Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion) (2 page)

Much and much longer than that, Gavin. My ancestors, like your own, were once nomads roaming the frozen wastes in search of sanctuary. When they deemed such a secure place must not exist, they built one—first the vast warrens under the city, then the city itself.

“Do you love Targas?”

A pause.
As if it were my own child
.

“Then tell me how to restore Targas and drive to ground those who plot to destroy—” Gavin hesitated, calculating “—
our
city.”

To suggest to me that we share some common purpose proves you are the cruelest of all my former masters.

“Tell me how to succeed,” Gavin demanded.

Seek the man and his mark
.

“What man? What mark—” Gavin’s breath grew thick as jelly in his chest as an image of a sinister-looking creature filled his mind. With the image came the face of a man, and with the face came a vision of Targas lit not by everlasting light but by leaping mountains of flame. With all the images came a sudden and complete understanding of the means Gavin must employ to save his city. It was terrible, unthinkable, but there was never a doubt in his mind that he would do what was required.

After the vision faded, Gavin stammered, “Th-Thank you,” his voice tinged with a reverence, and below that was something else. Boundless fear. The Oracle had never so fully invaded his mind as to show him visions as if they were his own, and he knew not what it meant.

I will do anything to save Targas
, the Oracle answered.
You must hurry
,
for the time between success and absolute loss is far narrower than you can imagine. Many already plot against you, and their utmost desire is to supplant the rule of the Munam a’Dett priesthood.

“Who would dare?” Gavin cried. “Reveal them to me!”

It is enough for you to know that there are more than you would believe
,
and far more than you could ever hope to defeat alone. Find the man who bears the mark of his namesake, or you shall lose Targas and all else you hold dear. Go with haste, Gavin. Go!

Gavin fled the Celestial Chamber, not realizing until later that he had gone forth with the eager swiftness of one commanded.

Chapter 1

Winds laden with fat snowflakes hooted mournfully over Valdar, over Queen Erryn, over torn fields filled with the dead and dying. Bitter that wind was, full of winter’s breath that tugged and gnawed at her cloak of dark leather and silver-gray wolf fur.
Will I be remembered as the valiant Queen of the North,
she wondered, surveying what her commands had brought upon her army,
or will I be despised as the Queen of Blood?

Beyond the palisade, wounded Prythians waved slowly to their comrades, like men drowning in a mire. Some of her soldiers were more energetic, trying to kick and claw their way back to the walls, but they were betrayed by their shattered limbs. Swords, Erryn had learned, broke bones more often than they cut cleanly. Hammers and beaked mauls were worse yet, mutilating everything they struck. Some of the injured, such brave and strong men a few hours ago, now lay moaning, too damaged to do anything but wait for their brothers to load them into rickety carts as if they were a late and rather poor crop of gourds.

A treacherous gust brought a charnel scent to her. If that had been all she detected, maybe her guts wouldn’t have twisted so violently. But there were other smells to war, that of urine and excrement, which seemed to cling to to everything. Erryn swallowed, closed her eyes.
I did this—I
chose
to do this—but I cannot surrender.
Then as now, her decision was firm, her resolve true, because life north of the Shadow Road didn’t favor merciful hearts or weak stomachs.
I did this
, she thought again, this time with the same sense of righteousness that had filled her heart the day she, Queen Erryn of Valdar, formerly a simple orphan girl with too much fire in her heart, had begun her war….

~ ~ ~

Many weeks before, King Nabar’s emissaries had come in the plush and curtained comfort of gilded white carriages, each drawn by a six-horse team. Four mounted companies of Kingsguard formed a bristling wall around the carriages, the standard-bearers hoisting aloft the new banners of Cerrikoth’s Royal House. The single white rose of Qairennor had become many, and they wreathed the horned bull of Cerrikoth charging over a crimson field. This new banner proved that King Nabar had indeed wed Princess Mirith, the daughter of the Qairennoran witch-queen, who Nabar’s own father had made war against before his death.

Erryn marveled at the soldiers’ shiny clean breastplates and gold-trimmed crimson cloaks, at their burnished helms, and at their lances so long and sharp. Oh, and how their horses marched, as if they were as proud as their riders!

Just beyond Valdar’s weathered gray gate, the Kingsguard halted at a crisp command, banners fluttering in the gentle breeze. This was a proper army. Clean and orderly. Her Prythian forces, which Erryn had hired at Lady Nesaea’s suggestion, their scruffy wolfskin cloaks and armor of scale and boiled leather, looked and sounded like a horde of plainsmen in comparison.

The emissaries popped out of their carriages, clad all in rich finery better suited to the warmer southlands. When the chill of the north hit them, they huddled together and gazed about with expressions of horror.

With General Aedran on one side, her steward Breyon on the other, and half a hundred Queensguard at her back, Erryn marched through the gate to meet her uninvited guests. She did her best not to look overawed. As they walked, Breyon instructed her on the ways of highborn.

“They dip into each other’s puckered arseholes like they’re loaded with honey,” he assured her with a knowing wink. With his gray-whiskered face smudged in dirt, he seemed more a beggar than a steward.

“He has the way of it,” Aedran agreed.

“Surely you jest,” Erryn said.

Breyon shook his head. “They cannot get enough arse-licking. Only thing they like better than licking each other’s arses, is to have a lowborn on his knees with his tongue wagging. Reckon it makes ‘em feel all noble and charitable, like they’re givin’ us a treat.”

Erryn was not keen to have her arse licked, nor to lick these flowery arses before her. Nevertheless, she did her best to appear friendly and proper. Pleasantness was easier when you had a thousand blood-hungry Prythians guarding a fortress at your back, even if it was only a lowly wooden one. Her Queensguard, armed with great swords and huge iron axes, and well-known for their love of cutting foes to pieces for the sheer enjoyment of it, also helped keep a warm smile on her face.

Standing about in the dreary weather, recoiling at the soggy muck under their fine silken slippers, the emissaries shunned introductions and got right to business. They graciously offered to name her Reeve of Valdar, complete with a gold-and-ivory rod of office.

“Accept the stewardship of Valdar,” they told her, stumbling over each other in their apparent eagerness to insert their tongues into her bottom, “and King Nabar will overlook your trespass.”

Trespass? Is that all I did by naming myself queen, just step a little beyond the bounds of my birth?

Erryn took the proffered rod, hefted its engraved length in her hand. It was too pretty to use for stirring stew or thumping heads. So, as far as she was concerned, the thing had no use. “It’s beautiful,” she said in a wondering voice, as if greatly impressed.

The emissaries smiled and nodded. Two bald men, and another pair with short, snow-white curls. The sweet perfume they wore threatened to gag her. She went on.

“The man who held the position of reeve before—a raping bastard by the name of Mitros, whose fat head I took great pleasure in liberating from his equally plump body—never carried such a fine rod as this.”

Seemingly put out by her response, the emissaries quietly conferred with harsh whispers and sharp gestures. When they turned back, they were all oily smiles again.

“This man, Mitros, was not appointed by our good and generous liege,” they informed her gravely, one picking up where the other left off so smoothly that she had a hard time following the conversation. “Should you accept the king’s offer, you’ll be more than a mere reeve, you’ll also be
Lady Erryn,
” they finished as one, speaking as if
lady
sounded so much finer than
queen
.

To Erryn’s mind, they were fools. Anyone could name herself a lady. Look at Nesaea, who had been her mentor for a brief time, if never her friend. She was no more a born noblewoman than Erryn was a born queen. Names and titles meant nothing, unless you could make others believe they were true. At worst, Erryn was halfway to being a queen already—she had named herself, it was true, but held no illusions that she would not have to fight to keep her claim. As such, becoming
Lady
Erryn was akin to going backward. Still, she decided to hear these men out, because as Nesaea had told her,
“Listening to your enemies leads to understanding them, and understanding them will help you defeat them.”

“Should I accept,” Erryn said, voice neutral, “what
recompense
will your ‘good and generous liege’ offer me?” She had never been to any court save her own—the common room of the Cracked Flagon, with its ale- and wine-stained wooden floor, and slipshod plank walls covered in hides, antlers, and ten lifetimes of soot—but she felt sure her question had a courtly ring to it.

A question instead of immediate agreement distressed the emissaries anew. They pushed their heads together yet again, faces twisted into scowls. They recovered quickly and pressed closer to her, their tongues all but wagging in her direction. Erryn decided Breyon was right about highborn arse-licking, and couldn’t help but clench her buttocks under her snug leather leggings.

One of the bald emissaries, the tallest and most spindly of the lot, swept back his ermine-lined cloak of scarlet wool and stepped forward. “Should you accept, milady, you’ll be expected to resume delivering shipments of gold-ore to the King’s City of Onareth. In return, King Nabar will provide you with enough soldiers to ensure that Valdar is protected from ravening plainsmen, as well as the bandits known to frequent these lands.” His eyes failed to conceal his opinion that Erryn herself was little more than a common brigand. “Assuming your willingness, King Nabar has granted you lands and, of course, a
true
title.” From the depths of his cloak, he produced a scroll with a blob of blue wax sealing it closed. A moment later, out came a leather sack that clinked when he bounced on his palm.

“Truly?” Erryn asked, feigning interest. They offered her more every time she showed the barest reluctance, suggesting that they were conniving and untrustworthy—not that she had expected anything less. These fools were the picture of all she hoped to avoid in her own rule.

“Indeed, milady. King Nabar has even agreed to provide funds necessary to pay for the construction of a fine manse hereabout, one suitable to your station….” Just short of cringing, the emissary’s words trailed off as he looked around at the wide fields beyond the palisade, with their dying grass and wildflowers, the stubble of recently harvested crops gone a dirty yellow within fieldstone hedges, and finally to the dark forests of pine, fir and birch ringing it all about. He cleared his throat, shivered. “Enough gold, I daresay, for you to build a woodland
palace
, if you wish.”

“Oh my, a woodland palace?”

General Aedran leaned in close to Erryn. “If you poke your dagger into his gob, I’ll give you ten woodland palaces.”

A giggle escaped Erryn. The bald emissary scowled. Before he could waste anymore time, Erryn eased back her wolfskin cloak to caress the hilt of the short sword gifted to her by Nesaea. It was a pretty thing, fitted to her stature, the pommel set with a large oval sapphire, the crossguards fashioned of engraved silver, and the blade sharp as a midwinter wind. She barely knew how to use long steel—concealable knives suited orphaned village girls better than swords—but the way she touched it widened the eyes of her audience. The tall bald emissary retreated a few dainty steps, his fine slippers squelching in the mud.

“My lords,” Erryn said, putting on a winning smile, “I prefer to keep
my
current title and my gold, which is far more than King Nabar could ever give me. As for manses and palaces … as you can see, I already possess an entire fortress full of soldiers. And, as you surely know from the map I sent your good king, I’ve claimed the lands between the Shadow Road and the Gyntor Mountains east to Pryth, and west to Qairennor. Anything less from your liege is simply unacceptable.”

The emissaries looked at her with bulging stares and purpling faces, as if she had ordered their manhoods seared with hot irons. She took their silence as an invitation to proceed.

“Be that as it may, I’m open to trading with your king, and I’m willing to pay the highest price for all southern goods.” Feeling generous, she dropped a saucy wink. “Perhaps even
better
than top price … say, as much as a third better over the next five years?” That seemed more than generous.