That just leaves me, Rathe considered, stomach growing sour and squirmy again at the thought of wading into a fight. You’ve seen men battle with worse wounds, he told himself, but had a hard time remembering when.
“We need to get closer,” Rathe said.
“Best be quick about it. They’ll have to move the prisoners soon, unless they mean to stand by and watch them freeze to death.”
Rathe curled his stiff hands into painful fists, released them, balled them again. He imagined Nesaea’s fear and his own when the wall of Ruan Breach first started to crumble. They could have killed us all. Fury sparked alight deep in his chest. He coaxed and nurtured that rage. He would free it soon, but not just yet. For now, he needed its warmth to bury the queasiness in his guts, to quiet the infernal hammering in his skull, to warm his blood.
“Hear that?” Loro asked.
“It’s all I hear,” Rathe said. When Loro looked askance at him, he realized the fat man had not read his thoughts, but was speaking of something else.
Loro cursed under his breath. “Drums—real drums—not like before the cliff fell.”
Rathe saw Edrik’s band turning toward the sound, raising their torches to cast the light farther. Then Rathe noticed something else in the torchlight that set his heart to racing.
“I see them,” he said, the drums forgotten as he pointed out Nesaea and Fira, both standing cold and bedraggled beside Captain Ostre and Liamas.
Loro’s face split into a grin. “When this is over, remind me to make a hundred offerings to any god in any temple we come across.”
The drumming grew louder, rolling up the River Sedge. Edrik’s band and the survivors of the Lamprey began stirring. A few pointed toward the forest, while the others stared downstream.
“Someone’s in the woods with us,” Loro said, looking back over Rathe’s shoulder. By the time Rathe turned, a torch flared alight, then another and another and another, until it seemed the forest had been set afire.
Rathe pulled Loro down into a crouch.
A moment later, soldiers began rushing past Rathe and Loro’s hiding spot. They came out of the forest in two groups. One group spread out along the riverbank, while the other encircled Edrik’s companions and their captives. Shouted orders to surrender climbed above the approaching drumbeat, and Edrik’s company complied without a fight.
“Those are Cerrikothian Kingsguard,” Loro said, studying the newcomers. “What’re they doing here?”
“I’d guess that King Nabar learned I was in the Iron Marches—probably from Brother Jathen, as the monks of Skalos are the only true power in these lands.”
“I ever see that prancing fop again,” Loro growled, twisting the hilt of his sword until he was able to drag his frosty blade free of the scabbard, “I’ll have off his stones.”
Rathe chuckled darkly. “This is the life of the rogue you so cherish, friend. Beset on all sides, and an enemy to every man.”
“Does everything have to be so grim with you?” Loro snapped. “Is it so wrong for a man to have dreams?”
“No,” Rathe said, struggling to concentrate on this new development, “but a man should keep his dreams separate from the truth.”
“As you’re so keen to wallow in truth, here’s some more for you. If we are captured, then you and I are going to end up back in Onareth to face the headsman.”
“What of Nesaea and Fira?” Rathe asked, knowing what Loro would say, because he was thinking the same thing.
“King Nabar doesn’t want them. Like as not, he doesn’t know who they are, or that they were ever with us. For myself, we went to Skalos together, and good Brother Jathen doubtless mentioned me to Nabar. Our former king will assume I had a hand in killing his brother, Lord Sanouk.” Loro shot an accusing look at Rathe. “I suppose that means I’m sharing in your curse of bad luck.”
The drums had drawn closer, and a brightening radiance was spreading around a downstream bend in the river.
Loro shook his head in dismay. “Did that fool king send an entire legion to collect you?”
“It seems he must have.” Imagining the forest around them soon filling up with soldiers, Rathe bit back a curse.
Loro made to stand, then hunkered back, his features knotted with indecision. “We cannot stay here, but to run will get us caught even quicker. What do you suggest?”
Instead of answering, Rathe stared at the emerging sight downriver. Scores of lanterns lit a war galley crashing its way through the ice covering the slower, wider span of the River Sedge. The prow of a second ship soon showed itself, and then four more, all coming in a staggered line, all propelled by thrashing oars.
“The forest is our only hope,” Rathe said.
“So you really mean to leave Nesaea and Fira?”
“We have to stay out of sight until we can puzzle out a way to get them free,” Rathe said, despite knowing there was no way that did not end with him and Loro dead.
Chapter 22
Soldiers rushed hither and yon over the decks of the six war galleys. Lanterns by the score, hanging from yardarms and rails, lit the night. Nesaea held fast to Fira, who quivered and shook. Nesaea shivered just as hard, but the root of her shaking came from knowing she was trapped. After Lord Sanouk had poisoned her and locked her away in the catacombs under Fortress Hilan, there were times when even warm blankets seemed suffocating. Observing the steel-wielding Cerrikothian Kingsguard around her, she wished blankets were her only concern.
There were no less than forty of Nabar’s Kingsguard around her and the others. Edrik was easy enough to pick out. He was not the tallest, nor was he the strongest looking, but his fellows all deferred to him. For all the good it will do them. But the outlanders had ceased being a threat.
She knew the Kingsguard had come for Rathe, and as he was not among the captives, chances were they would soon put everyone to the question. The soldiers said nothing, but their spear tips and swords glittered in the torchlight, waiting to begin their bloody labor. More than their steel, Nesaea knew all too well that they had other, viler means to use against her and Fira, the only two women amongst the captives.
Edrik’s people, all young, shave-headed men dressed in similar garb, clustered together. They stood by impassively, as if waiting for something to happen in their favor. Fools, Nesaea thought, knowing that pain was the only thing likely to happen anytime soon.
Closer by, Captain Ostre huddled beside Liamas and what was left of the Lamprey’s crew. None of them seemed inclined to risk a fight to escape, which didn’t fit with the men she had fought with against the Crimson Gull. Like Nesaea and Fira, the water covering them was going to pale feathers of frost in their clothes, hair, and beards. Ostre flashed her a reassuring smile.
What does that mean? Nesaea wondered. Does it mean anything?
Normally, she never failed to come up with a plan, but not now. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, forced away the threads of panic threatening to encase her heart. This is nothing like Sanouk’s catacombs. There is no magic here, just flesh and steel. Think!
Instead of a plan, a face came to mind, a strong face, the face of a warrior, the face of her lover. Rathe. Where is he? Did he make it out of the river?
Earlier, Nesaea thought she had seen two figures farther down the shore. With all the chaos after the Lamprey had come under attack, then swimming for shore and getting captured—not once, but twice—Nesaea was unsure if she could trust her eyes.
“We have only ourselves,” Nesaea said against Fira’s ear.
Fira leaned away, eyes round in a face as white as the falling snow. Her usually full lips had shriveled down to pale blue worms. “What’s that mean?” she whispered back.
Releasing Fira, Nesaea caught the hilt of a dagger concealed under her cloak—the Kingsguard had been quick to disarm everyone under their watch, but they had not been thorough. “We’ll have to cut our way out of this trap, and make for the forest.”
“Are you mad?”
&n
bsp; “What choice do we have? They came for Rathe. When they realize he’s not here, the questioning will begin. I shouldn’t have to tell you what that means for either of us. If I must choose between getting cut down or being held down while some brute has his way with me, I’d rather die with a blade in my hand.”
Fira nodded imperceptibly.
As Nesaea began twisting her dagger to break it free of the iced sheath, Edrik glanced her way and slowly shook his head.
Nesaea went still. Had that been a warning, or was he only trying to save his own skin? Before she found an answer, Edrik made a slight gesture to his fellows and, one by one, they slipped tiny golden flasks from under their robes and took a sip. Watching each of them grimace by turns, she wondered what they were up to?
“Ho the camp!” came a familiar voice from the soldiers tromping along the riverbank.
“Oh, gods,” Fira breathed.
Nesaea said nothing. The first she had heard that voice, the haughty speaker had been recounting the history of Skalos.
“Jathen,” Fira whispered harshly.
Nesaea nodded, a wave of trepidation filling her breast. Before Rathe had returned the monk’s so-called baubles, she had treated the Keeper’s Box and the Wight Stone with two substances that, when put together, created a destructive mixture. Doubtless, Jathen would not have taken kindly to losing such rare and powerful artifacts. She had never expected to see him again, but here he was, striding into view.
“His face,” Fira muttered.
“Oh gods,” Nesaea breathed, as the man halted to look over the captives. As his agate blue eyes swiveled, she saw a terrible scar across his brow, as if searing fire had washed over him. Alchemy was a thorny talent to master at best, and while Nesaea was a fair hand at it, something had gone very wrong. I ruined his face … a face most women would’ve found attractive.
Jathen’s eyes widened at the sight of Fira, then narrowed when they turned to Nesaea. “Milady,” he said, striding nearer. He was dressed as a lord ready for battle, with an ermine-lined green cloak draped over his broad shoulders, and a burnished steel breastplate embossed with a golden sun. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to find you here.” Though he spoke in a pleasant tone, there was a disturbing mixture of hatred and joy in his eyes that made Nesaea cringe.
“Brother Jathen,” she said, renewing her efforts to get her dagger free of the icy scabbard. “I’m surprised to see you.”
Jathen smiled warmly, as if greeting an old friend. “Duty calls, and we humble servants must obey, yes?”
“I suppose,” Nesaea agreed.
Jathen turned back to Fira. “Words cannot convey my delight in discovering you unharmed by the dreadful accident which befell your ship.”
“You call what happened to us an accident?” Fira snapped.
Jathen came within an arm’s length of them. Up close, the monk’s face showed even greater ravaging. Some scars suited men. Those he wore would do nothing to turn a woman’s eye, except away in pity. “A poor choice of words. Forgive me. Attempted assassination, it seems, was done here. Well, I’ve come to deliver the king’s justice.”
“I didn’t know the Iron Marches had a king,” Nesaea said, not liking the way he was looking at her.
“More’s the pity they don’t. Ah, well, I suppose it’s up to the justice of Skalos.”
Before Nesaea guessed what was coming, Jathen’s face twisted into a bitter sneer, and he caught a handful of her frozen hair. He yanked her head sharply to the side and leaned in close. His eyes were cold and bleak.
Fira lashed out, but one of the Kingsguard who had come with Jathen stepped in and dragged her away. Jathen barely paid them any notice.
He leaned closer toward Nesaea, turned his face one way, then the other. When he spoke, his breath was a warm puff of steam across her face. “Have a good look.”
“Did you suffer an accident?” Nesaea asked breathlessly, still twisting at the hilt of her dagger. She thought it had budged a fraction.
Jathen wrenched at her hair, forcing her head farther to the side and dragging her off balance. “Accident? You cannot be serious?” With each word, he twisted harder, until Nesaea’s neck gave an alarming crack. The only way to relieve the pain was to drop to her knees. The relief was short-lived. He shook her like a dog worrying a rat. She abandoned her dagger to claw at his stones. Before she could reach him, he struck her across the mouth. A dull ringing filled her skull, and blood washed over her tongue.
“Leave her be!” Fira screamed, sounding far away.
The Lamprey’s crew began shouting against the abuse, but the ring of Kingsguard tightened. When Liamas tried to push through, a spear butt slammed into his belly, knocking him back.
“You name mutilating me an accident?” Jathen’s fury raised his voice into a shriek.
“I’m sorry,” Nesaea said, searching in vain for a way to break free.
“Oh, milady, you have no understanding of the word!” Jathen raved.
Fira twisted in her captor’s grasp and raked her nails across his eyes. He cursed as she spun out of his hands. Before she could take the first step, his fist collided with the back of her neck. Fira staggered and fell, hitting the frozen rocks with a muffled sob.
“Fira!” Nesaea screamed, at the same time Jathen bellowed, “Enough, you fool! She’s mine!”
Stunned silence held for a moment, then Ostre and his crew attacked. Fists flew, spears swung, men fell. In seconds, the rebellion was over. Liamas and Ostre both lay on the ground, bleeding and dazed. At least one crewman was dead, the loops of his innards hung in rigid fingers. The Kingsguard forced the rest of the rebellious captives to their knees.
“Don’t mind them,” Jathen said against Nesaea’s ear. “You have problems of your own.”
“Kill me and have done with it,” Nesaea said, jaw clenching.
“Why ever would I foreshorten our time together, when I have so many questions that need answering?”
At the nasty tone of his voice, Nesaea’s hand stole once more to the hilt of her dagger. It was like trying to drag a boulder from the earth.
Jathen’s fingers twined tighter in her hair. “Whenever I look at my face, you see, I wonder what recompense such a grievous wound demands. Now I look at you, and wonder, what would such a pretty young woman cherish most about herself. What, I ask, is that one thing you could lose that would make you understand my pain?”
Nesaea stared into his eyes and saw something worse than death looking back.
Jathen pressed closer and gave a brutal squeeze to one of her breasts, while at the same time speaking in reasoned tone. “Perhaps, I think, cutting off your teats would be proper payment for what you did to me. But then, I think, perhaps not, for you could hide such wounds from the world, unlike me—lest I wear a mask.” His gaze mapped her features. “I tell myself I could take your eyes, maybe your lips. Or, perhaps, one of each? I expect there are those who would find such ravaged beauty appealing, even delightful. At worst, you could combine such imperfections with your other talents to great advantage in some lord’s great hall or king’s court.”
Nesaea tried again to pry his fingers free of her hair. He smiled, gave her cheek a jarring slap, then pressed his lips against her ear. “I’ve thought of many ways to punish you … but only one truly suffices.”
Jathen leaned away and motioned to one of the Kingsguard. The soldier approached, looking at Nesaea with something between regret and lecherous hunger. “Shame to ruin her, monk.”
“And it is an even greater shame that you insist on providing opinions when none are required! Now, give me your torch.”
Nesaea went cold, and her efforts to get loose intensified, when the torch passed hands. As the heat of that fire drew near, she smelled her wet hair struggling to burn, and she began to scream.
Chapter 23
The agonized scream rose so sharply and so loudly that, for a moment, Rathe believed the forest itself was suffering some rending agony.
&n
bsp; A moment later, the cry cut off.
“Hold,” he ordered, ducking behind a screen of brambles. The abrupt movement revived the pounding in his head, but for once, it was easy to ignore.
Loro hunkered at his back, a hulking shape in the night. “Could’ve been a frost leopard,” he said in a hopeful tone.
“Such a beast would have to be very hungry to stalk men with fire.” Rathe wiped a trickle of blood from his brow.
“Then it was a woman,” Loro said, his voice cracking with rage. “Far as we know, there are only two nearby.”
“It was Nesaea,” Rathe said hollowly.
Loro’s silence told that he thought the same.
Rathe struggled to think beyond the hammering inside his skull, and his skin crawled at the memory of that piercing cry. The guilt he felt was worse. Since fleeing into the forest—he hated to think of it that way, but fleeing was exactly what they had done—all they had managed to do was stay out of sight, work their blades loose from their scabbards, and warm their limbs a bit by darting between the shadows.
“We have to go back,” Rathe said.
“We’ll die,” Loro said. “You understand that?”
“Yes,” Rathe said, but secretly reasoned that King Nabar had not sent a small fleet loaded with Kingsguard to capture Rathe’s companions, but him alone.
“All men die, but I never thought this would be my end,” Loro said. “I’d hoped to pass in my sleep, with a full belly, and a wench or three curled beside me.” His scowl had deepened as he spoke, but now his face went slack and he loosed a grudging sigh. “Well, there’s no help for it. Let’s get on with this mad business.”
Not long after they turned back, Rathe saw scores of torches through the trees. At least there hasn’t been any more screams. That brought him no comfort.
“Are you sure two men against a legion is the best course?” Loro asked. “Maybe we should have a look around, find a place to sneak into their camp, and wait for the guards to get sleepy.”
Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion) Page 19
