Page 10 of Our Lady of War
A word she didn’t recognise was spoken by an unseen man in the throng of them, and the others began to part down the middle. Save for the two that darted forward and clamped their hands around her arms again. Ignoring every fibre of her being that told her to do so, she did not struggle. Instead, she listened to the thunk thunk of heavy boots thudding down the corridor.
Dressed in finer furs and leathers, the man stalking toward her was as fierce and solid as they come. Towering over her, he looked down into Athania’s eyes. She could just make out the barest hint of grey in his beard and in the knotted lengths of his hair. Blood streaked across his cheek, marring a blue symbol painted there. There was a cut under one of his green eyes, but she doubted the blood was his. He reeked of sweat and deep sea, blood and gore.
“What a brave girl you are.” His accent was thick, clunky and stunted. Still, his condescension was clear as day. One of his large hands came forward to take a lock of her dark hair between his fingers. Athania bucked against the men holding her arms and spat at the man who must be their commander. He only chuckled, low and sinister. All of her magic pressed against her skin in response, begging to let her try. Let her just try to stop him—all of them. If there was ever a moment for it to finally break free within her, it had to be this one.
She held her ground, chin high and mind whirling. If she truly took them to the king, they could kill him and take the entire country. If she led them astray, she would surely die.
The thought gave her pause. How difficult was it for her to die?
Witches had healing capabilities with their extended lifespan. If that was what she’d become, what Asteria had brokered for her mortal incarnation, that would extend to her as well.
A wicked smile curved her lips, and she watched the Hawthrin commander’s nose flare, his eyes dilating as his gaze landed on her mouth.
“I would advise against leading me astray, brave mouse.”
His face suddenly fell, lust replaced with curiosity that was bleeding into…triumph?
Athania fought the urge to step backward and yank her captors with her at the look in his eyes.
“Peculiar.” His voice was like gravel against her eardrums. Quickly, his hand darted out and took hold of her necklace. Athania gritted her teeth, unable to keep her chest rising and falling evenly. He let the amulet fall back against her breastbone and ran the pad of his finger over the skin there. “Such a unique pendant you have. A bat, of all things.” His crystal-blue eyes snapped to hers. “The commander of your army had one just like it.”
Athania’s vision went white with rage. Her nostrils flared, and she snarled, gnashing her teeth and fighting against the men holding her captive. “How dare you! Where is he? I demand to see him!”
He tipped his head back and laughed. “Take me to the king”—he leaned in close enough for her to feel his breath on her face—“and I will gladly show you Commander Rodríguez.” Pulling back, he grinned savagely. “Do not think that by stalling you will stop us, brave mouse. Our ship is one of many. Alban is not only surrounded, but my men are most certainly ransacking the city as we speak.”
He’d won their small battle, and he knew it. She knew it. How could she have lost so easily? Had love made her pathetic? Weak?
“The solarium,” she spat and tossed her chin in that direction. “Third right down the left corridor.”
The Hawthrin commander shouted something she didn’t understand again, and she kicked herself for not learning more languages in all her languid time among the gods. There was a flurry of movement as they all rushed around her, the two holding her captive lifting her from the ground and darting forward to follow the rest.
Just as they reached the corridor, Athania had pointed them toward, another band of soldiers convened with them. One, at least thrice the size of the others, pushed through the throng to the commander, speaking in their native tongue. The leader turned to Athania with a sneer. “Turns out you tell the truth, mouse. Aðalsteinn tells me he has found your king exactly where you said.” He ran a knuckle down her cheek. “Good mouse.”
Athania reared her head back and flung it forward, launching a wad of spit at the commander’s face. “I am no mouse, pig.”
The burly man wiped the spittle from his face, a darkness clouding his eyes for half a breath before he broke out into laughter, all the soldiers crowded in the hall echoing him. “That is okay,” he said darkly once his laughing ceased. “I much prefer a wolf.” Before she could respond, he clapped his hands twice, the sound cracking off the ceiling, and they all marched toward the solarium, dragging Athania along.
It wasn’t until they reached the solarium, with its vibrant plant life, that she realised just how terrible these men smelled. It was a trivial, mundane thought when the King of Orford knelt bloodied and bound at a soldier’s feet, his knights lifeless on the ground; when the Hawthrin soldiers standing sentry all brandished walking sticks adorned with the head of—
Orfordian soldiers.
Men Athania had eaten with, laughed with, and plotted battles with. Many that she had helped nurse back to health when they’d returned to the camp after a battle. They had been killed and disgraced, their heads stabbed onto spikes and their lifeblood running down the wood grain, leaving red, garish gashes across the solarium’s black and white checkered floor. Her stomach roiled. Between the throng of men and gore, she could see the commander speaking with the king. She watched him kick the old man in the face, his lip splitting in a second place. But she could hear nothing save for a ringing in her head.
She’d seen countless people die in battle. She’d swayed the tides of war for that very outcome, but she’d never known those people. She’d never loved one—
Athania’s heart seized. Frantically, she forced herself to look at each severed head on a spike, searching for Igor. A sliver of hope settled in her racing heart. None of them were him. Her hearing cleared just as the Hawthrin commander shouted at the king.
“Those are your options, old man. I take your kingdom by force, or you let my men take what they desire, and we will return to our ships and pretend your army did not try to ambush us in the pass.”
The king sagged. There were no good options. “Take what you will, but do not hurt my people.”
The Hawthrin commander chuckled. “I said my men will take what they want. I make no promises how kind they’ll be.” The last words were a hiss as he leaned into the king’s drawn face. “Do you think your men were kind when they tried to slaughter mine? Do you think they were kind to my people when they cut off not only supply lines to my infantry but to our home?” He spat something in his native tongue and turned away.
Athania’s stomach flipped when his gaze landed on her through the crowd, lustful and menacing. “In fact,” he said, stalking over to where she was still being held, her arms bruised and in pain, “I’ll take the wolf.”
The king’s eyes went wide, and he made to stand, but he was shoved back down with a grunt. “You can’t do that! You can’t take people!”
The commander shuffled forward adder-fast and placed a kick square to the king’s chest. “I said we will take what we fucking want!” He unsheathed his sword, and Athania tried to pull free.