Page 1 of The War Queen's Daughter

Chapter 1

The battlefield smells of blood, death, and sex.

The first two are as much my doing as anyone’s. The last is all my mother.

Never mind that the ground beneath my horse’s hooves is a churned-up mess of mud and congealed blood, the remains of what should be inside bodies now outside and ground into the desolation of what was once a ripe field of wheat. A few brave stalks still survive the end of battle, though not for long. The poison of all that spilled blood in the soil will destroy the roots in due time.

I’m as immune to the stench as I can be, but it still hits me hard the closer I get to the tent she’s pitched in the middle of the mess, just like Mother to make celebration amid the dead. It’s not death that makes my stomach clench or the memory of killing, the fading surges of blood lust, or even that scent that will stay with me for days after.

It’s knowing that my mother has set up her fancy tent where her enemies fell beneath her so she can show the gods just what she thinks of their call to grief and fate.

I swallow past the thick, metallic tang in the back of my throat, the wafts of woodsmoke from the charred forest to the west that hovers low and burns my nostrils, layered with the acrid overlay of sweat and something sweet, sickly, like cheap wine spilled on earth no longer fertile.

The cheap hit of orgasm and ecstasy is a tawdry perfume in the wake of so much death.

Despite my efforts, it’s that smell, not the battlefield’s aftermath, that clings like a grotesque cologne, sinking into my leather armor, my hair, my skin. The scent of war is nothing new. I grew up in it, raised to the gods in a similar tent where my mother birthed me in the midst of a fight she picked and won despite her advanced pregnancy. The odors and offal of war have formed my memory, the carnage and calamity my nursery, schoolroom, and bedchamber. I’ve breathed it in since I was old enough to hold a training sword at barely a year and a half.

Death and I are old friends. Her whispering result will never hold fear for me.

It’s the smell of Mother’s means to revel in that death that strives to wield its power and turn my stomach.

I guide my warhorse through the scattered remnants of our victory, counting our dead stacked like chunks of chopped wood set aside for winter’s chill. Enough that Mother will be calling for recruits, but not so many that her celebration will turn to punishment when her first wave of desire goes sour.

Gorgon steps over the snapped shaft of a broken spear embedded in the ground, a row of them like forgotten grave markers standing at lopsided attention on the front line of the enemy’s broken defenses. A shattered shield bearing the crest of the kingdom of Nethal lies face down, its once proud colors obscured by grime. Ahead, Heald’s gold and purple banners, emblazoned with the queen’s crown, snap triumphantly in the wind, but even their vibrancy seems to pulse with a dark, unsatisfied hunger.

I’d thought to miss the inevitable. I’ve taken to volunteering myself and my troops when I know victory is assured. My campaign, a brutal clearing of the northern flank, wrapped up quickly, the enemy there turning tail, the cowards, the strip offorest and farmland Mother claimed this season a small price to pay for their lives.

I try not to judge. Not many have stood against the forces of Queen Jhanette of Heald and lived to tell of it. And I am my mother’s daughter. Though were she to find out I gave quarter, that I allowed the survivors to escape when they broke their line, I’d be the reason for her sourness.

Not even I am spared her foul humor when her standards are not upheld.

“Highness.” I turn to find my second has ridden forward to join me. Nina’s gaze avoids the open front of Mother’s tent and what unfolds there. I grimace in response and nod.

“Stay,” I say, not waiting for her request, knowing what it is she asks of me. “I’ll join you later.”

She hesitates, a blood smear on her cheek blending into ash that trails to her temple. “Forgive me,” she says, voice low. “I have no stomach for it.”

“Nor I,” I say. “Go.”

I hold my ground, Gorgon still and waiting beneath me for my company to turn and ride off to our encampment. We’re bivouacked over the hillside, out of the direct line of sight of the battlefield and clear of the smoke and stench. I’ll bathe when this is done, wash the dust and smoke from my skin, swim my horse in the river, soak my leather armor in scented oil to soften it.

And I will celebrate this victory with my company in private, as is their due.

For now, I have a duty to fulfill.

My mother is waiting for me.

The large, intricately woven tent that serves as Queen Jhanette’s war-chamber-turned-pleasure-den looms ahead. It is draped in rich tapestries, already stained with the dirt and grim realities of camp life, as if Mother cares. Unease traces a shudder down my spine, but I do my best not to show it. Weakness makesher bitter and could trigger a conversation I’m in no mood to argue.

No, I will not be joining you, Mother. Thank you for the offer.

How can I ever convince her that her brand of victory revelry isn’t for me?

I dismount from Gorgon as he slides to a halt, giant hoof slipping in the mud and blood beneath him. The waiting boy takes his reins, small face round and anxious, the massive warhorse towering over him.

He’s new, this boy who serves, and I take a beat to reassure him with a pat for Gorgon’s muscular shoulder.

“He’s a honeybee with a tongue for sugar,” I say, handing the small servant a pair of cubes of white sweetness that he offers with a shaking hand to my mount. Gorgon lowers his giant head, velvet lips soft on the boy’s palm. How different he is in this place than the screaming, thrashing demon who kills as many as I do in the heat of battle. Those teeth that have taken out the throats of the enemy don’t even brush the skin as he groans softly and munches his sugar.

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