Prince of Fools (The Red Queen's War 1)

“Pregnant?” All this time and he hadn’t spoken of it. Our long journey a hopeless race against that baby’s fate. A tear rolled down my cheek, hot and slow, cooling as it met the frigid air.

“I just killed my son.” Snorri closed his eyes.

I rolled my head and saw once more the foetus curled amidst the ruin of the body the unborn had built—the core of it, the potential, misused and ill-spent by some horror that had never lived.

“Your son . . .” I didn’t ask how he could know. Perhaps that bond between them had let the unborn know his mind, had led it to wait for us in this room. I didn’t ask anything—I hadn’t the words. Instead I spoke the smallest one—the one I should have used more in my short and foolish life.

“Sorry.”

We lay a long moment without speaking. Life leaked away from me, drop by drop. I felt I should miss it more.

A squealing noise broke the silence.

“What in hell?” I lifted my head a fraction. It sounded like—

“Hinges!” Snorri rose, slowly, supporting himself on his elbows.

“But you locked that door.” The squeal of iron on iron set my teeth on edge. “Bolted it too.”

“Yes.”

Another squealing sound. Louder this time, closer.

“How is that possible?” Some energy returning to my voice now. A whining edge too, I’ll admit. “Why aren’t they having to break them down?”

“They have the key.” Snorri reached for his axe, groaning.

“But you bolted all the doors! I saw you.”

Another shriek, the noise of old iron scraping across stone as the third door surrendered. Only one remained—the door I had my horrified gaze fixed upon.

“The key. Rikeson’s key. Loki’s key. The key that opens all doors.” Snorri managed to sit, deathly pale, a tremor in his limbs. “It’s the Unborn Captain. They must have found the key under the ice.”

Moments remained to us. I heard a dry scratching beyond the door and rust bloomed across the ancient black iron. It felt suddenly colder in that room, and more sad, as if a weight of sorrow had settled across my shoulders. More than I could bear.

“Jal—it has been an honour.” Snorri held his hand out towards me. “I’m proud to have known you.” He brushed his palm over the blade of his father’s axe, slicing it open. “Bleed with me, brother.”

“Ah, hell.” The bolts shot back on the last door with loud retorts. “I always knew you’d try this Viking shit on me.” The door started to judder open, inch by inch, pushing sacks aside. “Likewise, Hauldr Snagason.” I slit my palm on my sword blade, wincing at the deep sting of it, and held my hand out towards Snorri, cupping the blood.

The door jerked open the last half of its swing, and there in the dying light of our lanterns the Unborn Captain waited, hunched within the confines of the corridor, a parody of flesh, drawn out into malformations of every kind, a plague of bones jutting out around a face that spoke only of awful needs.

Somewhere out beyond the walls of the Black Fort the sun pushed its brilliant edge above the ice horizon and broke the long night.

The air between Snorri and me spat and sparked as our hands shaped to grasp the other. My arm filled with light so fierce I couldn’t look at it. Snorri’s became jet, a hole in the world that ate all illumination and returned nothing.

The unborn launched itself forwards.

We clasped hands.

The world fractured.

Night interlaced day.

Pretty much everything exploded.

• • •

The Silent Sister’s magic left us and pursued its prey. Detonations rang out throughout the keep, out into the dawn-dark courtyard, and off beyond the walls. The Unborn Captain had lasted less than a heartbeat. The twin cracks had run through him, dark had crossed light, and small pieces of him had ricocheted about the corridor as the cracks raced on.

The force of the blast set us both on our backs and blew us apart. I lacked the strength to disagree and lay where the explosion had dumped me.

The crack that had raced away from us began in the floor at the spot where we had clasped hands, the spot where our blood had mixed and spilled. The free end of it began to spread, slow this one, fracturing stone with a sound like breaking ice, the bright fissure woven with the dark one.

“Christ!” I blasphemed. May as well die with a final sin on my lips.

The crack veered towards me, blindingly bright, blindingly dark. I blinked at it and behind my eyes an echo of Baraqel stood, wings folded. “It’s in your hands now, Jalan Kendeth.”