The Wheel of Osheim (The Red Queen's War 3)

“No!” That old rage rose then, surfaced from its depths, and I welcomed it. As I ran back through the ranks of my men I roared a welcome to it that Snorri himself would have been proud of—greeting an old friend.

Edris Dean’s sword, the same blade that shaped my life, sent dead men back to the grave as easily as it set live ones on their first visit. There was a crucial difference though—the dead had no fear of men with swords. It made them easy for me to kill. I ran among them, swinging with every ounce of skill that my old swordmasters had beaten into me at Grandmother’s insistence, and every lesson that unwanted experience had taught me since. The men of Vermillion followed in a wedge behind me, and at every slash and slice I bellowed my brother’s name. I kicked corpse-men from their victims, chopped away the arms fastened on men’s throats, hacked and slew until my blade began to weigh like lead and my traitor limbs betrayed me, the strength running from them.

A corpse-woman grappled me about the legs, another grabbed my left arm, trying to sink its teeth into the inside of my elbow. The chainmail foiled the bite, and a spearman drove his shaft through the dead woman’s head, though she didn’t loosen her grip. Strong arms wrapped me from behind and pulled me back among my men. Unable to fight them, I collapsed into the embrace. For a moment the world went darker, the light of torch and lantern dimming as the thunder of my heart filled my ears.

“Darin?” I gasped the question between great lungfuls of air drawn through a raw throat. “Barras?”

I blinked and cleared my vision. The men around me were of the Seventh. Renprow stood looking down at me, making me realize I lay on my back. I’d passed out but had no idea how long I’d been unconscious. I blinked again. Cousin Serah stood beside Captain Renprow, her face soot-streaked and framed by a close-fitting chainmail hood, her eldest brother Rotus loomed behind her, his lean frame armoured, his customary sour expression in place.

“Where is my brother?” I demanded, sitting up, gasping at the pain from bruised ribs.

The captain tilted his head, face torn in three parallel furrows across his cheek. I followed the gesture and saw Darin, propped in a sitting position against the Appan Gate, more pale than I’d ever seen him.

“Barras?” I asked as I got up.

“Who?” Serah reaching down to help me I shook her off.

“Barras Jon, the Vyene ambassador’s son. Married to Lisa DeVeer,” Rotus supplied, always full of facts—even in the midst of battle.

“My sword!” I shouted, before finding it in my scabbard. “And where’s Barras, damn it?”

Captain Renprow shook his head. “I’ve not seen him.”

I reached my brother’s side and knelt down opposite the chirurgeon examining him.

“How—” My voice stuck, so I coughed and tried again. “How are you, brother?”

Darin raised a hand, as though it were the heaviest thing, and set it to his neck, torn by the nails of dead men, the crushed flesh livid with blood both above and below the skin. “Been . . . better.” A pained whisper.

I looked to the chirurgeon, a grey-headed battlefield practitioner in studded leather armour bearing the crossed spears of the Seventh. He shook his head.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” I stared at him in outrage. “Fix him! He’s a bloody prince. His elder brother’s in charge of your whole army . . . and I’m the fucking marshal!”

The man ignored me, as used to battlefield hysteria as to battlefield wounds, and tapped at Darin’s chest, above his ribs. “Ruptured a vessel in his windpipe. His lungs are filling with blood.” He set his fingers to my brother’s neck to count his pulse.

“Damn that!” I made to grab the so-called healer. “Why don’t you—” Darin’s hand on my wrist stopped me mid-flow, even though there was no strength in the grip.

“You . . . came back . . . for me.” So faint I had to lean in to hear it. I heard the bubbling then, of blood in lungs.

“I wish I hadn’t now!” I shouted at him, the smoke stinging my eyes so I could hardly see. “If you’re just planning to lie there and die on me.” Something caught in my throat, more smoke perhaps, and I choked on it. When I spoke again it was quiet, meant only for him. “Get up, Darin, get up.” More than a hint of a child’s whine in my voice.

“Nia.” I thought for a moment he was speaking of Mother—just for a moment, then I remembered his new daughter, small and soft in Micha’s arms. She would never know him.