Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion) (16 page)

A cloud of snow billowed around them, its touch flailing exposed skin with a thousand needle teeth. When the air cleared, Erryn saw that they had ridden amid a group of ancient catapults, their huge wooden arms gray with age and rot. Some of those arms stood tall, aimed at Stormhold. Others lay broken. More siege engines poked up out of the snow, too old to make out what they had been. It was plain that a great battle had taken place here, but the victors hadn’t bothered to clean up afterwards.

What if there were no victors?
Erryn wondered. Then,
Are we riding over the ancient bones of dead soldiers? If so, who were they?

She glanced sideways at Aedran.
“So when your, ah,
man-beasts
aren’t busy eating folk,” she said, “do they pass the time by attacking strongholds?”

Aedran shot her a hard look. He had pulled off his scarf, and already frost coated his short beard. “Make mock if it eases your mind, but if you ever see eyes in the night creeping close, or hear the gnashing of teeth in your ear, you’ll find all your laughter’s as useful as a bucket of piss.”

Erryn grinned behind her scarf. “If that happens, you’d better be near with your blade.”

“I cannot promise sharp steel will serve any purpose.”

Erryn decided she had heard enough, and fell silent.

It took an hour for her army to carve a path to the base of Stormhold. Where she might have expected stout walls of rock quarried from the mountain itself, Stormhold’s wall was iron. Above it soared four dragon towers. Their toothy jaws gaped, as if roaring into the faces of long dead enemies. Rows of horns studded their sleek skulls and snouts, but a final, larger pair swept back from behind their eyes. The face of the wall and the soaring parapets were covered in sharp-edged scales the size of shields. Interspersed throughout were arrow loops, most sealed with thick shutters. The tampers halted before a windswept ramp leading to a massive gate also forged of pitted black iron, and embossed with thick serpents.

“How can men fashion iron so?”

Aedran gazed up at the dragon towers. “Some say Stormhold was built when gods walked in flesh, long before the Fourth Age of Sorcery, an age when those who wielded magic rose above all men and claimed for themselves crowns and thrones, and later enthralled their subjects and free dragons.”

“Stormhold does seem to be a place fit for gods,” Erryn agreed, having never heard of a time when gods walked the world, or the Fourth Age of Sorcery, let alone the other three. To her there was the present and the mythical olden times, the birthing bed of all stories.

“Tales claim many things,” Aedran said with a dismissive shrug. “I assure you, neither magic nor gods built the walls of Stormhold, but men alone.” She gave him a dubious look, and he added, “When men share a will, they can create things of beauty and wonder, things most folk would think
impossible.”

Erryn glanced again at the wall. “I’d like to meet men who can make such things.”

“One day,” Aedran said, face solemn, “when you’ve conquered all the realms your heart desires, I’ll show you the wonders of Pryth.”

Do I really want to conquer entire realms?
He spoke as if he knew her heart, but she felt otherwise.
Defeating King Nabar and gaining the northern reaches of Cerrikoth is enough
, she told herself. Aloud she said, “I thought Pryth was only filled with warriors.”

“Aye, it is, but those warriors are also craftsmen—workers of wood and stone and metal. It just happens that the making of war guides the souls of my people. One day, that won’t be so.”

Erryn considered Aedran’s fur and leather armor, and the intricacy of the scales covering his chest. She thought about how eagerly the Prythians had thrown themselves into building up Valdar’s defenses, and how easily they had fashioned what they needed for the journey into the Iron Marches. “When there are no more wars to fight, what’ll you make then, if not new wars?”

A troubled frown knotted his brow. “Our ancestors learned half a thousand years gone that peace is a double-edged sword. Those stories tell of the peace that came after learning the forging of iron. During those days, we trusted neighboring realms, traded openly and fairly with them. Together we built great cities, sailed distant seas, explored strange lands that have been forgotten since the Age of Despair.”

Age of Despair?
Erryn mused, wondering why she had never heard of all these past ages. Could it be that Aedran was a learned scholar? She almost laughed aloud at the idea, but a sudden disquiet stifled her mirth.
Who is this man I’ve placed at the head of my army?

Still looking over the wall of Stormhold, Aedran didn’t notice her meditative silence. A score of Prythians had begun using the butts of spears to chip away the layered ice welding the great iron gate shut. The rest of the warriors lined either side of the ramp, watchful for danger.

“Those days of peace and fortune before the Age of Despair have no formal name,” Aedran continued. “But I’d call those days the Time of Fools. Riches flowed easily with the discovery of forging iron—everyone wanted and needed it, you see. There was so much wealth that common peddlers would rival today’s kings.

“In time, folk grew fat and lazy. Leisure became their first and truest love. Men forgot what it was to earn their keep.” His mouth turned down at the corners. “While my ancestors lolled about, their allies plotted, seeding themselves deep into every facet of my people’s lives. Then the day came when those friends turned their knives and swords against my forefathers—a treachery some whisper that was planned from the beginning.”

Aedran’s blue eyes, bitter as a midwinter dawn, locked with Erryn’s. “The peace my ancestors bought with iron and goodwill ended with gutters running with blood. Along our highroads, babes torn from their mothers’ breasts were hung upon lances like wailing banners. Our men, bloated and fearful after generations of ease, fled instead of dusting off long unused swords. They feared the implements of war, you see, more than war itself. Many were slaughtered wherever they hid. Many more were caught and made into eunuchs, and spent the rest of their days serving their new masters.”

“What of the women?” Erryn asked, captivated.

Aedran’s jaw worked. “It’s no lie that women suffer the most in war.”

Erryn needed no further explanation. “You Prythians must have fought back?”

He spat in disgust. “There was no Pryth during those black days, and so no Prythians.”

“Then how did Pryth come to be?”

“My ancestors were taken far from their homelands and spread across many realms. It is said among my people that at least one drop of Prythian blood flows through the veins of everyone alive today. One of the realms where my people ended their forced journey lay deep in the Gray Horns, what later became Pryth.”

“Why would anyone want to scatter a folk so far?”

“A fine way to ensure there is no rebellion amongst a captive nation is to cast them far and wide, and destroy every trace of what made them a distinct people—their gods, language, customs. What is torn away is replaced by the ideas and principles of their new masters.”

Erryn shook her head doubtfully. “You cannot steal a man’s memories.”

“You don’t have to,” Aedran said. “You only have to ensure those memories are never passed to his children. In a single generation, all is forgotten.”

The very idea of such a practice appalled her, yet at the same time, she understood its ruthless effectiveness. “If everything was taken away, how did your people ever become Prythians?”

“A small few remembered their origins. Of course, they were the old ones, and considered troublemakers by most. Yet they made sure their children knew the truth. Besides the memories of who they had been, those children learned how their kindred were defeated. Over time, they used the same tactics to earn the trust of their new masters. With trust came an inkling of freedom. The leashes they wore, you see, became longer and longer, until the bravest of them began to gather in secret. And, in secret, they spoke aloud the tales of their elders, told the tales of their greatest sovereigns of old. Unlike their slothful forebearers, the implements of war didn’t frighten them.”

“How did they earn their freedom—their
true
freedom?” Erryn asked, envisioning heroic battles.

Aedran spread his gloved hands. “When the uprisings began, new blood paid for old. And then came the
true
slaughter—relentless, monstrous, slaughter. Freedom was bought at a great price, but this time it was not my people’s blood that ran in the gutters, nor was it our staked babes that wriggled and wailed upon the highroads, nor was it our women who suffered the fury of the enemy. We gave back tenfold what our forefathers received. We became reavers, stalking horrors in the deepest watches of the night, and those who remembered their heritage took for themselves the fierce and desolate land now known as Pryth.”

“So,” Erryn said slowly, “your people became the same monsters who chained them?”

“
Monsters
,” Aedran said in a musing tone. “Yes, I suppose they did, though my people were better at it. Chains, be they of iron or a king’s harsh edicts, often crush a people to dust. But, sometimes, those chains can blacken a man’s heart toward vengeance.”

“Are your people still so full of hate?”

Aedran laughed bitterly. “It was never about hate, but retribution. Yet, I’d be a liar if I denied that war is in our blood, now and forever—and that’s the double-edge sword I spoke of.”

Erryn frowned. “You said
peace
was a double-edge sword.”

“Since the day we Prythians won our freedom, we’ve made ceaseless war to ensure our enemies remain peaceful toward us. We sell our swords far and wide, and we win other men’s wars in the most brutal ways possible, thus ensuring they keep their eyes and hearts off of Pryth.”

“What’s that have to do with peace?”

“Name the nations that have ever invaded Pryth.”

“I’ve never heard of any such nations.”

“If that isn’t peace, what is?” His gaze became thoughtful. “The day will come when we make less war, the day some few of my people call the Awakening. Instead of swords and shields, we will make beautiful things again and, for a time, blood will cease to flow.”

“I had no idea you Prythians sought anything more than gold and glory.”

“We do,” he said, almost too quietly to hear.

She didn’t like the expression on his face. It suggested again that Aedran was not the simple fighting man she had hired, but something more.

“Alas, some of my people have abandoned the dream of the Awakening for the fleeting joys of swinging sword to earn gold and glory. But there are enough of us who continue to seek our ancient birthright and destiny—the real reason my forefathers took back their freedom.”

“Aedran!” One Eye Thal shouted, before Erryn could ask about birthrights and destiny. The old Prythian warrior trotted near, head bent against the storm. Behind him, the men who had been breaking ice had begun heaving against one side of the great iron gate. Ancient hinges squealed and creaked, and the bottom edge made a hollow grinding noise as it scraped over icy flagstones.

“Looks like we will sleep warm tonight,” Aedran said, sliding from the saddle.

One Eye Thal halted and wiped away a crust of yellowish pus that had frozen to his weathered cheek below his eye socket. “Aye, and not a moment too soon. Last time I had a piss, my cock near turned into an icicle.”

Aedran cleared his throat. One Eye Thal’s good eye rolled toward Erryn. When he spoke again, his voice sounded different from its usual brutal gruffness. “Forgive me,” he said to Erryn. “I’m so often amongst the men that I forget myself.”

Wanting to put One Eye Thal at ease, Erryn said, “I’ve myself pissed ice chips for more days than I care to count.”

One Eye Thal blinked his single dark eye, and Aedran his pair of blue ones, and then both men threw back their heads and laughed.

“Gods curse me!” One Eye said, after composing himself. “She was born on the wrong side of the Gray Horns!”

Still smiling, Aedran eyed her in a way that heated the center of her. “I’ve often thought the same.”

“Best if we call her a Prythian and have done with it,” One Eye Thal advised.

“She’s a bit short,” Aedran said, his smile widening at Erryn’s scowl.

One Eye Thal shrugged. “You forget Queen Tara. That lass stood no higher than my chest.”

“And pretty as the first flower of spring.”

“Aye, she was at that,” One Eye said wistfully.

“Queen Tara?” Erryn asked.

One Eye Thal said, “Queen Tara was a strong girl with a love of fine steel. She died in battle … must be o’er a hundred years ago.”

Erryn looked between the two men. “Then how do you know how tall she was, let alone if she was fair?”

Aedran shared a look with One Eye Thal. “I told our fine young queen here that we’re not all about forging swords and shields, but she didn’t believe me.”

“Did you tell her about Mountain Home, the Pillars of the Moon—
surely
you told her of the Rings of Dawn?” One Eye Thal demanded.