Beasts of the Frozen Sun

by Jill Criswell

  JILL CRISWELL

  Copyright © 2019 by Jill Criswell

  E-book published in 2019 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover and book design by Kurt Jones

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  and not intended by the author.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-9825-5663-1

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-9825-5662-4

  Young Adult Fiction / Fantasy / General

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  For Brock, for everything

  Softly fell the final words of Aillira,

  once-beloved mortal, mistress of the Great Betrayer:

  “Burn brightly. Love fiercely. For all else is dust.”

  Thus she breathed her last,

  relinquishing her spirit to the god of death’s final judgment.

  Thus did her children light the fire of her cleansing,

  carrying forth through the ashes of her destruction.

  —The Immortal Scriptures

  PART ONE

  GIANTS AND GODS

  PROLOGUE

  The enemy’s small army was spread out before him, waving their weapons, shouting, beating in wild fury upon their shields. They looked more like fishermen than fighters. Reyker would have pitied them if there had been any room left for pity in his decaying heart.

  Behind him came the snarls of his fellow warriors; the Dragonmen stared down the fishermen, awaiting his signal.

  Reyker squeezed the sword in his right hand, the axe in his left, closing his eyes.

  Inside him, the black river stirred—sloshing, boiling, churning. A river of blood and fire, the darkest part of his soul. Let me out, it begged.

  When his eyes opened, every fisherman bore the loathsome face of the warlord. Reyker arched his neck skyward, roaring at the lambent stars. The Dragonmen howled, joining their animal songs to his.

  Let me out.

  So he did.

  He barely felt the splash of blood, the jolt of axe and sword slicing through flesh. He forgot who these men were as he cut them down—fathers, brothers, husbands, sons. He obeyed the black river’s call: slash, strike, stab. It flowed through his limbs, foaming, frothing. It was darkness. It was death.

  With every kill, its hunger grew.

  With every kill, he was reborn.

  Around him, fires burned. Corpses sprawled in the dirt. His weapons dripped blood. The battle was finished, the black river sated. All were dead.

  All save one. A boy of thirteen, a skilled archer who’d felled three Dragonmen before he was captured. Looking at the boy—young, ferocious, brave to the point of stupidity—Reyker saw himself as he’d once been. He couldn’t kill the boy; even monsters like him had limits.

  The idea came on a whim. Set the boy free to spread the tale: those who defied the Dragonmen would witness their homes burned, their women stolen, their sons slain.

  Reyker steered the boy toward the rowboat, pointing with his sword. “Go.”

  The boy stared, brown eyes shadowed with hate. He shouted threats of murder, vows of vengeance. Things Reyker had heard before. Things Reyker had said himself as a boy, sitting in the blood-painted snow, his father dying in his arms.

  Reyker raised the sword higher. “Go!”

  The boy pushed the boat into the cold grip of the sea and toppled in. Grabbing the oars, he rowed away from the island, yelling all the while. Reyker watched until he disappeared.

  It didn’t matter that Reyker had spared him. He’d killed the boy’s people, torched his village. Reyker knew he deserved to die for it.

  Someday he would.

  When he returned, the warlord stood atop the ruins of the village, addressing the Dragonmen. Tall, imposing, glowing like a golden god. Draki’s eyes—an odd hue, green and yellow and gold all at once—missed nothing; they watched Reyker, narrowing.

  “You fought well, my brothers,” Draki said. “The Rocky Isles now belong to us. But this is only the beginning. When we take the Green Isle, we will show them what a warrior is—a man made of ice and steel.” The warlord pounded a fist against his torso, scanning the Dragonmen’s eager faces. “Many will kneel before us in awe. The rest will fall to their knees as we cut their legs from beneath them!”

  This was met with laughter and howls.

  “We have bided our time, strengthening our forces, learning our enemies’ weaknesses. We have allowed them to grow fat with riches as we waited on the gods to command us. And the gods have finally spoken!” Draki raised his sword, pointing it at the sky. “Now we strike! The dogs of the east will learn that we are their rightful masters. In the name of the sea god Sjaf, father of our kind, all will bow. In the name of Ildja, eater of souls, all will submit. The era of dogs is over. The Age of the Dragon is upon us!”

  The warriors erupted, a riot of celebration. Ale belonging to the dead islanders was brought forth. War chants were sung. Captured women were dragged out, and the men selected which ones they would take to their beds this night.

  Draki smiled. This was what he preached: The Dragon and his men were endowed by the gods. The world, and everything in it, existed to be conquered. All was theirs for the taking.

  Reyker observed in silence, the lone dissenter.

  The warlord approached. “You disapprove of the festivities?”

  “I am Sjaf’s disciple, servant of Iseneld, a blade to be wielded for the glory of my gods and homeland,” Reyker answered flatly, quoting the Dragonmen’s code. “If my liege approves, so must I.”

  Chuckling, Draki slapped Reyker’s shoulder. “Ah, Reyker, the reluctant Sword of the Dragon. At last you wear the mask of a dutiful Dragonman. But we both know a rebel’s heart still beats beneath it.” Draki punched his fist into Reyker’s sternum, grabbing Reyker by the neck as he doubled over. “Conquer the Green Isle’s north harbor,” Draki said, “and perhaps I’ll let you keep your heart in your body and live to thwart me a little longer.”

  The warlord released him. Reyker straightened, ignoring the spikes of pain in his chest.

  “I know why you let that young archer go. You can hide nothing from me.” Draki shook his head. “After all this time, you continue to cling to your shattered honor. It makes you weak.”

  “It makes me human.”

  “Humans are weak. You should wish to be like the gods. You should beg Ildja’s forgiveness for not delivering every last one of your enemies to the Mist.” Draki laughed again, deep and grating. “Do you remember our scouting expedition to the north harbor, all those years ago? You must be wondering about that sweet little creature we caught in the forest. Such a shame she escaped.”

  Reyker drew a shallow breath. From his memories of a time when he’d still had hope, before he’d become the bastard he was now, came an image—a girl with green eyes full of fire. Another soul he’d snatched from Ildja’s waiting jaws.

  “I’ve commanded your legion to find the girl and bring her to me,” the warlord said. “Should you try to stop them, their orders are to chop off your sword hand. If you continue to deny Ildja the souls that are rightfully hers to consume, the goddess will seek retribution. And so will I.” Draki’s smile was as s
harp as a blade.

  When the warlord turned to leave, Reyker’s fingers twitched toward his dagger, aching to bury it in Draki’s back. If he’d thought it would change anything, Reyker would not have hesitated, but he knew it would only make things worse.

  There was no defeating the Dragon.

  Reyker stood in the longship’s stem, gazing past the horned dragon figurehead, out at the rolling sea. The Green Isle’s north harbor came into view, a blurred shadow on the horizon.

  He couldn’t say why he’d done it, but before climbing into the ship the previous morning, he’d taken the pendant from where he always kept it, tied to his sword’s sheath. He’d cut a length of rope from a fishing net and fit it through the loop, knotting it around his neck. The pendant was tucked beneath his tunic, a cold circle of metal resting against his chest.

  If he’d had any hope left inside him, Reyker would have used it on the green-eyed girl from the forest, hoping that she no longer lived in the village he was about to attack. Hoping that she was far from the Dragon’s reach, and from his own. As the ship drew closer, he could feel her presence growing stronger, like sparks in the air before a storm. It was the blood magic, awakening the connection he’d forged between them. He wondered if she felt it too.

  The shadow took shape. He could make out cliffs and hills, the forest beyond.

  Another island. Another ambush. An endless stretch of blood and fire.

  Do you watch me from the afterworlds, Mother? Do you loathe what your son has become? The thought sickened him.

  A sudden movement in the water caught Reyker’s attention. A large creature breached alongside the longship—there, then gone.

  Cold dread chilled him. This was no shark or whale. It surfaced again, closer.

  A giant black sea-beast, rushing straight for them.

  “Spears! Arrows!” Reyker shouted, drawing his weapons. The creature reared its head. It was a demon from the bowels of some dark nether-realm. Reyker hurled his spear, and the point sank into the demon’s flesh just as it smashed into the hull. The ship shuddered beneath Reyker’s feet, water flooding in.

  “Bail!” Reyker called, but it was too late. They were sinking fast.

  The sea was merciless, white waves curling around the longship as it foundered. Every man went into the water.

  Someone screamed.

  A warrior vanished beneath the waves, a rose-colored cloud efflorescing in his wake. Then another man was sucked under. And another. Reyker’s comrades—men he respected and reviled, men he’d fought beside and bled with. They were snatched so fast it seemed the demon was in two places at once. Blood tinted the sea red.

  He clung to a piece of wreckage, struggling to keep his head above the whitecaps, and watched numbly as every man was taken and devoured.

  The demon came for Reyker last.

  He stared into the quivering black globes of its eyes, inhaled the sour stench from its gaping mouth. Was this one of Ildja’s Destroyers—demons she sent to fetch evil men to her lair? Or was it Ildja herself beneath the monster’s scales? Had the serpent-goddess finally come for her retribution: to swallow him, body and soul?

  The demon’s jaws snapped around him, teeth digging into his flesh, dragging him down into the abyss. It was only instinct that made him kick and fight until his breath was gone.

  When that dark womb of stillness engulfed him, he embraced it with a flood of relief. Reyker welcomed whatever torments awaited him on the other side of this world, knowing it was nothing less than he deserved.

  It was no small thing to touch a man’s soul. To trace the essence of his being, know him as no one—not his mother, brother, or lover—ever could.

  Each soul I’d touched was different. They could be dark or light, warm or cold, sharp-edged or smooth. They contained colors and shapes that didn’t exist in our world. Some hummed, sang, or screamed. Some smelled of metal, others tasted like salt. Often, I saw scattered images of things the person loved, hated, or feared.

  No matter what a soul was like, I sensed its burdens. The weight of guilt was distinct.

  The prisoner standing before me, the cord of his life tangling fatefully with mine, was a herdsman named Dyfed. His ankles and wrists were shackled, but my brothers and uncle still held him as Father ushered me forward.

  “I done nothing wrong, milady,” Dyfed said.

  I placed my palm inside his tunic, against his chest. His heart drummed nervously beneath my hand. I closed my eyes, searching.

  Around me, the great hall disappeared. I floated in the gauzy realms of the intangible. This man’s soul was sharp and light, spread out before me. A warm sphere in its center held an imprint of his family. I waded through pride, love, disappointment—each emotion had its own texture and consistency. I caught a glimpse of what I sought, appearing as if from a fog: the outline of swords, poleaxes, bows. A cartload of weapons, shrouded in cold guilt.

  I let go and took a step back.

  “Well, Lira?” Father asked. “Did he steal from the armory?”

  This was my role in our clan. I’d been touched by the gods, born with the ability to read souls. While other god-gifted women of my island—the Daughters of Aillira, as we were called—were adept at healing, storytelling, navigation, and foretelling foul weather, my gift was different. As a soul-reader, I could steal a man’s secrets, reveal his darkest sins.

  Father trusted me. I could not lie. “He is guilty, as suspected.”

  “You’re wrong!” Dyfed cried. With a quick jerk, he pulled free from the other men, grabbing my arms. His red-rimmed eyes bored into mine. “There’s more. Look again, soul-reader, and you will see—”

  My uncle, Madoc, tackled Dyfed, slamming his head against the ground, and Dyfed’s eyes rolled up until only the whites showed. My older brother, Garreth, kicked the prone herdsman for good measure, cursing him beneath his breath. When Garreth turned, we shared the briefest of looks, but much was said. Father is wrong to use you this way, he seethed in a silent language only siblings could share. Mother would never have allowed this.

  Mother would want our clan to be safe, I responded. I want to help, however I can.

  We’d quarreled over this point many times. Was it right for me to be a man’s judge? Was it right for Father to ask it of me? I knew Garreth’s feelings on the matter. I’d yet to find answers that satisfied my own conscience.

  My younger brother, Rhys, clasped my elbow, offering what comfort he could.

  “Ready the gallows,” Father said to Madoc, “and inform the chieftain and the villagers that there’s to be an execution.”

  My throat tightened at the word. I’d condemned men before, but they had been whipped, imprisoned, or exiled. Never executed.

  Madoc’s spine stiffened at being given an order by his younger brother. His mouth was an angry slit in his hardened face, but he grabbed Dyfed by the chains on his wrists and dragged him away.

  When they were gone, Father sighed and bent over the grand table that took up a corner of the room, palms pressing against the tabletop. On the back of his right hand was the warrior-mark of the Sons of Stone, my clan’s legion of warriors: three swords in the shape of a triangle, inked onto the back of the sword hand, so any man foolish enough to cross blades with any one of them would know which clan was about to send him to his grave.

  Between Father’s hands lay a map of Glasnith, detailing all the village names and the clans who controlled them. I could see Stony Harbor depicted at the very top of the map—the seat of clan Stone, ruled by Lord Aengus, my grandfather. Our village was reduced to a name and the triad of swords that was our clan’s symbol. I’d often watched my father study this map, seeing the keen way his mind sorted through lists of landholdings and goods produced, access to ports and trade routes, quality and quantity of combat forces. He was always looking for opportunities to strengthen our clan’s position withi
n the convoluted web of alliances.

  My brothers and I had been taught to be silent and still when our father conducted clan business. We stood like statues, waiting for him to address us.

  “Garreth.” Father’s voice cut through the air like a lash. My brother straightened his spine even further, pulling his shoulders back. “You cannot allow your anger to get the best of you. Beating an unconscious prisoner is unseemly and beneath your station.”

  Garreth stepped forward. “The thief went after Lira, Commander. I should have done worse.” He spoke with quiet respect, but rage simmered beneath the surface.

  “If you wish to be commander one day, you must conduct yourself as a highborn warrior rather than a witless barbarian.” Father stood eye-to-eye with his eldest child, regarding him with deep-seated frustration. The resemblance between them was so strong they looked like different-aged versions of the same man. “You’ll be mucking out the hog sties this week instead of patrolling. That ought to cool your temper.”

  Garreth’s face reddened. “But, Father—”

  “Commander,” he corrected. “And that was an order, not a request. You are dismissed.” For a moment, I thought Garreth would argue, but then his mouth clicked shut. His steps, as he departed, were louder than necessary.

  Father had always been hard on Garreth, grooming him to be a commander, possibly a chieftain. I knew he feared Garreth’s dark moods and quick temper might turn him into a man more like Madoc than himself.

  “Are you all right, daughter?” Father turned to me. When I nodded, he sighed again and ran a hand across his jaw. “What your brother did was wrong, but I cannot say the prisoner didn’t deserve it.”

  “Father.” I approached the table. “Please. Don’t execute him. Dyfed is not an evil man. I saw—”

  “Lira. As always, I thank you for your help, but you must leave decisions regarding men’s punishments to me.” He kissed the top of my head, a doting gesture left over from when I was small. Sadness glinted in his gaze. With each passing year, I looked more like my mother. I had the same long hair, a deep shade of burgundy. I had her same eyes too, a color Father called springtime grass. It must have hurt him to look at me, a constant reminder of what he’d lost. What we’d all lost.