He left the Abbey and didn't close the gate behind him. He wasn't alone. The masher blocked his path. His stepfather would love to have it mounted in the throne room, but if the man was here now; he'd have to empty the shit from his boots.

Ragnar had picked caterpillars from leaves in the north field without a second thought. This creature was like that but standing erect it was five times as tall as any man alive. The Masher came down as he tried to dive out of the way. The earth shook and a gust of grit stung his face blowing back his cloak. The Masher lay over the remains of the gate pieces of metal through its skull.

Ragnar thought about warning the Scion but it was possible she'd seen all this in his child's eyes. He didn't have any time to spare. The sun lay low on the horizon, and the shadows made him see creepers in every dark place. He had to move fast, so much depended on it. He jumped a fallen log realizing too late it was a slithering wyre. His fear gave him extra impetus and he charged forward not daring to look back. At a mound of downed asps the path curved towards the river, three manticore were tearing apart a piece of meat. He could only hope it wasn't human. He ducked into the jungle and slashed his way forward his eyes scanning for threats hoping to see some sign before he was torn apart and eaten alive.

He broke out of the clearing and sprinted down the riverside. He fumbled with the gate key. The bridge lock needed to be greased but he managed to twist it open. He ran down the bridge the wooden planks resounding under his feet. He could see old Marlin coming out of the gatehouse. Several figures came out with the crusty guard. Ragnar stared down the sights of their crossbows. He slowed to a walk trying to read the situation.

"Get on your knees Ragnar. You're under arrest."

Ragnar could recognize his cousin Woolard. "Don't shoot. Alert the guards on the northern gate, send reinforcements; we are under attack."

"Don't come any closer, Ragnar. The Queen has an order for your arrest. By the authority of the Queens social order, I arrest you for gross treason and familial indecency. Get on your knees."

Ragnar leaned on the bridges iron shielding. "Sound the alarm Woolard don't be a fool." He reached into his cloak, took a double pinch of tack. He put the wad into his lip and spat. He needed to feel the reassurance that the plant was always eager to share. He stood up straight and tried to remember that Woolard was a self-righteous prat who hadn't been this far outside the city walls in all his life. It took him a moment to anchor himself. His guts felt heavy his chest tight, but it wasn't fear that scraped at his innards. It was shame. The entire city would know his secret; the entire world would stand in judgment. He could feel the tacks gentle stimulation finally reaching his bloodstream. The constriction started to fade. Why should he give a damn what anyone else thought? He would redeem himself. He'd save the city. These bastards need to get out of my way.

Ragner pressed forward. "You're not going to shoot. I'm coming back from the Scion. She's given me a prophetic warning. I am a Prince; you are a jumped-up natural son of a whore. Stand down." Ragnar mad dogged the skinny whelp. The poor fool's shaking hands tried to hold up the Queens warrant. Ragnar tore it out of Woolard's grasp and ripped it in two.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

Woolard's eyes were swollen, Ragnar tried to guess whether he was going to scream or to cry.

"Shoot him," Woolard commanded.

Ragnar smiled to himself: scream. He'd almost been sure the man was going to cry. Ragnar squinted at the officer of arms. "Raleigh, is that you?"

"Yes, your Excellency."

"Very good, how's your son? I heard he got transferred to the Rangers."

"Yes, sir he did."

"May they always come home."

"May they always come home, sir."

"Raleigh."

"Yes sir."

"Alert the north guards, an attack is imminent, send all reinforcements to the northern wall. Sound the alarm."

Raleigh looked to Woolard then he looked back at Ragnar. "Yes sir." Raleigh nodded to Old Mallard, "Sound the alarm."

Ragnar looked out one of the bridges loopholes. The Northern Gate was still closed. There was no sign of attack. The low wail of Mallards horn sent shivers up his spine. He realized the Scion had just fucked him.

----------------------------------------

Ragnar paced his cell six steps then six steps back. He felt for loose stones, for bent bars, for some way out. He couldn't hear anyone, couldn't see anything, but he could smell, mold, decomposing flesh, his own sweat, the slop in the bucket.

He didn't want to get used to the absolute dark. Death was not supposed to come for him. He sat in the damp straw and tried to remember all he'd been taught about what comes after. He'd killed six men; some extremists believed they would serve him as slaves in the underworld. He thought of seeing Royce again, a friend of his fathers; most of what he knew about his father came from that man's stories. When Ragnar caught him trying to bugger a stable boy, Royce didn't fight back. Ragnar twisted his neck until the man stopped apologizing. Sometimes Royce came to him in his dreams unable to hold his head up.

A disgraced priest told Ragnar there was nothing after death, not even a vacant abyss, just the same nonexistence that came before birth - sometimes he wanted that to be true.

The door opened and the darkness parted. A guard with a lantern put a plate down with a clay jar. Ragnar studied the man. "Is there any news brother? Are the walls sound?"

The man spat onto the plate, gave him a hard look and shuffled toward the door. "The walls will stand for longer than you, sister-fucker." The man took his flickering lantern with him.

Ragnar seethed, but he wasn't going to kill that man. The son of a whore didn't know any better. A few missing fingers would be sufficient to help him to learn respect. He needed to start a list. He made a mental note, guard with bad attitude: three missing fingers. Next line, Willard: loss of rank. Maybe he'd make the man work in the orchards, hard work had a way of reducing the privilege that came from class, at least that's what he'd been told. Next line, the Scion: she deserved to die. Only she couldn't be touched. Her power kept the walls clear; one man could patrol a hundred spans without worry. The Scion would be difficult, right now he was a piece in one of her games.

He took his plate and scraped off the gruel, poured out the water, broke the jar, took some of the shards and started to work them.

When the door opened again three attendants set up blinding lanterns along the walls. A page doused the room with incense. The room still smelled like death only now it also smelled like rotting peaches. They set a purple cushioned throne before the bars. The chair was just out of his reach.