he said, his long nose wrinkled as if he smelled something bad. He drew his hood over his filthy black hair and scurried from the room.

  “The rain has given over to snow,” Nesaea said at the window, letting the curtain fall back. She wore a cloak of dark blue wool over green breeches and a voluminous shirt of cream muslin. “I loathe all this cold. Monseriq is never so bitter and wet.”

  “I should hope not,” Rathe said. “The Sea of Grelar reaches far south before breaking upon the shores of your homelands. I’d like to see those lands one day.”

  “One day soon,” Nesaea agreed.

  “First, there’s the matter of finding your sister.”

  “Yes, and that means getting free of Iceford and the Iron Marches.”

  After squaring their bill with Master Tyron, they hired a pair of his stablemen to load their belongings into a small cart and wheel it through the snow-quieted streets of the village.

  Rathe kept a sharp eye along the way to the quays. He saw no one resembling Edrik or the Shadowman skulking about. When he had told the others about Edrik, only Nesaea had seemed troubled, but soon agreed with Loro and Fira that the man had probably been lying about who he was and the reason he wanted Rathe to join him. Rathe had doubts, but he wanted to believe as his friends did. It was too soon to relax, but he felt a loosening of the knots in his shoulders. In a few hours, Iceford would lay leagues behind him. In a few days, the whole of the Iron Marches, and all the troubles these lands had brought him, would fall into memory.

  They found the Lamprey’s deck teeming with crewmen. Captain Ostre bawled orders, and his Prythian quartermaster enforced his commands. While Nesaea took Fira below decks—the fire-haired woman had become greener every step closer they came to the ship—Rathe and Loro hauled their baggage to the cramped cabins Captain Ostre reserved for his infrequent passengers.

  “A thief would never serve as a porter,” Loro grumbled. “Not unless he’s taking the measure of a future mark.”

  Rathe straightened from stuffing a haversack into a compartment under the bed he and Nesaea would share. “You’re not on about that again, are you?” Ever since he had met the man, Loro had yearned for the life of a bandit-king pillaging along the shores of the Sea of Muika.

  “Well, I can’t have you forgetting now, can I?” Loro asked, brushing melting snow off his bald head.

  “I’m not sure Nesaea and Fira would enjoy that life.”

  Loro spread his hands. “I enjoy their company well enough, brother, but those two are the best reason to run away and never look back.”

  Rathe arched an eyebrow.

  “Just look at us,” Loro said with a scowl, “fetching and carrying like a couple of servants—and that after spending little more than a fortnight with them. Soon, they’ll have us wearing fancy clothes and sniffing pomanders, like a pair of highborn dandies.” He cast a pointed glance at Rathe’s fine wool cloak draped over a red coat fastened with shiny brass buttons.

  Rathe rubbed his chin, making a show of considering Loro’s words. “Could be you’re right,” he said in a low voice, as if concerned Nesaea might hear. “And I cannot deny an itch of late to gut someone who wants to gut me—not some crazed witch, mind you, or any freakish beasts, but man against man in a good, clean fight.”

  Loro’s eyes lit up. “Aye, brother! We need a proper bit of bloodletting to make us right. We’ll not have any of that while running about with a pair of comely wenches.”

  Rathe nodded as though growing excited by the prospect. “I don’t know about you, but all this rich food and wine of late doesn’t satisfy as well as a tankard of pissy ale, a heel of moldy bread, and a trencher full of gristly meat.”

  A frown creased Loro’s brow. “Well, now, not all ale tastes of goat piss, and not every mea
l must be foul.”

  “And these beds!” Rathe went on quickly, slapping his hand against the featherbed, which was finer than those in the Minstrel’s Cup. “These will make a man soft as butter. Better to sleep on roots and rocks, or maybe in a damp cave. Such as that makes a man stony, keeps him sharp and ready for all dangers.”

  Loro’s frown deepened. “That’s so, but there’s no reason a good thief cannot enjoy a proper bed on occasion.”

  “Just so!” Rathe said merrily. “And I ask you, who better to fill that occasional bed than a poxy whore? As long as she has a set of plump teats and a warm mouth, who cares if she might think to rob us while we sleep?”

  “Not all whores are poxy or troublesome,” Loro said, sounding doubtful.

  Rathe half closed his eyes and put on a sublime smile. “Once we’re south of the White Sea, we ought to just drop off Nesaea and Fira, and strike out on our own. Of course, we’ll have to worm our way into a known band of thieves, or they’re apt to see us as rivals. Course, that just brings us back around to killing any fools who want to kill us. I expect in a year, maybe two, we’ll have surrounded ourselves with a pack of worthy cutthroats—you can never truly trust such a man, of course, but that just adds to the adventure. I can hear the songs about Rathe and Loro, sung in all the winehouses and brothels along the coast. We will be famous, revered.”

  “I suggest we not get too famous, otherwise we’ll have armies after us.”

  Rathe brightened further. “Then it’s caves and moldy bread, friend. It’ll be grand, either way, this life of a thief.”

  “Aye.” Loro’s frown had become a concerned scowl. “Before we go off on our own, we really ought to help Nesaea find her sister.”

  Rathe blinked stupidly to hide his grin. “What? Why?”

  Loro turned a fierce eye on him. “I thought you were a man of honor?”

  Rathe chuckled darkly. “Honor is a dream for foolish children. We’re not children, but men of the sword.”

  “Still … you gave your word,” Loro said gravely. “Thief or not, a man has to keep his word.”

  Rathe bowed his head in thought. At last, he sighed. “I suppose you’re right. We’ll do this last good deed, then we can be shut of Nesaea and Fira, and never have to see them, or their baggage, again.”

  Muttering something about checking on Fira, Loro strode out of the cabin. Rathe’s lips twitched toward a wry grin. He guessed he had bought himself a few days of peace from Loro’s absurd fantasy.

  Topside, Rathe found the snow had turned back to a drizzly rain, which made misty halos around the lamps hanging about the deck. Captain Ostre stood near the gangplank talking quietly to Robere, his dour-faced brother. Both wore floppy, wide-brimmed felt hats pulled down to their ears. Liamas, the Lamprey’s golden-haired quartermaster, strode about waving a short-handled battleax overhead to ensure the crew stayed busy securing cargo and making ready to sail.

  Rathe made his way to Nesaea, who was leaning on the rail at the stern. She had traded her blue cloak for a sturdier one of oiled leather. The fur-lined hood was up, but the rain had plastered a fall of dark waves to her brow. The only thing warm and welcoming about the day was her brief smile when he joined her side. Up close, he noted a touch of unease in her eyes.

  “I expect Captain Ostre has the Lamprey well in hand,” he said, looking down at the waters of the River Sedge. There was more ice than ever scraping past the hull, and the ice along the rocky riverbank had grown outward to encase the tarred pilings of the dock. The Lamprey was an ungainly tub to his mind, but he hoped Ostre pushed the ship hard. He didn’t want to winter anywhere near the Iron Marches.

  “Ostre’s a good captain,” Nesaea said, “but that’s the least of my concerns.”

  Rathe frowned out across the river. Patchy fog had begun rising off the sluggish waters, adding to the gloom. He guessed if a man fell into the Sedge or the White Sea, he would freeze to death before having a chance to drown. He pushed aside thoughts of drowning and freezing.

  “If the voyage isn’t troubling you, then what?”

  “My sister,” Nesaea said softly.

  “We’ll find her.” Rathe hoped he could keep the promise. Other than the girl being held captive to ensure her and Nesaea’s father returned to Dionis Keep—something impossible for Sytheus Vonterel to do, as the man was dead—they knew nothing about her. Not her age, not her name, and nothing of her appearance. “Not to sound a lecher, but if she’s even half as pretty as you, Lord Arthard may keep her for himself.”

  Nesaea shook her head. “The comelier and younger this girl is, the more gold Arthard will see when he looks at her. I expect he’ll sell her on the blocks of Giliron—if so, hers will be a life of pampered misery.”

  “Even the Isles of Giliron must have laws against taking a girl-child as a wife.”

  “Where there are laws, there are lawbreakers,” Nesaea said, her voice edged with a grim familiarity that made Rathe’s stomach clench. He wanted her to unburden herself of those bitter experiences, but he would wait for her to tell him in her own time.

  “We will find her,” he said again, but could not bring himself to promise that nothing terrible would befall the girl.

  Nesaea squeezed his hand, but before she could say anything, Loro and Fira joined them at the rail. Rathe and Nesaea might not have been there, for all the notice the pair gave them.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Fira snapped. In the misty half-light, the sickly greenish cast to her cheeks had become alarming.

  “I’ve seen it plain on his face,” Loro growled. “And I tell you now, if that great Prythian dolt keeps ogling you, I’ll have off his head and toss it to the fish.”

  Fira rolled her eyes, then abruptly closed them, gloved hands clutching the rail. “That would solve everything, wouldn’t it?”

  Loro grinned darkly. “It’d make me feel better.”

  “And afterward,” Fira said tightly, “what do you think Captain Ostre and his crew would do to you?”

  “If they’ve any sense, they’ll keep their festering gobs shut, and their hands away from their daggers.”

  “Liamas is a hero to these men, you blithering fool.”

  “Hero? That lumbering oaf? Bah!”

  “If you’d seen him against the crew of the Crimson Gull, you’d not be so quick to pick a fight with him.”

  Now Loro rolled his eyes. “How dangerous could these pirates you faced be to have named their ship after a damned seabird?”

  “Oh!” Fira snarled, green eyes flaring open. “You’re the biggest fool of a man I’ve ever known—and I’ve known more than my fair share!” With that, she stormed off, heels clumpy against the snowy deck like padded mallets.

  Loro looked after her, mouth agape. “Your fair share! What’s that supposed to mean?” She made a rude gesture without turning, and Loro hurried after her.

  Nesaea shook her head. “You’d never guess they’re in love.”

  “They’ve a strange way of showing it,” Rathe chuckled, thinking of his and Loro’s earlier conversation. It made him wonder if Loro had actually wanted to be talked out of abandoning the women.

  When Rathe turned back, Nesaea was looking at him, her eyes wide and beautiful in the murk, her lips parted slightly. He had seen that look before, and knew what she wanted him to say, but he did not dare. The words she sought would only serve as an invitation to the Khenasith to do each of them harm.

  Rathe pressed his lips together and leaned against the rail. Nesaea’s expectant look melted smoothly into an expression of mild indifference, as if she had not wanted to hear anything from him. That made him feel worse, but he kept his silence.

  It was a relief when Captain Ostre ordered the crew to unfurl the crisp new mainsail, man the push poles, and cast off the mooring lines. A few moments more, and the Lamprey was gliding into the main current of the River Sedge, and picking up speed.

  Chapter 11

  Loro gulped a breath and made a hasty retreat from the cabin
he shared with Fira. Inside, the fire-haired woman rocked forward on her knees and retched violently into a bucket. She had been doing little else since they sailed from Iceford some days before. Kneeling beside her, Nesaea murmured soothing words and held back Fira’s hair.

  “I expect you have this in hand,” Rathe said in a tight voice. When Nesaea nodded, he fled without the barest measure of guilt.

  Loro had ventured far down the passageway, and stood at the stairs leading topside. “Think she’s been poisoned?” he asked, when Rathe drew near.

  “It’s the motion of the ship, not poison.” He had heard of such illness afflicting some folk. So far, it hadn’t troubled him.

  “Smells like she’s been drinking poison,” Loro said, nose wrinkling.

  Rathe could not disagree.

  Up on deck, the sun peeked through broken clouds, but the air had grown colder than ever. Rathe pulled his coat tighter, but it did him no good. His cloak was in his cabin, and there it would stay. Cold was better than suffering the rank odors below deck.

  Ostre clumped near. “How’s Fira?” Loro made a face, and the captain nodded. “Expected as much. Last time she was aboard, she spewed for half the voyage. I’d guess that’s why she fought so hard against the corsairs on the Crimson Gull—a bit of swordplay tends to take your mind off a sour belly. She ought to get used to sailing quicker, this time.”

  “Is there nothing you can give her?” Loro asked.

  Ostre shrugged helplessly. “I’ve seen folk take all manner of remedies for such, but I’ve never seen a one of them work as promised.”

  Liamas’s deep voice rose behind them. “I can help.”

  “I expect you’d offer all sorts of help,” Loro bristled, looking the giant Prythian up and down.

  Liamas ignored him. “After learning the lass was to sail with us again, I spoke with a woman in Iceford.”

  “Mother Roween?” Ostre asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Who is this wench?” Loro asked suspiciously.

  Ostre answered. “In these parts, she’s counted as a healer. South of the Gyntors, folk would name her a hedge witch.”