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

by James A. West

  For a moment, the only sound was crunching ice and creaking oars. Then the crew exploded with a round of hoots and catcalls. Fira blushed furiously, Nesaea’s mouth fell open, and Liamas puffed up. Rathe glanced at Loro. His great bald head had developed a scrawling map of throbbing veins.

  “Let it be,” Rathe began, but Loro was already stalking forward, his dark eyes fixed on the Prythian giant. He swept Fira behind him. She slid on the icy deck and plopped down on her arse.

  “Fool!” she cried, wincing as she tried to stand with Nesaea’s help.

  Liamas’s grinning mouth became a flat, bloodless line. Loro glared back. All at once, the crew was in motion, making a broad ring around the two men, somehow managing to cut out Rathe and Nesaea, but leaving Loro, Fira, and Liamas in the center.

  “I wonder if you should do something?” Nesaea asked, standing on her tiptoes to get a better look.

  Rathe shook his head, resigned. Sometimes a rock was too big to stop from rolling downhill. “From the start, these two have been at each other like strange dogs. Now, with Fira kissing Liamas, well….”

  Nesaea grinned mischievously. “She was only thanking him.”

  “That’s not how Liamas or Loro sees it, nor the crew.”

  Nesaea glanced his way, eyebrows raised. “Surely you are not saying this is her fault?”

  Rathe was not about to let himself be dragged into what he considered childish foolery. “A kiss on the cheek might’ve gone over better. Of course, we are talking about Loro—a smile and a word might’ve been too much for him.”

  “Fira is almost as bad.” Nesaea said. “I expect she wanted to goad him, which might turn out worse than she believed.”

  As the crew began chanting for a fight, Loro and the hulking quartermaster continued to stare at one another, deadly silent.

  “Hopefully they won’t kill one another,” Rathe said. “I don’t fancy Captain Ostre tossing us overboard.”

  Nesaea’s eyes went wide. “You don’t think it will come to that, do you—killing, I mean?”

  Rathe allowed himself a rueful chuckle. “There’ll be a fair amount of blood and bruises, but no more than that.” I hope.

  Nesaea’s worried look fell on Loro, and Rathe knew she understood what he did. Loro was a man of few passions, but they were fierce. Losing didn’t necessarily mean he would quit.

  “Enough!” Ostre’s roar froze everyone. Glowering, he shoved his way through the circle of men. “What’s all this?”

  “This reeking heap of pigshit wants a fight,” Liamas said, stripping off his coat and tunic to reveal a towering frame corded with muscle and sheathed in scarred, golden skin. Loro scowled so fiercely that the crew’s thundering approval of their champion fell silent. Even Captain Oster waited in silence.

  Loro flung off his bearskin cloak, then pointed at Liamas. “Have a good look, friends, for I’m about to bathe this poxy whoreson in his own blood.”

  Liamas’s grin came back. Having fought beside Prythians from the first day he joined the legions, Rathe knew the warriors of Pryth fought for the sheer joy of it, even if that meant fighting amongst themselves.

  Loro showed no concern. He wrenched off his steel-scaled jerkin and the padded tunic beneath, and hurled them into the ring of onlookers. Where Liamas was golden, Loro was nut-brown and covered in a pelt of bristling black hair. While he might not have the teats of a grandmother, as observed by the tailor Master Abyk, he was unquestionably fatter than Liamas. Yet, under all that drooping suet, he carried a bull’s size and strength.

  “So be it,” Captain Ostre said. “But before we begin, I’d hear the grievance.”

  Loro spoke up first. “This bastard’s been itching to get my woman out of her clothes since she came aboard. Now he’s gone and given her a witch’s brew to get her all wet—”

  Fira’s full-armed slap cracked against Loro’s face. He backed up a step, his jaw bunching under the red handprint forming on his stubbled cheek. He shouted something at her, but the rowdy crew overrode him.

  “Enough!” Ostre bellowed again. When all was quiet, he went on. “I cannot be rid of my quartermaster—” he wheeled toward Loro “—and I cannot in good conscious toss your wretched arse over the rail, so I see no choice but to let you two settle this with fists.”

  “Aye,” Loro and Liamas declared at once.

  Fira’s brow knotted in worry, but whatever she might have said was lost when the crew gently but firmly hauled her outside the ring.

  “Liamas will crush him,” she said, joining Rathe and Nesaea.

  Rathe didn’t want to believe it, but Nesaea had detailed Liamas’s exploits against the crew of the Crimson Gull. While he had no doubt about Loro’s fighting abilities, the Prythian stood a head and a half taller than Loro, and had most likely been fighting since he could walk.

  Ostre laid out the rules. “There’ll be no biting or tearing at the other man’s tenders, and no trying to break his neck. When the contest is over, I expect the winner and the loser to put all this nonsense aside. We’ve a ship to sail, and the gods of winter are bent on making sure we stay in the Iron Marches.”

  “Agreed,” Liamas said.

  “Agreed,” Loro said.

  Ostre, looking somewhat excited, joined Rathe and the others. “There’s no need for you ladies to watch,” he said to Nesaea and Fira.

  “He’s my lover,” Fira said grudgingly. “I must make sure he doesn’t get killed.”

  “There’ll be none of that,” Ostre assured her.

  Rathe noted the eager sheen in Nesaea’s violet eyes when she said, “I cannot think of a better way to pass the time.” My goddess of snow and silver, he thought, remembering how she had worn a similar expression the few times he had seen her fight.

  “Very well,” Ostre said, and led them up a short flight of stairs to the poop deck. After brushing snow off the rail, he leaned forward. “Are the contestants ready?

  Liamas answered by rolling his thick neck.

  “Let’s get on with it!” Loro bellowed, slamming a fist against his chest.

  “They’re like a pair of cocksure roosters,” Fira said, her voice somewhere between marveling and fearful.

  “They’re men with bruised pride,” Rathe said.

  “Pride is nothing but a cause for trouble,” Fira said, as if she had not known that provoking Loro might lead to this.

  For himself, Rathe knew that if a man had been sniffing around Nesaea, his weapon of choice would not have been fists, but steel … and steel had a nasty way of stilling hearts.

  “Begin!” Oster called.

  Loro and Liamas began circling each other in the falling snow, their feet leaving prints on the slushy deck. Liamas resembled a great cat, hungry and determined. Loro was akin to a bear that had enjoyed a good long season of feasting.

  “Are they going to do something?” Nesaea asked, after the opponents had spent several minutes taunting each other.

  “Liamas is just taking a measure of your fat friend,” Ostre said confidently. He leaned over to Rathe. “Care to wager a spot of gold?”

  Rathe didn’t have much choice but to choose the side of his companion, but he did so willingly. Irritating as Loro could be, the man had stood at his side when others fled. “Free passage if Loro wins. If he loses, then double your price.”

  Ostre nodded enthusiastically.

  Loro has a better than fair chance, Rathe was telling himself, when Liamas’s fist suddenly hooked across his body, blindingly fast, and cracked against Loro’s chin with a sound akin to mallet thudding into a wheel of cheese. The watchers roared as Loro staggered away, his arms windmilling. When Loro regained his balance and set his feet, their exuberance faded to murmurs of awe. Growling, Loro shook his head. The quartermaster’s victorious grin collapsed.

  “Damn me,” Ostre muttered. “Never seen a man take such a blow from Liamas…. But have no fear, my quartermaster has faced strong men before.”

  “He’s never faced Loro,” Rathe said
, voice low. He had seen Loro chew the face off a Hilyoth before, one of the Shadenmok’s devil-hounds.

  Loro laughed as he stalked close. “If you wanted to kiss and tickle, then why not say so?”

  The crew erupted in cheers.

  When the Prythian’s fist struck again, Loro absorbed the punch and laughed all the harder. Rathe found himself growing excited enough to forget the perpetual cold and snow. He did, however, notice Nesaea pressing against him, her eyes wild and beautiful. Fira’s lips formed a delicate pink circle, but she didn’t speak a word.

  Loro ducked when Liamas swung a third time, and the Prythian’s fist smacked against the top of Loro’s skull. Dancing backward, shaking his wounded hand, the quartermaster cursed in pain. Loro plowed forward, head lowered, and smashed into the Prythian. With a strangled oof, the quartermaster floundered into the ring of crewmen, who shoved him back.

  While Liamas struggled to draw a wheezy gasp, Loro raised his fists to the sky and made a slow turn. “Better get another champion! This one’s soft as an old whore’s teats!”

  Liamas’s face went ugly, and he charged.

  “Behind you!” Fira shouted.

  Loro spun. When Liamas’s fist came swooping in, Loro lowered his head again. This time the cracking sound was different, more of a sodden crunch. Liamas jumped away, hand held against his chest. Three of the fingers looked like a mangled claws.

  “Broke his fool hand on the man’s skull!” Ostre gasped in dismay.

  “Double the wager?” Rathe asked.

  Ostre’s black beard shook in agitation. “Aye,” he rumbled.

  Loro swung around the big Prythian, shouting insults against everyone from the man’s mother to his unborn children, before bulling his way inside the quartermaster’s guarded stance. Instead of battering Loro’s head again, Liamas hammered an elbow against Loro’s spine. The fat man’s feet went out from under him and he crashed to his knees. Liamas landed a thudding kick to the side of Loro’s face, knocking him sprawling. Nesaea clutched at Rathe’s arm, and Fira moaned behind a raised hand.

  “See there?” Ostre said, nodding smugly.

  Rathe watched Loro push himself up on shaking arms.

  “Now who needs a champion, you fat bastard?” Liamas demanded, earning shouts of approval from his supporters.

  Loro clambered to his feet and wiped away a trickle of blood from his temple. He looked up slowly, a stony smirk pulling at his lips. “I’m done playing with you, little sister.”

  With that, the two men roared toward each other, collided with a thud, their fists flying. When they broke apart, Loro was breathing hard and blood was flowing from his ruptured lips. For his part, Liamas looked better off. Most of the blood on him belonged to Loro.

  Cradling his broken hand, Liamas waded in and kicked Loro in his barrel of a gut, doubling him over. The quartermaster straightened him with another thumping boot to the face. The fat man reeled, struggling to stay upright, and fell against the cheering crew. Before they could throw him back into the circle, Liamas closed in.

  Using his good fist, he struck Loro a blow to the cheek, backhanded him, and then sank a fist into the man’s hanging belly in rapid succession. The crew flung Loro away, and he crashed face down on the deck. Liamas treated the crew to a triumphant shout, which most of them returned.

  “Your man fought well,” Ostre said, holding out his hand.

  “Fool,” Fira said, tears in her eyes as she turned to the stairs leading down off the poop deck. Nesaea glanced at Rathe, then joined Fira.

  Rathe wasn’t paying much attention to the women, the Prythian giant, the crew, or Captain Ostre’s waiting hand. His eye was fixed on Loro, who had gotten to his hands and knees. Rills of blood ran over his face, making lurid patterns in the trampled slush on the deck. A growing number of crewmen began to take notice, and a hush slowly fell over them.

  Liamas followed their stares. “Give over, you bloated bag of suet, or I’ll unman you in front of Fira, and take her for my own.”

  “She’ll never be yours,” Loro said in a hoarse, woeful voice.

  “We’ll see,” Liamas said.

  “No,” Loro answered, struggling to his feet, “we will not.”

  With a resigned sigh, Liamas moved in again, landing devastating blows against Loro’s face and ribs. The fat man grimaced, but did little to ward against the attack. His singular goal seemed to be driving closer to his assailant. The thin streams of blood on his face grew to rivers pouring from nasty splits over his cheekbones and above his eyebrows. The flood ran down his chest and the expanse of his gut, soaking the waist of his trousers. When it became obvious he was not going to lie down, Liamas gave up protecting his injured hand and let it fly. His efforts came too late.

  Loro reached through the flurry and caught the giant Prythian by the throat. While Liamas pummeled him with renewed vigor, Loro used his other hand to catch hold of his opponent’s groin. The crew began squalling about foul play, but Loro paid them no more mind than he did Liamas’s frantic efforts to break free.

  With a straining grunt, Loro bent his knees and hefted the Prythian over his head, then made a stumbling dash for Lamprey’s rail. Crewmen hurled him back, and Loro dropped the giant to the deck. Before Liamas rolled away, Loro began putting his boots to the man. The Prythian crossed his arms over his head, and Loro redoubled his efforts. He kept at it until the crew began to protest. Rathe belatedly understood Loro meant to kill the Prythian.

  Vaulting over the poop deck’s rail, Rathe shoved through the ring of sailors, and spun Loro around. Still ensnared by a killing fury, he swung a bloodied fist at Rathe, who dodged back, then slapped the man hard across the face. A measure of awareness came into Loro’s eyes. Below the rage-filled stare, Rathe saw a man with a deeply wounded heart, and he realized none of this had to do with stung pride, but only Loro’s love for Fira.

  “It’s finished,” Rathe said, leading him away from a groaning Liamas.

  Chest billowing, blood and snot bubbling from his nostrils, Loro nodded weakly. “Aye, brother, it is over. Like you said before, it’s time to be rid of these wenches, and all the troubles that come with them.” He pulled free from Rathe and stumbled away, disappearing below deck.

  “What did he mean?” Nesaea asked.

  Rathe turned to find both her and Fira staring at him with hurt and anger smoldering in their eyes. “It was something I said to get him off all that talk of becoming a thief along the Sea of Muika.”

  “Of course,” Nesaea said, flashing him a tepid smile. “I should’ve known.”

  As they followed Loro, Rathe worried they did not believe him. And why should they? he thought. After all, he had already left them once before, back at Valdar.

  Chapter 16

  “How’s Fira?” Rathe asked, using his new blade to parry Nesaea’s sword thrust. Steel rang as their feet danced lightly over the icy deck. The snowfall had stopped the night before, but the gray skies promised more.

  “Angry,” Nesaea said in a distracted voice.

  Rathe lunged, his sword flashing at her unprotected breast. With startling swiftness, she whirled and raked his blade aside. He abruptly changed direction, forcing her to do the same.

  “I guess that’s better than Loro,” Rathe said. “He took quite a beating.”

  “Serves him right.”

  “He was protecting Fira’s honor.” And his love for her, Rathe thought, but didn’t say.

  Nesaea’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you call trying to kick a man to death?”

  Rathe circled out of distance. “As I recall, you seemed as eager as anyone else to watch the fight. Besides, everyone was sure Liamas would crush Loro—even Fira. Seems to me that Loro had no choice but to make sure he was the clear victor.”

  Nesaea jabbed the tip of her sword at Rathe’s middle. A half-hearted effort, at best. Smirking, he beat her blade aside. An instant later, her dagger whispered out of its sheath and slashed at his face. He leaped back, surprised he still
had a nose, his own dagger coming to hand before his feet lit upon the deck. Nesaea crossed her blades to catch Rathe’s overhand strike, and swept it down and away, upsetting his dagger thrust. She changed direction, now forcing him to match her.

  “What makes you think Fira needs her honor protected,” Nesaea said, “when she’s been doing fine for many years without him?”

  “Most everyone needs protection, one time or another. Most often those who need it the most are those who’re too cocky to see that they need help.”

  “Cocky?”

  “What would you call kissing your lover’s rival?” Rathe could think of a few other choice words, but chose to keep them to himself, if only because he knew Fira well enough by now to guess she had only been prodding Loro for the sake of prodding him. A dangerous and foolish game better suited to children.

  “She was only thanking a friend for helping with her seasickness,” Nesaea retorted, making a wicked slash at his legs.

  Rathe leaped back, but this time she came at him hard, sword and dagger slicing through the cold air. Steel rang as he spun and gave her retreating, leather-clad rump a firm kick. Nesaea wheeled, a hectic splash of color staining her cheeks. Rathe found himself wondering if they were still talking about Loro and Fira.

  “Between friends,” he said, “a word of thanks tends to suffice.”

  Nesaea shrugged that off. “As it happens, Fira was very appreciative.”

  Rathe loosed a derisive laugh. “Then it’s a good thing Liamas didn’t cure her of boils, or she might’ve bedded him right there in front of everyone.”

  “Try not to be as big a fool as Loro,” Nesaea snarled, coming at him. Rathe fought her off, but their match was beginning to feel a bit closer to a true fight.

  “In that case,” he said when out of reach, the stirrings of irritation flaring in his chest, “I’ll remember your opinion when a comely woman helps me overcome some difficulty or other, and I need to thank her in a friendly and appreciative manner.”