AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“We will take the axe.”
“You’re welcome to it. You there!” he called to a passing guard. “Hie off to the blade chamber, bring the beast’s axe to Sir Ginarthil here.” The warden seemed oblivious to the serjeant’s dour stare upon the mangling of his rank and name. “Oh, I say—that’s a fine way to get yourself about, your worshipness.”
The last he said to Elina, who’d settled into her sedan chair, which was smoothly lifted by the four porters at the fore and aft poles. Chardryn fussed over her, making certain the skirts of Elina’s robe and underdress draped just so before arranging the chair’s curtains to best frame the golden figure sitting inside.
Elina despised being carried about in this way. But she had little choice. Simply walking from the entrance of the prison to the warden’s chamber would have sapped her strength. Attempting to walk the full distance to the barbarian’s cell whilst wearing her heavy crown and raiments would be near impossible.
The litter served another useful purpose, however, by declaring her status and her wealth. Elina hoped to tempt a thief. Showing the barbarian thief that she was absurdly rich could only help persuade him.
At a nod of her head, the porters started forward. From the attendants trailing behind, Elina heard whispered mentions of the axe and the prophecy—all spoken in tones of rising hope.
Elina didn’t dare hope. She did not dare. Yet her heart pounded ever harder the farther into the prison they went, her blood surging at a dizzying pace, the witch’s words spinning unspoken over her tongue with every breath.
You will know it is he, wandering queen, because from the moment he first lays eyes upon your face, his heart will forever after compel him to follow.
His heart. Forever after.
If the witch had spoken true, Elina would be loved.
And if this was the warrior she sought, Elina would be loved very soon. The moment he looked at her. She longed for such a love until she ached.
But she didn’t dare hope.
The warden led them into a dank, narrow passageway. A rotten stench filled Elina’s next breath. Gods, no. This was not how her warrior would first look upon her—puking onto her golden slippers. In years past, she would not have even blinked at such a smell. That was before the curse and the illness made her stomach turn inside out at the slightest provocation. She gagged and fought her rising gorge, then almost cried her relief when Chandryn pressed a perfumed kerchief into her hand.
Ahead, the warden and Serjeant Iarthil had stopped in front of a wall made of iron bars, while her chair had not yet been carried beyond the shadows in the passageway.
The prisoner inside the cell wouldn’t be able to see her yet.
“Hold here,” Elina choked out, then put the kerchief as near to her nose as she could without smearing the queen’s face. May the gods forever bless Nanny Char, for the nurse had not doused the silk with an overpowering floral or musky fragrance, but with peppermint that cut straight through the stench.
Her breathing eased. Her eyes adjusted to the dim glow of the single lantern lighting the antechamber. Other cells they’d passed had narrow slits in the stone walls to let in air and light. But no slits opened the walls of the barbarian’s cell, and she strained to see beyond the bars.
Her heart leapt into her throat as movement in the shadows accompanied the slithering of iron over stone. No true sight of him yet. Only the impression of something…big.
Serjeant Iarthil had a better view inside. Disquiet marked his voice as he asked, “You keep him chained even behind bars?”
“We must.” The warden stepped forward to nudge one of the bars—which rattled loosely in its anchor of stone—before moving swiftly back. “One pull, and he nearly ripped that one out. The chains don’t let him near enough to grab hold of them. Or us.”
“I see.” The serjeant moved closer to the bars.
“Careful, Sir Ginarthil!” The warden urged before sharpening his voice. “Beast! Come and show your face! And don’t you give any trouble, for a goddess is here to set you free. They paid a heap of gold for you.”
Elina could almost feel Serjeant Iarthil’s exasperation. The warden must have, too.
Defensively the man said, “I’m just calling him forward. He doesn’t understand a word, but he understands tone just fine. Just like a dog does.”
“Yet I do not see him come forward.” Turning back to the bars, Serjeant Iarthil spoke in a language she’d heard a few times in port cities along the Illwind Sea. In his youth, the serjeant had sailed east of that sea—nearer to the Dead Lands, the home of the barbarian clans, though he’d never entered that barren realm.
“What did you say?” the warden demanded.
“Only that I wish to speak with him. That I have a proposal for him,” the serjeant replied. Elina knew he answered for her sake, not the warden’s. He would translate for her everything that was said.
