Beasts of the Frozen Sun

by Jill Criswell

  “Stupid girl,” he said softly.

  “Mule-headed idiot.” His fingers cautiously stroked the line where my skin and hair were wed. “I won’t let you leave me.”

  “I know.” His eyes were hazy blue in the dungeon’s faint torchlight.

  I edged the collar of his tunic open, set my palm lightly on his chest. “Show me the day we met.” It was another memory he’d never shared with me; I needed him to remember it when he faced the conclave, how our fates had been tangled together from the beginning.

  Reyker sighed, putting his hand over mine.

  The memory was a hard lump of rock; when I touched it, the rock crumbled to reveal a cloudy jewel. But this time, Reyker put distance between me and his past self. This time, he took me by the hand and led the way.

  The woods are dark. The warlord and his men pick their way through the trees, and I follow. I don’t want to be here. Draki forced me to come, to see the places he plans to conquer. A scouting expedition to the Green Isle, to gather information on the country’s landscape, its resources, its people. Draki wants prisoners. Warriors with knowledge of the island’s defenses. And women to inspire the Dragonmen.

  Draki and I spot the girl at the same moment.

  Why is she here, alone in the forest at night?

  Dragonmen move to grab her, but the warlord waves a hand. The way he looks at her squeezes my lungs so tight it’s hard to breathe. I know that look. Like he can see something no one else can—a glow within her, shining like a beacon. It means there’s something different about her, something he can use to get what he wants.

  She’s not much more than a child. When he grabs the girl, she tries to scream. He takes his stiletto, about to mark her as his own.

  I call out. “I heard something. Surely someone else is with her. We must check.”

  “You heard nothing,” Draki growls.

  “Yes, I did! Do you want us to be discovered, for the whole north harbor to find out we’re here? Tie the girl up. I’ll take her to the boat with the others.”

  He doesn’t truly believe me, but he won’t chance it. He gags the girl, blinds her with a sack, ties her wrists together. He throws her at me.

  I carry her to the boat. She fights the whole way, strong for such a little thing. When I remove the hood, she spies the other prisoners. She spits out the rag, shouts at me.

  I know what the warlord will do to her. I cannot let it happen. It isn’t because the girl is beautiful or even because of the way she fights. It’s because of the brave defiance in her eyes, showing me how the world has already hurt her, declaring that no matter what is done to her she will not break.

  I never want her to find out how wrong she is.

  Grabbing her bound hands, I stare at my knife. My knowledge of skoldars is part rumor, part myth, a cryptic passage in a volva’s text, surmising how someone god-gifted can link their life to another. I put the blade against her wrist and cut a mark of flames into her skin, a symbol to match my own, the same way I’ve watched the warlord do countless times. Then I slice my palm, smearing my blood across her wound. Warmth pulses where our blood mingles.

  I cut the ropes binding her, asking if she can swim. She nods, but I’m not certain she understands. We’re out of time. I hear the Dragonmen coming.

  I shove her into the sea.

  When she doesn’t come up, I think I’ve killed her. I’m about to jump in after her when I see her below the surface, gliding through the water as gracefully as a sea creature.

  I spy the silver pendant lying in the hull moments before the Dragonmen arrive. It must be hers. I snatch it up, hiding it before they see.

  When Draki steps aboard, I tell him the girl leaped overboard and sank. He knows it’s a lie. I’m expecting another beating, but instead of taking it out on me, he grabs one of the prisoners, ripping off the hood. Underneath is a frightened warrior, about my age. “Reyker fancies himself a hero,” Draki says to the Dragonmen. “But only life can pay for life.”

  He slits the boy’s throat and drops him into my lap. The boy’s eyes beg me for help, but there’s nothing I can do. I hold him as his life bleeds out, staining my clothes, coating my skin. When it’s over, Draki flings the boy’s body over the side of the boat.

  “You think you saved that girl?” Draki says. “She will grow up. We will return to this place and destroy it. I will find her once more. You saved no one.”

  I have no doubt Draki will do as he says.

  No matter what I do, the Dragon always wins.

  Reyker pulled my palm from his chest but didn’t let go. We sat in silence a moment, letting the cobwebs of the memory fall away.

  “He was wrong, Reyker. You did save me. But you were wrong too. Draki has lost. I’m here with you, instead of with him. And I will never break.”

  “No. Because I will be there, to keep you whole.”

  Footsteps moved toward us. “Lira,” Quinlan said. “The festivities upstairs are ending. Time to go.”

  Reyker and Quinlan were locked in a staring match, studying each other. Quinlan extended his hand to me. I let him help me to my feet and stood at his side, looking from one man to the other, wondering what they were thinking.

  Quinlan thrust an open hand between the bars. “Quinlan of Fion, warrior of the Hounds of Vengeance.”

  Reyker gaped at Quinlan’s hand, like he’d forgotten how it felt to be greeted as a human. Finally he accepted it, and they shook hands—Glasnithian and Westlander. “Reyker Lagorsson. Beast of the Frozen Sun,” he said with no shortage of bitterness.

  Even so, Quinlan grinned. “Good to meet you, Reyker. Unfortunately, we must be going before we’re missed. I’ll make sure Lira gets safely to her room.”

  “Thank you.” There was grief in Reyker’s eyes as Quinlan took my arm to lead me away.

  Quinlan paused. “Reyker. We aren’t all bastards, you know?”

  Reyker leaned against the wall of his cell. “We are not all beasts.”

  REYKER

  Reyker was on his knees, shackled, in a room full of men begging for the chance to skin him alive and paint the floor with his blood. All but the dark-haired one in back, watching with furrowed brows—Quinlan, a man he might have befriended in a different world.

  The warriors’ questions were endless: fighting techniques, ship design and navigation capabilities, the process of selecting which villages to raid. They wanted to know the extent of the Dragon’s power. Reyker responded in Iseneldish. “If I tell you, you’ll fall apart. You’ll weep like frightened children.”

  This was a game. He’d survived the warlord’s games for years. Reyker knew how to play.

  Show them you fear neither pain nor death.

  Torin called the torturer, a dour young woman with eyes like stone—flat and gray. She turned pain into an art form, using a chest full of tools that cut and bruised and burned, plucking his body like an instrument, playing a song of agony to inflict extreme pain that caused no lasting damage. Had he not suffered for years under Draki’s tutelage, he could never have withstood the torturer’s skills. As it was, he held his tongue, glaring insolently.

  Frustrated, the torturer grew careless. She threw his chain over a beam and choked him with the metal collar he wore, releasing him just before he blacked out. Thinking him too weak to be a threat, she let go of the chain. He forced his empty lungs to breathe slowly, shook off the dark spots clouding his vision.

  Give them their beast.

  He leaped at the nearest warrior, throwing his shackles over the man’s head. Jerking the manacles’ chain, strangling the man.

  The warrior struggled futilely. The crowd descended, raising their weapons, closing in.

  Dangle their prize.

  Reyker released the man, stealing his sword before shoving him away. He stared the clans down, sword held high. “I am Reyker Lagorsson, hei
r to the lands of Vaknavangur, a warrior and lord of Iseneld. Kill me, and you lose your only chance of stopping the invasion of your island.”

  Torin held up a hand and moved forward. “I’m listening, beast.”

  “You have no idea what you’re facing.” Reyker told them a fraction of what he knew, explaining the Dragonmen’s training, their defenses, their goals. It was different to be standing, gripping a sword. He wasn’t a victim revealing information under duress. He was a conspirator.

  The men paled, looking at one another fearfully.

  “While all of this is … interesting,” Torin admitted, “it’s not reason enough to spare your life. Unless you have more to offer?” The chieftain smiled. Your move, beast.

  Reyker thought of his deal with Madoc, the threats Madoc had made, the key hidden in the lining of his boot. He hadn’t used it yet. There had been no clear path of escape for both himself and Lira, and he wouldn’t leave without her. And deserving or not, Torin was Lira’s father—Reyker wouldn’t kill the chieftain without her blessing.

  Side with Madoc or with Torin? A devil or a demon. It was a gamble either way.

  “You want to kill the Dragon?” Reyker hurled his sword at Torin’s feet. “Let me fight for you. Many of my countrymen bear no love for the warlord. I can raise an army of Westlanders to destroy him and his followers. I’ll bring you his head myself.”

  A game.

  More dangerous than ever, now that he was playing both sides.

  I paced the stronghold’s porticoes, listening to the barking seals sunbathing on the rocks at the islet’s base. In the centrum, Reyker was being questioned. I wasn’t permitted to attend. I’d lost count of how many loops I’d marched around the fort. Turning the corner once more, I stumbled upon Quinlan.

  He answered before I could ask. “Reyker’s all right. Injured, but alive.”

  “How injured? What did they do to him? What did he say?”

  “You should go to him. Ask him yourself.” Someone called Quinlan’s name. He turned and shouted, “Aye, I’m coming!” To me, he said, “I have to go.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  He grinned. “Going to miss me, my lady?”

  “Not a whit.” I hugged him hard. He was always leaving. How many times had we said goodbye?

  “Take care, Lira. If the gods are good, we shall meet again soon.” He kissed my cheek and ran to catch up with his clan.

  A moment later, a young woman stepped into the empty passageway. She was twenty years or so, tall and lean, with long brown hair tied into a series of knots falling down her back. The woman carried a thick case that jingled as she walked, as if it was full of metal. She wore leather gloves that came up to her elbows. They were stained with blood.

  I didn’t have to wonder whose blood it was.

  The woman didn’t notice me. Drawing my knife, I followed her as she strode deeper into the stronghold, toward the wing where my own guest chambers were housed. She slipped into one of the rooms, and I snuck in behind her.

  Before I could blink, I was pushed against the wall, a dagger at my throat. “Drop your weapon,” she said.

  My own blade was pointed beneath her chin. “Not until you drop yours.”

  “You might want to reconsider, poppet. I can do far more damage with my blade than you can.” She tilted her head, eyeing me curiously. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

  “I’m Lira of Stone. A Daughter of Aillira, like you. What’s your name? Or shall I just call you pain-wielder?”

  “Ah, the soul-reader. I’ve heard of you.” Slowly she lowered her dagger, and I followed suit with my knife. “I am Sursha. And no, you are not like me. I’ve chosen to use my gift for the glory of the gods. You let yours waste away, hiding within your clan in that isolated harbor.”

  “It brings glory to the gods to torture innocent men?”

  Sursha pulled her gloves off and washed her hands in the water basin. “Innocent? That savage? Hardly. But he was quite sturdy, withstanding more than most men I’ve questioned.”

  The knife trembled in my hand. “What did you do to him?”

  “Do you actually care about that invader? Silly little soul-reader. Don’t you know what the Westlanders mean to do to Glasnith? They’ll try to kill or enslave us all, steal the island for themselves. He says he’s not one of them anymore, but I say once a beast, always a beast.”

  “If you hate them so much, why aren’t you doing anything to stop it? Why have none of the Daughters of Aillira come to help the clans defeat the Westlanders?”

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “You know as well as I do that Aillira’s Temple and its pledges honor the True Gods, not mortals. We take no part in mortal wars unless the gods bid us otherwise, and they’ve said nothing about the beasts of the Frozen Sun.”

  “Maybe you’re not listening. Or maybe you’re listening to the wrong gods.”

  “Get out.” Sursha shoved me toward the door. “I don’t want to hear about Veronis and his Fallen Ones. The priestesses teach us the Forbidden Scriptures, but that doesn’t mean we all believe in them. The True Gods are the only ones that count. Find your own way to stop the beasts.”

  So there was dissent among the Daughters of Aillira when it came to the Forbidden Scriptures. How many sided with Aillira and Veronis, and how many with Gwylor? Could I use their division to my advantage?

  I shoved Sursha back. “Tell your priestesses the soul-reader is coming to them at last. Someone must convince them to do something besides watch as Glasnith burns.”

  “And you think you’re the one to do it?”

  “Aye, since it seems no one else is brave enough to save this island.”

  Our party left the following morning.

  I saw Reyker as we all piled into the same vessel that had brought us to the stronghold. Rage gripped me when I noticed the bright bruises beneath his metal collar. Reyker and I shared a glance, a silent exchange of concern and reassurance, before turning away as the boat splashed toward the mainland.

  Mounting our horses, we left Selkie’s Quay, entering the Green Desert, following the same path in reverse, reaching the inn shortly before nightfall.

  Still emboldened by what transpired at the conclave, the Sons of Stone drank and dined, sharing bawdy limericks and songs. One warrior held a slab of meat to his crotch, hips thrusting, making crude jokes about what the mercenary clans did with their livestock. The men’s laughter rang through the hall, making my head ache.

  I went upstairs to my room, where Torin was slouched on his cot. When he spoke, his voice was hollow. “I’ve found you a husband. He’ll collect you after we return to Stony Harbor.”

  For a moment, it felt as if the floor had dropped out beneath me. “Which one?”

  “The chieftain with the most soldiers. I can’t remember his name.”

  “Do you jest?” I asked, though it was clear he was serious. “How little you must care for me, your own flesh and blood.”

  The black vines in Torin’s eyes twitched. “You play the martyr well for a child who has never known suffering. I’ve provided for you your entire life, and you balk at being asked to make a sacrifice that benefits our clan. After all I’ve given you, all your mother gave up.”

  “Perhaps I’ve known little suffering,” I said, “but I’ve known much loss. If you need a sacrifice, give me a sword. I’ll ride with you into battle against the Westlanders. I’ll give my life fighting. But don’t ask me to sacrifice my heart. It’s too much.”

  “That ought to fill our enemies with fear. A little girl swinging a sword.” Torin scoffed. “Sacrificing your heart, you say? You know nothing of hearts, child.”

  “Give me the chance to find out. If Garreth were here—”

  “Garreth.” My brother’s name was a wound that awakened something inside Torin, like ripping off the sca
b so it bled anew. He looked at me as he had beside our burning cottage, sadness swelling inside him, drumming a lament on his bones.

  “Father?”

  His eyes were warm and brown, with no trace of parasitic darkness. “Lira?”

  I put my arms around him. I felt like a child and sounded like one when I said, “I don’t want to marry. Please don’t make me.”

  Torin’s eyes fixed on my bodice. I glanced down and saw that Mother’s medallion had slipped free from my gown. He reached out, tracing the thorntree. “I miss you so much, my love.” A sob caught in his throat. “Why did you die? How could you leave me?”

  He bowed his head, pulling me closer. I didn’t understand what was happening until he tried to press his lips to mine.

  “Stop!” I jerked away, slapped him hard. “I’m your daughter, not your wife!”

  Torin looked at me, dazed. Tentatively, I placed my palm to his chest. His soul—flickering deep beneath skin and bone—was fractured, like a dried-up riverbed baking beneath a noonday sun. He was coming apart. Whatever Gwylor had left in him was devouring Torin from the inside out.

  “My daughter?” He sank back onto the cot, staring into his lap. “My daughter.”

  I bolted from the room, past the rowdy men downstairs, past the guards outside the inn. The half-drunk sentries stationed at the stables were so deep into their card game, they didn’t notice me. I crept by, tiptoeing across the straw.

  Reyker was in the last stall. “Lira?” he called as I entered. “What’s wrong?”

  A dam broke within me at the sight of him, shackled and wounded. He wore manacles, and the chain attached to the collar on his neck had been secured with bolts into the stable’s wall. I dropped to my knees. “Show me what those bastards did to you.” Not just the clans, I reminded myself; this time it was a Daughter of Aillira who had carried out his torture. I reached to touch his chest, but he took my hand and held it.

  “No.”