Kushiel’s Dart

"Thin blood," observed my Skaldi lord, "though they say it runs hot." Reaching down with one brawny arm, he lifted me into the saddle behind him. "You ride with me, little one. I am Gunter Arnlaugson. Tell your companion to be wise."

He wheeled his horse, bringing us broadside of the still-staring Cassiline.

"Joscelin, don’t," I said through chattering teeth. "They won’t kill us out of hand; they paid too dear. Skaldi value their slaves."

"No." His blue eyes were fixed and wide, nostrils flared. "I failed you with Melisande Shahrizai, and I failed you with d’Aiglemort’s men, but I swear it, Phèdre, I won’t fail you here! Don’t ask me to betray my oath!" He lowered his voice. "The Skaldi’s sword is in your reach. Get it to me, and I swear I will get us out of here."

I didn’t look; I could feel it, the leather-wrapped hilt protruding from Gunter’s sword-belt near my left elbow. Joscelin was right, it was in my reach.

And we were alone, in a frozen wasteland. Even armed, the Cassiline was still outnumbered eight to one, by mounted Skaldi warriors.

"I have lived in servitude all my life," I said softly. "I’m not willing to die for your oath." I touched Gunter’s shoulder. He looked back at me, and I shook my head. "He is too proud," I said in Skaldic. "He will not heed."

The shrewd grey eyes narrowed and he nodded. "Bring him!" he called to his men. "And have a care he does not hurt himself on your spears," he added with another roar of laughter.

It took all seven, and I had to watch it.

I daresay Joscelin himself had never known, until that moment, what true battle-fury was. He fought like a beast at bay, bellowing with rage, and for a time I could see nothing but horses' bodies and thrashing limbs. He succeeded in wrenching a short spear loose from one of them and kept them all at a distance then, jabbing and threatening; if it had been a more familiar weapon…I don’t know. I cannot afford to guess.

"He looks like a girl," Gunter commented, his expression lively with interest, "but he fights like a man. Like two men!"

"He is trained to it from childhood," I said in his ear. "D’Angelines have betrayed him, the man you call Kilberhaar. Make him your friend, and he may fight for you against him."

It was a risk. Gunter’s gaze slewed around to me, considering. "Kilberhaar is our ally," he said. "He pays us gold to raid your villages."

The shock of it went through me like a knife, but I kept it from showing on my features. "To have a traitor for an ally is to have an enemy-in-waiting," I said solemnly, silently blessing the number of hours I had spent translating Skaldic poetry. Gunter Arnlaugson made no reply, and I kept my mouth shut, leaving him to think on it. His men, half of them dismounted, finally succeeded in bringing down the thrashing Joscelin, wrestling the spear from his grasp and forcing him facedown in the snow.

"What shall we do with him?" one of them called.

Gunter thought about it a moment. "Tie his hands and let him run behind your horse, Wili!" he called. "We will tire the fight from this wolf-cub before we reach the steading."

It was quickly done, and we set out, riding beneath the bright blue sky. I clung awkwardly behind Gunter, pathetically grateful for the fur cloak and his burly frame blocking the wind, and trying not to look back at Joscelin. They had bound his wrists before him, attaching a long thong like a lead, and one of the Skaldi held the end, forcing the Cassiline to run behind his horse. Joscelin floundered in the snow, sometimes losing his footing and being dragged, until the Skaldi halted and gave him time to gain his feet. His breath came raggedly and his face was bright red with cold, but his eyes glared fierce blue hatred of everything and everyone around him.

Including me.

Hate me, I thought, and live, Cassiline.

It was nearing nightfall when we reaching the steading, our shadows stretching long and black before us across the deep snows. Gunter made up a song as we rode and sang it aloud in a powerful voice, about how he had outfoxed Kilberhaar and captured a D’Angeline warrior-prince and his consort; it was a good song, and I didn’t bother to correct him. By that time, I was so cold, I could barely think.

There were a handful of snug cottages in the steading and a great hall. The doors to the hall were flung open wide as we approached, and men and women alike poured out shouting congratulations. Gunter dismounted, beaming, firelight from the hall catching the bronze fillet that bound his hair. He lifted me down from his horse and shoved me toward a knot of Skaldi. "See my new bed-slave!" he roared. "Is she not fine?"

Hands grasped at me, prodding and examining; too many faces, crowding close, ruddy and rough-hewn. I struggled free, searching for Joscelin.