Page 24 of The Queen and the Half-blood
“You have my word that my hand and my army are yours,” he murmured as heat pulsed upon his wrist, where their skin met. “We have made a promise in blood … and blood remembers … or may The Five damn my soul.”
“You have my word that my hand and my throne are yours,” she whispered back, her gaze riveted upon their joined hands. “We have made a promise in blood … and blood remembers,” she whispered back. “Or may The Five damn my soul.”
9: WITH THE DAWN
LARA LOWERED HERSELF back onto the stool and tried to ignore the dull throb in her wrist. Alar was right: he hadn’t hurt her overly. All the same, some things stung more than a cut to the skin.
She’d just agreed to bind herself to a man of questionable morals. She’d accused him of lusting after power, yet was she any different?
Bile surged up, stinging the back of her throat.What have I done?
Too late, she wished she’d taken the advice of her council—and her friends—and accepted defeat. Now, whether she wanted it or not, she shared a bond with the Half-blood.
She was glad Mirren and Bree hadn’t been present to see her perform the blood oath, to witness just how low she’d stoop to get what she wanted.
She’d have to watch Alar. He’d assured her he didn’t covet Duncrag, but she didn’t believe him. She’d put measures in place once she returned home to ensure he and his wulvers couldn’t stage a rebellion.
Viewing the man whom she’d just made a pact with—as he retrieved his wine, yet didn’t drink any of it—she decided to focus on practicalities. Perhaps if she did, this sickening sensation would retreat. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel as if she’d just put her head in a noose.
“Is your army … and yourFire Wyrm… ready to attack with the dawn?” she asked briskly.
Alar nodded. “We have been waiting for your command.”
“Good.” She rose to her feet, wishing her belly would stop churning. “We must now meet with my chief-enforcer and the captain of my army … to discuss tactics for tomorrow morning.”
Lara’s skin prickled as she watched the wulvers advance.
These creatures were reclusive by nature, and so she’d never actually seen one. They stalked rather than walked, moving with rounded shoulders and a loping gait. Rangy in build, they dressed lightly. The males were clad in leather trews and heavy boots, with knife belts strapped across their naked chests, while the females bound their breasts with leather. Pelts of different hues—from smoke or ash grey, to tawny brown, peat, and black—covered their shoulders, necks, and heads.
Lara noted their powerful canine jaws and their feral golden eyes, which fixed ahead at where the first glimmers of light warmed the eastern sky, gilding Doure’s walls and turning the Sea of Sorrows molten bronze. Like most of her people, she’d believed wulvers were a craven lot—but they didn’t look like cowards this morning.
And the snarls and barks they made chilled her blood. Pride gleamed in their eyes.
As promised, they’d been ready to attack with the dawn.
Alar strode by then, flanked by two male wulvers—one of which was huge, his grey and black hackles raised. The Half-blood was clad in leather breeches, a breastplate, and arm bracers. His long black hair had been braided at the sides and pulled back from his face, and he was armed as she’d seen himon their first meeting, with two fighting daggers strapped to his back.
He nodded to her as he passed, and she mirrored the gesture, acknowledging him too.
They didn’t speak though. Enough words had passed between them for the moment.
She’d regretted every one of them.
But now, as Alar and his wulvers strode toward Doure, her regret slid into something else. Hope. Maybe this would work out. Maybe she hadn’t made a huge mistake.
Lara watched him go until the swelling ranks swallowed him. Her wrist started to tingle then, and she turned her hand over and drew back her sleeve. The cut he’d given her the night before had scabbed over, yet it had prickled intermittently ever since. She’d deliberately not told anyone about the blood oath and had covered up the cut. She wasn’t sure how her council would react to what she’d done—on top of her obstinance the day before—and so she decided to keep it secret.
In the aftermath, all her advisors had been aloof with her, even Bree and Cailean, but once Doure was taken, they’d realize that she’d done the right thing. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made.
Pulling her sleeve back down, she raised her chin, her gaze travelling to where theFire Wyrmemerged. She murmured an oath under her breath as she tracked the path of the battering ram.
It made those they’d constructed look feeble indeed. The weapon was pulled in on wheels, by lines of heaving wulvers. It was long, around twelve feet, and swung on heavy chains. And as Alar had described, it had been forged of iron. Pitch burned within, flames erupting from the wyrm’s open jaws and slitted eyes. The weapon rolled on, while the wulvers—wearing heavy iron helmets and plate armor—hauling it chanted in a roughtongue that Lara didn’t understand. The iron began to glow. Before her eyes, theFire Wyrmilluminated the dawn.
Her heart started to pound.
Beside her, Bree breathed a curse. “I’ve never seen the like.” They were the first words her friend had spoken since they’d left the camp.
“Let’s hope that the Shee have seen it too … and are now shitting themselves,” Lara replied huskily.
