The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(5)
“Freak storm,” mutters a warrior behind me. “Bad luck.”
“Skiffs still approaching fast,” our lookout shouts.
I squint ahead to see the three silhouettes much closer than they were before—impossibly, they seem to have covered at least a mile in the last few minutes. The prow of the lead boat is grandly decorated, a column of copper that shimmers as lightning flashes within the clouds above. I don’t understand—is this their navy? Just three tiny skiffs? And—
A deafening crash makes me yelp as rain lashes at my face. Thyra grabs her father’s arm to stay upright. Our boat roils with a sudden wave, followed by another.
I blink rain out of my eyes—the foreign skiffs are even closer now, and I gape at the one in front. The copper column isn’t a prow decoration, I realize. It’s a woman, skin white as winter, hair as red as my own. Her dress billows in shimmery folds behind her as she raises her arms.
It’s the last thing I see before the lightning stabs down from the sky like a Krigere blade, slicing the world apart.
CHAPTER TWO
I am thrown from my bench as our lookout’s scream is silenced. The sail explodes into flame, a flare of orange heat above me. Warriors shout in fear while our ship is tossed by violent waves. I claw my way back to my position, knowing by the grunts around me that others are doing the same. My head is pounding and my ears are ringing.
As the white glare clears from my vision, I stare. Not at the chaos all around me, but at the woman in the skiff. She stands serenely at the prow, a coppery crown on her equally coppery hair. Her vessel and the other two accompanying it are floating on a patch of completely calm water, in a clear ray of sunlight in the distance. I swipe rain and bits of ice from my face, unable to comprehend the sight.
When my hands fall to my lap, she’s still there. Arms upraised, looking up at the sky as if it were a dear comrade. On one of her wrists is a thick copper cuff that glints red in the sunbeam.
“It’s her!” shouts Einar, his voice strained as he clings to a rigging. Bits of fire from the burning sail rain down around him, mingling with icy rain. “The witch queen!”
“Starboard oars row!” howls Lars. “We’ll give her a Krigere welcome, storm or no.”
I spin in my seat and plunge my oar into the water, along with all the oarsmen on my side of the boat. We’re not completely together, but our efforts are enough to bring the ship around, so that its bow meets the waves head on. We’re perhaps a hundred yards from the witch and her peaceful patch of the Torden, but the waves are pushing us back.
“She’s doing this,” Cyrill shouts. “She’s calling down the storm! Look at her!”
I crane my neck, as does nearly everyone else on the ship. How could a person cause a storm? And yet there she stands in her circle of sunlight, untouched by the gale, the arm graced by that copper-crimson cuff aimed at the sky. She’s slowly twirling her fingertip—while the clouds above match the motion.
“All oars, row!” Lars bellows.
“You’re going to ram her?” Thyra asks, shrill and shaken.
I close my eyes at the sound of her voice. She’s right behind me. I could reach back and touch her, but I keep rowing, letting out a war cry that is answered by all my fellow oarsmen. Love for our chieftain beats fierce and proud inside me. No matter what happens, he fights. We will follow him into eternity. Nothing can stop us.
“We’ll crush her,” Lars shouts. “Row! R—”
His powerful voice is silenced by a sickening crack, a wave of heat, and a shuddering convulsion that throws me onto the oarsman in front of me. Thunder crashes around us as lightning brightens the sky, and I turn to the piercing sound of Thyra shrieking for her father.
The entire bow of our ship is on fire, the carved wolf engulfed, a blackened mass slumped over in the inferno.
It’s Lars.
Thyra’s back is pressed to my bench. Her blue eyes are wide, reflecting the flames devouring her father. Einar and Cyrill are sprawled in front of her, dazed and singed.
For a moment, there is a kind of hush, warrior cries smothered by a stunned realization that our chieftain is gone. My hands move on their own, reaching. My fingers skim along the soft, chilled skin at Thyra’s throat, my fingertips slipping beneath the edge of her collar, offering strength. Comfort. Her palms cover the backs of my hands, pressing my flesh to hers for a moment. But only a moment.
I feel the instant she transforms. Her muscles tense, and heat flashes across her skin. She squeezes my hands and pushes them away as she shoves herself to her feet and turns to all of us. “You heard him,” she shouts as the flames of our ship rise high behind her, the smoke billowing into the sky. “Row!”
My adoration for her is like a blade through my heart. I whirl around and gouge the churning Torden with my oar. But a massive wave hits my back a moment later, water to my chest that nearly pulls me from the bench. Dorte screams as she’s washed over the side and into the seething lake. Steam hisses as the fire behind me is extinguished. Thyra stumbles forward and clings to me as the lake tries to take her, too, so I wrap my arm over hers and try to row with one hand. I’m not strong enough, though, and the handle hits my chest. It knocks us both backward as the wave recedes, and I end up on the deck next to Thyra.
There’s no one up here but us. Einar and Cyrill have also been washed away. A roar to my left draws my gaze to a massive waterspout shooting up from the deep, swamping two warships as it rises to lick the sky. The Torden is raging now, waves the size of large hills tossing our mighty ships as if they were toys. The hoarse cries of horror and fear drive the terrible truth home—this is an enemy we were not prepared to face.