Page 4 of The Dead Queen

I run.

When I near the two guards on horseback, I reach for them with my good arm. One stretches a hand toward me. In a single, swift motion, he pulls me up behind his saddle. I wrap my arms around his waist, desperate to hang on, ignoring the pain in my shoulder. The guard pushes the horse forward as I turn my head to watch the carnage in the road.

When the corpse wolf is barely visible through the stretch of my light, it looks up. Its white eyes watch me as we round a bend in the road.

I face forward, trying to banish the memory of the messenger’s gruesome death, far worse than anything I’ve ever encountered in the camp hospital. This is what those poor soldiers have been fighting in the borderlands. This is what we’re up against.

And it’s only one of the Dead Queen’s beasts. There are so many more to fear.

The guard I’m holding is mumbling to himself. “This isn’t right. They aren’t supposed to be here!” His voice is high-pitched, hysterical.

It’s not right. Corpse beasts aren’t supposed to pass beyond the Annwyn border, but they obviously have. This fight isn’t about protecting our border from the Kingdom of Death anymore. Now, it’s about getting the Dead Queen’s rabid corpses out of Llwyn.

Chapter 3

We stop at the first town we find after our run-in with the corpse wolves. The locals watch us warily from behind shuttered windows. There aren’t any healers here, so one guard mercifully helps pop my dislocated shoulder back into place. The pain and bruising will go away with time.

We don’t stay long. After a fretful sleep and a bowl of lukewarm porridge, we purchase another horse and ride off before the townspeople grow brave enough to ask questions. Like why I’m covered in mud and nursing a sore shoulder. Or why a twenty-four-year-old woman is being escorted through the kingdom by armored guards.

The news of the corpse wolves will have to stay quiet until I can tell Father myself.

It takes three hot, miserable weeks to reach the capital city of Caerwen using the main roads. Not long enough. Not when the destination is home.

The grand, copper-plated gate shimmers like a mirage in the late-summer heat. As we draw nearer, it looms impossibly tall over the dusty road. It’s an entrance worthy of the kingdom’s wealthiest citizens, protecting them and their riches from the outside world.

As we pass through Caerwen’s famous market, vendors call for our attention. They buzz about stalls bursting with produce, handmade earthenware, and sumptuous textiles. Enormous, steaming pots of rice smell of spices and herbs.

“Fresh figs from the southern orchards!” one cries. “Silk smooth as a lover’s touch!” yells another.

Their stalls form a labyrinth of treasures, from pyramids of sun-ripened fruit to glittering jewelry that catches the light. Bolts of fabric shimmer alongside threads made from the finest fibers. I’d almost forgotten how many colors there are in the world after years in the muddy borderlands.

Even so, Caerwen’s true nature lingers around the edges of the market, like the gray haze around a white cloud. As we pass darkened alleys, men rut against women with vacant eyes, and drunkards piss against the stone walls. Guards watch for pickpockets and beggars alike, to keep the “rats” away from the market.

From seemingly nowhere, my father’s King’s Guard materializes. They move with practiced efficiency, falling into formation around us without a word. Their presence parts the crowd like sharp shears through silk.

Of course my father already knows I’m in the city. He knows everything. So much has changed in my three-year absence and yet so much remains the same.

Their copper-plated armor glints in the sunlight, like the shells of iridescent beetles. I’d once asked my father why our family’s color was copper. He’d stilled and said, “Because copper is the color of a fox. Thus, it is the color of the family that sits on the Fox Throne.”

Of course, that wasn’t good enough for me. “But why make your men wear copper-plated bronze, when everyone knows iron and steel are stronger?”

He’d narrowed his eyes and said, “Because a Fox Soldier does not need stronger armor. Their training is strength enough.”

And that was that. The Fox King isn’t the sort of father that suffers the ignorant questions of a child.

All around me, the market chaos fades as people notice the King’s Guard and recognize me. Whispers ripple through the crowd.

“The heir,” they murmur, their eyes wide. Some bow, while others shrink back, unsure what to do in the presence of the most notorious royal in the kingdom.

I keep my gaze forward, fighting the urge to deflate under their scrutiny. The weight of my return settles over me, as tangible as the humid air that clings to my skin. With each step toward the palace, I feel my borderland life slipping away.

When we arrive at the stables, I dismount with as much grace as I can muster. My thighs burn from days in the saddle and my rear feels bruised, but I won’t grimace. I won’t give any of my father’s thugs the satisfaction of knowing my discomfort.

Grooms rush forward to take the reins of our horses in calloused hands. Chickens with rust-colored feathers scatter in panicked bursts, narrowly avoiding the path of hooves and mud-caked boots. The air is thick with the pungent mixture of horse sweat, fresh hay, and manure. It’s a welcome mess compared to the blood-soaked tents of the borderlands.

I hear the heavy footsteps of someone walking toward me. My heart sinks as I straighten my posture to face my father, but it isn’t who I expect. I do a double-take.

A tall, blond man around my age grins down at me. His copper-plated armor makes him look like some prince from the fairytale books I used to love as a child. A knight in shining armor in the midst of the grimy stable yard.