James West - Queen of the North

“Make sure he’s free of worms,” Aedran said then, “but put him away from the others. If there’s sickness here, we don’t need it running through the rest of us.”

“Be hard to keep it at bay, packed in as we are,” One Eye Thal said.

“There’s nothing for it,” Aedran said, then called over a pair of soldiers to lead a muttering Zander away.

Erryn watched the soldier scratching at a rash of pustules ranging from his fingers to the back of his hand. Earlier, that same hand had been full of caterpillar spines. If venom afflicted him, she hoped it was nothing deadly. If it is , she thought, troubled that such a cold calculation would enter her mind, then I may lose half my army … or more .

Time to dance for your master, puppet-boy! came his mother’s drunken cackle.

Algar tried to ignore her, but she was right. Brother Jathen needed to hear what was afoot. Yet, Algar still hesitated to use the seeing glass to contact the monk, because, truth told, he was not sure what was afoot.

Cloaked in shadows born of the Spirit Stone, he had been watching Edrik and his fellows since they arrived atop the place they named Ruan Breach. Far below, the River Sedge churned through the gorge’s throat. Once past those dark waters, the river spread wide and was frozen over. There were several slender boats lining the southern riverbank, which Edrik’s men had taken from the snow-laden brush. Those boats seemed too delicate for navigating the River Sedge, but apparently Edrik and his fellows had used them before. Two men had remained with the boats. One was still there, staring across the river, and the other had headed downstream.

Algar wanted to move closer to Edrik and Danlin, who were gazing down into the stony breach, but stopped himself. Dark clouds had been building throughout the day, but the gloomy light was still strong enough to break the Spirit Stone’s spell and make him visible. He could step into the Zanar-Sariit, but each time he did, it seemed as if the spirits of the dead were drawn to him more strongly than before. With that in mind, he chose to huddle out of sight within a dense stand of firs.

As soon as they had arrived, Edrik ordered most of his fellows to begin cutting down slender trees with short swords barely suited to the task. Afterward, they cut the logs into posts the length of a man’s leg, and then sharpened one end. When they had gathered a sizable stack, he ordered them to make several shorter posts, these without a sharpened end.

Now the men were using the short posts as hammers to drive the sharpened posts into a crack running along the top edge of the gorge.

Algar tried to envision some kind of weaponry, but no matter how he looked at it, that didn’t make any sense. His next thought was that they were building a shelter, but that made even less sense. Setting up camp would not help them capture Rathe.

Your master might know, puppet-boy.

Deep in concentration, his mother’s nattering voice didn’t trouble Algar as much as it normally would, and he even found himself agreeing with her. Brother Jathen, after all, followed the Path of War.

Stealing deeper into the trees, Algar pulled the seeing glass from the sack at his belt, and used the tip of his finger to trace a rune over its milky white surface.

The faint chime sounded continually, stabbing into his dream. Grumbling, Brother Jathen dragged a coarse woolen blanket over his head, blocking the noise and blotting out the thin light within the tent….

And then he was with Fira again, her fiery hair spread in a fan around her head. She smiled, her green eyes languid in the candle light as he caressed her breasts, rolled her nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

“Take me,” she said, a breathless command.

“Those are a whore’s words,” he chided, though not minding at all.

“Then make me your whore.”

His fingers abandoned her breasts and walked a path down her flat belly. As they ventured lower, she arched her back, lifting her slender hips. His fingers explored the damp heat between her legs.

“Now,” she moaned.

He grinned. “All in good time-”

The chiming came again, and the vision of Fira broke completely apart, only to reform into the sneering face of Algar.

Snarling, Jathen jerked the blanket off his head and flung it aside. “Goddamned fool refuses to obey me until now?” he asked the empty tent, a mean affair for one of his station. He sat up on the edge of his cot, fingering the healed but still tender scar on his brow. The uneven flesh was cold to the touch. He glanced to the side and saw that the coals in the iron brazier, set beside a wooden stand holding his armor, had gone to ash.

A young monk of his order hesitantly poked his head through the tent flap. Instead of customary robes, the youth wore a boiled leather breastplate emblazoned with a fiery sun that represented the illuminating light of the Way of Knowing. “General, did you call?”

General . Jathen savored the title. No brothers of the Way of Knowing had used military rank in long years, not even his order. It had been five centuries since any monk of Skalos had actually lifted a sword or spear with the intention of drawing blood. All that was about to change, thanks to the supporter who had joined him the day before, and who had graciously offered him the eventual rule of the Iron Marches in exchange for Rathe Lahkurin.

The sergeant shifted nervously. “Sir?”

Jathen looked up. “No, you babbling fool, I didn’t call for you.”

“Very well, sir,” the sergeant said uneasily, ducking back out of the tent.

“Wait!” Jathen snarled, halting the youth. “Bring coals for the brazier. I’m freezing my stones off.”

“Of course, general. At once, sir.” He ducked out of sight before the last word had passed his lips.

The chime sounded again.

With an oath, Jathen reached for a felt-lined box he kept the seeing glass in while traveling. After opening the lid, he drew a rune over the face of the pale orb. The milky surface swirled, revealing Algar’s pinched features. He looked as impatient and angry as usual.

“You’re late in joining me,” Jathen said, foregoing false pleasantries. More than begin late, the man was an insolent oaf. Yet, he still had his uses. For how long, though? “I trust there’s a reason for your delay?”

“The bounty hunters are still after Rathe,” Algar said.

“Bounty hunters?” Jathen thought a moment, but Fira’s face and lush body were still parading through his mind. With some reluctance, he pushed her aside in order to concentrate. Bounty hunters? When he remembered what the insolent fool had told him before, his anger flared anew. “Ah, yes, the outlanders who you said looked like Prythians, but were not?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you still troubling yourself with them?”

Algar ground his teeth together. “I told you before, monk, they’re after Rathe. Now I have reason to fear they mean to take him before the Lamprey can sail through Ruan Breach.”

Jathen frowned. “Why would you think that?”

Algar spoke for a time, and Jathen listened. He suddenly sat bolt upright. Can they be so foolish? Considering what Algar had just told him, he supposed they could.

“You must stop them,” Jathen blurted, interrupting Algar’s report.

“Why, monk?”

“Do as I say!”

Not waiting for a response, Jathen ran his finger over the seeing glass, making Algar’s face vanish. After tucking the orb into its box, he began pulling on his armor. When the sergeant returned with a bucket of coals, Jathen was just finishing with the last buckle. He sent the youth off with a new set of orders.