A Heart of Ice Page 3

  I see the first signs of them within half an hour. A shift among the plane of white in the distance. The soldiers emerge first, wearing their silver armor and white canvas uniforms. I hear the horse stomping, marching to Mit’an’av’s pace, before I see him. Mit’an’av is atop it. I wait patiently. They cannot see us, for we are engulfed in fire. We need to strike but wait as long as we can, lure them as close to us as we are able. The horses grow nervous as they draw near, disliking the flames. I see the mage, dressed in indigo robes, prepare the shields to protect the ice-people.

  I draw my sword.

  It slides out of the sheath with a ring, and I raise its metal tip to the sky. A thousand other scrapes and rings fill the air behind me. Their armor clinks and groans when they shift, feet stamping the ground. Suddenly, the whole earth is alive again. A phoenix shrieks out and launches herself from the branch of a burning tree, followed by two or three other, smaller firebirds. They all take to the black sky and move away from us. There are other sounds, chips and whirs and scuffles. Everything is hiding, fleeing. They know what is coming. They can feel it in us. The rage pours off of us in waves of fire. We are ready for blood.

  My jaw is set, my teeth together, my golden eyes locked on the white horse and his rider. Slowly, pushing back all of my fears, my doubts, I draw in a slow, deep breath. And then, when my lungs are full, I release the air with my rage and my hatred and my wrath in one terrible banshee-scream. The sound rips through the air, shrill and inhuman. Several more birds scatter from the treetops, and some rodent is chipping angrily from behind me. The roaring of my men grows louder. The enemy is stunned for a moment, their minds slow in realizing what is happening. A thousand cries for death follow mine: a chorus of rage and hatred and a lifetime of wounds. My horse launches himself from the ground and begins pounding through the clay to the enemy scrambling to arms.

  The battalion charges, thundering into the wasteland to conquer the world, to avenge the dead, to slay the wicked. They have no time to turn back. Two companies from my battalion join us from either side, and they are quick to surround the back as well, caging the Crystalice in. The half-bloods are sent to the back where they will fight mostly in snow. The ice will not harm them as much. The Crystalice draw their own swords and throw themselves into battle. What choice is there left but to die?

  In battle, the screams all sound the same. There is nothing to distinguish my friend from my prey. Each man is fighting for something: his life, his country, his loved one lost forever. In war, there is not much difference between I and my enemy. The only real difference here…is that I will not lose. I cut them down from my horse, one Crystalice after another. The Kerashaw is the largest horse we use, and his heavy hooves crush my enemies beneath him while I cut the men down from above. But my pursuit is one man. One enemy. They will try to cut a path for him to escape. They know that they will die. They will not try to defeat us but instead will rally their soldiers to protect their prince, their once future-king.

  No longer.

  I find Mit’an’av struggling to stay on his horse, surrounded by his men with his sword raised in the air, screaming obscenities and orders in a useless fashion. He was once a great leader, I am told, but either he is out of practice, or his reputation is nothing more than a peacock’s attempt at importance. I shout a command to my horse, and he leaps from the ground, dodging a cut to the side, and he throws himself down onto the protecting army. I hurl myself from the mount’s back and Shift in the air.

  In the air, my bones break and reform. My muscles tear and build and snap, gathering in different places while the ligaments realign and shift, my whole body contorting. The leather suit bursts, and the pieces fall away with my sword and sheath; the leather thong in my hair snaps, and red curls fly wild. I scream, and it stretches into a terrifying yowl, a tigress launching herself through the air and landing on Mit’an’av’s horse. I did not jump far enough to grab the prince, but I attack the horse’s hindquarters, sinking in my claws and biting down on the hip. Blood rushes into my mouth, cold blood, and it spills over my furred face. The horse screams and stumbles, throwing the prince off.

  I release the mount at once and spring from the ground as my army overtakes the Crystalice. I take Mit’an’av to the ground. His scream dies in his throat when my jaws close over his shoulder and neck. His blood is even colder. It is painful to taste in my mouth. Blue and cold, turning red when it touches the open air. I do not stop moving. With the man in my mouth, teeth piercing through the armor and into his flesh, I bound up again, running. I dodge over enemy after enemy, throwing them back with my much larger form. I am no ordinary tigress. None of us are ordinary beasts. I can feel Mit’an’av’s muscles twist and stretch in my mouth. He is trying to Shift. I snarl and bite down harder, dragging his screaming form through the fight. I begin to circle the battle, carrying him like a half-wanted toy while I watch the progression of the fight, dragging him, making him bleed, making him suffer.

  He beats on my head and struggles for his dagger. Finally tired of this, I pause and stamp one massive paw on his arm, piercing it at the juncture with my claws and dragging my nails down the length of it. I do not completely sever the arm as I pull back with my teeth, but my claw shreds the muscles and dislocates the bone. His arm is useless now and bleeding out as badly as the bite. He screams. A pitiful scream. He is begging me to let him go, begging me let him live. If he were a less important prey, I might enjoy playing with him. Letting him run a bit and then catching him again, letting him loose and catching him, wondering when he will realize that there is no escape and he is going to die. But I cannot. Not with this one. Claque—yes. That will be how I kill Claque. But not the prince. The prince must die.

  His blood stops gurgling into my mouth. It now only trickles, and it rolls from between my teeth to mat in my fur. It coats my face, my chest. His blood covers the arm that destroyed his. I am more red than gold, watching, waiting, holding his limp body in my jaws. The battle does not last long. We made no mistakes with this one. The prince had to die. We have been waiting for a fortnight and traveled that and more. All for this moment. All to kill the Crown Prince. He gave his life to keep his kingdom. How fitting. Now there is only one son of King Dante’s remaining—Gabriel.

  When I am certain that the battle has died and all that remains is for the soldiers to gather the dead and dispose of them, I lay down on the ground with my charge in my jaws, laying on him to make sure that my prize is secure. His body snaps and creaks beneath the weight of mine. Our men bring home the fallen to be burnt honorably on pyres. We will throw the enemy into the forest to be consumed. We will gather the wounded in the center and treat their conditions, and we will draw up an account of the battle to relay to our superiors. Mit’an’av’s company has fallen. The prince is dead.

  “Knight Protector,” Jacob calls, stomping over to where I am with my dead parcel. He is still in human form, his armor caked in blood, his sword soaked in it. Jacob does not appear harmed, only tired, and more than ready to go home. I raise my head from my prey, for the first time looking down at his mangled corpse. The sight turns my stomach. His eyes are frozen open in fear, his jaw slack and hanging wide and broken as if in a scream. Blood covers his whole left side, and his right side boasts the shredded arm of muscle and bone destroyed. “There are three men left,” Jacob tells me, looking at me and not at the body.

  I snort, unable to answer in this form. But I get up and drag the body with me. I am not the only tiger. Many others Shift forms and use their superior strength and speed to carry carcasses away. The larger cats pull carts carrying the injured. We do not enjoy working like pack animals, but we do what is necessary. I take a looser hold on Mit’an’av this time and drag him by the bite that killed him to where the three survivors are bound, surrounded by my soldiers. They are soaked in blood, and at least one will not survive the night. They have been stripped out of their armor and kneel in their misery bound to each other. They are all three young, but one
much more than the others. He is not more than a boy, really.

  Their eyes grow ever wider as I approach and drop their dead prince in front of them. I stand and then begin to Shift forms, pushing off of my front paws so that my human form stands on two legs. Even still, I am covered in blood, naked, my copper and golden hair piled in messy waves on my shoulders and down my back. Half of my face is hidden in blood, and it covers my chest and my right side. They look on me with horror and disgust, although the boy is still naive enough to blush.

  “Your prince is dead,” I say, my voice low and smooth, a deadly purr. I kneel down in front of them so that my bloody face is in front of theirs. Blood used to bother me. Not as much anymore, not any more than sweat or tears. The boy and another begin to tremble, and I give a small smile. It satisfies me that they are afraid. Still…

  “Today is a very important day,” I coo as if speaking to a child, although my eyes wander between all three men. “Someone must go and spread the word. I need a messenger to tell the king that his oldest son is dead.”

  “You vile bitch,” one of the men snarls and gnashes his teeth at me. My smile drops. “You can go to hell! You hear me!”

  I move swiftly and without mercy, my nails lengthening and slicing through his throat. His eyes go wide for a moment as he gasps and gurgles. The boy cries out, barely managing to check himself and go quiet. “You first,” I respond dryly to the dying man. I sigh impatiently and look over at the two remaining men. “Now then. Who would like to carry my message to the king?”

  The boy bites his lip, and he is trembling so badly, trying to be brave. The other looks at him, his brows knit together in serious thought. Who would know but him? “I will go,” the other man says, looking up at me, looking me in the eyes.

  I glance back at him with disappointment. “My, my, so quick to sacrifice your fellow soldier? How disgusting. You will die.” My other hand snaps out and slices through his neck as well, deep enough to kill him quickly. I’m not in the mood to watch him squirm. When the nightmares plague me of my brother and my husband and the soldiers I have burned, then perhaps I will be in the mood to watch them suffer as I have suffered. But now…now, I am only tired. And no matter how many Crystalice I slay…the nightmares only get worse.

  “Well, I suppose that leaves you,” I say and sigh, standing up. “Unbind him.” Jacob cuts the boy loose, and he stands shakily to his legs. He stumbles, and I reach out, grabbing him by his arm. He cries out, but I do not harm him. I hold him up, jerking him to his feet. He finds his footing and stands there, watching me. He is nearly as tall as me. “You are young to be a soldier,” I tell him, because I cannot help myself. I put my bloody hands on my hips and frown at him.

  He shudders and stammers for a moment. “Y-Y-Y-Yes…” he stutters. “I-I-I w-wanted t-t-to k-kill the m-man who k-k-kilt ma brother.”

  “I see.” I consider him for a moment. How pathetic. What did he hope to accomplish? He was probably placed in this company because they weren’t expecting much action. “Tell me, what is your name?”

  He bites his lip, looking around and then snapping his eyes anxiously back to me. “I-I am…Heather MacGreuligh’s son, T-T-Tam.”

  I smile. He flinches. I had forgotten that although the monarchy had been mostly male for the past few generations, the Ceruleans are in fact a matriarchal country. “All is well. Go and tell your king. You will not be harmed.” He looks at me untrustingly. “I have never left a man alive before. Go and tell your king that Scar has slain his son.” The boy nods slowly, and I step back.

  Jacob offers me a black, cotton tunic to pull on. I drag it over my head, and it reaches down to my thighs, covering me. It is irritating, but I do not enjoy walking around bare in front of my men. It is hard enough keeping their respect as it is. The boy hasn’t moved. I raise a brow at him. “Go on. Move,” I snap, and he jumps and starts walking uneasily towards the snow. My men look at him unhappily but leave him alone, glancing to me uncertainly.

  “You’ve never let one go before,” Jacob says simply, grabbing Mit’an’av up to throw him indiscriminately into the fire with the others.

  He is not quite challenging me, but I give him a warning look anyways, going to find my horse. “Someone needs to tell the king,” I answer dryly.

  He returns my look. “The boy may buy that, but I don’t. He would find out sure enough on his own.”

  “…he is little more than a babe, Jacob.”

  He sighs. “And one day, he will be a man and would sooner cut you down.”

  I look over at him, watching him toss the mangled prince into the fire. A soldier brings my brother’s mount, Chestnut, and I take the horse by the reigns and pat him lovingly on the face. “Perhaps,” I tell Jacob, inspecting my mount for injury. He has a few cuts, but most of the blood is not his own. “But for now he is a babe, and I will not wet my hands with his blood…not today.” A bit lower, I say, “Blaze was right…the more you do this…the more the line fades.” I sigh, close my eyes. “Avenger and murderer become one…and sanity gives way to madness.” My eyes open again. “I have to draw a line somewhere or else…I will lose myself…”

  I stroke Chestnut’s strong jaw, and I wonder for a moment if Jacob is still there behind me. He is. “Are you sure you haven’t lost yourself already, La’centa?” he asks me, and I give a little start because I have not heard that name in so long. I look over at him with large, golden eyes, and for a moment, I am the young woman again who dances with her company and defends her castle with a bow, who blesses the birth of newborns and offers prayers at the pyre.

  And then I look away, and I am Scar once more. “Perhaps I have.” I turn away with my horse to round up my men, throwing myself onto the back of Chestnut, covered in blood. He does not mind. He is bloody too.

  Chapter Six

  Gabriel

  Finally, a moment’s peace. I sigh and lounge back in the stuffed chair. In a few hours, I will need to finish going over those reports for Claque, and I will need to brief myself on the meetings coming up tomorrow. But for now, I have a few hours to spare. Enté is sitting on the floor, murmuring things that are mostly incoherent to my ears. I smile and watch him. He has an ice horse in one hand and a glass soldier in the other, holding them about as if they were real. I’ve no notion as to what he’s saying, but it amuses me to watch him, and so I do, laying back in my chair and just watching him play.

  An image flashes before my eyes. An image of a young woman with pale, brown hair kneeling on the floor beside him, her teal skirts spilled about her legs. One arm supports Enté’s back, the other holding a glass soldier, playing with him. She is smiling, and Enté looks up at her and frowns and says, “No, mummy! Das no right!” and she laughs and says, “Is it not? Well then, what would he say?” And she smiles and she looks up at me like there is some secret between us two, and I cannot help but smile back because she is so lovely and because she is gone.

  “Father?” I blink, looking over at Enté who is watching me with curious intent. My vision is gone. Not quite a memory, not quite a wish. She never even held our son. In the weeks after the birth, I would sometimes bring him to her, but she was too weak to hold him and often not lucid enough to do more than murmur.

  With a heavy sigh, I push myself forward to lean on my knees, watching him with an easy smile. “Yes, my son?” I ask.

  He looks down at the soldier and the horse in his hand. “Can you make da soldier move?”

  I smile. “Set him down on the ground, Enté.” He does, carefully setting the soldier down so that he will stand up right. His motor skills are improving. Usually the soldier falls a couple times first before it will stand. I stretch out a hand and flick my finger out, giving it a twirl. The soldier shudders and then salutes and begins to march. Enté cries out with joy and claps his hands, laughing. His white-blue hair falls in front of his eyes, but he just pushes it back with a smear of his hand and watches the soldier.

  The bang on the door startles us both. The s
oldier shudders and drops to the marble floor. My smile drops, and I pick up my head, watching the door. What is it this time? I very specifically demanded that my time with my son not be disturbed. “Enter.”

  The door opens and a servant stands in my view. He bows. “Sire. Forgive me. Your presence is requested in your mother’s solar.”

  A summons from mother? My frown deepens. I rise and look to Enté. “Come, child. Get up.” Enté looks from me to the servant and back with great confusion. My heart is pounding. I can hear it in my ears. Enté pushes himself up and comes to my side, holding the soldier and the horse in his hands, close to his chest as if to protect them. I give him a small smile, although whether to assure him or myself, I am not sure. The servant bows and moves aside. What could it be now? The last time I was summoned to my mother’s solar was when Mit’an’av made a disaster of the winter solstice ball. He is supposed to be on a tour. What could he possibly have done now? I try to come up with the answer as I walk to my mother’s door, Enté taking two steps for every one of mine.

  I am much more like my mother who enjoys pacing in her parlor and pouring over books and spends her afternoons writing to many friends and dignitaries and wives. Mit’an’av has always been my father’s pride and joy. It is just as well that he is the firstborn then. He and father are absurdly alike. In form, they are both large and powerful men, as big as an ox and often with as much reason as one. Trying to debate with them during a council meeting is like trying to convince a mountain to move from here to there, different only in that, with enough help, one could actually move the mountain.

  Mit’an’av always tells me that I am his secret weapon, and it is well enough true. As children, we both endured training, but he took it much more to heart. He was always the jovial one playing with the other lads, flaunting in front of the dames. I would train hard enough to impress my father and then no more before retiring to my lessons or some new philosophical piece my mother had presented me with. And so it was no surprise when Mit’an’av was named crown prince. He is the oldest, the strongest, but the most capable? That is another story. Still, he is exactly what my father thinks a king should be. I never cared for the throne, and so I have little jealousy over the matter; I was, however, impressed with my brother and honored by him, when he requested for me to serve as his military strategist.