Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion) (34 page)

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.

“Nighttime 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?”

“Because I trust
you
, Petar, and.…” Hera trailed off, touching her belly again. It was so big and heavy, as if she had swallowed a boulder. Petar’s face softened and he joined his hands to hers. She had loved him as a friend before their marriage, but in the last year she had come to love him as a man. A faint grin tugged his lips when the baby gave a kick.

“Everything will be fine,” he promised.

“Only if we escape.”

“We will. You’ll see.”

After a few more minutes, Petar drew away and searched the sky again. “I don’t see it anymore. We should go.”

Hera took his hand and, with a few grunts, clambered to her feet. Before Petar could set off, she caught his wrist.

“If we escape, what then?” She had no need to mention the godless
deycath
who inhabited the Iron Marches beyond the Shield of the Fathers, but as they were about to become
deycath
by turning their backs on the folk of Targas and the Munam a’Dett Order, she needed to know how Petar planned on keeping them both alive.
All
three of us
, she silently amended.

Petar glanced toward Targas and back. “Damon told me the Iron Marches are cold, but that the
deycath
are mostly like us. He warned that there are cruel folk, but far more are decent and kind. If we can find some of those, they will help us.”

Nothing he had said, Hera realized, was from his own mind. It was all just the vague assurances told by Damon.
He has no more idea what to expect or what to do than I
. Hiding her dismay, she recited the ancient prayer, “May the Fathers protect us.”

“They will,” Petar assured her, but she saw doubt in his gaze.

He no longer trusts in the wisdom and mercy of the Fathers.
For certain, her faith had grown weaker since learning what the
Hanyata
truly meant for those chosen to sacrifice on one of four ceremonial nights during the year. All her life she had been taught that being chosen was a great honor and privilege. The truth, according to Damon, was that the Munam a’Dett Order—all of whom claimed divine authority from the Fathers—used the chosen to reap great rewards for themselves and Targas, while never having to give of themselves or their loved ones.

Petar adjusted the straps of his bulging haversack, gave her a reassuring smile, and began picking his way through the corn. Soon after, their pace proved too slow for him.

“We must get to a road and follow it into the Sleeping Wood.”

“We’ll be seen,” Hera protested. “Doubtless there are
vizien
patrols about.”

Petar bowed his head in thought. “I have no worry over a few faithful idiots new to the priesthood—I expect most are half-asleep. But if I’m right, and there is something flying about, it’ll see the beaten trail we’re making as surely as it’ll spy us on the road.”

“The dragon, you mean.”

“I saw
something
,” Petar said hotly. When she didn’t argue, he vigorously brushed back a fall of hair as pale as the strands of corn silk hanging like cobwebs from his head. “If we hurry we can outrun it.”

Hera reluctantly nodded her consent.

Petar made a sharp turn and pushed his way through the corn until coming to a cobbled road. It was one of twenty such roads radiating out from Targas, like spokes of a great wheel, and ending at the Sleeping Wood.

Just looking at that still, dark forest made Hera nervous. From childhood every denizen of Targas learned to avoid getting too near the forest encircling the vast, wedge-shaped croplands surrounding the city. It was said that a thousand kinds of unnameable death waited within those lush reaches. Part of her had come to believe those dire tales were but another tool the Munam a’Dett used against the common folk. Another part wondered if there was some truth to the warnings.

“Let’s hurry,” Petar said, one hand resting against the small of her back, the other supporting her arm. Born to a crofter, much like her, a lifetime tending the fields had made his grip strong and sure. With his help she felt half a stone lighter, and was able to pick up the pace.

They had nearly reached the Sleeping Wood when a booming cry cut through the night.

“Dragon!” Hera blurted, the truth falling on her like a millstone. “How can there be dragons here?”

Instead of saying he had told her so, Petar forced them into a clumsy trot. The trumpeting call came again, making her eyes water and threatening to crack the bones of Hera’s skull. She didn’t dare turn to look.

As soon as they passed under the leafy shroud of tangled tree limbs, the cries cut off. For Hera, the Sleeping Wood didn’t seem at all forbidding anymore, but protective. She decided they shouldn’t flee, but rather stay put and out of sight. If forced, they could live forever in the forest. Just her, Petar, and their soon-to-be-born child. There was food aplenty in the fields. As long as they stayed out of sight, no one would ever notice what they took for themselves.

The dragon’s scream came again, and with it a sound not unlike great sheets flapping in the wind.
Wings! Oh, Fathers, it really can fly!
Then, farther back in her mind, a more rational thought arose.
Who gives the beast leave to fly over Targas?

“We must hide,” Hera said, looking wildly about. There were hundreds of likely spots nearby. Fallen trees draped in dense plots of ferns, briar patches a mouse would have trouble penetrating, a deep black hole running under a knot of gray-black roots, each as thick as her waist.

We could live under a tree
, she thought with giddy desperation.
A family of little moles no one will ever find.

Petar smashed the delirious notion. “We must reach the Shield of the Fathers. Escaping is the only way we’ll ever be safe.”

Hera tried to swallow, but her throat had gone dry and hot as fresh ashes. If there were many grim stories about the dangers of the Sleeping Wood, there were even more tales that warned about getting too near the Shield of the Fathers.

“What if Damon is wrong, or playing one of his tricks? What if we reach the Shield and it kills us?” The truth was, she had never wanted to go out into the world of the
deycath
, a place of eternal ice and death. She only wanted to escape the impossible demands of the Munam a’Dett.