Alexander looked to see a pile of similarly stained parchments on the corner of the rector’s desk. More birds were still landing. Whoever had sent them, had sent them all, and their message would all be the same.
The capital bells sounded, and Alexander pushed by the rector to look out the window. A rider on horseback crossed the bridge, into the courtyard. Alexander clenched the parchment in his hand as he spun around and made his way quickly back down the stairs.
Catherine had just reached the library by the time he was coming out. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
Alexander paid her no mind. Panic rose in his chest as he saw the rider, slouching over and clinging to his horse. Guards pulled the blood-covered man down, and Alexander’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized Caspian. The captain’s right arm hung limply.
“Where is she?” he roared, grabbing him by the breastplate.
“Gone,” Caspian said hoarsely. “He took her.”
Alexander’s voice shook. “Who?”
“The Shadow King.”
A deep and aching horror rippled through him, followed by a rush of rage. He turned and bared his teeth with a roar. “Ready the army!” he thundered. “We march tonight!”
“Wait!” Catherine cried. “Wait! This is obviously a trap. You can’t blindly rush in! We need a plan.”
Alexander ignored her.
“The council will override you,” she said, breathless.
He whirled toward her with a fire under his skin. “That would take the collective council. Henricus and James are in Damask. They cannot assemble in time to stop me.”
“Alexander,” Catherine cried as she grabbed him by the arm. “Think about what you’re doing!”
He ripped his arm from her hold and strode out to meet his army.
Chapter twenty-four
The Shadowmen were silent travelers. Norah didn’t find herself particularly keen on conversation, but she wanted information. However, the day passed without words, and at night she slept again in the quiet cold of darkness. She took comfort in the thought that Alexander would come for her with the full force of the Mercian army. She wondered where the Shadow King planned to meet them. They weren’t headed northwest, toward Mercia, but instead they rode south along the rocky hills of the midlands.
They stopped midafternoon and watered their horses at a small stream. Norah wished it were larger so that she might throw herself in it and float away. She crouched down and scooped the water to her lips. It was cold as ice and stung her fingers, but she drank her fill.
She felt the king’s dark presence behind her, and she looked back over her shoulder.
“Eat,” he ordered as he tossed a small pouch of bread and dried meat on the ground beside her.
She glanced at it but didn’t move to pick it up. She wanted to eat. Her stomach begged for it, but she had no intention of taking food from the Shadowmen. She rose, leaving it, and said nothing.
His eyes narrowed underneath his helm. “Starve then.”
But Norah didn’t plan to be in his hold long enough for it to matter.
The next day passed much like the one before. Despite the move south, the winter was merciless. The wind stung her cheeks, and she couldn’t help the shivers that ran through her. She buried her hands in her horse’s mane, trying to warm them.
As the afternoon waned, energy picked up through the army. Something was coming—something that excited them. As they made their way through the hills, she caught sight of mountain peaks and knew immediately where they were going.
Bahoul.
It’s where the unit of her Northmen had been heading—the unit whose heads the Shadow King had sent back to Mercia. She shuddered at the memory.
Catherine had told her about Bahoul—a walled stronghold across the rocky mountains separating the Shadowlands from Mercia’s southern reaches. It had once belonged to the Shadowmen, but her father had driven the Shadow King back and took it. Mercian forces occupied the stronghold now. The Shadowmen had tried to reclaim Bahoul several times, but Alexander led defenses that had held the mountains. The fortress was near impenetrable, and even a small resident army could defend against a much larger foe, so long as they stayed within the stronghold.
Her pulse quickened. Was he going to try to retake it now?
They made their way through the rocky hills and along a small ridge, but as they started down the other side, Norah’s breath caught in her throat.
Another massive army of Shadowmen waited between the hills, just out of sight from the stronghold. Her heart beat faster. The Shadow King reined up his horse and looked back at her. “Are you ready, North Queen?” he asked with a haunting snarl. “Tomorrow, I take back what’s mine. Then the Bear will bring your army, and I’ll take them too.”
The Bear. He’d said that name before. Beurnat the Bear—Alexander’s father? He’d died in the war. But she said nothing.
The king’s eyes were still on her. “I’ll kill them all,” he said. “This time I’ll make sure you watch.” He was trying to get a reaction from her, but she kept her gaze forward and remained silent. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Norah lay awake in the darkness. It was morning. She had been given no tent that night, only a thin bedroll and a fur, and she was surrounded by Shadowmen. But that wasn’t why she hadn’t slept.
Her stomach turned. The Shadow King would use her to get her Northmen to hand over the stronghold, and then bait Alexander and her army into battle. If the Shadowmen succeeded in taking the stronghold now, the Mercian army would be at a severe disadvantage when they arrived.
As the faintest light of morning chased back the darkness, she pushed herself up to sit. A blanket of mist lay around them. A low chuckle reverberated through the fog. Her skin prickled.
“A perfect morning for battle,” the king’s voice came.
She couldn’t tell from which direction, and she shuddered. Her heart beat faster. It was a terrible morning for battle. The mist would cover the Shadow army. Mercia had the best archers in the world, but they could do nothing if they couldn’t see.
Then, through the mist, she saw him as he stepped in front of her.
“Are you ready, North Queen?”
The king’s demon appeared to her right, and she jumped. He grabbed her.
“What are you doing? Let me go!” She twisted against him, but he squeezed his arms around her until she couldn’t breathe, then bound her wrists with the long rope.
He dragged her to where his destrier stood, and mounted. Then he pulled up a spear, as if he needed another weapon in addition to the sword on his back and the massive battle-axe resting across his thighs. He urged his mount forward, jerking the rope—and her—toward what she surmised was the base of the mountain stronghold.
Norah’s mind raced. The commander had touched her and held her tight as he bound her hands. She’d felt not the body of a demon, but a body of flesh and bone. He was a man, a brute of a man, but a man nonetheless. And men bleed.
Her skin flushed with the heat of fight.
She tried to work loose the rope around her wrist as he pulled her along, but it was hopeless without a blade. A crack under her heel caught her attention, and she glanced down to see a partially buried skull in the ground. She jumped sideways in surprise. Her eyes widened as she realized they were the scattered remains and timeworn fragments of weapons from battles past. They covered the ground. Were these Northmen she walked across, or Shadowmen? She shuddered. The commander pulled her along, and she stumbled forward.