Beasts of the Frozen Sun

by Jill Criswell

  We stood beside the horse, looking at each other for the last time. There was something in Reyker’s eyes I didn’t want to acknowledge. It was death, certain and unavoidable. Not his, but mine. He was sure Draki would come for me, and I would die.

  I was afraid he’d insist on staying. I was afraid if he did, I’d let him.

  Forcing a smile, I raised my hands above my head, fingers spread like antlers, chin high. A brave deer. “Trust.”

  He placed his hands like pointy ears on either side of his head, then touched his heart. A kindhearted wolf. “Trust.” He held his hand out. “Come with me?”

  “What?”

  He tapped the sword. “I will keep you safe.”

  “I can’t. My brother will send for me.” If I went with Reyker, Garreth would have no way of finding me.

  “Lira—”

  “No.” I had to look away when I said it. “I won’t leave. Not yet.”

  His hand closed, arm dropping to his side. I felt as if a piece of myself had come loose, rattling inside me. As if I’d lost things I’d not realized were mine.

  “Go, Reyker.” It hurt me to say it. It hurt him to hear it, judging by the tight lines of his features as he spun and mounted Wraith. “Take care of him.” I hid my face against the horse’s coat. “When you get to Stalwart Bay, sell him to someone near the docks. Only foreigners would buy a stolen horse from someone who looks like you. Don’t accept less than gold specie. He’s worth it, and you’ll need it in Longshore.”

  “Takka thu, Lira.”

  With a deep breath, I looked up at him, memorizing each detail—eyes as deep and blue as oceans, hair that gleamed like sunlight through honey.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I will not forget. Aldri.”

  “Aldri,” I agreed. Never. “Go,” I whispered, biting my lip to keep it from trembling.

  He didn’t move.

  “Please, Reyker.”

  He sighed and took the reins, squeezing his heels. Wraith pranced forward, hooves clomping the dirt—slowly, then faster, until they were a streak of gray and gold, barreling out of the stables, the green forest swallowing them.

  I watched him disappear, calling after him silently.

  Farewell, my wolf.

  REYKER

  The horse was fast and knew its way through the forest; the blurring trees and pounding hooves led Reyker’s mind to wander more than it should have.

  You abandoned her.

  He had to. What could he do in his weakened state? He needed to fully recover from his illness if he ever hoped to confront Draki. He needed the blessings of his gods, who’d been silent since he had reached the Green Isle. He needed the healing shores of his homeland.

  Lira will die.

  She was only a girl who’d taken pity on him. She helped Reyker because she believed her gods asked it of her. It had nothing to do with him. He owed her nothing.

  You owe her your life.

  No. She wasn’t his kin. He’d vowed on his parents’ ashes to end Draki’s reign. That was why he’d carried on, why he’d endured. So one day he could stand in defense of his island, his people, who’d been tyrannized by the warlord and his Dragonmen for years.

  The purpose Lira helped you reclaim.

  Yes. Reyker could not deny it. The darkness that had been a noose around his neck, tightening with each bloody battle he fought, had loosened.

  He’d lost himself, and Lira had found him.

  And you’ll let her die for it?

  “I asked her to come with me!” he said aloud, forgetting the need for stealth. “I tried to stop her from going into the village when the Dragonmen attacked. If she’d listened, Draki never would have seen her.”

  If you’d not disappeared, Draki would not have come to the Green Isle’s north harbor looking for you, finding her instead. Her death will be your fault. Like your father’s death.

  And your mother’s.

  Reyker’s growl was loud enough to startle the horse. It stumbled, nearly crashing into a tree. He jerked the reins and the horse stopped, panting. Reyker looked back the way he’d come, then urged the horse into a gallop once more.

  You’ve seen what Draki does to girls he marks. What he’ll do to Lira.

  Long-buried memories rumbled in the crust of his mind, bubbling up from beneath the black river—Reyker saw his mother, thrashing, crying, fighting Draki’s compulsion in vain, begging Reyker to save her.

  Bile splashed up his throat. Reyker pushed the images away. His fingers sank into the horse’s mane as if it was the only thing grounding him. Rubbing a sleeve across his mouth, he glanced up and saw an open field.

  He’d made it past the forest. In the distance was a shadowy mountain range. The Silverspires. That was where he was bound.

  Reyker’s head cleared. He gulped crisp air. It was the forest that had brought forth his nightmares. Like the forest demon he and Lira had encountered, this place saw him as a threat. The forest, the island—they wanted him gone.

  “Leave me be. I’ll go.”

  He looked back again. The horse snorted its impatience. Reyker’s palm went to his chest, where Lira’s blood was smeared across his skin: This marks you as one of us, she’d said. He stared down at his hand, so used to feeling hers there, resting over his heart.

  The choice was already made.

  He’d made it the moment he found the scar behind her ear.

  “I’ll go.” He turned the horse around, dug his heels into it, steered it straight for the forest. “But not without Lira.” He’d bind and gag her if he must. They would leave together. He would find somewhere to hide her, somewhere safe from Draki’s reach. If such a place existed. “I will not leave her to die.”

  The darkness of the forest, the darkness of his soul, ceased to touch him. This was his purpose—to protect those he cared for, kin or no.

  Reyker felt more alive than he had in a long time.

  When he heard noises ahead, he thought it was the wind. But as the sounds spread out, flanking him, he recognized the stomping of horses, the calls of men.

  And when the rope appeared, held between two riders, too late for him to duck, he laughed darkly. The rope snagged on his shoulders as his horse kept running, flinging him backward, slamming him to the ground.

  Four men surrounded him, swords pointed.

  Reyker unsheathed his stolen sword. With a howl, he rose to attack, but found he couldn’t move his right leg. A knotted rope was looped tight around his boot; a snare, meant to trap game. He laughed harder as his sword was knocked away and boots and fists pummeled him.

  You fool. This voice was not his own. It was the deep rasp Reyker hated more than any other. See what happens when you think to take what belongs to the Dragon?

  PART TWO

  DEALS WITH DEVILS

  I woke in a tangle of sheets, feeling a snare around my foot, a sword at my throat. It took a moment to realize what had woken me: an ominous, insistent clang. The warning bell.

  My stomach lurched. I jumped up and dressed, bursting through the cottage door into the soft blue light of dawn. A dream, I told myself. It was only a dream.

  I met Ishleen on the path, a knife clutched in her hand. “Is it another attack?” she asked. Whatever she saw in my face made her stop. “What’s wrong, Lira?”

  I raced past her.

  It’s not Reyker. Reyker is safe beyond the forest, on his way home to Iseneld.

  People trickled from their cottages nervously, women and children hovering in doorways, men coming out armed. I ran to where a crowd had formed in the clearing beside the great hall, shoving through them until I was at the front.

  My heart plunged into my stomach.

  Madoc and several sentries stood in the middle of the circle, all of them cut and bruised, glowering at a hunched figure. A young man, beaten blood
y, his arms tied behind his back.

  Somehow Reyker managed to lift his head, to growl at his captors and the buzzing crowd. Covered in blood, his clothes torn, teeth bared, he looked every bit the feral beast my clan believed him to be. His wild eyes rolled over me, paused an instant, drifted away.

  Ishleen pushed through the crowd until she was next to me. She stared at the Westlander.

  Madoc drew his leg back and slammed his boot into Reyker’s ribs. I barely flinched, but Ishleen saw. Her gaze darted between Reyker and me.

  The crowd parted like trees bending in the wind as Torin strode into the clearing. “Madoc. You’ve brought us a guest.”

  “The beast attacked a sentry, stole a horse. We tracked him through the forest.” Madoc held up the satchels Reyker and I had tied to Wraith’s saddle, tossing out the supplies. When the map fluttered into the dirt, stamped with the three-sword symbol of our clan, the villagers rumbled. The rest could’ve been taken from the sentry or the stables, but this had come from the manor.

  Beside me, Ishleen stiffened.

  “We believe these items were stolen from the village, but not by the invader,” Madoc said. He gripped Reyker’s head and wrenched it back. Reyker’s tunic was torn, exposing the protection symbol I’d drawn on his chest. “Someone took good care of our beast.” Madoc’s pitiless eyes rested on me. Somehow, he knew.

  I spotted Ennis, my stalker, in the crowd, confirming my fears. Dyfed’s son smiled victoriously. Ennis must have followed me last night and told Madoc what he saw.

  “A traitor in our midst. What does our guest have to say of this?” Torin asked. “Show us who helped you and your death will be quick.”

  Reyker’s lips curled with contempt. He cursed Torin in his native language, insults about the chieftain’s manhood, insinuations about what he did with barn animals, and many other things I couldn’t even guess at.

  Torin drew his dirk, the same one he’d used to cut off Garreth’s warrior-mark, pressing the blade under Reyker’s chin. “We have ways of making guests talk.”

  He wouldn’t tell. They could beat him, stab him, break every bone, and he’d never speak my name. I knew it with an unshakable, unexplainable certainty.

  Reyker grinned, blood dripping from his mouth, streaking across his teeth. He spit in Torin’s face.

  There was a beat of silence, then Torin’s fist cracked into Reyker’s jaw, his head whipping sideways. Torin’s arm formed a bar across Reyker’s throat as he dragged the Westlander to his feet, marching him around the circle, forcing his head up so his eyes connected with the mob calling for his blood. For the second time his gaze slid over me, betraying no recognition.

  “Silence will only bring you suffering,” Torin said. “Name your conspirator, and your torment ends.”

  “Your mother.”

  Torin spun Reyker around, grabbing his collar, yanking him close. Too close. Reyker thrust forward, head-butting him with the crack of bone on bone and Torin staggered back, his nose bleeding rivers. But he recovered quickly, raising his fist for another punch.

  “Fight,” Reyker said, nodding at Torin’s sword.

  The chieftain stopped, baited. “You’re challenging me to a sword fight? You think you can beat me?”

  Laughter pealed through the crowd. I wanted to scream at Reyker. He could hardly stand. How could he fight?

  Duma strenge, I thought ruefully. Stupid boy.

  The chieftain wouldn’t back down from this public challenge; his pride was too bloated. “Cut his bindings,” he told one of the sentries. “Give him your sword.”

  The sentry gaped at Torin. “Are you sure—”

  “Do as I command!”

  The sentry cut the ropes pinning Reyker’s wrists and tossed his sword down. Reyker glanced around, expecting a trick. “Pick it up,” Torin said.

  Reyker complied, taking a defensive stance. Torin hadn’t touched his weapon yet. His back was to the Westlander, vulnerable. “What are you waiting for?” he taunted.

  Reyker charged, quick but limping. In one swift, smooth motion, Torin whirled and unsheathed his sword, swinging straight at the Westlander’s neck. Reyker blocked the strike just in time, the heft of clanging steel driving him backward.

  Their blades untangled, arced, clashed again and again. It took several narrow misses, but Reyker watched how Torin attacked, adapting to it, adjusting his form. Teeth grinding, muscles straining, the two men fought.

  Sweat trickled along Torin’s neck. His arrogance faltered.

  Reyker was remarkable with the blade. Agile. Strong. But he’d nearly died from lung-fever only weeks ago. He’d taken a beating that might have killed a lesser man. And Torin was the finest swordsman in our clan, perhaps in all of Glasnith. Reyker’s fluid strikes and blocks forced Torin to his toes, but Torin bided his time, waiting for a lapse in his opponent’s guard.

  It came as Reyker stepped in a fraction too close. With a final flourish of steel, Torin’s blade caught Reyker’s near the hilt. Torin’s arms swept low, then high, and the sword slipped from Reyker’s hands. Torin’s blade sliced across Reyker’s torso.

  There wasn’t much blood. If he’d wanted, Torin could have eviscerated Reyker, but this strike was meant to shame, not to kill.

  Reyker dove to retrieve his sword and met Torin’s boot, slamming into him, the force knocking him flat on his back. The boot settled on his stomach, grinding him into the dirt. Torin pressed the tip of the blade over Reyker’s heart, both hands wrapped around the hilt, ready to cleave the Westlander’s chest and lay him open.

  Reyker’s face was calm. He waited for death with absolute acceptance.

  This was what broke me.

  “Wait!” The scream was out of my mouth before I could stop it. I stepped forward.

  Every head turned, eyes torn from the climax of the battle to stare at the girl who dared interfere with the chieftain’s justice. Torin’s glare was its own monster, clawing at me. Reyker’s mask slipped briefly: a flash of anguish, begging me to hush and fade back into the crowd.

  It was too late. I took a deep breath. “I helped the Westlander.”

  A chorus of murmurs traveled through the crowd.

  “You?” Torin’s eyes were nearly black with the god of death’s twisting shadows. Beside him, Madoc grinned—this was why he’d kept my secret, to see what I would do.

  I had one chance. Whatever I said next would either save or condemn us both. I spit the words out as quickly as they came to me.

  “The True Gods commanded it. I found the Westlander hiding in the woods, so I pretended to be his friend. He’s one of them. He knows things. That makes him a weapon we can wield against his own people. Through him, we’ll defeat the beasts of the Frozen Sun. This is what the gods told me.” Not exactly a lie; the mystic claimed to speak on their behalf.

  More whispers rose among the villagers. A robed figure emerged from the crowd to join us in the clearing. The old priest. “The gods told you? A girl? A child?”

  “I am a Daughter of Aillira, god-gifted in her blessed name.”

  “Cursed Aillira,” Doyen said. “Betrayer-whore Aillira.”

  I appealed to the suspicious crowd, holding the gaze of everyone I locked eyes with. “Kill him, and we gain nothing. These beasts don’t respond to force, but this one trusts me. He is like a wild dog, but I can tame him. I’ve been teaching him our language so we can question him. I’ll learn his people’s weaknesses so we can use him to overthrow the Westlanders and invade their lands as they have ours.”

  The look Reyker aimed at me was searing. Betray Iseneld to save your own skin: this was the deal I’d struck on his behalf. He hated Draki, but cared deeply for his homeland, his people. I was encouraging my clan to use him to destroy what he held dear.

  “You will read the beast’s soul and tell us what he knows,” Torin said.

  “I
’ve tried, my lord. His soul is shielded from my gift. I can see only what he allows. With a bit more time, I can convince him to let me in and give up his secrets.”

  Torin wiped his bleeding nose, thinking, blade still poised over Reyker’s chest. The chieftain was as cunning as he was ruthless. Keeping a Westlander alive to extract information was an effective scheme, one he’d undoubtedly been considering before Reyker’s challenge distracted him.

  “The invaders are a plague on our island,” Doyen said. “This beast is a curse. Keeping him alive will bring us nothing but scorn. He must be sacrificed to appease the gods.”

  “This Westlander is a gift from the gods,” I said. “He was on the ship sunk by the Brine Beast. It killed every Westlander except him. Why would the Beast spare him unless the gods desire him to live?”

  The darkness in Torin’s eyes seemed to dance. “Lira did us a great favor keeping our enemy alive. Why didn’t you tell us what you were up to, child?” Torin pressed his boot on Reyker’s ribs while Madoc retied his wrists. “If you meant to turn him over to us, why did you give him a map? A map stolen from my home?”

  “I—It was … a ploy. To gain his trust.”

  “Of course it was,” Torin replied.

  I didn’t see Madoc move behind me, but I felt him. There was uncertainty in Torin’s expression, but it fizzled and died. He nodded at Madoc.

  I twisted toward my uncle as his hand flew at me. The world burst with white-hot light. The side of my face went numb. I floated a moment before slamming to the ground, the taste of blood and dirt filling my mouth.

  From far away came an enraged growl. Reyker was shouting threats, struggling to stand, but Madoc and another sentry grabbed hold of his legs and dragged him off.

  “Take the beast to the cells,” Torin ordered. “Lock my daughter in the manor. Councilors, report to the great hall. We must decide what to do with our guest and our traitor.”