They stopped at the base of the mountain stronghold, but the mist still covered them.
“Northmen!” the brute boomed in a deep, resounding thunder. “I have your queen! Come and claim her!”
He was trying to draw them out.
“They aren’t fools!” she spat at him.
He gave a low chuckle. “Your screams will make them come.” Then he jerked the rope, pulling her toward him. Her anger surged. She fought back, but she was no match for his strength and only stumbled forward.
But Norah had no intention of allowing herself to be used against her army. In a split decision, she lunged toward him, running and sliding under his horse. She gave the animal a sharp blow to the underbelly as she skirted out and then reeled back, pulling the slack of the rope tight against its hind legs. The animal reared, and she threw her weight against the rope, making the beast lose its balance and crash to the ground atop the brute. She pulled the rope free, twisting clear of the animal’s kicks as it tried to right itself.
The destrier rolled off the commander, who stirred and gasped for breath. As the animal staggered back to its feet, she jumped up and struggled onto it. Her window of opportunity would be short, and the Shadow army was near. Her bound hands made movement difficult, but she spurred the beast forward. Under her thigh, a short sword had been stowed in the saddle. She thanked the gods and slipped the hilt up, sliding her bound wrists up the blade and freeing herself.
Norah stretched forward to give the destrier his head to run. She’d lost her direction in the mist, and she prayed she was headed toward the stronghold.
And then she was falling.
She hit the ground with a force that knocked the wind from her. Rolling to her side and struggling for breath, she looked back in horror to see the horse had been downed with a spear. The beast struggled to rise, and thrashed for a moment, but then gave up and lay in silent agony. Behind, she could only make out the commander’s form in the mist, on his knees, still not fully recovered. But he had recovered enough to spear the horse—he could have hit her.
Norah gasped as her lungs gave her air again, and she stumbled up to her feet.
The commander rose, pulling up his axe and moving toward her.
She raced back to the horse and pulled the short sword from the saddle and stood to meet her enemy. The king’s brute lumbered closer, and she backed away. He reached the animal, swinging his axe and plunging it into its neck to give it peace.
And then she heard them—all around her in the mist.
She couldn’t see them, but she knew they were there. The Shadow army. The king appeared on her left and swung down from his horse, pulling his own sword. A soldier beside him tossed him a spear as well.
Norah clutched her sword firmly in her hand, widening her stance for more control and settling her breath. She praised her younger self that she had learned how to fight, and cursed her current self that she hadn’t practiced more in Mercia, but she knew she was dangerous with a blade. Her shoulder still ached, but she pushed it off and braced for the king’s rage.
He took long strides toward her, with his sword in one hand and spear in the other. She was no match for his strikes; she’d have to be quicker. Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t been quick enough when he’d taken her before—it had been like she wasn’t even fighting, like she was nothing.
Fear coursed through her, but she couldn’t let that take over. Still, her body shook at the thought of countering the thunderous blow of his strikes with her own.
The king swept the body of the spear at her, attempting to knock her off her feet, but she darted back. He swung again, harder this time, his patience waning, and she twisted sideways, dodging the blow. He wasn’t trying to kill her, but the strength of his swings could seriously hurt her. Not that he cared.
He swung again, and she jumped back but collided with the fortress wall behind her. Her head struck the stone, and a pain cracked through her skull, darkening her vision.
And then he was on her.
He grabbed her by the throat, pressing her hard against the wall. Norah dropped her sword and clawed at his hand, but it held.
“Do not test me, North Queen,” he snarled.
But Norah wasn’t testing him; this wasn’t facetious rebellion. She needed to get away, she needed to be free. Her life depended on it. Mercia depended on it. So she fought. With everything she had, she fought.
Her fingers grazed the hilt of a dagger at his waist, and she snatched it, ripping it across the unarmored forearm of his spear hand. He snarled again as he dropped the spear and tried to catch the knife, but in a final effort, she drove it between the break in his armor on the side of his breastplate. Her angle was off, and the hit wasn’t true, but he roared in pain. Then she threw up an elbow and caught him at the base of his throat, just under his helm. She just needed to get him off…
He crushed her against the wall, leveraging his weight to overpower her. She couldn’t breathe. As he recovered, he pulled her to him, tight. She was no match for his strength, and, with no more weapons, no more energy, she stilled.
Norah panted between her teeth as she waited for his wrath. He had warned her, and no doubt she’d suffer his anger now. But it wasn’t anger that she saw in his eyes underneath his helm. Surprise, perhaps? Disbelief?
“Hold her,” he growled. His brute commander stepped forward and seized her arms, not gently.
The king gathered himself for a moment and then pulled the blade from his side with a grunt. Then he stepped toward her with the blood-covered blade in his hand. Terror rippled up her spine. What was he going to do?
A horn sounded from the mist behind them, and he stopped and turned. From behind her, the brute let out a low whistle.
Just then, a soldier on horseback stepped through the mist. He called to the king in the Shadow tongue. The king straightened and looked at his brute.
News.
He growled something unintelligible back to the messenger, who only gave a nod. Then he looked at her with eyes of night under his horned helm and shifted.
News that bothered him.
The king snapped an order to a soldier, who brought him a leather cord. He stepped forward and caught her wrists, clenching them tightly and tying her hands. Then he jerked her from the commander and pushed her toward the army. She didn’t fight. There was no chance for her now, but seeing the brute commander limp back to another horse brought her a wave of satisfaction.
The king pushed her in front of him as they walked. His presence behind her made her skin crawl, but she focused her eyes ahead and kept walking. She stumbled over a sliver of a spear protruding from the frozen ground but caught herself—she’d almost forgotten the field of death they were walking across. She kept her eyes on the ground to watch her step. Just then, she spotted a sheath belt, half-covered in frozen mud, with what appeared to be a knife inside it. Or maybe it wasn’t a knife at all. But if it was…
She faked another stumble and dropped to her knee over it, quickly grabbing at the hilt. Her heart leapt. It was a knife—a rusted knife, but a knife nonetheless. The king grabbed her arm and pulled her back to her feet, and she tucked the blade up her jacket sleeve the best she could manage with her hands tied.
A soldier brought a horse, a smaller palfrey—no doubt a less energetic mount, and the king dragged her toward it. She struggled against him. “I can manage myself,” she hissed.