James West - Queen of the North

“A good general would not dare.”

“No, probably not, but.…”

“If he did ,” she interrupted, her voice lowering, “and his poor queen was left frozen through and through … what would such a general do to warm her?”

As he looked at her, the camp noise seemed to fall away. Aedran cleared his throat. “A good general would do whatever his queen asked of him. Such is his highest duty, and his greatest pleasure.”

Will he ruin my hopes again? Daring to ignore that silent question, she asked, “Are you a good general?”

A garbled shout soared over the camp before he could answer. Erryn turned to find the nearest Prythians had become frozen shadows. One man among them was in motion, spinning in a tight circle and growling curses.

“Is that Zander?” Erryn asked. The last she had seen him, he had been caught in a feverish delirium, pissing on the floor, and scratching at a rash of pustules spreading across his hand, a consequence of the caterpillar spines that had pierced him. Even with the deepening twilight, she could tell something far worse was wrong with him now.

“Restrain him!” Aedran called, leaping up and rushing toward the man. Erryn was quick follow.

At that command, Zander fell into a deep crouch, swinging a snow-tamper around his head so fast the rounded iron square whistled, driving back his fellows. One Eye Thal crept up behind him, caught the tool’s long wooden haft as it began to swing back the other way, and wrenched it away before Zander could react. As he wheeled to face the grizzled captain, another Prythian darted in and wrapped his arms around Zander’s shoulders. Bellowing, Zander snapped his head back, crushing his captor’s nose and shattering his front teeth. The man tried to hold on, but Zander butted him twice more, splitting the man’s lips and squashing his nose to a pulp.

Zander fought free and spun, his fist blurring in a wide hook that cracked against his assailant’s chin. The bigger Prythian rocked back on his heels, blood streaming from his mouth into his matted black beard.

Erryn watched the skirmish with growing alarm. There was something wrong with Zander’s face, but in the half-light, it was hard see clearly.

Hunched and making strange, gargling noises, Zander followed his foe’s stumbling retreat. Without warning, he drove a boot into the man’s groin. When he folded over, Zander pressed in, hammering away with his fists. One blow pulverized the man’s cheek and knocked his round helm askew. The next strike crushed his jaw with the sound of a snapping tree limb. Mouth hanging, jaw unhinged and crooked, the big Prythian fell with a grunt.

Zander sprang over the man and howled like a demon at those who had gathered about. Everyone pressed together, forming a many-layered circle of leather, fur, and steel. Zander fell back into a crouch, panting, his eyes darting behind a curly black cage of unkempt hair. A shuddery grin pulled at his lips.

“He’s gone mad,” Erryn warned.

Aedran raised an arm to block her from getting any closer. “Best to stay out of reach.”

“Enough with your damnable Prythian coddling,” she snapped, trying to get past his arm.

Aedran shoved her behind his back. “For your life, girl, do as I say!”

A retort froze on her tongue when Zander, snarling and clawing, once more hurtled into the circle of men. Someone hit him with the pommel of a sword, and he fell back, stunned. For a moment, everything went still. Erryn saw something leaking into Zander’s beard from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth. She thought it was blood, but what she saw was squirming , rather than running. At the same time, uneasy murmurs rose from her Queensguard. The men keeping Zander at bay began to expand away from him.

“Hold!” Aedran scolded, his tone sharp, uncompromising … and something else. Frightened, Erryn thought sure, her own fear deepening.

“Come away,” Aedran said, catching her arm.

This time, she didn’t resist.

Once more, Zander flung himself through the frosty air and slammed into one of his fellows. Instead of using his fists, he began gnawing at the man’s face.

“Stop him!” Erryn cried, her belly cramping with horror.

Before a handful of Prythians could pull Zander back, he had left ragged bite marks all across his screaming adversary’s face. His captors flung Zander to the ground, but he instantly leaped up again. Whatever her Queensguard saw close-up, prompted them to brandish their swords.

“Take him alive!” Aedran called.

One Eye Thal swept in and cracked the iron tamper against the back of Zander’s skull. The man’s raving cut off and he fell to his knees, head bowed. “Careful, lads,” the captain said. “I’d wager my stones that he’s still got some fight left in him.”

Zander suddenly sat bolt upright, head raised, hair swept back over his shoulders, eyes staring. Festering sores pocked his face. The same held for half the men in her army, but it was obvious that Zander had been digging at the raw wounds, ripping them open. A bloody slit had taken the place of half his nose, and one eye bulged horribly, as if something were trying to push its way out of the socket. No one had seen his ravaged face, Erryn guessed, because like most everyone else, he had probably kept his head buried in the hood of his cloak.

“Get it out of me!” Zander screamed then, ropes of bloody phlegm exploding past his teeth. Zander’s scream became a gagging hiss, his disfigured features going the black-purple of an engorged leech. He began clawing at his throat. His mouth stretched wide and silent; black blood streaked his teeth. He made a hoarse barking noise, spewing a bloody clot over his lips. He convulsed violently, now making no sound at all, and pitched over in snow.

Aedran stood as motionless as all the Prythians.

“Help him,” Erryn pleaded.

No one moved.

“Help him!”

Aedran gave her a hesitant look, and then shoved his way through the men. Erryn came after him, but halted at the sight of Zander. She could not make herself get any closer, let alone help. She wanted to turn away and run.

In the murk, Zander lay curled on his side, a fevered sheen of awareness burning in one eye. The other had burst, leaving the socket teeming with a host of tiny, pale creatures.

Maggots , Erryn thought, dismayed, but knew that wasn’t true. The worms’ faint glow spoke of their kinship to those that claimed Stormhold as a sanctuary.

She drew back, one hand cupped over her mouth to restrain a moan of revulsion and to block the smell of the dying man, a muddy reek of stagnant blood and excrement.

Aedran said nothing as he hauled his sword free of its leather scabbard, the steel singing softly in the gathering night.

“He’s still alive,” Erryn said.

Zander’s breath came in hitching gulps, and his spasming fingers clutched and clawed through the snow. His good eye rolled, his mouth worked. Instead of words, she heard a gagging hiccup, and then a wave of worms boiled over his lips. She retreated a step farther, bile filling her throat and coating her tongue. More worms slithered like tiny white eels from Zander’s ears, from the tattered sores in his cheeks, from his staring eye.

“His back,” One Eye Thal warned, making a hasty retreat.

Distressed mutters filled the frosty air. Aedran tried to draw Erryn away, but she shook him off. She watched helplessly as Zander’s wolfskin cloak began to bulge and hump along the length of his spine.

“Those little caterpillars aren’t doing that,” One Eye Thal shouted, as Zander began to quiver. His good eye wavered, the iris half-covered by the wriggling girth of a worm. He said something in a pleading tone.