Page 81 of The Cradle of Ice
Let’s hope Kanthe and the others are faring better than we are.
EIGHT
THE DRUMS OF WAR
Sound the horne & rattle the sweord,
Bridle the steed & ripen the wipp,
For we be the Anwyn who alle feyr.
Poune the shield & reddi the ax,
Schyne the armor & sharp’n the spear,
For we be the Anwyn who know no feyr.
Wenn dawn brayks & blood does flowe
Ryse anew, you warriors bolde,
For we be the Anywn who kenn næfre die.
—A battle chant of the ancient Anwyn Legion
36
KANTHE LEANED OVER the rail of the wingketch and studied the sweep of verdant forest far below. It called to him in distant whispers of birdsong and sharper cries of hunters. As the Quisl floated over it, scudding through low clouds, he could smell the rich loam and wet leaf.
It was the legendary Myre Drysh, a hunter’s dream. Its bower swept in all directions and washed up against the mountains to the east, the towering peaks of the Hyrg Scarp.
He wished he could forsake this journey and vanish into the forests below. He pictured leading the simple role of a tracker, eking out a living under that shadowed bower—and not just because of his love of woodlands and the challenge of a hunt.
It’s so sarding hot up here.
Sweat dripped from his nose and fell toward the distant canopy. He straightened and scowled at the rise of the Scarp mountains.
For two days, the Quisl had been following those peaks, heading due south. The mountains were too high near Kysalimri, the winds too fierce to risk crossing the range in such a small ship. As they trailed along the edge of the Scarp, the craggy peaks had grown steadily smaller. According to the ketch’s captain, a Rhysian named Saekl, they would head across those craggy peaks later in the day.
Not soon enough for my tastes.
Kanthe glanced back north, wishing the mountains were already between them and Kysalimri—especially considering who was held prisoner on board. He pictured Rami’s features, darkened by thunderheads. The Klashean prince still believed Kanthe had betrayed him. And Aalia’s disdain only grew worse with each passing league. No doubt the Imri-Ka was already hunting for his son and daughter, in ships far swifter than theirs.
Frustrated at their slow pace, Kanthe tightened his fingers on the rail. A ketch was built for quick launches and winged for agile maneuvering. It wasn’t designed for speedy passage over a long distance. The fluttering snap of the Quisl’s wings reminded him that they were flying as fast as they dared.
A harsh curse—followed by a sharper squawk of complaint—drew Kanthe’s attention to the bow.
Under the draft-iron cables that ran from the curve of the high prow up to the ship’s balloon, Llyra knelt with a slim woman named Cassta, one of the Rhysian assassins. She was the youngest of Saekl’s crew, maybe a year or two older than Kanthe. Her braid was shorter, holding only four bells, marking her as an acolyte.
Cassta pulled a squirming skrycrow away from Llyra.
“Hold it still,” Llyra complained.
“You’re too rough,” Cassta scolded. She frowned at Llyra. “It’s well for you to remember. Nothing is as strong as gentleness.”
Kanthe smiled, surprised at such words from an assassin-in-training. Over the past two days, he had often noted Cassta, more often than he should. She moved with a sultry grace that whispered of hidden strength and talents. He caught her occasionally looking his way, too. But she seemed to stare straight through him.
Llyra, though, was not amused. “Let’s get this message into the winds and be done with it already.”
