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 men and women. 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.
“She took her own life,” he replied. “That wasn’t my doing.”
Her lip trembled. Rebecca. “Everything is your doing!”
He chuckled again. “I suppose it is.”
“Every soldier of Mercia will come for me,” she spat.
The Shadow King gave another dark, rumbling chuckle. “Good. I’m counting on it.”
Alexander stood in the watchtower, looking blankly out over the horizon. It had been five days since the last message had arrived, two days longer than expected. A deep worry grew in his core. Caspian wouldn’t have carelessly forgotten, knowing Alexander would be waiting on the messages. Every message.
Footsteps came behind him, but he didn’t turn around. He knew who it was.
“Still no word?” Catherine asked.
He gave a small shake of his head. “Something’s wrong.”
She stood beside him, looking out across the bridge to the mainland. “We don’t know that yet. Sometimes birds are lost or delayed. Let’s wait to see if another will come.”
“That’s another day,” he snapped, sharper than he had intended. He pushed out a breath. “If something’s happened, I can’t wait another day to discover it. I can travel quickly with only a few men.”
Catherine frowned. “And do what? She has an army of five hundred with her. What will you accomplish with only a few more?”
Alexander wiped his face with his hand, pushing back the desperation mounting inside him.
Catherine put her hand on his arm. “My dear, I’m as sick with worry as you are, but you must think about this rationally. Another bird’s due tomorrow. Let’s see what comes.”
Just then, a flurry on the horizon caught his attention, and he narrowed his eyes.
“What on earth is that?” Catherine asked, seeing it as well.
But Alexander didn’t answer. His pulse quickened as he drew in a ragged breath. Messenger birds. An entire flock. He spun and raced down the spiral staircase of the watchtower.
“Wait!” she called after him.
He couldn’t.
Alexander reached the bottom of the stair and broke into a run across the courtyard to the library with a crushing weight in his chest. He tore through the front doors to the staircase of the avian tower.
“Rector!” he shouted as he bounded up the stairs, three at a time, and threw open the door at the top. Rector Tusten stood by the window, holding a bird in his arm that had just landed. He looked up at Alexander in confusion and held out his hand. Alexander, out of breath, took the small piece of parchment. His body shuddered. It held no message, only a dark earthen stain.
“What is it?” the rector asked.
He ran his finger over the rippled parchment. “Blood,” he breathed.
The rector’s hands trembled as he released the bird onto the table. “What does it mean?” he asked.