The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(45)
Thyra’s gaze slides from face to face. “Were they threatened by other raiders?”
Jaspar gives her a sly smile. “They certainly won’t be now.”
His warriors guffaw, and I fight a tangle of uneasiness. As Krigere, we raid. We take what we want. Weapons. Tools. As many horses as we can corral. Sheep and pigs and sometimes an ox. Sacks of grain, stores of wheat and barley. People, if they strike us as useful. But until now, I have never witnessed a tribe occupying another tribe like this. I suddenly realize that is exactly what Lars had in mind for Kupari. Would they have looked at us like this? Silent and stony-eyed? I’d never really thought about it—I hadn’t thought past the fight, the victory, the knowledge that I was the conqueror. Is this what comes after? There is something in their faces that sends a chill down my spine. “Twelve thousand?” I say quietly. If they stood up and fought, their sheer numbers would be like a giant wave on the Torden.
Sander grunts. “None of them warriors. And Nisse had several hundred.”
“Over a thousand, now that you’re here,” Jaspar calls out. “And we need every arm if we’re to fulfill my father’s vision.”
“I am eager to hear about that vision,” Thyra says drily, tossing me a questioning look.
“And so you shall!” Jaspar gestures up the road, which winds through the stinking, silent city to where the biggest human-made pile of rocks I’ve ever seen blocks out the setting sun. The shelters of the people seem to fall away as we hike a gently sloping hill that levels out at the top. The city surrounds the rock shelter on three sides like mushrooms around a tree stump.
“This is the tower castle,” Jaspar tells us. “This inner stake-wall around it provides some protection, as does the ditch around the perimeter.”
“How did Chieftain Nisse overcome these defenses?” Preben asks as he stares up at the tower, which juts like a massive stone oak, the height of five shelters piled atop one another. “A siege?”
Jaspar shakes his head. “They thought the bluffs on the lakeside would protect them, but a few warriors simply scaled the rocks, crept inside, and executed their guards—they were soft and ill trained—before capturing the king and his family. It was like goats defending sheep.”
I smile at the thought. “And then you opened the gates for the others. You took it by stealth.”
Thyra gives Jaspar a cold, accusing look. “Something your father is particularly skilled at, as I recall.”
“He’s not the only one, is he, Cousin?”
Thyra glares at him, but Jaspar doesn’t look the slightest bit apologetic. In fact, he squares his shoulders, his pride obvious. “My father saved countless warrior lives with his decision to attack with stealth. Lives that would have been wasted in an out and out frontal attack. We lost fewer than ten in the taking of this entire kingdom. Could Lars have done the same? Could you?”
Thyra’s eyes flare with the insult. “Well, my father did prefer a bloody fair fight to a—”
“And here we are,” Jaspar shouts, cutting her off. His smile is knifelike and the sweep of his arm sharp as he points to an opening in the stake-wall, presenting us with entrance to this castle. “Welcome to Chieftain Nisse’s domain, Chieftain Thyra.”
His words are pure warning, and I pray she heeds it. She looks so small between Preben and Bertel, both stout and broad-shouldered, standing in the shadow of this ugly stone monster that’s about to swallow us. She does not cower, though, or show any indication that she is afraid of what will happen now. Instead, she gives him a breathtaking smile. “Many thanks. I look forward to meeting my uncle again, face-to-face.”
Jaspar merely gestures for us to pass. We have entered a broad clearing lined on one side with shelters that are clearly meant for keeping animals, and on the other by a huge area marked off by square pegs of green wood hammered into the ground, strung with thick rope, with plenty of room around its perimeter for spectators, including a set of raised wooden benches.
It’s a fight circle, but the ground within is smooth and untrodden.
“Niece!”
From the entrance to the stone tower strides a man I haven’t seen in a year, one that I never thought I’d see again when he rode from our northern camp, disgraced.
His long, graying blond hair is pulled back in a queue, away from his face, which is handsome in a weatherworn way, a fading echo of Jaspar’s. But it’s his eyes that overpower the rest, and they sweep over us like they see all, measure all. Like I always did when he noticed me during trainings or tournaments, my body seems to shrink back, as if to escape his assessment. I hold my breath, waiting to see how he will greet Thyra.
He raises his scarred hands, spreading his muscular arms in welcome, his wide smile radiating triumph and joy. “Thyra, I spent days believing that my brother and his heir had been wiped from the face of this earth by the witch of Kupari. I cannot tell you my relief at hearing you had survived.”
Thyra remains still and stiff as he rushes forward and pulls her into an embrace, clutching her head to his broad chest, which is covered in a rich brown leather vest. When he releases her, she looks up at him with a surprised gaze. “How I want to believe that, Uncle.”
He grasps her arms. “All grievances are washed away with time. I told Jaspar to do everything in his power to see your tribe made this journey whole. We must be united again.”