Page 21 of The Savage Queen

“Sshh,” he said, lest she scream.

The others all lay sound asleep. Fergus snoring, Iarbonel hidden beneath his furs and cloak, Annind still curled beside the dying fire, and Starn, dagger in hand, passed out at the base of a nearby tree. The rest of the crew that’d accompanied them were equally as unconscious.

The stranger’s men tiptoed through their camp, silently, deftly. Slitting throat by throat before their victims bore the wherewithal to scream. Death smoking their camp alongside the dying fire.

There were perhaps ten of them, maybe twelve, sifting through their camp while their horses waited behind a thickgrove of trees, Aisling realized, peering into the darkness. Her eyes more capable of adjusting to the night ever since she’d changed.

Aisling swallowed, searching for Dagfin and Killian. Last Aisling remembered, it was two of the younger crewmates’ shift to keep watch but Aisling knew better than to believe Dagfin would ever rest if there was potential danger nearby.

“Get up,” the man ordered Aisling, his voice a mere whisper in the midnight winds. A strange accent inflecting his voice.

Aisling did as she was told, the tip of his blade still at her throat, cautiously uncurling herself. The man watched her closely, narrowing his eyes to better see past the shadow of Dagfin’s cloak veiling her features.

“Who are you?” he asked, deathly low.

But it wasn’t Aisling’s face that surrendered her identity. It was her brothers’ weapons, their Neimedh tartans, their embroidered fists clutching the ruby-red flame of mortality. The stranger’s men fiddled with her brothers’ things and signaled to their leader. Four Tilrish princes and their sister, the not-so-mortal queen of Annwyn.

The stranger’s brows rose.

“Could it be?” Without further hesitation, he tore the hood from her head and held the torch beside her face. Gilded by the firelight, Aisling scowled at him, her violet eyes glittering amidst the darkness with the primeval, forge-touched magic she knew he searched for. Wished to see before confirming it was, indeed, she in his presence.

“You weren’t so difficult to find.” The stranger smiled, cocking his head in gesture. His men obeyed, tossing him chains of iron.

“Let’s see if iron affects you the same way it does them,” he said.

Aisling clenched her jaw. She knew what was to come. He’d bind her with iron like a wild beast, smothering thedraiochtto strip her of all her power.

Aisling considered summoning her flames. There was little her captor could do against fire with nothing more than a sword. But his men bore weapons of all make and size, brandishing them beside her unassuming brothers’ throats, her clann—whether or not she felt such blood thinning, it gave her reason for pause. To summon herdraiochtwould be to risk their lives, either by the blades of their enemies or her uncontrolled flames. Starn’s voice ricocheted in her mind. “How could you?!” The harrowed expressions the crew all shared after Aisling had single-handedly sacrificed their comrades to spare theStarlingand those who remained aboard were an unwanted memory. The weight of her guilt a burden.

Aisling swallowed thedraiocht.

Dagfin and Killian were still nowhere to be found. So, Aisling dug her nails into her palms as the stranger wrapped her in his iron chains, tugging on them like a leash. The iron clawed beneath Aisling’s nails and sunk into her teeth. So potent, Aisling could taste it on her tongue; blood and rust and dirt whose acid blistered her senses. She shook her head, fighting the dizziness.

“Tell me, do you have fangs as well? Pointed ears?” The stranger moved to part her hair, Aisling readying herself to bite off his finger. But before she bore the opportunity, a dagger whistled past them both.

Faces splattered in blood, Aisling flinched, focusing on her captor’s screams. His hand was nailed to the nearby pine by the body of a knife. Her chest tightened at the sudden violence.

Starn, Iarbonel, Fergus, Annind, and those left alive jolted awake at the abrupt commotion. Blades were already pressedagainst many of their necks; others were free to leap to their feet or swift enough to bat their captors away. Starn included.

The high prince whacked his assailant’s blade to the right, plunging his dagger into his thigh with his left hand. The man screamed, falling backward as Starn bolted for Iarbonel, wrestling another stranger atop the ice. With a wicked elbow to the temple, their enemy flew to the side, disoriented and clutching his head.

Crossbow bolts whipped through the camp, striking he who detained Fergus straight through the jaw and nailing Annind’s opponent in the eye till the tip of the bolt sprouted on the other side of his skull.

The horses whinnied madly, pulling at the tethers binding them to the nearby trees.

But it was Dagfin who watched from the shadows as Aisling’s captor plucked the knife from his hand. The fleshy sound of it echoed into the surrounding woodland as Dagfin slid behind him, quiet as a falling star, and poised his blade beneath her captor’s chin.

“Who are you?” her captor growled at Dagfin. The rest of his men paused, recognition dawning that their leader was at blade point. And should he somehow escape Dagfin’s hold, Killian stood at the camp’s periphery, crossbow aimed for release.

“I might ask you the same,” Dagfin said, the levity in his voice prickling Aisling’s nerves.

“Ah.” The stranger laughed, still clutching his punctured hand. “You’re aFaerak. I’d smell that Ocras anywhere. Especially in such potent doses.”

Dagfin pressed the tip of his blade till the stranger’s throat beaded crimson.

“Faeraksslaughter beasts by the dozens but do they slaughter mortal men as well? Those they’ve sworn to protectfrom monsters likeher?” The stranger tilted his head at Aisling, still bound in chains of iron.

There was a flash of conflicted emotion darting across Dagfin’s expression, but it was gone before Aisling could understand it.

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