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

by James A. West

  Rathe shook his head. “With the snow falling, they’ll soon load the prisoners onto the ships and put them to the question.”

  Loro cursed under his breath.

  Rathe parted a drooping curtain of snowy branches. The dam of rocks that had crushed the Lamprey was now a waterfall, the edges already beginning to freeze. The galleys rode anchor where the River Sedge widened below Ruan Breach. So many lamps burned on their decks that Rathe could have mistaken the fleet for a floating city. Most of the crewmen stood at the rails to look toward the riverbank, which was now lined with beached longboats, and easily two hundred Kingsguard. Edrik and his fellows stood apart from the other captives, passive but watchful. The Lamprey’s crew knelt on the riverbank, most of them bloody. Rathe picked out Liamas, Captain Ostre, and a redheaded woman—Fira, no doubt. She was bent protectively over someone on the ground. As he didn’t see her anywhere else, Rathe guessed Fira was watching over Nesaea.

  “Seems you were right about Nesaea, brother,” Loro said, voice thick. “But I’d judge she’s alive.”

  Rathe was unable to speak.

  “Someone needs to die for this,” Loro said, shifting his feet. “Sooner the better.”

  Rathe nodded, but didn’t move. Someone would pay, but as he would have only a single chance to collect his due, he wanted to make sure he chose wisely.

  That was when he saw a man arguing with a trio of Kingsguard. The fellow wore a familiar green cloak. Melting snow had darkened his blond curls and plastered them to his skull. Rathe knew him well. “Brother Jathen. I suppose he wanted to see me collected.”

  As they watched, the three men of the Kingsguard caught Brother Jathen and half led, half dragged him to one of the longboats. None to gently, they tossed him in. The crewmen at the oars shoved off and began rowing toward the ships.

  “Seems he angered someone,” Rathe said, but he was looking again at Fira, who now cradled Nesaea’s head in her lap. She would not take such care if Nesaea was—Rathe’s mind skittered away from the word dead.

  Loro’s attention had turned to another longboat approaching the riverbank. He whistled softly. “Looks like the king and his new queen have also come.”

  Rathe looked that way, startled. Even with the falling snow, he knew the man’s face. The last he had seen Nabar, he had been sitting beside his father at a tournament in Onareth. Then, Nabar had been a timid and rather weak prince. He still looked so, but now he was the King of Cerrikoth. His queen was a mystery concealed beneath a light blue veil that matched her thick cloak.

  “I know what to do,” Loro said.

  Rathe arched a questioning brow.

  “I hand you over to the king, collect the reward, and save my arse and everyone else’s in the bargain—all except yours, of course. But then, you’ll need to worry more about where your head ends up, than your arse.”

  “Not a bad idea.” More or less, that had been Rathe’s line of thought.

  Loro snorted. “That’s naught but a steaming pile of horseshit, brother. I didn’t gather up the Maidens of the Lyre and attack Fortress Hilan to get you free, nor did I cross the Gyntors and venture into the madness of Ravenhold, only to hand you over so easily.”

  Rathe had once known another man who had stood by his side with the same conviction. Thushar had died in chains, his head lopped off because of Rathe’s indiscretions.

  “I thank you, but you’ve earned a better end than what I face.”

  “Save all that valiant twaddle for gullible children,” Loro growled. “My woman is yonder with yours, and even if I didn’t want to, that forces me to stand with you to get her loose.”

  Rathe could have argued further, but saw that Loro had made his decision. He prayed to Ahnok for strength and courage, even as he cursed the demonic spirit that so relished bringing him, and everyone around him, no end of misery. “Luck to you, friend.”

  “Same to you, brother.”

  Weapons poised, they stood up and pushed through the brambles.

  Chapter 24

  “Why hasn’t it worked yet?” Danlin asked Edrik in a low voice, his gaze searching the faces of the crimson-cloaked soldiers around them. To Edrik’s eyes, Danlin looked every inch as fierce as they did, but after seeing the ease with which they put down the crew of the Lamprey, he knew they were men born to war, where he and Danlin were inexperienced priests trapped in a monstrous and foreign world filled with merciless deycath.

  “Be patient,” Edrik said, his confident tone belying the obviousness that nothing had happened since they drank the Blood of Life. Like Danlin, he wondered at the delay—a delay that had allowed the vile mistreatment of Nesaea, now sprawled senseless. After watching Rathe and his companions in Iceford, Edrik felt as if he had come to know them a little, at least enough to share in their misery. Watching the pale-haired warrior in the green cloak—General Jathen, another soldier had named him—abuse Nesaea as he had, made Edrik’s belly cramp. What sort of people can do such terrible things?

  On the heels of that thought, a small voice asked, What right have you to judge anyone? It was you who dropped a cliff on the Lamprey. You had no care for her safety then.

  Thin as it seemed, Edrik’s answer was that he had acted to save Targas, not some diabolical need or desire to see a woman suffer. Besides, he reasoned, if Nesaea had died aboard the Lamprey, it would have been a mercy, compared to what she had suffered at Jathen’s hands.

  He had almost vindicated himself, but couldn’t escape the truth that he and everyone he loved needed the woman to suffer, for what else besides that would bring Rathe rushing back?

  Edrik searched the faces of his people, who were all looking between Fira tending her silent companion, and the cold forest concealing their salvation.

  Where is he? Edrik thought, his own gaze turning to the tree line. His heart quickened when a stirring in the brambles at the edge of the riverbank caused the snow to slough off their branches. All went still again, and his heart sank.

  “Perhaps we should try again,” Danlin whispered.

  “The Summoning will work,” Edrik said, wanting to believe it, but finding it difficult to escape his doubts.

  “But what if it failed?” Danlin asked. His gaze cut toward the soldiers. “If we don’t act soon, they will take to their ships. And as they are still holding us, I fear they mean to force us to join them.”

  A reverent murmur turned Edrik’s head. Several soldiers were helping a man and woman out of a longboat. By the humble words of fealty, bows, and salutes, Edrik understood that the newcomers were the soldiers’ king and queen. If he’d had any doubt on that score, the golden crowns spoke plainly of monarchs. The king’s crimson cloak and robes, overstuffed with resplendent sable and decorated with golden needlework, was garb ill-suited for the bank of a river. Edrik turned his attention to the queen.

  Dressed in pale blue, from her slippers to the veil obscuring her features and held in place by a circlet of gold, she moved with an otherworldly grace, leaving the soldiers aiding her without much to do. She was the true power here, Edrik knew at once, unsure how that helped matters.

  “Before trying again,” Edrik said to Danlin, “we’ll wait a little longer for the Summoning to work.”

  “Why not now?”

  “You know why.”

  “I’m more interested in staying alive,” Danlin hissed, “than worrying over the proper use of the Blood of Life.”

  “Betray the edicts of our Order at your peril,” Edrik warned.

  Danlin’s lips wrinkled back from his teeth, but he said no more. Thinking to soothe his friend, Edrik said, “If it comes to it, we will drink the potion again, but not for a Summoning.”

  The anger on Danlin’s face melted away. “You suggest we perform the Sight-binding here, out in the open for all to see, and dare speak to me of betraying the edicts of the Munam a’Dett?”

  “If it comes to it,” Edrik said, “the ire of our masters will be the least of our troubles….” His words faltered at th
e sudden silence around them.

  All eyes had turned toward the forest, and Edrik thought sure the Summoning had finally worked. He was wrong.

  “What’s that fool doing?” Danlin asked, as Rathe stepped into the open. Loro came next. Both carried swords and daggers.

  “Not a fool,” Edrik said, awed despite himself. Seeing the bloody-faced man come willingly against such insurmountable odds destroyed all the hidden doubts he had carried in his heart about the legitimacy of the Oracle’s foretelling. “He is the hope of Targas.”

  “Only if he lives.”

  “He will. The Oracle foresaw it.”

  One of the soldiers walking beside the king gave a shout, drawing a dozen men to his side. Without further word, they set off toward Rathe and Loro.

  Another movement, almost lost within the forest’s deepest shadows back behind Rathe, caught Edrik’s eye. A pocket of darkness swirled, as if struggling to gain substance, then blended back into the shadows that had birthed it. Other than Thaeson’s vague descriptions, he had no idea what to expect from a Summoning. Could this be it?

  He glanced skyward, looking for a clearer sign. Snow swirled like flakes of dirty gold in the torchlight, but he saw nothing else. Still, Edrik sensed things beginning to move and shift around him, subtle stirrings that prickled his shaven scalp.

  “Make ready, lad,” Edrik heard the captain of the Lamprey whisper to the golden-haired giant beside him—a man with the looks of one born in the eternal light of Targas, if markedly larger.

  The big man met the eyes of the battered crew, and gave an imperceptible nod. Edrik watched with mounting horror as each sailor picked up an icy stone and held it against his leg. They mean to fight!

  Chapter 25

  Rathe halted at the approach of a dozen Kingsguard. The soldiers spread out along the riverbank turned to watch, but otherwise kept their distance. Rathe focused on the commander of the group, thinking he looked familiar.

  “Should we start hacking pieces off these whoresons straight away?” Loro asked. “Or do we want to give them a chance to surrender?”

  Rathe’s laughter made his head pound, but he kept laughing. Few things stirred his blood as much as the thought of battle. Invigorating as it was, he also despised it. He was no murderer, but he was a killer, and he would leave it to sages to decide the difference between the two.

  “At least they don’t have any archers,” Loro said.

  Rathe sobered. “Seems we have a bit of luck, after all.”

  “Black luck, at best.”

  Silence fell between them.

  Rathe made a study of the officer in the lead, a squat man with a face as craggy as a timeworn boulder. He knew the fellow after all—and well he should, as the man had foretold Rathe’s downfall. How long ago had that been? Not so long as it seems, Rathe thought, finding it hard to believe that less than two seasons gone he had been raiding with the Ghosts of Ahnok across the plains of Qairennor.

  “Halt!” the officer called, ten strides from Rathe and Loro.

  Rathe stepped forward. “What brings you so far from Onareth, Commander Rhonaag?”

  The man’s smile was humorless and bitter. “Who but you, Scorpion, could drag me to such a godless wasteland?”

  Rathe looked to the sky. “I believe there are gods here, but they prefer ice and darkness, to warmth and sunlight.”

  “Be that as it may, after learning that you’d killed Lord Sanouk, brother to the king who set you free instead of having off your head, I resigned from the Fists of Rydev and joined the Kingsguard.”

  Rathe’s eyebrows rose. “I’m surprised you were so eager to throw your lot in with King Nabar who is—how did you once put it? A fop and a coward who has always fancied Princess Mirith, the witch-queen’s youngest daughter.” Ignoring the soldiers’ uneasy shifting, Rathe searched over Rhonaag’s shoulder. “Unless my eyes deceive, it seems you were right about Nabar wedding Mirith, so I wonder if Onareth has become a ‘den rife with necromancers and mystics,’ as you also predicted.”

  “I’ve no love of witches and their ways,” Rhonaag growled, “but the good of Cerrikoth outweighs my hatreds. Such is the reason I hunted your cowardly arse across the northern territories of the realm, sailed two seas, and ended up here. Long have I prayed for Ahnok to let me find you.” A rare and genuine smile touched his lips. “Now I have. When I return to Onareth, I’ll be sure to thank Ahnok by giving your severed cock as a burnt offering.”

  “That sounds unpleasant,” Rathe said, the sharp ache behind his eyes having receded, his heart hammering in anticipation of the coming fight.

  Rhonaag’s black eyes shone like chips of onyx. Not only did he seem eager to spill Rathe’s blood, he looked as if he wanted to bathe in it. “Still an arrogant shit, aren’t you?”

  Rathe shrugged. “Never had a reason to be otherwise.”

  “Is there anyone who is not your enemy?” Loro asked out of the side of his mouth.

  “Too few,” Rathe admitted quietly, wondering if any former Champion of Cerrikoth had ever fallen as low as he. Considering the hard eyes of the men he faced, eyes that smoldered with the same hatred as their commander’s, he thought not.

  “What’re your thoughts on fighting fair and honorably?” Loro asked loudly, as if the Kingsguard were in on the discussion.

  “Honor is best served in the absence of blood and steel,” Rathe said. “Right now, I’d recommend a dirty fight.”

  Loro chuckled darkly. “Just the way I like it.”

  Rathe looked to Rhonaag again. “If you have any love for your men, you’d best order them back to King Nabar. If not, I plan on killing them all.”

  “Don’t heed this blustering arsehole!” Rhonaag shouted, but it was too late. All the men present knew of Rathe and his reputation, and none appeared eager to cross swords with him in single combat. As if at a silent command, four of the men broke formation.

  “Hold, damn you! Captain Carlus, I command you to hold!”

  “We need to protect the king,” he called over his shoulder without slowing.

  Rhonaag turned back to Rathe, sword coming to bear. “I’ll bronze your head and make it into my chamber pot,” he snarled.

  With Nesaea hurt and naked steel swinging in the frigid air, Rathe decided he was well past taunts. His sword came up in a brief salute, and then he fell into a guarded stance. Loro moved to the side, whirled his sword overhead, and loosed a crazed shout that gave pause to the rest of the men standing with Rhonaag.

  The fight never began.

  Everyone froze at the rush of a terrible wind tearing through the forest. As the racket grew louder, Rathe realized that it was not wind he heard, but something like wind and water joined to make a deep roar. He darted a glance at the forest.

  Where the dark of night had held sway, he now saw an expanding dome scrawled with webs of slow-rippling lightning. It soared a hundred strides above the tallest trees, and spread across the land as far as he could see. It continued to grow, as did the sound of its passage through the forest. Billowing clouds of snow shrieked through the trees and across the riverbank, blinding everyone. An instant later, something warm and jelly-like engulfed Rathe, knocked him sprawling, and then screamed past.

  Snow plugged Rathe’s nose, packed his ears, and stuffed his mouth. Spitting slush, he clambered to his feet. The rushing sound had ended as quickly as it began, replaced by shouts and the clamor of fighting. The swarming threads of lightning he had seen covering the dome still rode its outer surface, all around and high overhead. In that faltering light, he saw several men of the Kingsguard locked in battle with the crew of the Lamprey. Rathe searched for Rhonaag, and found the commander and his men racing back toward King Nabar.

  Loro turned, his eyes round. “It’s warm!”

  Rathe was too dumbfounded to respond. Not only was it as warm as a spring day, the snow had ceased falling. In its absence, thick runners of fog began curling up off the icy stones littering the riverbank.

 
“Nesaea!” Rathe called, unsure what was happening, but seeing an opportunity to free her and the others. After, they could escape into the thickening fog. Loro needed no coaxing.

  Running full out, they had nearly reached the tangled confusion of fighting Kingsguard and sailors, when an overwhelming cry dropped them to their knees. Eyes watering, Rathe slammed his fists over his ears, but the dread cry sank through the flesh and bones of his hands, boring into his skull.

  When the cry cut off, Rathe hesitantly dropped his fists. Somewhere in the soupy mists high above, he detected a sound like flapping sails. A thudding breeze churned the fog, and a winged shadow soared overhead. As the shape wheeled over the river and flew back, Loro uttered a garbled shout. The creature swooped closer, rapidly emerging from the mists and taking the shape of a colossal blue serpent. Rathe heard Captain Ostre howl a single word: “Dragon!”

  Before the meaning of that warning could take root, a brilliant pulse of light flashed from the beast’s fang-studded maw. A wave of blinding radiance struck Rathe like a soft fist, trading fear for the stark emptiness of oblivion.

  Chapter 26

  Its scales flashing like cut sapphires, the dragon took another turn over the now silent ships, then glided back and settled its clawed feet on the riverbank. As the creature’s great wings folded against its flanks, the illusion began to fade.

  With quiet awe, Edrik and his fellows watched the transformation. When it was finished, Essan Thaeson stood in his blue-and-gold quartered vestments, where the beast had been before. The aged priest’s face sagged with weariness, but his voice was strong.

  “Don’t stand there gawping! Gather Rathe and his portly companion. We must return to Targas at once.”

  “The fat one is Loro, Essan,” Edrik said. “But why him?”

  Thaeson picked his way over the riverbank, slipping on melting snow and ice. “Have you joined those who question Quidan Salris and the Oracle? Perhaps, too, you begin to doubt the justness of the Munam a’Dett?”