Page 15 of Highland Slayer
The woman hesitated a moment before reluctantly nodding. “Aye,” she said. “It will not be fancy.”
“As long as it’s filling.”
She waved a hand in the direction of the men on the other side of the sanctuary. “Go, now,” she said. “I will have food brought to you.”
“Thank ye,” he said. “May I ask what we should call ye?”
“I am Mother Michael.”
“Thank ye, Yer Grace.”
“Nay,” she said, shaking her head. “Simply Mother Michael will do.”
Estevan nodded, finally heading back to the men in the corner. The bleeding had stopped on Kaladin’s shoulder and Rodion was trying to see how bad the injury was as Estevan walked up.
“Well?” Titan said. “What did she say?”
Estevan watched Rodion work. “She’ll send us food,” he said. “But we are tae stay right here until morning unless we want any more bolts launched at us.”
No one really wanted that. It was still raining furiously outside and the lightning was still bursting through the sky, illuminating the windows of the sanctuary from time to time. It was nearing sunset, so there was no reason to try to make it to Dumfries that night.
So much for The Butcher’s.
True to Mother Michael’s word, food was brought about a half-hour later, including ale that tasted like dirt, but it was better than nothing. The food consisted of a rich, savory stew of pork and beans with carrots and turnips, and Estevan was quite surprised that it was so delicious. The five of them ate until they could hold no more and drank the ale that gave them a strong buzz. It was enough to put all of them to sleep quickly.
It had been a long day.
As the storm raged and the sanctuary settled down into cold, still darkness, the snoring of the warriors could be heard. But they weren’t alone. Anaxandra watched them, vigilantly, all night.
And one of them in particular.
CHAPTER FIVE
They found theremains of the boat.
Traveling in their vessel, smeared with mud and lines of charcoal above the waterline that was meant to make it blend in with the fog, the boat had traveled along the current for several weeks.
Following.
They knew that if they followed the currents, they would find her.
Drottningen.
The queen.
She had escaped them. At first, they’d kept her tightly locked in a cold, crumbling pele tower to ensure she would remain safe for always, a treasure to be proud of. For certain, it had taken years of missives, skirmishes, and negotiations with the men who lived on the outer isles, not terribly far from those who lived on the island known as Mann. The Manx lived there, descendants of the Northman raiders who still controlled some of the smaller islands and waterways on the west coast of Scotland.
But these men weren’t Manx.
They were different.
In fact, they were hardly men at all.
They lived on the northern tip of the island, amongst the scrubby forests, the dead and broken trees, down in the vales that had been carved away by the sea over the centuries. They lived in rock cottages, half dug into the ground, and used branches and foliage as cover. Dirt cloaked their skin, mudmasked their hair, and they spoke a language that no one could understand. The decent folk of the isle wouldn’t go to the northern tip where these men lived, fearful of being cursed by their very existence. Everyone feared the Ormsfolk.
The Serpent People.
The same people who had followed theDrottningen.
