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

“Death is a permissible outcome but either party may still choose to accept if the other party yields.” I quoted from my extensive knowledge of duelling regulation.

“Well I don’t yield!” Isen shouted. I could imagine the froth around his moustache.

“I can drop you on my knee and break your back. You realize that?”

“Do your worst, despoiler!”

I was sure someone must have swapped Isen for Snorri: it was the only way to explain how heavy he had become. I had to rest some of his weight on my head to relieve my arms. “Two of the DeVeer sisters have been widowed since the last sunset,” I said, through teeth gritted with effort. “I’m loathe to widow the third.” Then, too quietly for the crowd to hear, I hissed, “And if you don’t yield I’m going to put you over my knee and spank you before your troops.”

A deathly silence followed, during which I barely managed to keep him aloft. If he’d struggled he would have broken free and I would have been too weakened to fend him off—but in the end it was the threat to his dignity rather than his life that scared him.

“I yield.”

I did my best not to drop him but the effect was pretty similar. “Isen yields!” I shouted it loud enough for everyone to hear and stepped away sharply while two of his captains hurried forward to help him up. I would have lifted my arms in victory but right then even reaching up to scratch my nose would have been a labour of Hercules.

Isen shook off his knights and came striding toward me. I tried not to flinch or beg him not to hit me again. Instead I played on the role of bold, brave, bluff Jalan, hoping that a sufficiently convincing performance would erase the memory of me being flattened by a single punch and lying at the count’s mercy.

“Honour is settled, Isen, and at least one of the DeVeer sisters still has a husband. Count your blessings, and remember that Sharal is the greatest of them.”

Count Isen’s mouth twisted with all the harsh words he wanted to let loose in my direction, but like old nobility he bit down on it and followed protocol. “Settled.”

Lowering my voice for just his ears. “Do your duty. Vermillion needs you. Play your cards right and you could come out of this a hero. You might find the dead wandering close to the city—in small numbers it would be a chance to let your men adjust to the idea and to develop your tactics. Spears are not the best weapon.”

“The dead are truly risen?” Isen chewed at his lip, staring into the distance over the heads of his men.

“You need to get messengers into the city to coordinate with the new marshal. Send them in by river—watch out for mire-ghouls, they swim and use envenomed darts. Your men will be more useful inside the walls so getting them in will be the first task . . .”

Isen favoured me with a hard stare, perhaps reevaluating me, though from his expression it could be in either direction. He raised his hand and shouted, “Move out!” He walked briskly to the roadside and men hurried out of his path. From the embankment he beckoned the Norse to him then waved his knights on. Snorri, Kara and Hennan came to stand beside us as the spearmen started to march past. Sir Thant led the count’s steed over, Murder immediately snorting a challenge at the larger horse.

“I’ll leave these foreigners in your care, Prince Jalan. My agents found them on the Roma Road heading north and since they were the only link I had to finding you after your remarkable disappearing act.” He shot me a dark look. “I extended the hospitality of my house to them. The woman mumbles a lot of heathen gibberish.” He nodded toward Kara as if she were incapable of understanding Empire tongue. “Claimed you and the other had descended into the underworld!” Isen managed to combine disgust and amusement in a single snort. “But she knows some tricks and said she would be able to find you when you got closer . . . and she did! In any event, they’re your responsibility now. Release them, have them incarcerated as spies, or turn them over to the inquisition—whatever you choose.”

Isen turned and mounted his monstrous horse, a feat that required several more steps than is traditional. He turned in his saddle and regarded us all from on high. “We won’t speak of this again.”

A shake of reins and the count left us, Sir Thant trotting after him toward the head of the column. We watched him go, silent for a long moment.

“So.” I turned back to Kara and Hennan. “Did you miss me?”

TWENTY-THREE

Half a mile down the road we found the inn I remembered, The Jolly Marcher, a long timber-framed building with stables and outbuildings, set up to feed, accommodate, and if necessary repair, any traveller with sufficient coin in their pockets.