Page 31 of White Raven

The Northerner roared, swinging the saw for the man. The sound of the jagged teeth shredding through skin and bone. The man gurgled out a cry, blood spraying over the room as his throat opened, his head sloping to the side, hanging on by tendons before his body crumbled to the ground.

The Northerner’s chest pumped up and down, blood covering him, his attention on the dead man. “Hrafnasueltir.” He spat on his body.

Raven starver. It was the gravest of insults to our kind, a slur men killed each other over without thought.

The Northerner’s attention lifted to me, his expression severe, hiding any emotion. His jaw strained, breathing ragged. He stepped over the man’s body, his legs wobbly as he came up to the table. His gaze traveled over every inch of me with intensity, landing on the deep gaping wound in my arm. His nose flared, a sound working up his throat, but he didn’t speak, not asking me if I was all right.

I was alive. That was good enough.

His hands reached for my cuffs, unbuckling the restraints from my limbs.

The moment I was free, he stepped away from me, moving around the room. I sat up slowly, my head whirling with drugs and adrenaline, vomit still threatening to emerge from my guts. Taking long inhales, I quietly watched him explore the shelves, opening and smelling various bottles until he found the right one. Grabbing cloth from a basket, he returned to me, stepping between my legs. Briefly his attention lingered on the branding tool hanging near my leg, zeroing in on the J, his throat bobbing.

I managed to speak. “What?”

He jerked his head back to me, unplugging the bottle in his hands. The scent of rubbing alcohol singed my nose. It reminded me of Elvina, how many times she had to clean my wounds when I was a child. Before puberty set in, Sarina and I were jumping from trees and running through the forest, getting up to mischief at every turn.

“This is going to fucking hurt.” His throat made every word coarse, his eyes lifting to mine with a challenge, holding the damp cloth in his hand.

Swallowing, I nodded for him to continue.

He dabbed the disinfectant around the open gash on my arm. My molars crunched together, a cry tearing at my throat, nausea burning the back of my lids, the pain sharpening the haze.

“If you need to vomit,” he growled, “do it that way.” He nodded toward the slaughtered figure on the ground. Blood pooled around him, flesh, bone, and tissue in lumps around his exposed spine. The man’s open, petrified eyes were glossed over in death.

The sight had me dry heaving, the emptiness in my belly shredding at the lining of my stomach. Retching up broth and bile, my eyes watered, a sob hiccuping in my throat.

In the last three days, I had been subjected to an arranged marriage, kidnapped, my friend murdered in front of me, almost drowned, starved, and now I had been seconds away from being slain and eaten by a cannibal.

My resolve crumbled into choking sobs. The Northerner didn’t react, continuing to clean and wrap up my arm, letting me have the moment of weakness. The king had instilled in me detachment from sentiment, the need to keep my emotions buried inside. Always royal, always showing strength and fortitude.

It was a moment before I could recoup, quieting myself down, my father’s voice barking in my ear.

“It is how we have to be, Wrennlyn . . . if we show even the slightest hesitation or weakness, those who have been hiding in the shadows, people you might consider friends, will strike. Show nothing to the outside world, too many will use it against you.”

Surprisingly gentle, the Northerner attended to the rest of my cuts, his expression a perfect wall of stone. Watching him, I wiped at my eyes, disregarding any evidence of my lapse in decorum. He had saved my life. Yet the words thank you would not venture from my lips, sticking in the back of my throat. He had saved me for his own nefarious reasons, but I still couldn’t help feeling grateful that my kidnapper prevented the cannibal from making me into a pie.

“How . . .?” I croaked out. My mouth was still numb and my throat raw and dry.

His gaze darted to me at the sound of my voice. His mouth pinched. He surprised me when he responded. “I have a high tolerance to poisons. Something I was trained for at an early age.”

“Oh.” I peered at him, his face splattered with blood, attentively wrapping my arm. A quiet intensity throbbed in the room. Adrenaline hammering in my ears with what had just happened. I became suddenly aware of his nearness, his touch, his body between my thighs. His gaze lifted to mine like he felt the change in the air, our breaths the only sound in the room.

He dropped the rag on the table, stepping back, irritation raising his shoulders. “We need to get out of here.”

Slipping off the table, I almost fell, his hand flying out to grab me.

“I’m fine.” I pulled away from his grasp, steadying my shaky legs.

He huffed, turning away and strolling to the wall to seize extra knives and cleavers, sliding several in his belt and two in his boots. Emulating him, I pilfered a sharp blade the flesh-eater had put on the table.

“No,” the Northerner growled, his head shaking.

“I will not be left weaponless and vulnerable like that again,” I snapped back.

“You think I’m stupid enough to let you carry a weapon?”

I stepped up to him, having to tilt my head back to look up at him.