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

by James A. West

Before her general could say a word, Horge asked Erryn, “If I may be so bold, who are you?”

  “She’s the chosen Queen of Pryth,” Aedran answered.

  Horge blinked, his thin fingers tapping against his lips. “Queen of Pryth, you say? Oh my. That isn’t good. No, no, not good at all.”

  “Why?” Erryn asked, bewildered.

  Horge’s nose twitched like that of a forest creature detecting a raging woodland fire. “Because the other chosen Queen of Pryth will be none too pleased to learn of a rival. Nor, I suspect, will those who chose her,” he added, waving a hand over the host of Prythians busily ensuring all the iceworms were dead.

  Erryn faced Aedran. “What’ve you gotten me into?”

  He shook his head, concern etched deep into his face. “I don’t know, but rest assured, I will find out.”

  His promise should have comforted her, but Erryn felt as if inescapable chains were wrapping her about and cinching tight. A report from a man Aedran trusted had led Erryn to march her army into this frozen wasteland in order to find and destroy her greatest enemy, King Nabar. Such an audacious attack would have secured her hold on northern Cerrikoth, but without warning Nabar, wherever he was in the Iron Marches, had become a minor concern. Recalling how often Aedran had spoken of Prythians willingly fighting amongst each other, she sensed a grave danger with the presence of a second Queen of Pryth and her army. More than ever, Erryn wished she had remained a simple orphan girl who lived free, even if it meant scrounging for every meal and sleeping cold. Crowns, even nonexistent ones like hers, were nothing but shackles of gold and misery.

  Chapter 30

  “I’ve done all I can,” a woman said.

  “You’ve done nothing more than I could have!” came Fira’s sharp retort.

  The conversation sounded far away to Nesaea, as if echoing along a dark tunnel that smelled of sopping wool and char.

  “She’ll live,” the unknown woman said. “I dare say that’s more than anyone could have hoped for. Most die from the corruption that sets into such wounds, but I’ve seen to it that your friend will live—that is far more than you could have done.”

  Nesaea’s eyelids fluttered, but would not open. One side of her face felt stuffed with hot embers. The other was cold.

  “What of Jathen?” Fira demanded. “Will you punish that bastard for what he did?”

  “My husband and I have an alliance with the monks of Skalos and, in particular, with Brother Jathen. For her sake, I regret what he did, but you and your friend are his to do with as he pleases.”

  Nesaea waited for more, but heard instead the sound of muffled footsteps and the rustling of heavy cloth. Fira cursed softly.

  Nesaea tried to piece together what had happened, but could only gather tidbits: A wall of stone crushing the Lamprey; swimming in the bitter cold waters of the River Sedge; fetching up on the icy shore; a man, familiar and terrifying. There was more, but the images were blurred, nightmarish, and had to do with … Jathen.

  Drifting between wakefulness and sleep, abstract pieces began melding themselves together in her mind, until she saw Jathen peering into her eyes, his glare full of hate and vengeance. In time, his voice came to her down that tunnel of misery. 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? Those words rang like the distant peals of a great bell, and Jathen’s agate blue eyes swam before hers, his pupils reflecting flames.

  “No!” she cried, her eyes pinched shut, lest the man was actually beside her.

  Gentle hands held her down. “You need sleep,” Fira said.

  “No,” Nesaea moaned.

  “It’s over. But if you’re to get better, you must rest.”

  Nesaea carefully opened her eyes on strange surroundings lit by a single candle. Wet and dripping, sagging canvas hung above her, divided down the center by a taut line. A tent? She had seen the same many times, but couldn’t understand how she had come to be in one.

  She glanced to one side, surprised to feel a pillow under her head. She was lying on a narrow cot, and heavy rugs covered the floor. Through the half-parted tent flap, soldiers passed by in the light of torches.

  “Where are we?”

  Sitting on the edge of the cot, Fira studied her hands. “On the bank of the River Sedge. The same place we were after the Lamprey sank. Instead of letting us freeze to death, the gods made us prisoners of the King and Queen of Cerrikoth. The best I can say of them is that they gave us shelter.” She offered a brittle smile. “Did I mention the dragon?”

  Nesaea tried to laugh, but it hurt her face. “Surely you jest?”

  Fira shook her head, taking great pains, it seemed, to avoid looking at Nesaea. “After Jathen … after what he did … something came out of the forest. A dome of sorts, crawling with lightning, but also somehow clear, like glass. With it came warmth and mist … and the dragon.”

  Something tickled the back of Nesaea’s mind, but try as she might, she could not pin it down.

  Fira glanced toward the tent’s doorway. “There’s some kind of magic here, and Queen Mirith seems more interested in that, than in anything else. I’ve never seen anything like it, nor have I ever heard of such things as I saw. The magic Horge’s sister used—”

  “Yiri,” Nesaea said, remembering the girl’s name, and the deadly green fire she had wielded at Ravenhold.

  “Yes, even her magic pales beside what’s at work here. Almost as soon as the dragon appeared, it did something to put everyone to sleep. When I woke, it seemed as though I must have dreamed it all. The air was cold again, and the snow was falling.” She looked at Nesaea for the first time. “That’s when I knew it was no dream, for the snow fell on wet ground, where before the riverbank had been all snow and ice.”

  That niggling sensation troubled Nesaea again, and her heart sped up. “Rathe? Loro? Where are they?”

  “They came back while you were unconscious. After the dragon … they were gone.”

  They are still alive. Nesaea knew there was no reason to think so, but she felt it in her bones.

  She sat up, wincing at the hot throbbing that spread from the side of her head to her neck and down her shoulder. She made to touch the source of that pain, but Fira caught her wrist. “Leave it.”

  Nesaea pulled away. “What’s the matter with—”

  She cut off when her fingers brushed over a wide bandage and snagged in her hair. When she drew them away, some of the hair fell into her blanketed lap. Instead of glossy black strands, they looked like bits of withered straw.

  Fira stared at her with an emotion approaching horror, then burst into tears.

  Shaking, Nesaea touched her head again, and felt a mass of blistered skin above the bandage. “What happened?”

  Fira buried her face in hands, and could not seem to find enough air to speak.

  “What happened to me?” Nesaea demanded, seeing again the flames reflected in Jathen’s eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was small. “What did that whoreson do to me?”

  “Rest,” Fira sobbed. “Please, just rest.”

  An aching knot formed in Nesaea chest. “I want to see.”

  “No.”

  Nesaea took Fira’s hands in her own. “Show me.”

  “We have no mirror.”

  A hasty search brought Nesaea’s eye to the candleholder. It was silver and of simple design, but the large round base would suffice. She ordered Fira to retrieve it, and after a long moment, she obeyed.

  Careful not to dribble wax, Nesaea pulled the candle free and handed it to Fira. Jaw clenched, she lifted the candleholder, turning it so she could see her distorted reflection.

  Much of the hair on one side of her head had been scorched to a yellowish bristle above the bandage. Below the bandage, her cheek was shiny pink and so puffy that it pulled one side of her mouth
into a sneer. Nesaea forced herself to say, “The dressings are in the way.”

  “The queen and I just put them on.”

  “Take them off!”

  “No. Not now. On the morrow, when we change them, will be soon enough.”

  Nesaea almost agreed to that, but couldn’t let it go with the way Fira was behaving. “Please, do this for me.”

  Quivering head to foot, Fira tried again to dissuade her. “Removing them will hurt.”

  “It already hurts. Now do as I ask, or I’ll do it myself.”

  After wiping away her tears, Fira began unwrapping the bandages. While she worked, the sharp odors of a healing salve, burned meat, and scorched hair assailed Nesaea.

  When she finished, Fira sat back. “Look if you will, but I beg you not to.”

  Nesaea hesitated, then slowly lifted the candleholder, again turning it so she could see herself. “Oh,” she moaned. The hand holding the candleholder began to shake, so she steadied it with her other hand. The terrible image remained, and she shut her eyes on it. That isn’t me. It cannot be!

  But she knew the rippling mass of blackened and weeping flesh, which started near the crown of her head and ran down her neck like melted wax, belonged to her as much as the hand bearing the candleholder. She opened her eyes again, and looked once more.

  Where’s my ear, she thought, mystified by a horror that sank marrow deep. Where an ear should have been, she saw only a deformed nub surrounding a hole packed with salve. She thought to ask the question aloud, but a high, mourning wail began to fill up the tent.

  Until a pair of guards rushed in and eased her down on the cot, Nesaea didn’t realize that terrible sound was coming from her.

  Chapter 31

  Loro looked about the sparse but well-appointed and windowless room. “Where do you think we are?”

  Rathe had been wondering the same since he woke up an hour before, and found that his clothes were clean and dry, and that someone had bandaged his skull. The wound was still tender where he had bashed his head against the rocks of the River Sedge, but the thudding ache had become tolerable enough that he could think straight. Either a fine healer had attended him, or he and Loro had been here for some time before waking up. “I don’t know where we are, but if this is a prison cell, it’s the finest I’ve ever been in—not that I’ve been in many, mind you.”

  Across the room, Loro leaned back on his narrow featherbed and laughed. “Well, I’ve been in plenty of cells, brother, and I can assure you, this place beats them all, along with most inns I’ve frequented. Still, I’m of the mind that we should leave—and the sooner the better.”

  Rathe crossed the room to small round table, poured himself a cup of pale wine, and sipped. The flavor was sweeter than nectar. “Once we escape, we’ll have to find Nesaea, Fira, and anyone else who was taken prisoner.”

  “Far as I remember, our captor was a dragon,” Loro reminded him.

  Rathe remembered that too, but wished it were otherwise. Ever since venturing north of the Shadow Road, he had seen too many dark legends come to life. Beyond the Gyntors, even farther north, it seemed as if only mad gods ruled the world.

  “No dragon built this place, which means there are men involved. We’ll deal with either trouble as we come to it. Afterward, we get back to where we belong—”

  Rathe cut off when the carved wooden door swung inward.

  He recognized Edrik, but not the old man beside him. Behind them stood four tense guards with shaved heads like Edrik, and all heavily armed.

  “Ah, you’re both awake!” the older man said, as if they were welcome guests instead of prisoners, and bustled into the room.

  Edrik shut the door and stood to one side. His red-rimmed eyes had puffy bags hanging below them. Mud covered his boots, and the rest of his garb was wrinkled and disheveled. Rathe had seen men look so after a night of excessive drinking landed them in a ditch. He guessed too much wine was not Edrik’s problem, but rather worry and lack of sleep.

  Wearing an open grin, Rathe faced the old man. “I must thank you for providing such splendid quarters.” He touched his bandaged head. “And for this, of course.”

  The old man bobbed his head. “You’ve a glib tongue, but I sense that you are not sincere.”

  “You sting me,” Rathe said, his smile slipping a little.

  The old man shrugged, making the blue dragon emblazoned on his robes slither and dance. “Be that as it may, we must put aside this utterly false banter and speak plainly.”

  “Of course,” Rathe said, abandoning all pretenses. It took all his restraint not to tear out the man’s throat, and then get on with escaping. If not for the armed guards waiting outside the door, and the strong possibility of more lurking out of sight, he would have. “I invite you to begin our conversation by explaining who you are, and finish by telling why you took us prisoner.”

  While Edrik didn’t so much as blink, his companion tottered over to the table and poured himself a cup of the sweet wine. He took a sip, smacked his lips, and moved to stand beside Edrik.

  “I’m Essan Thaeson of the Munam a’Dett Order and, in the strictest sense, you are not prisoners, but rather honored guests in Targas, the Everlasting City of Light. On the morrow, you will begin preparing the vizien caste of our Order to make war against the faithless malcontents who hope to destroy our city and our way of life. In the meantime eat, drink, and rest, for what awaits you will be, I dare say, grueling.”

  Before Rathe could say a word, the old man and Edrik departed.

  Looking bewildered, Loro asked, “Does the fool actually believe we will simply do what he wants because he wants it?”

  Stunned by the abruptness with which the two men had left, as well as the bald declaration of what this Essan Thaeson intended for them, Rathe studied the closed door. “Not only does he believe it, he expects that we will do exactly what he says.”

  “Piss on that,” Loro said.

  Rathe wanted to agree with the fat man’s sentiment, but he remembered the dragon and the moving dome, with its skin of lightning. Those two things spoke of powers beyond his ken. Rathe’s gut told him they would have little choice but to do as Thaeson wished. His heart told him he would die before he bowed to the old fool’s demands.

  So ends Songs of the Scorpion Vol. III

  Queen of the North

  Be sure to catch the sneak peek of The Iron Marches, Vol. IV Songs of the Scorpion on the next page.

  Also, if you enjoyed this novel, it would be an immense help to me and future fans if you took a few moments to leave a helpful online review at Amazon and everywhere else eBooks are sold. Thanks so much for reading, and may all your journeys be exciting!

  James

  Excerpt:

  The Iron Marches, Songs of the Scorpion Vol. IV

  “Hide!” Petar gasped, dragging Hera down beside him. As he searched the night sky with frantic eyes, Hera shifted about as quietly as possible, struggling to balance her swollen belly. Her effort earned her a bruised knee when she dropped it on a stone poking out of the field’s rich black soil. Biting back a pained cry, she listened for sounds of danger. She heard only cornstalks rustling in the breeze.

  “What did you see?” she asked, unconsciously drawing nearer to her husband.

  A worried frown pinched Petar’s brows, making him appear older than his sixteen years. “A shadow above Targas.” The faint light falling from the Shield of the Fathers glimmered on his sweaty skin. His obvious fear made her afraid, and she wondered if they were doing the right thing by running away.

  Back the way they had come, through rows of slanting stalks, Hera made out the golden light rising off the city’s crystal spires and domes. At the heart of it all stood the towering bulk of the Ilesma Temple. A band of darkness hung between the city and the iridescent arc made by the Shield of the Fathers. For most of her fourteen years, the Everlasting City of Light had always awed her. Only recently had it begun to fill her with dread.

  “Nigh
ttime is made for shadows,” she said.

  “This was no shadow. It was huge and ... and it was flying.”

  Hera’s heart lurched, but she swallowed her terror. “A fancy, nothing more.”

  “I saw it as plain as I see you,” Petar insisted. “It’s as Damon says. Dragons have come again.”

  Hera clutched convulsively at her belly, fat with the child she and Petar had made together. Would that his seed had never quickened in her womb, but such things were beyond her control—the Munam a’Dett made sure every new marriage produced a child in the first year. She longed for Petar to join his hands to hers in protecting their unborn babe, but the threat he had seen continued to distract him. Did he truly see anything, or was it only his imagination? For herself, she didn’t want to believe what he said. In truth, she refused to believe it.

  “There have been no dragons in Targas for half a thousand years. If there were any, the Munam a’Dett would never suffer them to live under the Shield of the Fathers.”

  Petar’s face went ugly. “The Munam a’Dett?” He flapped his hand in irritation. “I trust this corn to protect us more than that deceiving horde of priests.”

  “If dragons had come again,” Hera persisted, “more folk besides Damon would’ve seen them.”

  “Damon is no liar.”

  Hera failed to stifle a derisive sniff. “Perhaps not, but our dear leader is the only son of Quidan Salris, and you know as well as I that he’s been a troublemaker since we were children playing in the fields. Today he says dragons have come again, but not so long ago he was just a little boy trying to convince us all that if you heated a teapot while your mother was abed, she’d catch a chill and die.” Hera managed to stop herself from saying that after Damon came of age and learned that his manhood had more uses than pissing, he had used his station to deflower any number of credulous girls.

  Petar blinked in confusion. “If you don’t trust Damon, why agree to come with me tonight?”