“I’m well enough,” he said. “Have two horses readied.”
“What should we do with the bodies?”
Mikael glanced back at the drifters. “Leave them for the birds.”
Katya gave a nod. “Yes, Salar.”
“North Queen.”
Norah woke to the king calling her, and she turned to see him standing by the front flap of the tent. She sat up, briefly confused, but then the memory of the night before came back to her. His cloak still lay over top of her, and she clutched it in her fists.
“I want to show you something. Get dressed. Come with me.” He ducked out, giving her privacy.
She was still in his shirt, but she spied the fresh clothing by the bedroll and rose quickly to pull it on, along with her jacket and boots. Her mind swirled with the events of the night before and the king’s strange kindness. Then she pushed it away. She wasn’t sure what had happened, but nothing had changed. She was still a prisoner, and her army was marching to wage a war she knew they couldn’t win.
Norah emerged from the tent. While she’d salvaged her jacket, she still shivered in the morning chill. She was surprised to see the king standing with two horses saddled.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, and she felt a flash of annoyance. Could no one answer a question?
He held out a cloak for her. Her irritation faded, but only slightly. She slipped the cloak around her shoulders, thankful for its warmth. Her horse pawed the frozen ground as she mounted, sensing its rider’s anxiousness.
Norah paused when she saw the bodies of the drifters. She knew they were dead, but she felt a pang of fear twist through her as she thought back to the night before.
Beside her, the king mounted his destrier.
“Are they the men who…” she couldn’t finish.
“No. Your attackers were Horsemen. These are some of the drifters from around the fire we saw on our way back from the village.”
Horsemen? Were they close to the Tribelands? That would put them well south of Mercia.
She looked back at the drifters. Their skin was a waxy blue, and the eyes of one man were still open. Norah swallowed back her nausea. There was a strange marking centered on one’s forehead. It was dark. Dried blood, perhaps. She pulled her gaze away and turned back to the king, who was waiting.
“Are we leaving the army again?” she asked. That couldn’t be good.
“We’ll catch up to them.”
He urged his horse forward, and she followed. They parted from the army and rode up a hill to a wooded area. The bitter wind brought tears to her eyes and froze them on her cheeks. She urged her horse to keep up with the king’s destrier as they rode through the trees. Bramble crept out onto the trail, but she could tell it once had been a well-worn path. An uneasiness sat in her stomach as she wondered where he was taking her. She didn’t think she could handle the sight of another destroyed city.
She watched him as they rode. He wore his armor but not his helm. Without it, he seemed less of a monster. The events of the night prior confused her. Apparently, she was a responsibility of his, but why had he tried to comfort her? Why did he care? She didn’t understand, but she couldn’t mistake his brief kindness for the safety of trusting him. He wanted the North. He wanted her dead.
Her mind turned to Mercia. She envied who she’d been a week ago, before she knew the horrors of this war, before she knew her helplessness. The lingering winter was the least of her concerns now. She knew Alexander would bring the whole of the Mercian army for her, and if they were decimated, there would be nothing left to protect Mercia. The Shadow King would destroy them all. She needed to escape and get her army back to Mercia to protect her people.
They came to the edge of the wood, and rolling hills opened in front of them. She saw an abandoned country manor in the distance and sighed in relief. There were no torches or impaled heads—that was a good sign.
The king reined up for a moment. He looked down at the house and then scouted the tree line. She watched him, noticing something was off. He was pale. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold. She opened her mouth to say something, but the mountains in the far distance to the north caught her eye. Bahoul. Her pulse quickened. Alone with the king, she felt her freedom close.
The king scanned the land with a careful eye. Seemingly satisfied that there was no immediate threat, he spurred his destrier forward, and she followed behind. As they got closer, she looked over the manor. It was close to collapsing.
The king slowed his horse, taking in the scene around him. “I haven’t been here for a long time,” he said.
“What is this place?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, and she pursed her lips in frustration.
He looked around a little longer. “His name is Soren,” he said finally.
Norah’s brows drew together. “Who?”
“My lord commander. My brute, as you say. You asked where he came from. This was his family’s home. My father charged him with this land. It stretches over the mountains to the north.”
“To Bahoul? The mountains that Mercia holds?”
“The mountains you stole from us,” he said with an edge of anger in his voice.
“After you attacked us,” she threw back defensively.
“Because you’ll take my throne.”
“I don’t want your throne!”
He stilled, and quieted.
Norah looked back over the failing manor. A calm returned. “What happened to them—his family?” she asked.
“Murdered. By the North.” His words were like steel, and they cut her.
She swallowed the sickness in her mouth. She couldn’t bring herself to ask how, but she didn’t have to.
He took an unusually strained breath and continued. “We had set a camp here for our wounded. When my father’s armies retreated back to Kharav, the North followed but not just to the border. They flanked them all the way back to the mountains and beyond, destroying villages, farms… farmers.”
Norah bit her chapped lips, watching him.
He continued. “We were here, and they came upon us. They murdered everyone: Soren’s mother, his brother, his sister. Everyone.”
Norah forced herself to breathe.
“We fought,” the king said, “but it wasn’t enough. My father fell. I was injured. Severely.” His eyes glazed as he stared at the manor. He straightened, and his voice came only slightly stronger. “Soren’s father had been captain of the Crest, a great warrior, before he became lord of Bahoul. He told Soren to get me back to Kharav, to protect me. And then he took his sword and ran to hold off the Northmen while we fled. That’s the last we saw of him.”
Norah couldn’t speak. She’d only heard of the triumphs of the Great War, not the tragedies.
“We traveled for days, until we came to Aviron, a small kingdom along the borderlands. We thought they would help us, but they knew who I was the moment they saw me. They captured me, they…” His voice trailed off. “Soren found a way to free us, and we fled again. We finally reached the canyons and were able to make it to Kharav. He was going to return to his home, but I told him, ‘There’s nothing left for you anymore. We’re brothers now, and you’ll stay with me.’”