Fae King’s Throne - SAMPLE
Publisher’s Note: Gauron’s story is told in two parts, Fae King’s Claim and Fae King’s Throne. This storyline picks up where Fae King’s Quest ends. Read with caution as there will be spoilers!
CHAPTER ONE
SERSHA
“No!”
The portal flings me into the ether and consumes my voice, my limbs, my will before dumping my protesting body into a large . . .
Infirmary?
I sink my elbow into the male holding me captive, pivot, and raise the heel of my palm upward in a strike to his throat.
He catches my wrist.
I drive my knee into his groin.
He blocks.
My dagger is in my hand and at his throat before he can reach for his weapon. “Release me.” The bile rushing up my esophagus turns my command into a gruff, gravelly groan.
The guard, a vrou and member of the High Queen’s army, lets go of my wrist, careful, like he is releasing a viper into the wild. He takes a slow step backward.
Sounds and smells explode around me. The hum of portals opening and closing, footsteps rushing across the stone floor, the overwhelming smell of blood and rot and—
A whir of air.
Before I can react, a lone guard materializes to my left, a groaning, bleeding heap of armor and flesh.
The vrou jumps to assist, shoving large hands beneath the wounded male’s back, hooking his fingers under his armpits. Moments later, a healer joins him and grabs the injured elf’s legs. Together they shuffle across the floor, the male’s body a bridge between them, and deposit the fallen guard gently upon a nearby cot.
Row after row of these beds line the inside of this stone room. Hundreds, perhaps more. Some empty. Many filled. Gauron, Ilearis, my sisters. Are they among the injured? Are they here?
Sheathing my dagger, I spin around, gaze darting from cot to cot. My thoughts circle with me, tumbling and multiplying with each stampeding breath. Ilearis was alive when I left Azgagh. And Gauron? Had he survived?
Behind me, fae guards continue appearing, faster now, all localized to the anchors carved into the stone floor at the rear of the room. These anchors are similar to the one that bound me to the throne room when I had engaged Gauron’s charm three, four days ago? I cannot remember. It feels like a lifetime.
Merging into the ebb of healers and fae moving to assist the incoming injured, I edge closer to the center of the room. My sisters are not here. Nor is Tauriel, the High Queen’s mage. Or Rogar, King of Drengskador, and his future queen, Kyra.
“Are you injured?” The voice belongs to a female elf whose concerned blue eyes scan me from head to panicked toe.
“Is Tauriel here?” A warrior limps by me, his sword tip dragging against the stone floor. “She was providing aid to the orc king’s second when I was separated from her. Where is she?”
“These anchors serve our warriors teleporting from the field with injuries. The High Mage and her officers—”
“Teleported into the throne room.” Of course. I should have known.
I race for the fortress, the elf’s words fading into the organized chaos of the room. Outside the barracks, gloomy mist chills the land beneath my feet. Uninjured guards with their armor dulled by dirt and blood assemble tents near others that had been previously erected for the goblin army that arrived to fight in Azgagh. Jugs of ale and baskets of food are delivered to waiting tables set along a shady wall of the fortress.
Dodging the warriors, I jump over stacks of canvas and other materials positioned strategically on the ground. My eyes are focused on the castle. On the arched, double-timbered doors with their ancient pewter handles crafted to resemble the body of a dragon. The metal warms in my hand. I yank with my left and grip the door’s edge with my right to heave it open.
My pace is hurried, my steps falling faster and faster, my feet striking the stone floor of the narrow galley edging the eastern exterior wall of the castle with an urgency that drives the breath from my lungs. Fatigue winds into my limbs, sharp and sudden, fighting each tread of the stairs standing between me and the throne room.
At the top, a short landing leads to the entrance. Hesitating, I press my palms against the door. My mouth goes dry, pain and fear rising to clot in my throat. I shove against the smooth panels.
Then forget to breathe.
There, lying on the floor of this magnificent room in a pool of his blood, is Gauron. And beside him, in a catatonic state of her own, is Ilearis, pale skin a deathly contrast against the blue-gray floor.
The tears falling from Ursa’s face can only mean one thing.
No. Please, fates, no.
I drop to my knees between them. My hands fall to their arms. Warmth. There is still warmth. “What can I do?”
The Queen Mother rushes to Tauriel who is crouched over Gauron, hands cupped around the blade protruding from his chest to stem the bleeding. Brows compressing, Arwen assesses their forms and signals to a trio of elves behind her. “Quickly. To the healing chamber. Both of them.” Her eyes move from Gauron’s battered chest to Ilearis’s pale yet unscathed skin. “Is this the same affliction plaguing Kyra?”
“No,” Rowena answers, her voice a wobble of despair and anger. “She was drained of magic to fuel the resurrection.”
Arwen’s jaw goes tight. “Then time is of the essence.”
The healers lift Gauron’s body. Tauriel rises to her feet with them, more of Gauron’s dark blood gushing over the tops of her hands. “Strengthen the perimeter patrol. A Niflheim prince approaches. His intentions are contrary to our convictions.” Her gaze shoots to mine. “No citizen of Alfhemir will be taken against their will. This is a promise I make and one I keep.”
Does she not understand the carnage he will bring? She would risk this fortress? The fae inside? For me?
A stranger?
A norn?
Something twists inside me. My gaze drops to my hands clasped around the backs of Ilearis’s legs. Sobbing softly, Ursa loops her arms beneath Ilearis’s upper body, and together we hoist the corpselike form of the child she, Rowena and I raised from near infancy off the floor.
When will the bloodshed end?
When?
My eyes sweep over their faces before settling on Gauron, and with each step across the chamber, an ironclad resolve clicks into place. From deep in my psyche the answer sounds.
Now.
The bloodshed ends now.
CHAPTER TWO
SERSHA
My footfalls are silent against the stone floor as I scurry deeper into the bowels of the fortress. I have spent a lifetime avoiding this fate—avoiding him. The fae who ripped my future from my hands. Who ravaged my kingdom—my home. Who killed my mother.
He took everything from me.
Everything.
My body riots against the idea of surrender. I am not the same scared girl who fled Niflheim all those years ago. I will not stand by and allow the Scourge of the Southlands to wage war in this realm. To undo the sacrifices of the past. To take my sisters from me, or harm the male who makes me wish destiny had dealt me a different fate.
No.
I am not that female.
I will never be that female again.
The lantern’s light shines upon the door ahead. Outside, I am told a path winds away from the castle. A path I will use to draw my enemy—Zahn of House Blackwood. Heir of Aegon. Lord of the Trivectrate. Protector of the Misty Isles.
My betrothed.
My plan is to lure him and his guard on a merry chase away from the High Queen’s fortress. Far and away. And when the moment presents itself, when I have discovered the secret to his demise, I will do what I should have done all those years ago. I will plunge my greedy blade into the pit of his black heart with a smile rivaling the brightest peaks of Glynynore.
The hair on my nape prickles.
I cloak the lantern, draping the cramped space in darkness. The being approaching in the shadows is furtive, but their presence is palpable, like a whisper of air brushing against my skin in an all too familiar tingle.
I swallow a groan and lift my magic from the lantern. Light spills into the open space to reveal Rowena’s form several paces behind me.
“Did Ursa send you?” I throw resolve into my words. “You will not change my mind. I will not hide, and I am done running. If you have come to stop me, you are wasting your breath.”
“Stop you? Each moment you linger within these walls, you endanger yourself. But seeking the oracle? Come now, Sersha.” Brows raised, Rowena tips her head to the side. “You know better.”
I do.
But these are desperate times. And a desperate fae takes risks she would not ordinarily take.
I will not apologize, yet the slightly patronizing tone of Rowena’s voice—an intonation so uniquely her—riles my pride. That arrogant lilt has led to many vociferous disagreements over the course of our long friendship. And fates above, I will miss it.
I will miss her.
I open my mouth to argue, but she waves me off. “The gods sleep for a reason. They will not wake to answer the call of a lone fae no matter how righteous her cause. I have a contact in Argro—”
“Did you listen to naught of what I said earlier? Do you think I exaggerated the threat Zahn poses to this world? The High Queen’s Night Realm allies are no match for a Niflheim prince and his army, and now that he has caught my scent, he will not rest. I am the only barrier standing between him and the throne. I appreciate the assembly’s offer of refuge, I do, but I will not be the cause of further bloodshed. It is time I face him. And I will do so on my terms, not his.”
Her mouth pulls into the annoyed pout that signals her acquiescence, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I would not have our final parting end in anger.
“The ceasg may be your only link to finding the oracle. If such a being still exists,” she adds. “But a word of caution. The ceasg was betrayed by the orc king. She will not take kindly to a fae with connections to the male who stole her soul.”
“Then I will use her hatred to my advantage.”
“Your orc will not be happy to learn of your disappearance when he wakes.”
My hearts sinks. Tauriel and her team of healers worked throughout the night to revive Gauron and stop the bleeding from Aelinor’s fatal blow. I held his hand, and in the darkest hours of the night, my tears washed his skin.
“He is strong,” I say despite the clenching of my throat. “He will survive.”
And one day, he will move on and forget me.
“Perhaps.” Rowena takes the lantern from my hand. “No last words you wish me to relay, then?”
“I have already said more than I should.”
“That I highly doubt.” She turns. Her gaze darts from the damp walls to the arched door ahead. “A besotted and enraged orc is a force to be reckoned with. You should consider the warrior a formidable weapon in your war against the prince.”
“And you should bite your tongue. I will not use Gauron like some lackey I can discard at will. If he senses the danger I am in, angry or not, he will seek me out. He has risked enough on my behalf—on our behalf—and I will ask no more of him. And do not even think of suggesting such a thing when he wakes.”
Rowena does not respond. Instead, her dark eyes roll over my face with a scrutiny that stirs the panic building in my stomach.
“Not a word of my plan or where I intend go. Promise me, Rowena. You will not tell him any of this. Gauron’s place is in Drengskador with his king. Promise me you will say naught.”
“I wish you would reconsider, but I can see your mind is set.” She sighs. “You are aware the orc may not forgive you this slight.”
May not?
No.
Will not.
And the truth of this stabs at the heart I wish were made of stone. On the battlefield in Azgagh, he had implored me to stay. To open myself to him. And fates above, I wanted nothing more. Abandonment is a wound he will never forgive. If there is a way to settle my fate and have a future with him, I cannot see it.
“Well,” Rowena says, “if I cannot stop you from launching this foolhardy ploy on your own, then let me help.” She holds a necklace in her hand and brings the ends around my neck. After fastening the clasp, she steps back to assess the dark onyx crystal hanging from a copper-colored chain. “That should do.”
I cover the crystal with my hand, the stone ice-cold against my palm. “What is this?”
“A portal disruptor. The spell is woven into the orihalcon chain. When engaged, the tourmaline will reverse the portal and ground you to this realm. And depending on the caster’s strength, the spell will also temporarily nullify his or her ability to reopen another portal.”
“How long will I have when it does?”
“Against a Niflheim fae?” She shrugs. “I do not know. Our magic has weakened over the centuries. A half day? Perhaps more?” She clasps my face with her hands. “Use it well and stay alive.”
Emotion wells in my throat. “I plan to.” I make my way to the door and then halt, spinning around to face her. “I owe you my life.”
“You owe me no such thing. We are sisters bonded by circumstance if not fate. I could not have chosen better had I been given the choice.”
I pull her into a tight hug she returns. “I will miss you, Ursa, and Ilearis. You are my family. The sisters of my heart,” I whisper into her hair. “It kills me to abandon you now with Ilearis ill and—”
“She will wake.” Rowena’s arms tighten around me. “I will find the cure, and she will wake. I promise you.”
“I know. I know. Tell her . . . tell her I am sorry. Tell her if there had been another option, a solution where I could remain hidden among you, I would take it. I would stay.”
“She will understand why you fled. We all do. Ursa and I will keep your memory alive, and one day, we will meet again.” She steps out of my embrace and heads for the door to turn the key in the lock. “Now go. His forces near the perimeter.”
Raising the lantern above her head, she stands behind me as I turn the knob and pull. The door sticks against the swollen jamb, and I yank, wood and metal creaking as the seal gives.
Outside, a Night Realm warrior steps from the shadows, a leather lead in his hand. The elven horse standing behind him is majestic, its shiny black coat reflecting the moonlight spilling through the trees.
“A gift from the assembly,” Rowena tells me.
This is so unexpected.
“I . . .” The backs of my eyes sting with a heartfelt gratitude I cannot express. I move from the door to inspect the animal. He is a fearsome breed utilized by the Furious Army for its speed, intelligence, and unique ability to link to the rider. The creature’s origins are said to be of the god realm, Vanaheim, where they once served as winged guardians to the old gods until they sided with the losing faction in a civil war that resulted in their wings being clipped as punishment.
Or so the legends say.
I run my hand over the black armor protecting his face. “What is his name?”
“Ask him yourself.” The Night Realm warrior hands me a dagger.
I take the blade he offers and swipe the sharp tip against my flesh. Blood wells over the wound, pooling into the cup of my hand.
The horse snorts, his upper lip curling to reveal sharp teeth. He tosses his mane, and I swallow back my fear. I am either about to lose an appendage or gain an ally.
Which will it be?
I lower my hand.
Warily, the warhorse moves forward. Puffs of his warm breath hit my palm, and then he slides his tongue over the wound. Magic snaps between us, forming a cord that originates from the slick wetness across my hand, extending up and over my arms to the animal towering over me, neighing and tossing its dark head back.
My breathing accelerates with each moment that passes without the link clicking into place. I have nothing of value to offer this creature, so I bow my head and extend my arms. “This journey I embark upon is perilous. I will not force your aid, but if you are willing, I would welcome the company.”
The Night Realm warrior sheathes the dagger I returned, releases the lead, and steps back into the shadows. Rowena remains by the door, the lantern gleaming against the darkness.
A loud voice booms in my head. “I am Nycteus.”
Thank the fates.
“I am Sersha. I ride to Argomar in search of the ceasg. You should know my enemy is not of this realm.”
“I have been told. I accept the risks and look forward to assisting you in battle. May your sword strike true, she of the white hair.”
Laughing, I grab the dangling reins and haul myself onto his back. “Has anyone told you you sound like an orc?”
He snorts. “There are worse compliments.”
And before I can answer, Nycteus takes off into the night like a kottur with his arse on fire.
*
Nycteus’s gait slows, his hooves silent over the thick carpet of damp foliage. Rain blankets us in a light mist, and I hear naught but the rustling of leaves and the burbling of the River of Tears in the distance.
For three days we have thwarted Zahn and his army. There were a few close calls, one just outside the fortress’s perimeter and another en route to the thick forest in Glynynore bordering Argomar and Varia, but Nycteus proved his worth, leading the Scourge of the Southlands to the Varian border, where we circled the borgs and escaped notice.
I wipe rain from my face. “What is it? What do you sense?”
He shakes his head. “There is an odd disturbance in the skies.”
I peer at the sheet of black over our heads. Not a star visible. “Perhaps you should rest, Nycteus. We have trav—”
“I am not fae.” He snorts. “I harbor none of your body’s feeble need for rest and sleep and such.”
I bite back the laugh threatening to escape. “But of course. Forgive me. I forget myself, feeble body and all.”
He harrumphs. “I suggest you imbibe more of your potion. Your essence begins to make itself known.”
“Are you telling me I smell?”
He chuffs.
“Shall I take that as a yes?” Grinning, I unsnap the saddlebag Rowena—or Tauriel—loaded with food and supplies, then rummage for the small vial of the Balor’s Heart potion my sister concocted to hide my scent. With Zahn in pursuit, I will not dare use my magic and give our location away. I swallow the foul concoction with a grimace and then reach in the bag for another vial.
“And you, my stalwart companion. Is it time for another dose, or does your non-fae body metabolize Rowena’s potion at a different rate than mine?”
He grumbles in my head and then comes to a full stop. “It would be prudent.”
I thought so.
I drop to the ground. Nycteus lowers his head and opens his mouth, lips pulled back to reveal those daggerlike teeth. What in Alfhemir does a creature with these deadly incisors consume? Game? Cattle? Other fae?
Careful to avoid the sharp tips, I drip the potion onto his tongue. We took these measures once we had lured my betrothed a safe distance from Glynynore. And then, before making our way back toward Argomar’s northern hemisphere to search for the ceasg, I donned one of Rowena’s charms to disguise my appearance. She gifted me a different persona from my normal mask. After all, an orcress upon an elven horse would rouse suspicion, would it not?
So what did my clever sister choose?
A male vrou.
Brillant.
Who would dare approach a uniformed member of the Furious Army upon a steed like Nycteus? Besides, scouts are common in these parts of Varia and Argomar. A sighting should stir no suspicion among the fae living on the outskirts of Varia’s predominantly elven kingdoms.
But would the disguise hold against the prince of Aegon?
A shiver skates up my spine. I cannot shake the feeling I am being cornered. Manipulated. Hunted like a mouse by a larger, much hungrier predator enjoying the chase.
Nerves on edge, I hop back onto Nycteus’s back. “Make haste to the estuary. The quicker we find the ceasg the better.”
Nycteus grunts and falls into a wild gallop, picking up speed with each breath until his hooves appear to lift from the ground, and I half expect large, legendary wings to break free from his back. The wind slaps at my face, loosening my hair, and my spirit soars. Glee fills my chest, a lightness sparking a joy I cannot discern is mine or that of the beast beneath me.
A strange whir snapping overhead shatters my brief respite. My head jerks up, and I catch sight of a large shadow.
“What in Alfhemir is that?”
“Predator.”
“In the skies?”
“This creature is not of this realm. It is the root of the disturbance I detected earlier.”
No. No. No.
Silver blue streaks through the trees, and my heart locks in my throat.
“Dragon.”
“There are no dragons in this realm.” My brain refuses to acknowledge what my panicked heart already knows.
Zahn.
“Hold tight, norn. The creature approaches.”
Nycteus gallops faster than before, but it is of no use against the massive dragon swooping from the sky, cracking giant trees in its wake. Nycteus pivots left and races across a field into a dense forest.
The dragon screeches, its angry bellow rendering birds and creatures from trees and dens alike. Scanning the darkness ahead, I curse my ordinary vision.
From above, ice streams to the ground, striking the soil hard and forming a solid crystal wall that forces Nycteus into an abrupt slide to avoid the impending crash.
Angry, foreign sounding words blast into my brain. He skirts around the wall, and then another stream hits to our right.
“Ice dragon.”
“What? That is impossible.” How in the fates did Zahn transport an ice dragon from our realm to Alfhemir? “He cannot scent me. Find a burrow or a den. I can hide.” My desperate plea falls on deaf ears. “Or the river.”
“Dragons do not fear water.”
“Yes, but can they swim as fast as an angry norn? I think not. Unless you have a better idea, head for the River of Tears.”
Another ice stream shoots to the ground, narrowly missing us.
“He has broken through the trees. The river has merit.”
“Go. Go. Go.” An unnatural wind beats against my back, the force of it nearly toppling me from Nycteus. I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder, regretting it the instant my gaze meets the glacial black eyes of the ice dragon breathing down upon us, claws stretched as his sharp nails hook into my cloak.
Nycteus reels, teeth snapping at the dragon’s wing. But he is too late. The dragon's claws take hold, and then it beats its massive wings, lifting my body from Nycteus, higher and higher until the proud steed is but a small speck tracking our progression across the sky.
Blasted fates.
I have only one recourse.
I unsheathe my dagger and begin stabbing my abductor.
CHAPTER THREE
SERSHA
Several leagues from where it abducted me, the ice dragon releases its hold. We’re low enough to avoid certain death, but the breakage of a limb?
No such luck.
I have little time to prepare. When my feet hit, my ankle twists. Pain shoots up my left leg, and I fall to the ground, my shoulder absorbing the brunt of the impact. The dragon touches down behind me, the ground vibrating from the force of its landing.
Scanning the perimeter for Zahn and his army, I roll onto my knees and grip my dagger. Six horned giants emerge from the darkness, kicking my battered heart into a terror-stricken free fall.
Stryka?
Here?
I blink once, twice, unable to fathom the reality unfurling before my eyes. The stryka are creatures of myth. Of fantasy. They are the king’s butchers. The villains featured in every bedtime tale told to children from one end of Niflheim to the other.
Ignoring the shattering pain in my ankle, I rise to my feet and stumble back. Six males with elven ears nearly the size of the firbolg commander of the Sacred Lands watch me. Four black lightning bolt-shaped horns the size of my arm protrude from their foreheads, each perfectly spaced from temple to temple.
The stryka are identical in appearance. Silver-blue hair a shade darker than the ice dragon’s scales is braided and adorned with copper beads of varying lengths. They wear the same beads in their blue beards. A white film covers eyes set against bruise-colored skin. The king’s elite guard uniform is crisp and clean. Black trews. Shiny black boots. Gray, fur-lined leather armor tapers to muscular bodies. Their only weapon? A single iron spear they use to maim, torture, and kill. Niflheim fae are more sensitive to iron than any of the known races. A single stab of the spear can kill quickly or cause a slow, painful death.
Somehow, I find the strength to remain standing. To not cower, scream, or flee from their colorless gaze. Running from a stryka is certain death, and not a pleasant one. I am sure of it. I need to stay alive. I need my feet planted in Alfhemir, and then maybe, maybe if the fates deem it, I will find the oracle. She is my only defense against the prince of Aegon.
A pop sounds behind me. I turn in time to catch a puff of silver magic coloring the air, and where an ice dragon once stood, a Niflheim prince struts in all his naked glory.
Zahn.
His black eyes hold my gaze with a presumptuous arrogance that curls my hands into fists. He has not aged a day since I left Niflheim. Not one day. One would think with all the travesties he has wreaked upon my family and others that the fates would mark his flesh as punishment.
But no. Prince Zahn of House Blackwood has pale, perfect skin the gods would envy and a face they would wish for their own. And yet for all his flawless beauty, for all his strength and power, he is an ugly piece of charred wood compared to the scarred hero he forced me to leave behind. Gauron makes me wish for an impossible future. He is the whisper of hope, the promise of home.
But Zahn?
Zahn is death and destruction wrapped in an alluring package I want to rip to shreds.
Ignoring the dagger in my grip, he moves toward me with the grace of a king, his silver-gray hair lifting with the wind. He extends his hand. “Drop the cloak. Reveal yourself to me, Elora.”
I grit my teeth. Elora died the moment her gifts manifested and caught the eye of the crown. His eye. I am Sersha. Body, mind, and soul.
But I say none of this to him. Instead, I remove the charm and tip my head to the stryka standing like stone statues. “What fanfare, Prince Zahn. All this for a female who would rather risk death than become your queen? Pity, I thought myself long forgotten. How disappointing to see your face again.”
Zahn’s gaze drops to my grin, and although his expression remains stoic, his left eye twitches, sparking a delicious surge of satisfaction a smarter fae would ignore.
My smirk widens.
“You are my betrothed,” he says, voice free of irritation. “Elora, you cannot run from your destiny. Time knows no bounds when two souls are meant to be joined for all eternity.”
“Meant to be” my arse. He wants my power and nothing more. Never will I join my soul to his.
I shift my stance and bite back a groan, my right leg trembling under the strain of my weight.
“Will you submit?” He gestures to the stryka. “Or shall I make the decision for you?”
It must be Zahn who escorts me through the portal.
Alone.
Without his guard.
“I am done running.”
His expression narrows.
I shrug. “By now you must realize I wish to live or I would have terminated this chase decades ago.” Those black eyes harden. “Will your stryka aid an injured female?” I lift my foot and wince, the pain all too real.
Zahn remains silent, but his cold gaze never wavers from my face.
Take the bait, you odiferous gadfly. “I cannot cross unassisted. Why burden you with a menial chore when your butchers appear quite capable of bearing my weight? Would you not agree?”
“You play a dangerous game, norn.”
Nycteus?
Oh for the love of Ulda. “Stay wherever you are. Your interference will ruin my plan,” I insist.
“As you wish.”
Thank the fates he heard me.
Zahn signals the stryka to a spot to my left. “Aegon’s future queen is no burden. I will assist you. Come, Elora.”
Hobbling the four steps between us, I cast a furtive glance to the tree line. Nycteus is well hidden in the foliage. Still . . . “Where is the rest of your army? Will they return with us?”
“My army awaits me in Niflheim.” Zahn snags my hand and calls his magic. My skin pebbles. A stryka relieves me of the dagger I hold and then crouches to remove the second from the sheath strapped to my thigh. A third is concealed in my boot. Will he search me? Will the onyx crystal hanging from my neck call his attention?
I have but one chance to nail my escape.
One.
“What are you waiting for?” Wind lashes hair against my face. “Let us be done with this farce. Go on. Open your portal.”
“You forget your place, Elora.” Zahn tugs my arm forward. I stagger and step on my injured foot. My ankle gives out, and with a yelp, I slam onto my knees.
“A shame you have become like the crude fae of this realm.” His hand tightens over mine until I hear the snap of bone. “A failing we will remedy before you embark upon your role as my queen.”
I bite back the nausea rising in my throat. My vision blurs.
Zahn raises a glowing palm, his magic building and building around us. A mass of swirling silver light appears, slowly widening until a yawning gap forms. The stryka move into the portal, leaving Zahn and me to enter together. A bright flash spears the portal’s interior, and when my vision clears, the stryka are gone.
“Come, bride. Aegon awaits you.” Zahn releases my broken hand and threads his fingers into my hair. He drags me on my knees into the churning silver light.
Pain explodes in my hand. My arm. My leg. Concentrating on my surroundings, I slow my breathing. The temperature inside the portal is frigid. I hold my left hand to my chest and slide my right into my boot. My teeth chatter, and I cannot tell if it is from the pain of the arctic air swirling around us or the pressure building against my body.
I suck in a breath and grip the dagger in my boot. In battle, timing is everything. I have one chance. I will not fail.
I cannot.
Cushioned in a cloud of warm air, I go weightless for the briefest moment. Light flashes, and the sensation of my organs being pulled through my nose grips me. Then the portal throws us into the ether.
I waste no time.
“Make null.” I grasp the onyx crystal with my broken hand, and with a pain-filled scream, I sink my blade into Zahn’s gut. “Make null.”
Over and over, I scream the words to engage the disruptor spell while tearing Zahn’s flesh with my dagger. The iron will not kill him, but gods, he will suffer. And the pleasure I take from hearing his anguished roar makes my heart soar and laughter bubble from my throat.
Laughter that is quickly extinguished when the spell rips me from the collapsing portal and dumps me into . . .
Air.
Had I waited too long?
I close my eyes and brace for the impact. Dying was always a last resort. “Forgive me, Mother.”
“Foolish norn.” Nycteus’s voice cuts through my sorrow. “Catch hold.”
Down below, his shiny rump rushes to greet me.
My chest hits hard, knocking the breath from my lungs. I groan and hook my fingers into leather straps to keep from sliding onto the ground.
I may have broken a rib or two in the fall. I hang there, arse in the air, and catch my breath. “My legs refuse to move, horse.”
He snorts. “Try harder, norn.”
Nausea battles with the pain seeping into every bone to steal what little energy I have left. I force my injured foot over his back and center my chest. “I may vomit over your beautiful coat,” I mumble into his mane.
He growls. “I would not, were I you.”
The rumbling warning filling my head kicks the corners of my mouth into a half smile. “I make no promises.”
My arms drop to either side of Nycteus’s neck, exhaustion weighing every muscle. “We must follow the river. The ceasg . . .” I shake the fog invading my brain.
“I will wake you when we reach the estuary.”
I am completely at his mercy. I settle my face against the warmth of his body, his mane tickling my nose. “You best, or I swear to the old gods I will hunt you down.”
He chuckles.
And then the fog takes me.
READY FOR MORE?
We stand face-to-face in the middle of the forest with eyes upon us, vulnerable to arrows or worse, and all I can think about is reassuring this pale-eyed female that she’s safe.
With me.
— Gauron/Fae King's Claim