Page 18 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

I fall on my knees by the bed, tearing through my knapsack until I get my hunting knife. The blade gleams in the rain-washed light from the window.

Jaw clenched, I roll up my lefthand sleeve to my elbow, then set the knifepoint against my flesh.

The blade is twelve inches, a brutal tool, but I’m practiced enough with it that I could skin a pygmy mouse without nicking a single organ.

Biting down on the inside of my cheek against the pain, I begin to carve the letterS.

Chapter 6

Sabine

My thighs ache worse than after sex.

For three days, I’ve been forced at the sharp end of a spear to ride on one of the massive fae goldenclaws that the Volkish army uses as war beasts. My velvet dress from Lord Berolt’s funeral hangs in tatters around my bruised and scratched limbs. The soldiers robbed me of my boots, knowing I couldn’t run far barefoot through the forest. My wrists suffer the most, bound in heavy iron chains like I’m chattel.

No, wait.

I take that back.

Worst of all?It’s the smell.

Riding a goldenclaw who’s gone longer without bathing than I have is infinitely unrecommended.

“I need to pee,” I call down sweetly to Captain Tatarin, the mage soldier with the godkiss of freezing time. The poor captain has been tasked with babysitting me, which means she, too, must suffer the goldenclaw’s reek. “Shall I piss on this bear’s finesaddle?”

Captain Tatarin flicks me an impatient glower. “We stop for a midday rest in an hour, Highness. You can empty your bladder then.”

I lift my eyebrows. “So youdowant me to piss in the saddle.”

“Go ahead,” she answers, matching my mock cheerful tone. “You’ll sit in your own filth for three more days until we reach Norhelm.”

My eyes narrow into slits that she called my bluff.

That’s been more or less the extent of conversation with my captors since my abduction. Most of the Volkish soldiers don’t speak Astagnonian, and Iyre prefers to ride in a small, enclosed carriage carried on a goldenclaw’s back at the head of the party.

The terrain has gradually grown steeper and rockier the further north we traverse, yet the six goldenclaws carrying the carriages and supplies lumber effortlessly over the uneven ground, their giant paws leaving behind tracks dusted in gold.

My goldenclaw—unimaginatively named Two because she is second in the line of six—and I settle into a tentative routine. If I scratch the mite bites behind her scarred left ear, she graciously avoids the low branches that would otherwise slap me in the face.

As we plunge deeper into the forest, I can’t help but put aside my anger to marvel at the delicate wildflowers glowing in impossible shades of sapphire and indigo, their petals shimmering like moonlight on a still lake. Eerie fungi cling to tree trunks, casting an emerald glow. Beetles with luminescent spots dotting their wings leave light trails in their wake. Occasionally, a sentient vine will snake acrossthe fallen leaves to curl around my ankle before a soldier severs it with his sword.

I never knew such a place existed. A land of cold magic, of living shadows.

I’m a princess of a place I’ve never been.

In the evening, the soldiers drag my aching body down from the goldenclaw and plant me, chained and bound, at the base of a tree while they set up camp. Amid the bustle of erecting tents and roasting spits over campfires, I’m all but ignored.

The hem of my dress ruffles as the mouse peeks out the tip of her snout, her twitching whiskers tickling my bare feet.

She runs through her daily report:Ismelled standing water after breakfast, followed by wildflower nectar before lunch, then pine resin for the remainder of the day.

Great job,I commend her.Now stay hidden. I’ll save you some supper crumbs.

Between the two of us, we’ve been charting Iyre’s course from the border wall to Norhelm, the capital city of Volkany, so that if we get a chance to escape, we can find our way back. Few people know this, but humble as they are, mice are excellent scent trackers. Between the two of us, I have a good mental map of our trek.

Standing water?That means a swamp.

Wildflower nectar?A field laid bare by a massive fallen oak.

---