Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
I agree, but then I whisper another thought. His brow furrows, lips pursed, before he nods and strides away, leaving me to hurriedly prepare herbs and oil.
Hakon watches with wide, fearful eyes as I get him to slather the mixture on his face and chew on ignisfern to lessen the inflammation. The boils will take until nightfall to fade, but I look him in the eye, my voice firm. “You mustn’t leave the brig until an hour after your face has healed. No matter what happens above.”
I hand him a bronze plate to check his reflection, carefully removing the incriminating dried flowers from the dromveske before I release Rurik from quarantine with a message from his captain. Then I race through the hallways, up the stairs, and out onto the deck.
The cold bites at my skin, but not as bitterly as the sight that greets me.
A half-dozen boats in all directions, cutting off any chance of escape. Each is lined with bow-and-arrow-armed brutes, their expressions hard and unyielding. Fiery braziers flicker on their decks, flames licking at the air, ready to ignite arrowheads wrapped in fuel-soaked fabric.
The boat directly at our starboard side seems to be in command, and just behind it, a larger ship looms with an imposing figure watching from the deck, his cloak billowing in the wind.
One by one, our crew steps onto the extended plank for screening, and one by one, they’re sent back. Megaera walks out too, followed by Lykos and Zenon.
“Any more?” comes a heavy shout. “All on board, including your extended families, will be sacrificed if any stowaway is discovered.”
The men stiffen. One quakes, sagging against the mast. “Our families, Captain. I don’t care about my life, but . . .” Panic seizes him. “There’s a sick man on board!”
Kjartan’s gaze flickers with annoyance, but his lips curl in a mix of understanding and pride. It’s a good man who chooses his family over his own life.
“And not just any sickness,” Captain Kjartan says calmly. “He carries the poxies.”
The surrounding boats erupt into frantic movement. Stormblades set arrowheads alight; bowstrings pull taut, awaiting the order to release.
I scurry to the captain’s side, and as discussed, he grabs me by my hood and drags me down the plank. The narrow wood bends and groans under our weight; my stomach lurches with each step. In my peripheral vision, I see Megaera and Lykos rush to the side of the boat, their faces drawn tight.
We all know it—the chances of winning this gambit are slim.
Snow flurries around us, but my shiver isn’t from the cold. It’s from the sight of those fiery arrows aimed right at us. Scorching heat and impending death. The stormblades’ faces are a mix of regret and ruthless determination, flickering in the firelight.
Kjartan yanks up my arm, exposing the birthmark. “This healer has Lindrhalda’s touch. The goddess has shown him how to cure this disaster.”
The stormblades exchange confused, disbelieving looks, their bowstrings tightening.
The one in command steps onto the side of his boat, his voice thick with scepticism. “I’ve seen many desperate acts. No one bold enough to claim they can cure the poxies.”
“I-I couldn’t walk from pain,” a voice calls from our ship. “He cured me with Lindrhalda’s guidance.”
The commander scoffs.
I hold up the herbs in a plain pouch. “Lindrhalda’s wisdom.”
Kjartan barks an order, and Rurik lets fly an arrow. It snatches the pouch from my hand, sending it in a neat arc to embed itself in the wood beside the stormblade’s feet.
“You dare aim a weapon at me?” he roars, his face twisting with fury.
He moves to kick the pouch into the sea, but a comrade halts him with a sharp jerk.
“What if it’s true? What if that is the cure?” He nods toward the grandiose ship, where the figure looms, watching.
The commander hesitates, his eyes locked on me and the captain, then picks up the pouch. He opens the tied end, casting a tight look at me.
Kjartan tenses beside me, and I’m ready to bow my head, to pray to any deity—even the Arcane Sovereign—to help us escape this. The only thing stopping me is the fear of taking my eyes off those sharp flaming arrows.
The commander dips his fingers into the pouch, pinches out a chunk of herbs, and sniffs deeply. His laughter is cold, cruel. He tosses the pouch to his comrades. “Nothing but the contents of a dromveske!”
He draws a fiery arrow, pulls the string taut, and lets it fly.
It hurtles toward the side of the boat—
Lykos barrels into Megaera, knocking her out of the arrow’s path. They crash to the deck, Lykos shielding her with his body. Zenon leaps to the fallen arrow, bravely stamping out the flame.
A second arrow is aimed at the ship on our other side.
I understand what the commander is doing. He wants us to panic, to know the third arrow is meant for the captain and me—exposed and vulnerable at the end of the plank.