Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(49)
PART
TWO
SEVENTEEN
THE TRIP DOWN THE MOUNTAIN WAS almost as painful as the trip up. I was trussed and tied onto the back of a horse. Layers of wet linen were wrapped around me to keep me cool.
As we left the mountain behind, I ached with longing for the abbey, almost as much as I’d once ached for my cozy little hut near my village. I kept turning to look back, half expecting to see Arcus gallop up in pursuit. Everything was different between us now—he wouldn’t just let them take me. But after a day or two, when Mount Una grew hazy behind us, I started to give up hope.
The land was barren on the ride north, and many of the dwellings were empty. The few people who peered out of windows as we rode past were sallow-cheeked and thin. I wondered how so few would manage to plant and reap the crops they so desperately needed.
After a week, we reached the rocky foothills of Mount Fors, broken by winding paths. The sun was low in the sky when the king’s castle came into view, perched like a ragged stalagmite on the mountaintop. To the west, streaks of molten gold and bloody purple floated in the air like radiant scarves thrown into the sky. One side of the castle was lit brilliantly, the sunset reflecting and refracting off the ice in a dazzling display.
“Beautiful, isn’t it, Firefilth?” said the captain as he rode alongside.
My jaw clenched. “If you like ice.”
The lower portion of the mountain clutched at trees and scrub between gray rocks. As we climbed, the green became sparser and the ice dripped and oozed, first in pockets and patches, then thick, broad strokes. I was soon shivering, not only from the cold, but also from the sensation of being closed in on all sides by increasingly sheer, high frozen walls, as if the road had been cut out of the ice with a colossal knife.
We turned a corner and I was reduced to the size of an ant, for the road was lined on both sides by icy statues of enormous men. They were the Frost Giants I had read about in the old myths, symmetrical and perfect, formed of ice and given life by Fors. But there appeared to be no life in these statues. No movement, sound, or breath. My neck prickled as I passed, as if they watched me from somewhere inside the icy prison of their bodies.
We neared a huge iron gate embedded in the mountaintop. Soldiers lined walls and held bows at the ready. It wasn’t the arrows aimed at me that scared me, though. It was the frost wolves, white fur bristling, peering over the edge of the parapet. I’d heard stories of these keen-nosed creatures hunting Firebloods, for which they were specially bred.
One of the wolves raised its head sharply, sniffing the air and turning its twitching black nose in my direction. It fixed me with its icy eyes, wide and empty of anything but hunger, then raised its head and began to bay like a hound. The other wolves then went into a frenzy of sniffing and howling, voicing their fury that I was too far away for them to rip into and taste my hot blood.
The cacophony brought guards to the gates with swords raised.
“Name yourself!” called one wearing a steel helm.
Our party halted except for the captain, who rode forward. “Captain Drake, formerly of Blackcreek garrison. We have a Fireblood for the king.”
The guard assessed me with thinly veiled hatred. I wondered if he had fought in the border wars and how many men he’d lost to Firebloods. I returned his look with equal animosity.
After a thorough examination, the guard waved us through. We crossed a stone bridge over a wide moat with chunks of ice floating in the water. Every now and then, a scaly white fin could be seen. I shuddered and trained my eyes forward.
We passed into a wide courtyard dotted with statues carved of ice. We dismounted and grooms rushed forward to take our mounts, all of them careful to keep their distance from me. As we moved on foot toward a tunnel that led to a massive door, there was a commotion from the right.
“Kill the Fireblood!” a voice screamed from the crowd that was watching nearby. A woman in a simple, faded dress hurried toward us, her white hair covered by a kerchief, her eyes wild. Her lined face was twisted into an ugly blend of pain and malice. “She killed my Cam, my only son!”
The captain stepped forward and gently stopped the woman as her long-fingered hands took swipes at me like a cat trying to reach a mouse. She turned her furious stare on the captain.
“How can you protect this murderer?” she shouted.
“I’m no murderer,” I said shakily, disturbed by the intensity of her hatred. Likely, her son had died in battle and I was just the convenient face of her grief. “But your captain is.”
He backhanded me across the face. “Shut your mouth, Firefilth.”
I put a hand to my stinging cheek and blinked away the tears that pricked my eyes at the blow.
He turned back to the woman, his expression smoothing. “She’ll be dead soon enough.”
“Let me do it,” she begged, her hands opening and closing. Seeing the vengeful hatred in her eyes, I had a strange moment of recognition, like I was looking at a grief-crazed version of myself. It chilled my soul.
“The king decides how she’ll be punished,” said the captain, his voice steady and persuasive. “Leave her to him. Leave her to me.”
After a few panting breaths, she nodded, her shoulders slumping. She shot me one last hostile glare.
“Die slowly, murderer,” she said, loud enough that the air echoed with it. “Die in pain.”