Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion) (26 page)

Rathe took a shaky breath, blinked a few times, swallowed. The sickening, hammering thuds continued, but the urge to spew diminished. “I think all this moving around is warming me up.”

“You’re either lying, or about to die.”

“I’m fine,” Rathe said, looking over Loro’s battered features. With the shadows and clots of half-melted snow mingling on his swollen brow and cheeks, Rathe found it hard to believe his friend had come out the victor against Liamas. “It’s you who looks risen from the grave.”

“Be that as it may, whatever you mean to do, we should do it before we become ice statues.”

Rathe searched through breaks in the foliage and spied the ring of torches circling those who had made it ashore. “Do you see Nesaea or Fira?”

A frown creased Loro’s brow. “The way this snow is coming down, they all look alike. I’m sure they made it out, though, and are waiting for us to come rescue them.”

Rathe shied from the hopefulness in his friend’s voice, but just as quickly latched onto it again when he saw a pair of Edrik’s companions struggling up the riverbank, guiding a huge man between them. “They have Liamas.”

“If they were smart,” Loro said, sounding more confident than ever, “they’d have drowned the Prythian oaf in the river, instead of bringing him into their midst.”

Rathe recalled how inept Edrik had been back at the Minstrel’s Cup. “They aren’t fighters, and the way they dropped the cliff on the
Lamprey
says they are not so very smart, either.”

“Say what you will, but they
did
stop the ship.”

“Only at the risk of killing us all. And, as Edrik made it plain that he wanted me to join him, toppling half a mountain on my head is likely the worst way to make that happen.”

Loro nodded in agreement, his gaze still on Liamas. The Prythian giant put up no fight, but Rathe noted a watchfulness in the way his head turned one way, then the other.

“At the first sign of resistance,” Rathe said, “Liamas will attack.” Despite the beating Loro had given him, Rathe also knew the Prythian was more than a match for any handful of the fools who stood with Edrik. For himself, Loro might take on two handfuls of the outlanders.

That just leaves me
, Rathe considered, stomach growing sour and squirmy again at the thought of wading into a fight.
You’ve seen men battle with worse wounds
, he told himself, but had a hard time remembering when.

“We need to get closer,” Rathe said.

“Best be quick about it. They’ll have to move the prisoners soon, unless they mean to stand by and watch them freeze to death.”

Rathe curled his stiff hands into painful fists, released them, balled them again. He imagined Nesaea’s fear and his own when the wall of Ruan Breach first started to crumble.
They could have killed us all.
Fury sparked alight deep in his chest. He coaxed and nurtured that rage. He would free it soon, but not just yet. For now, he needed its warmth to bury the queasiness in his guts, to quiet the infernal hammering in his skull, to warm his blood.

“Hear that?” Loro asked.

“It’s all I hear,” Rathe said. When Loro looked askance at him, he realized the fat man had not read his thoughts, but was speaking of something else.

Loro cursed under his breath. “Drums—
real drums
—not like before the cliff fell.”

Rathe saw Edrik’s band turning toward the sound, raising their torches to cast the light farther. Then Rathe noticed something else in the torchlight that set his heart to racing.

“I see them,” he said, the drums forgotten as he pointed out Nesaea and Fira, both standing cold and bedraggled beside Captain Ostre and Liamas.

Loro’s face split into a grin. “When this is over, remind me to make a hundred offerings to any god in any temple we come across.”

The drumming grew louder, rolling up the River Sedge. Edrik’s band and the survivors of the
Lamprey
began stirring. A few pointed toward the forest, while the others stared downstream.

“Someone’s in the woods with us,” Loro said, looking back over Rathe’s shoulder. By the time Rathe turned, a torch flared alight, then another and another and another, until it seemed the forest had been set afire.

Rathe pulled Loro down into a crouch.

A moment later, soldiers began rushing past Rathe and Loro’s hiding spot. They came out of the forest in two groups. One group spread out along the riverbank, while the other encircled Edrik’s companions and their captives. Shouted orders to surrender climbed above the approaching drumbeat, and Edrik’s company complied without a fight.

“Those are Cerrikothian Kingsguard,” Loro said, studying the newcomers. “What’re
they
doing here?”

“I’d guess that King Nabar learned I was in the Iron Marches—probably from Brother Jathen, as the monks of Skalos are the only true power in these lands.”

“I ever see that prancing fop again,” Loro growled, twisting the hilt of his sword until he was able to drag his frosty blade free of the scabbard, “I’ll have off his stones.”

Rathe chuckled darkly. “This is the life of the rogue you so cherish, friend. Beset on all sides, and an enemy to every man.”

“Does everything have to be so grim with you?” Loro snapped. “Is it so wrong for a man to have dreams?”

“No,” Rathe said, struggling to concentrate on this new development, “but a man should keep his dreams separate from the truth.”

“As you’re so keen to wallow in truth, here’s some more for you. If we are captured, then you and I are going to end up back in Onareth to face the headsman.”

“What of Nesaea and Fira?” Rathe asked, knowing what Loro would say, because he was thinking the same thing.

“King Nabar doesn’t want them. Like as not, he doesn’t know who they are, or that they were ever with us. For myself, we went to Skalos together, and good Brother Jathen doubtless mentioned me to Nabar. Our former king will assume I had a hand in killing his brother, Lord Sanouk.” Loro shot an accusing look at Rathe. “I suppose that means I’m sharing in your curse of bad luck.”

The drums had drawn closer, and a brightening radiance was spreading around a downstream bend in the river.

Loro shook his head in dismay. “Did that fool king send an entire legion to collect you?”

“It seems he must have.” Imagining the forest around them soon filling up with soldiers, Rathe bit back a curse.

Loro made to stand, then hunkered back, his features knotted with indecision. “We cannot stay here, but to run will get us caught even quicker. What do you suggest?”

Instead of answering, Rathe stared at the emerging sight downriver. Scores of lanterns lit a war galley crashing its way through the ice covering the slower, wider span of the River Sedge. The prow of a second ship soon showed itself, and then four more, all coming in a staggered line, all propelled by thrashing oars.

“The forest is our only hope,” Rathe said.

“So you really mean to leave Nesaea and Fira?”

“We have to stay out of sight until we can puzzle out a way to get them free,” Rathe said, despite knowing there was no way that did not end with him and Loro dead.

Chapter 22

Soldiers rushed hither and yon over the decks of the six war galleys. Lanterns by the score, hanging from yardarms and rails, lit the night. Nesaea held fast to Fira, who quivered and shook. Nesaea shivered just as hard, but the root of her shaking came from knowing she was trapped. After Lord Sanouk had poisoned her and locked her away in the catacombs under Fortress Hilan, there were times when even warm blankets seemed suffocating. Observing the steel-wielding Cerrikothian Kingsguard around her, she wished blankets were her only concern.

There were no less than forty of Nabar’s Kingsguard around her and the others. Edrik was easy enough to pick out. He was not the tallest, nor was he the strongest looking, but his fellows all deferred to him.
For all the good it will do them
. But the outlanders had ceased being a threat.

She knew the Kingsguard had come for Rathe, and as he was not among the captives, chances were they would soon put everyone to the question. The soldiers said nothing, but their spear tips and swords glittered in the torchlight, waiting to begin their bloody labor. More than their steel, Nesaea knew all too well that they had other, viler means to use against her and Fira, the only two women amongst the captives.

Edrik’s people, all young, shave-headed men dressed in similar garb, clustered together. They stood by impassively, as if waiting for something to happen in their favor.
Fools
, Nesaea thought, knowing that pain was the only thing likely to happen anytime soon.

Closer by, Captain Ostre huddled beside Liamas and what was left of the
Lamprey’s
crew. None of them seemed inclined to risk a fight to escape, which didn’t fit with the men she had fought with against the
Crimson Gull
. Like Nesaea and Fira, the water covering them was going to pale feathers of frost in their clothes, hair, and beards. Ostre flashed her a reassuring smile.

What does that mean?
Nesaea wondered.
Does it mean anything?

Normally, she never failed to come up with a plan, but not now. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, forced away the threads of panic threatening to encase her heart.
This is nothing like Sanouk’s catacombs. There is no magic here, just flesh and steel. Think!

Instead of a plan, a face came to mind, a strong face, the face of a warrior, the face of her lover.
Rathe. Where is he?
Did he make it out of the river?

Earlier, Nesaea thought she had seen two figures farther down the shore. With all the chaos after the
Lamprey
had come under attack, then swimming for shore and getting captured—not once, but twice—Nesaea was unsure if she could trust her eyes.

“We have only ourselves,” Nesaea said against Fira’s ear.

Fira leaned away, eyes round in a face as white as the falling snow. Her usually full lips had shriveled down to pale blue worms. “What’s that mean?” she whispered back.

Releasing Fira, Nesaea caught the hilt of a dagger concealed under her cloak—the Kingsguard had been quick to disarm everyone under their watch, but they had not been thorough. “We’ll have to cut our way out of this trap, and make for the forest.”

“Are you mad?”

“What choice do we have? They came for Rathe. When they realize he’s not here, the questioning will begin. I shouldn’t have to tell you what that means for either of us. If I must choose between getting cut down or being held down while some brute has his way with me, I’d rather die with a blade in my hand.”

Fira nodded imperceptibly.

As Nesaea began twisting her dagger to break it free of the iced sheath, Edrik glanced her way and slowly shook his head.

Nesaea went still. Had that been a warning, or was he only trying to save his own skin? Before she found an answer, Edrik made a slight gesture to his fellows and, one by one, they slipped tiny golden flasks from under their robes and took a sip. Watching each of them grimace by turns, she wondered what they were up to?

“Ho the camp!” came a familiar voice from the soldiers tromping along the riverbank.

“Oh, gods,” Fira breathed.

Nesaea said nothing. The first she had heard that voice, the haughty speaker had been recounting the history of Skalos.

“Jathen,” Fira whispered harshly.

Nesaea nodded, a wave of trepidation filling her breast. Before Rathe had returned the monk’s so-called baubles, she had treated the Keeper’s Box and the Wight Stone with two substances that, when put together, created a destructive mixture. Doubtless, Jathen would not have taken kindly to losing such rare and powerful artifacts. She had never expected to see him again, but here he was, striding into view.

“His face,” Fira muttered.

“Oh gods,” Nesaea breathed, as the man halted to look over the captives. As his agate blue eyes swiveled, she saw a terrible scar across his brow, as if searing fire had washed over him. Alchemy was a thorny talent to master at best, and while Nesaea was a fair hand at it, something had gone very wrong.
I ruined his face … a face most women would’ve found attractive.

Jathen’s eyes widened at the sight of Fira, then narrowed when they turned to Nesaea. “Milady,” he said, striding nearer. He was dressed as a lord ready for battle, with an ermine-lined green cloak draped over his broad shoulders, and a burnished steel breastplate embossed with a golden sun. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to find you here.” Though he spoke in a pleasant tone, there was a disturbing mixture of hatred and joy in his eyes that made Nesaea cringe.

“Brother Jathen,” she said, renewing her efforts to get her dagger free of the icy scabbard. “I’m surprised to see you.”

Jathen smiled warmly, as if greeting an old friend. “Duty calls, and we humble servants must obey, yes?”

“I suppose,” Nesaea agreed.

Jathen turned back to Fira. “Words cannot convey my delight in discovering you unharmed by the dreadful accident which befell your ship.”