James West - Queen of the North

“That way,” he gasped, and followed the dead man. Loro, looking about the darkness with bulging, half-mad eyes, struggled after Rathe.

The current battered them over rocks and splintered wood, but Rathe hardly felt a thing. Floating behind him, Loro spewed an unrelenting string of curses that became a fearful shout when they tumbled over the edge of the crude dam. They dropped a dozen feet before splashing into the thundering waters below Ruan Breach.

When they popped up, snow lashed the darkness, blocking sight of the riverbank. Rathe thought he heard someone coughing over the roar of falling water. He urged Loro to follow him, and began swimming across the current. A pounding in his head muddled all thoughts, and his arms and legs were reluctant to work. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Loro thrashing weakly.

“Not going to make it, brother!”

“Stay with me,” Rathe panted. “We’re almost there.”

“Rathe?” Loro called desperately, only his nose and lips above the water.

“Swim!” Rathe ordered, catching one of Loro’s arms and dragging him close. He was not about to let Loro die.

By the time Rathe’s waterlogged boots touched the rocky riverbed, he and Loro had drifted far downstream. Stumbling and heaving against one another, he and Loro clambered to higher ground and collapsed on the snow-covered stones of the riverbank. The wind was less here, no more than a breeze, but was still bitter as it sank through Rathe’s wet clothes, stealing the last dregs of his strength, stealing his breath, stealing his will. He lay shivering on his side, sucking in the frozen stink of moss and mud.

Loro rattled deranged laughter. “I’m numb as a whore’s privy parts after a Midwinter feast night.”

Rathe grunted in answer, struggling to his hands and knees, then to his feet. Higher up the riverbank, he could make out a dark forest, the tree limbs bent like penitents under thick white mantles.

A muffled shout turned his attention upstream, and he was stunned to see several figures bearing torches, perhaps a quarter mile distant. They leaped from landed boats and raced toward a smaller group of people huddled near the river’s edge-the Lamprey’s survivors, Rathe was sure. He also knew those bearing torches. Edrik and his fellows.

“It’s those bastards who dropped the cliff on us,” Loro snarled, having gotten to his feet. The fat man fumbled for the hilt of his sword, but his hand had become a stiff and useless claw. Giving up on drawing steel, he took a faltering step in their direction. Rathe halted him with a touch.

“There are too many to risk an open attack.”

“They have Fira and Nesaea,” Loro retorted.

The truth stung Rathe, but dying a fool’s death would not serve to get them free. “We’ll get them back,” he said, not sure how. And we need to make haste , he considered, fingering the blood running down the side of his face. The wound would not kill him, but he couldn’t think clearly.

“I pray you’re right, brother.”

As do I , Rathe didn’t say, leading Loro toward the trees.

“Leave him be,” Jathen said sharply, holding up a staying hand.

“We’re not here to coddle our enemies, but to kill them all, save the Scorpion,” Captain Carlus said, one of Nabar’s Kingsguard. His eyes formed a black slash below the rim of his helm, but his burnished dagger glittered with the distant torchlight of those converging on the Lamprey’s crew. Like the forty men standing in the snowy darkness around him and Jathen, under Carlus’s gold-edged crimson cloak he wore a tabard emblazoned with a charging ebon bull, its horns wreathed in white roses. Carlus seemed to believe his commander, who was an even greater arsehole than he was, had placed him in charge of this particular mission. “Now stand aside, monk, so I can put an end to this puppy’s whimpers.”

Instead of backing away, Jathen knelt beside the subject of their disagreement. The shave-headed young man, clad in simple garb that Jathen recognized from Algar’s descriptions of the bounty hunters after Rathe, lay curled around the arrow buried in his guts. He does have the look of a Prythian , Jathen mused, remembering Algar’s description. That thought led to wondering where Algar was, and why the shadowy bastard had failed to stop these fools from destroying the Lamprey. Could Algar be dead? It seemed unlikely, but….

Pushing that away, Jathen glanced at the dead torch smoldering in the snow nearby. Before the arrow had pierced the man, he had been fleeing Jathen and the company of Kingsguard, waving the torch in warning.

Did anyone see it? Jathen expected someone must have, but after the fellow’s companions dropped half of Ruan Breach on the passing ship, their attention had shifted to the survivors crawling out of the river.

Jathen drew off his glove and grasped the fletched end of the arrow protruding from the man’s belly. A gentle twist earned him a groan and the youth’s full attention. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Do you mean to kill me?”

Jathen gave a longsuffering sigh. “If I wanted you dead, I’d have let Captain Carlus have his way with that dagger of his. My intervention on your behalf should prove that I only wish to help you.”

“Please,” the youth said, his eyes rolling from the captain’s hulking shape to Jathen’s face, “take it out. It … it hurts .”

“Well of course it does,” Jathen said gently, as he caressed the arrow’s fletching. “But if I’m to help, we should at least know each other. Let me begin. I’m General Jathen Martel,” he said, putting emphasis on his title for the sake of Captain Carlus. “I’m a monk of the Way of Knowing.”

The youth stared through the falling snow at Jathen’s busy fingers, wincing each time they brushed against the arrow’s nock. “Len,” he said in a pained hush, a pearl of blood growing from the corner of his mouth. “I’m Len … a vizien priest of … the Munam a’Dett Order.”

“ Munam a’Dett? ” Jathen said in a contemplative tone. “You speak the tongue of the ancient Iron Kings. It hasn’t been spoken for five centuries or more.”

Len licked his lips, smearing the pearl of blood. His body had taken on a frightful quiver, and the arrow jittered under Jathen’s fingers. “It means … means-”

“Skin of the Dragon,” Jathen finished for him. “Or, perhaps, Soul of the Dragon.” He shrugged dismissively. “In either case, a strange name for a priesthood, but who am I to judge?”

Captain Carlus snorted disdainfully. “Who indeed?”

With blood now drooling from his mouth, Len gazed vacantly at Jathen’s boots. More blood ran from his belly, staining the snow. Jathen guessed he had only moments to learn what he could. He gave the arrow another tweak, and Len clamped his teeth on a screech. When his eyes opened again, they seemed livelier.

“I cannot imagine why priests of any order would don the mantle of bounty hunters,” Jathen said, “but if you wanted Rathe dead, why not kill him at Iceford?”

“Dead? Rathe? We never wanted him dead, we…. How do you know…?” Len trailed off.

“Dear Len, let there be no secrets between us,” Jathen cajoled. Instead of another twist, he slapped his hand over the youth’s mouth and pushed the arrow deeper into his guts, and deeper still, until it scraped against the bones of his spine. Len struggled to get away, but only managed to squirm about like an earthworm baking in the sun.

“Gods be damned, monk,” Captain Carlus said approvingly, “you’re a cold son of a poxy whore.”

Jathen heard him only distantly. His attention was on Len and his pain. Too much too fast would kill him quicker than he would like, but too little would delay the answers he sought. When Len ceased to squirm, Jathen sat back on his heels.