Page 25 of Prize of the Warlord
“Faen,” she swears. “I did not expect this. He isn’t meant for this. He’s not for you, do you understand? He will marry one of the proud daughters of our people, and not the craven, simpering child of our mortal enemies.”
“Good,” I spit. “I don’t want to marry the hulking grotesque bastard of some wretched barbarian clan.”
“Then it’s settled. You and I will prevent him from carrying out this mad idea of his, this plan of marrying you if a bargain isn’t struck.” Zeha lowers her voice. “I’ll send your Prince Havil another message, with an amended offer. We will see if he bites. Don’t tell my brother of it, do you understand?”
“I won’t tell him,” I promise. “Trust me, I want to go home.”
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As we ride further into the forest, the trees begin to change. They no longer have the scarlet veins twining their trunks; instead, frosty crystals cluster along the bark and the branches. Most of them glitter white, but some have a bloody, pinkish tinge.
The undergrowth is white, too, but not with frost—the very leaves, petals, and pods of the strange plants are pallid, as if ice infuses their cells. Not an insect or animal is in sight, except for the great form of Kaja pacing beside the Warlord’s horse.
After a time one of the warriors in the company begins to hum, low in his throat—a sustained groaning sound that reverberates through the silent, frozen forest. Another warrior joins in with a staccato thrum, like a vocal drumbeat. More of the riders add their voices, each one in a different rhythm and register, until the woods are filled with a perfectly synchronized chorus of rich, wild voices. Behind me on the horse, Zeha lends a soft wail to the song. Even Jili participates, her youthful voice a high counterpoint to the droning note of the female warrior with whom she’s riding. The two of them share a similar skin tone and features. Related, maybe, which would partly explain the presence of someone so young in this company.
My skin chills and tightens with a dread delight at the wild song of the raiders. Some cautiously feral part of me, deep inside, wants to crawl out and join the music, contribute my own throaty chant to the rhythm. But I repress it, sitting primly quiet on the horse.
The singing continues for an hour or so, and then gradually drifts into silence. We clop across a frozen sheet of lake or field—I can’t tell which—and enter another forest, a thicker one with tall, thin, close-set trees, like pale pillars, naked except for a crown of lacy white branches at their very tops, high overhead.
“’Ware, and keep watch,” calls the Warlord. He turns in his saddle, and for the first time since we started our journey, he looks at me. Or maybe he’s looking at his sister. He lifts a hand and beckons, so Zeha urges her mount ahead, bringing it abreast of his. We can’t ride directly beside him because no space between the trees is wide enough for more than one horse to pass, but we stay near.
“This wood is infested with ice-wyrms,” says the Warlord in a low voice. He doesn’t look my way again, but he must be speaking to me, since Zeha already knows the territory. “The swarms usually stay in the treetops near the eastern edge of the forest during the day, so we should be safe.”
“What are ice-wyrms?” I ask.
“Pray to the gods you never find out.”
“That’s not much of an answer,” I grumble. “Why even mention them if you won’t tell me—”
But a shimmering, tinkling sound interrupts me, and the Warlord holds up a broad hand, his face tightening with apprehension.
He’s afraid. And that, more than his warning, drains the blood from my face and sends ice into the pit of my soul.
Another chiming ripple of sound, and the Warlord bellows, “Weapons! Spread out in pairs, and run for the open!”
The company of warriors obeys him instantly, breaking into groups of two and racing ahead through the maze of trees. Zeha urges our mount into a gallop, and I clutch mane and saddle to steady myself as the mare pitches this way and that, dodging the pillar-like trunks.
Up ahead, several silvery-white lines zig-zag through the forest, zooming in parallel to the horses’ heads. They whip against one of the riders, and he falls with a cry. Zeha releases an anguished shout as we plunge past the fallen man, but she does not stop. His blood is already jetting onto the white foliage. We cannot help him or his horse, who crashes onto her side, spewing blood from a torn throat.
As we pass them, I catch a glimpse of slim, shimmering creatures like eels, beautiful things with pearly, iridescent scales and tiny fins along their bodies. They lace and coil around the fallen corpses, moving impossibly fast, slitting and biting.
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The Warlord has his great sword out, wielding it one-handed while he grips the reins in his other fist. His blond braids lash as his head turns, watching all sides, glancing behind. “Faster!” he roars.
But the horses cannot run full out among these close-set trees. When I glance to my right, I see the glimmering shapes of more ice-wyrms. They’re approaching at my eye level, writhing up the slender trunks and flinging themselves from tree to tree. When they leap through midair, their fins flare and they glide for a moment. The thin lancing rays of the sun flash on their pearly scales.
“How do they move so fast?” I gasp.
“We shouldn’t have taken this route,” Zeha mutters. “Grab the reins. Just hold them—the mare will guide herself.”
I obey. Zeha’s body shifts, and then there’s the gleam of a long blade on my right. I’m not thrilled with the idea of her brandishing that sharp weapon so close to me, but I have to trust her skill.
The ice-wyrms snake toward us, tree-to-tree, and then one flings itself directly at our galloping mare. Zeha slices through the wyrm neatly, then smacks another one aside before it can strike. A third escapes her guard and sails straight at me—a line of pure lethal beauty, with a mouth like a rose except instead of petals, there are overlapping layers of razor teeth.
Screaming, I punch at the oncoming creature, knocking it away. A few of its teeth lacerate my knuckles—better that than my face or throat.
They’re all around us now, a glittering flurry of eel-like bodies falling from trunks, whipping through midair, snapping at our flesh before falling to the ground and wriggling back up the trees to try again.
