Page 80 of North Queen
This was it,she thought. She wasn’t afraid. No one escaped death. She just hadn’t expected it so soon.
Hands gripped her, and she drew in a ragged breath. Pain shot through her chest and down her arm, but she wouldn’t cry out again. She was pulled upward, and it was too much. The pain crept into her mind, and everything grew dark.
The army marched silently through the night as the king carried his prize—a snow-haired queen cloaked in pale blue under the light of the moon.
Chapter twenty-three
Norahwokeinatent, on her side, lying across a bedroll with a thick fur that had been dropped over her. The bedroll gave little cushion to the hard ground, and her joints protested as she stirred. Clinking metal and voices outside swirled in the fog in her mind. It took a moment for her senses to come, and then she bolted upright, remembering. An ache shot across her chest and down her arm.
Her shoulder.
She moved it gingerly. It had been reset, but it was still sore. At least she could move it.
She still wore her riding dress, and even her boots were on. Remembering her knife, she fumbled desperately under the bottom of her skirt and swore under her breath. They’d taken it; only the empty sheath remained strapped around her calf. A tremor ran up her spine as she thought of the Shadowmen searching her, touching her. She bit back the emotion threatening to surface—she couldn’t be emotional now.
She had to focus on the positive—anything that could give her strength.
She was alive and seemingly unmolested. That should bring some relief, but there was little relief to be had. So many of her men were dead. How many had been captured? How many might have escaped? Liaman had fallen.
Caspian. A crushing weight fell on her. He couldn’t have survived either. She covered her face in her hands, emotion shuddering through her.
Norah tried to swallow back her sorrow. She needed to assess her situation and figure out what to do. She looked around. The tent was bare save for her bedroll and the fur. She was alone. Daylight spilled in through the heavy canvas, and the continued sound of men outside drew her attention. She rose and crept toward the front flap of the tent, listening closely. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. She’d been captured, but she wasn’t restrained.
She gathered her nerves and stepped out to face her fate.
A guard standing outside stepped back from her in surprise, clearly not expecting her to so boldly emerge. A head wrap covered his head and face—all but his eyes. He wore fitted, black breeches, armored at the knee and tucked into a high boot. Looking closer, she realized that what she’d thought was a shirt under his cloak wasn’t clothing at all, but inked markings covering his bare skin.
He gripped his spear tighter, and she stiffened, anticipating a fight, but he made no move to keep her inside the tent. She took a step forward and garnered some confidence as he took another step back. Perhaps he wasn’t permitted to engage her, and her courage grew.
Norah looked around. Shadow soldiers were busy at work, sharpening weapons and tending horses, but when they noticed her, a quiet fell over the camp. She shifted uneasily. The army was massive, with men as far as she could see. Her eyes widened in surprise. There were menandwomen. They all wore wraps over their faces and were clothed in black and covered in ink markings. However, the women wore breasted plating that was feminine, but threatening all the same. She’d never seen a woman soldier in Mercia.
Although their faces were covered, Norah could see they were darker-skinned people, the color of bronzed sand. All eyes were on her, but no one moved to challenge her. She grew bolder still.
Norah let her gaze roll over the masses, taking everything in, when she saw him.
The Shadow King.
He stood beside a tent nearby, fully armored and crowned with his horned helm, just as she had remembered. Another man stepped into view, and Norah’s breath caught in her throat. She recognized the monster from Nemus’s vision of the future her father had stopped, the one of a fallen Mercia. This was the brute who had killed Edward and the councilmen in the vision—the demon commander,the Destroyer. She had almost snickered at the title when she’d first heard it, but she wasn’t snickering now. He was even larger than the king, which didn’t seem possible, and looked very much like he enjoyed destroying anything he could touch.
She swallowed. Don’t show fear, she told herself.As if that were possible.
Norah stepped toward them. A tension rippled through the air, but no one moved. She continued toward the Shadow King. As she drew closer, the sound of blades drawn from their scabbards cut the air.
The king held up his hand to steady his army and let her come nearer still. She couldn’t see his face, but she imagined something wicked underneath. The chest plating of his armor was dark and battled, but polished. His arms were covered in a light armor of small overlapping scales for fluid range of motion. She made mental notes to think on later. He waited, letting her inspect him.Arrogant.
“Where are my men?” she demanded.
His voice came as it had before, dark and haunting. “What men?”
Her pulse raced. He had to have taken some of them captive. “I had an army.”
Another deep chuckle vibrated in his chest. “Had,” he replied. “And five hundred men do not make an army.”
Her chest tightened. Were they all dead? “What happened to them?” she asked between her teeth.
“Dead. All except one to deliver a message. I only hope he doesn’t die before he reaches the North. Perhaps I should send birds after just in case.” His eyes smiled from under his helm. “I regret you missed it. I lined them up on their knees and slit their throats, one at a time. You can be proud, though. No one begged me for their life, like so many do.”
Her body shook. Caspian. Liaman. Aaron. Daniel. Tears threatened. “What about my maid?” she seethed, her voice quaking.
