James West - Queen of the North

Rhonaag’s black eyes shone like chips of onyx. Not only did he seem eager to spill Rathe’s blood, he looked as if he wanted to bathe in it. “Still an arrogant shit, aren’t you?”

Rathe shrugged. “Never had a reason to be otherwise.”

“Is there anyone who is not your enemy?” Loro asked out of the side of his mouth.

“Too few,” Rathe admitted quietly, wondering if any former Champion of Cerrikoth had ever fallen as low as he. Considering the hard eyes of the men he faced, eyes that smoldered with the same hatred as their commander’s, he thought not.

“What’re your thoughts on fighting fair and honorably?” Loro asked loudly, as if the Kingsguard were in on the discussion.

“Honor is best served in the absence of blood and steel,” Rathe said. “Right now, I’d recommend a dirty fight.”

Loro chuckled darkly. “Just the way I like it.”

Rathe looked to Rhonaag again. “If you have any love for your men, you’d best order them back to King Nabar. If not, I plan on killing them all.”

“Don’t heed this blustering arsehole!” Rhonaag shouted, but it was too late. All the men present knew of Rathe and his reputation, and none appeared eager to cross swords with him in single combat. As if at a silent command, four of the men broke formation.

“Hold, damn you! Captain Carlus, I command you to hold! ”

“We need to protect the king,” he called over his shoulder without slowing.

Rhonaag turned back to Rathe, sword coming to bear. “I’ll bronze your head and make it into my chamber pot,” he snarled.

With Nesaea hurt and naked steel swinging in the frigid air, Rathe decided he was well past taunts. His sword came up in a brief salute, and then he fell into a guarded stance. Loro moved to the side, whirled his sword overhead, and loosed a crazed shout that gave pause to the rest of the men standing with Rhonaag.

The fight never began.

Everyone froze at the rush of a terrible wind tearing through the forest. As the racket grew louder, Rathe realized that it was not wind he heard, but something like wind and water joined to make a deep roar. He darted a glance at the forest.

Where the dark of night had held sway, he now saw an expanding dome scrawled with webs of slow-rippling lightning. It soared a hundred strides above the tallest trees, and spread across the land as far as he could see. It continued to grow, as did the sound of its passage through the forest. Billowing clouds of snow shrieked through the trees and across the riverbank, blinding everyone. An instant later, something warm and jelly-like engulfed Rathe, knocked him sprawling, and then screamed past.

Snow plugged Rathe’s nose, packed his ears, and stuffed his mouth. Spitting slush, he clambered to his feet. The rushing sound had ended as quickly as it began, replaced by shouts and the clamor of fighting. The swarming threads of lightning he had seen covering the dome still rode its outer surface, all around and high overhead. In that faltering light, he saw several men of the Kingsguard locked in battle with the crew of the Lamprey . Rathe searched for Rhonaag, and found the commander and his men racing back toward King Nabar.

Loro turned, his eyes round. “It’s warm!”

Rathe was too dumbfounded to respond. Not only was it as warm as a spring day, the snow had ceased falling. In its absence, thick runners of fog began curling up off the icy stones littering the riverbank.

“Nesaea!” Rathe called, unsure what was happening, but seeing an opportunity to free her and the others. After, they could escape into the thickening fog. Loro needed no coaxing.

Running full out, they had nearly reached the tangled confusion of fighting Kingsguard and sailors, when an overwhelming cry dropped them to their knees. Eyes watering, Rathe slammed his fists over his ears, but the dread cry sank through the flesh and bones of his hands, boring into his skull.

When the cry cut off, Rathe hesitantly dropped his fists. Somewhere in the soupy mists high above, he detected a sound like flapping sails. A thudding breeze churned the fog, and a winged shadow soared overhead. As the shape wheeled over the river and flew back, Loro uttered a garbled shout. The creature swooped closer, rapidly emerging from the mists and taking the shape of a colossal blue serpent. Rathe heard Captain Ostre howl a single word: “ Dragon! ”

Before the meaning of that warning could take root, a brilliant pulse of light flashed from the beast’s fang-studded maw. A wave of blinding radiance struck Rathe like a soft fist, trading fear for the stark emptiness of oblivion.

Its scales flashing like cut sapphires, the dragon took another turn over the now silent ships, then glided back and settled its clawed feet on the riverbank. As the creature’s great wings folded against its flanks, the illusion began to fade.

With quiet awe, Edrik and his fellows watched the transformation. When it was finished, Essan Thaeson stood in his blue-and-gold quartered vestments, where the beast had been before. The aged priest’s face sagged with weariness, but his voice was strong.

“Don’t stand there gawping! Gather Rathe and his portly companion. We must return to Targas at once.”

“The fat one is Loro, Essan ,” Edrik said. “But why him?”

Thaeson picked his way over the riverbank, slipping on melting snow and ice. “Have you joined those who question Quidan Salris and the Oracle? Perhaps, too, you begin to doubt the justness of the Munam a’Dett?”

Edrik flinched at the accusation. “Of course not, Essan .”

He gestured to Danlin, who took several men to collect Rathe and Loro. While they lifted the two warriors, Edrik studied those lying on the ground. Crewmen, soldiers, a king and queen, all made equal by the powers of the Blood of Life and Munam a’Dett Order.

Thaeson made his study, as well. “A mercy that the Oracle instructed us not to kill these hapless fools.” As he spoke, the Shield of the Fathers began a slow retreat, first passing back over the ships, then coming to the riverbank. Though the crawling radiance still webbed the Shield’s surface, now there was no sound of rushing winds and waters. Thaeson had used that display to debilitate the outsiders-the deycath .

“Perhaps we should kill them,” Edrik said, struggling with the revulsion he felt at the thought of so much wanton murder. He eased his conscience with a glance at Nesaea, her face hidden by a tangled fall of dark hair. After what Jathen had done to her, she would likely welcome death upon waking.

Thaeson shook his head. “The Oracle assured Quidan Salris that these people pose no threat to the Shield of the Fathers, or to Targas.” His tone spoke of absolute faith in the entity that had guided the priesthood in ruling the Everlasting City of Light for five hundred years, but his furrowed brow betrayed underlying concerns.

Perhaps he’s only tired , Edrik told himself.

“Come,” Thaeson said. “Dawn isn’t so far off that we can dally, and I’ll not waste more of the Blood of Life to ensure the wall does not kill us with its touch.”

Edrik used a hand to buoy his aged mentor. The rest fell in line behind them, bearing Rathe Lahkurin, the Scorpion, the hope of Targas.

Sheltered within the protective embrace of the Zanar-Sariit, Algar stalked after Edrik and the others, glad he had refused Brother Jathen’s order to stop them from crushing the Lamprey . There had been a moment when he feared that decision was foolhardy, but now he sensed opportunity. After seeing what these folk named the Shield of the Fathers, and then a dragon transform into the man Thaeson, Algar understood that these folk had far greater powers at their disposal than just the ability to vanish from sight. Blood of Life , he mused, thinking of those golden flasks they drank from.