Page 21 of Prize for the King
With a horrid splat, Ghisan’s bowels spill onto the cobbles. I hold my breath, squeezing Khay’s hand so hard, I’ll probably bruise him. My eyes are open, and not because I’m brave. I simply cannot look away from the gore.
The intestines are pale and smooth, bathed in blood, and he isnot dead yet, oh no. The warrior reaches down with a grunt of pain, grabbing fistfuls of his entrails and trying to stuff them back into his gaping stomach cavity. They slip through his fingers, slimy and hot.
Magnar takes a piece of cloth offered by one of the warriors who assisted with the wedding yesterday, the bald Arvi, and wipes blood off his sword. When he’s done, he sheathes it at his hip and tosses the dirty cloth at Ghisan.
“Shall we?”
Magnar the Tyrant offers me his hand gallantly, not even a minute after he disemboweled a man. I feel faint, black spots dancing before my eyes. As if in a nightmare, one where I cannot run or scream for fear of attracting a predator’s attention, I take his hand and follow without protest.
“Bold choice of an outfit, my dear,” Magnar murmurs, leaning closer to shorten the distance between us. “I like it.”
“Why does everyone comment on it?” I mutter, squeezing his hand as tight as I did Khay’s. My heart is hammering, and I’m still lightheaded. “This is a perfectly ordinary riding dress.”
“Hmm. We’ll see.”
We reach the high castle’s gate on the other side of the courtyard, and I stop, looking at the remnants of it. It’s torn open, surrounded by splinters, and about a dozen Agnidari warriors are hard at work gathering the shredded wood, some manning trestles supporting long, thick planks. They are fixing what they broke to make the castle secure.
“The gate,” I say through a tight throat, this new violence briefly wiping away the sight of spilled guts. “It was… My father said it was impenetrable. He… At night, when I had nightmares, he’d say I was safe because no monsters could pass through this gate.”
“And look at all the monsters that marched in as soon as it fell.”
I shake my head, forcing back hot tears crowding behind myeyelids. “Doesn’t matter. My horse is in the stables, if you haven’t burned them down.”
I try to tug him right, to the outer buildings built around the lower castle’s courtyard, but Magnar chuckles and pulls me toward the gate in the outermost wall of the castle. This one was the first they broke open, and it only took them a day. The lower castle gate was much weaker than the one guarding the innermost buildings.
“You’re not riding alone, my queen. I don’t want to waste time chasing you when you inevitably try to escape.”
“What?” I try to stop, but he drags me with shocking force, and I have no choice but to follow. “Then how…”
“With me.”
We cut through the lower castle’s courtyard that teems with Agnidari and humans hard at work. Even from a distance, I can tell human servants avoid the Agnidari as much as possible, but no one attacks anyone. The bodies of my father’s soldiers are nowhere to be seen. It’s almost… normal.
Like Magnar said. The war is over.
When we reach the greensward outside the castle walls, I gasp softly seeing the sea of dark tents. This is where the Agnidari lived during the siege, the tents put up just outside our arrows’ reach. The camp is busy, even more warriors strutting around, carrying things, some packing the tents. When we pass, they press their fists to their chests, greeting Magnar.
I feel hot and sweaty in my petticoats, and the late summer sun beats down on my hat with merciless heat. The air smells of leather, horses, and red clover. My calves cramp from the fast pace Magnar sets, though I suppose it’s leisurely for him and his long legs.
And ahead, behind the camp…
“By goddess Lirande’s veil,” I whisper, gaping at a herd of the largest horses I have ever seen in my life.
“Is she a riding goddess?” Magnar asks with an amused huff. “If not, find someone else to pray to. Those thighs will get quite a pounding today. Pity it will be my steed’s doing, not mine.”
I can’t deal with his taunting right now, so I ignore it, trapping the scream of rage boiling in my throat.Decorum, princess. Good manners above all.
But when Magnar stops in front of a black horse with a shockingly glossy coat, I can’t hold back a tiny whimper of misery. The saddle is wrong, of course. I finally see why everyone was so judgmental about my attire.
“What is it?” Magnar asks, turning until his back is to the sun, his shadow protecting me from its heat.
“I have only ridden side-saddle before,” I say quietly, clenching my fists when he lets go of my hand.
I realize I forgot my riding gloves, too. This final inconvenience, small though it is, makes me fall apart. The day ahead seems insurmountable, like there is no way in hell or heaven I’ll live through it. I can’t bear it. Tears burn my eyes, and I blink them away with anger.
Khay, Arvi, and the soldier with thin red braids I saw yesterday tend to three massive horses nearby. I still can’t comprehend the size of those steeds. There’s no way I can mount one without help.
“Side-saddle?” Magnar frowns, watching me seriously, and I am so grateful for this crumb of attention. “What does it mean? I am not familiar with the riding habits of human royalty. Other human women I saw rode astride, like men.”
