The Queen and Her Brook Horse Read online

  PRAISE FOR HONOR AMONG ORCS,

  BOOK ONE IN THE ORC SAGA:

  “...such an awesome adventure that I’m having trouble finding the words to describe this amazing book.”

  —Tracy at TNT Reviews

  “Honor Among Orcs [...] takes you by surprise and doesn’t let go of your imagination...”

  —Shannon Mayer, Author of the Rylee Adamson series

  “...the world-building complexity of a Tolkien fantasy. The star-crossed aspect of a Shakespeare tragedy. All with the character and relationship development of a romance.”

  —Wendy Sparrow, Author of the Taming the Pack series

  “Dillin weaves a tale fraught with adventure and true love, in a dynamic and fast moving story that turns all the classic fantasy tropes on their heads. I loved it from the start!”

  —Caitlin Greer, Author of ParaWars: Uprising

  “Amalia Dillin creates a fascinating realm where betrayal runs rampant and nothing is as it seems. Majestic storytelling, a breathtaking, larger than life world, and characters that offer new perspectives on long-standing traditions, HONOR AMONG ORCS is a fantasy triumph.”

  —Diana Paz, Author of Timespell

  OTHER WORKS BY AMALIA DILLIN:

  The Fate of the Gods Trilogy

  Forged by Fate

  Fate Forgotten

  Beyond Fate

  Fate of the Gods Novellas

  Concealing Fate

  Tempting Fate

  Taming Fate

  Enduring Fate

  Facets of Fate

  The Orc Saga

  Honor Among Orcs

  Blood of the Queen

  Postcards from Asgard Duology

  Postcards from Asgard

  From Asgard, With Love

  Short Stories & Novelettes

  Imaginary Friends

  Frost Bitten, Twice Shy

  Favor of God

  AND BY AMALIA CAROSELLA:

  Helen of Sparta

  By Helen’s Hand

  Tamer of Horses

  Ariadne and the Beast: A Short Story

  The Siren's Song: A Novella

  Daughter of a Thousand Years

  A Sea of Sorrow: A Novel of Odysseus

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Honor Among Orcs

  Other Books by Amalia Dillin

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dramatis Personae

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek at Forged by Fate

  More Books by Amalia Dillin

  The Queen and her Brook Horse

  Copyright © February 2018 Amalia Dillin

  www.amaliadillin.com

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1985265699

  ISBN-13: 978-1985265691

  Cover Art designed by Amalia Dillin

  All rights reserved.

  Formtatting/Layout by Caitlin Greer

  Reproduction and distribution of this work without permission of the author is illegal. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between characters or events in this story and with any other person or creature, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  FOR UNCLE BOB

  I hope you, Grandpa, and Uncle Lewis are enjoying the show.

  And also for Adam, because Always.

  Signy pulled up her horse at the edge of the water, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves as she studied the falls. The basin was lush and green, the rocks slick with moss and algae, and the spill of the water roared in her ears. She wouldn’t be able to hear if anyone approached from the trees, but nor would they hear her from any distance—and if she had been followed, it would not matter what they saw or heard. If she had lost Gunnar’s trust, she was already dead.

  She slipped from the gelding’s back, stroking his neck and murmuring a word of praise and thanks in Elvish to the poor beast. Gunnar’s stables had fine animals, there was no question about that, but the stablemaster was a cruel man, and Gunnar himself was not above beating an animal that did not perform precisely as he wished at any given moment. Just as he was not above striking his servants. Or his wife.

  But all of this, she had known before her father had asked this of her, before he had arranged her marriage and she had gone consenting into the arms of such a king. Her father had concealed nothing from her, that she might have the knowledge she needed to protect herself. The knowledge she needed to protect them all.

  “There is a restlessness in that man,” her father had told her. “And if we do not make this pact for peace, he will come for what he desires by war. It was never my wish to see you married this way—sold to a man who will treat you with no more consideration than a brood mare—but if it means that our kingdom is kept safe, and he turns his eyes North or West instead of South and East...”

  Signy had bowed her head, seeing as clearly as he did what was required, and how little choice they had in the matter. “I will do my duty, Father.”

  “You will not be wholly without friends or support,” he said softly, now that she had agreed. He lifted her face with a finger beneath her chin, searching her eyes. “And there is a way, if you are willing and careful, that you might do more than just your duty. A way you might secure power of your own, and protection for any children you bear.”

  Her stomach had churned at the thought then, just as it did now, of carrying Gunnar’s child in her womb. Of enduring what was required of her in the marriage bed at all. But of course it could not be avoided. Not entirely. Gunnar would have no use at all for a barren queen, and more than likely would send her back in disgrace if he believed her to be incapable. And it would be the period of greatest risk for her, besides. No. All the herbs and potions and magic in the world would not serve her in that regard.

  But the children she gave Gunnar, by the terms of the contract they had both signed in blood, would offer her some meager protection themselves. For if she died before their tenth birthday, Gunnar would not keep her children at all. A provision her father had insisted upon, and she had been terrified Gunnar would reject. Evidently his desire for unrestrained access to Hunaland’s wealthy port was greater than his need for an heir.

  “There is a brook horse who will answer if you call,” her father continued. “One of the last not held by iron fetter in some Elvish stable in the North. You are young and beautiful, and if you are brave and willing, he will bargain with you, I have no doubt. The children he might give you will not have his power, I am sorry to say, but they will have his blessing—the protection of his blood and his magic.”

  “If Gunnar learned of it—”

  “The brook horse will protect his children. Gunnar will never learn the truth of their bloo
d. But should he lose faith in you, Signy, there will be nothing to protect our people from his reprisal.”

  In her father’s kingdom, it had been different. Women were not treated as property—they were not simple livestock to be bought or traded, bred and used and put to pasture in their time. Queens were as powerful as kings, and wives as equal as their husbands, deserving of half of whatever their family had built—or more, if it was shown to be her labor which had built it, and her husband a drunken fool. In her father’s kingdom, a man did not dare to beat his wife, the risk of losing his property to her in recompense too great for whatever satisfaction the violence might give in a moment of thoughtless rage.

  But Signy had no such protection as Gunnar’s wife, nor even as his queen. He ruled absolutely, the few laws which governed his people and constrained their actions beneath his own notice. If he wished to beat a servant to death, there was no one to stop him—no one who might dare to so much as raise objection in the slightest, or risk their own hide and neck in the process.

  For all his power though, Gunnar was a fool. Signy had known it before she had agreed to marry him, of course, but she had not realized quite how deeply his foolishness ran. How determinedly he had allowed it to blind him. How easily he was manipulated by it—though not without risk. Always, Signy measured the risk. For though Gunnar himself was foolish, his guard captain, Ragnar, was not.

  But as long as she was careful—she only hoped that her father was right and the brook horse would do the rest.

  Signy drew the dagger from her belt and slid the blade carefully across the existing scar on her wrist. One single white line, unremarkable against her fair skin, and reopened only sparingly to ensure it remained so. Gunnar should not realize immediately the meaning of such marks, multiplying on her skin, but Ragnar might, and the Seithr women Gunnar kept certainly would.

  Her blood welled up and she tipped her arm, letting it track across her wrist and drip into the water. “Isolfur, lord of these waters, king of horses, I come to bargain my body and blood in exchange for your blessings and aid.”

  She repeated the call with the second thick drop of blood, and again with the third before pressing a phial to her skin instead and collecting the rest of the precious liquid before the wound began to close.

  One did not let their blood fall indiscriminately, nor waste what they might offer elsewhere, after all. So she corked the phial, half full, and tucked it carefully away between her breasts before binding her wrist with cobweb and linen, winding the bandage tight and tying it off securely. Even the blood upon the cloth would be valuable later, and dangerous to her, too, should it fall into the wrong hands.

  But what others might see as fastidiousness or squeamishness even, Signy knew provided security and power. Let Gunnar laugh in condescension when she fussed over a cut or a finger prick—let him perceive her habits as weakness while she continued to gather her strength and put her careful protections in place. She did not care what he thought of her, so long as he remained blind and foolish. So long as her people were kept safe, and so was she.

  The water foamed, white and burbling, and Signy stepped back, holding her breath. It was one thing to accept her father’s assurance that the brook horse would bargain with her, and another to face the creature and ensure the bargain she struck was fair. Brave and willing, her father had said, and she was both after living as Gunnar’s wife for the last half-year. For he was already impatient for a child, and she had promised herself after the first sting of his open palm across her face, that any children she bore would not be his.

  But when the foaming water became a horse’s head, and fore-hooves, and before her suddenly stood a stallion of gleaming, glowing white, nickering softly and bobbing his head in greeting, Signy only lifted her chin, refusing to reveal even a flicker of fear. “Isolfur?”

  The horse bared his teeth, tossing his head in acknowledgment, or perhaps impatience, and Signy inclined her own head respectfully. “I come to bargain, if you are willing. To trade myself and my womb in exchange for your protection and your blessing on any children that result. I cannot live with you beneath the water, for I am a queen bound to my king, but I offer you the pleasures of my body this day, and the boon of my friendship.”

  Isolfur stared at her for a long moment, ears pricked, then flicking back. He stepped forward, stretching his neck and nosing about her hair, her ear, the curve of her shoulder—almost tickling, truly, before he exhaled heavily into her skin and drew back again.

  His head dropped, and he sidled sideways, presenting his back. She could not know if he had accepted the bargain, would not know for certain until she went with him, putting herself into his power beneath the water. Signy swallowed, willing herself forward. One step, then two, and she touched his bright shoulder, barely hesitating before gripping his mane at the base of his neck and vaulting up to his long back.

  After all, there was little the brook horse could do to her that Gunnar had not already done.

  At the heart of the forest of Tiveden, in the bottom of Fagertärn lake, Isolfur swam through the reeds into a small, dry cottage, roofed with snail shells and walled with smooth, river stones. He flicked his ears, acknowledging the small gasp of his passenger as he pushed open the door with his nose, and a shiver trembled across his hide. Hooves melted into toes, into feet and legs and arms and hands, with fingers and thumbs. He shook himself again, and rose onto two unsteady legs, catching his balance with a soft-palmed hand splayed against the doorframe. And through it all, this unexpected and delightful woman clung tightly to his back.

  Only here, in this small space, with its snail shell roof and river stone walls, with its windows of sea glass and driftwood beams, only here, beneath the cold lake waters could he ever take the shape of a man. For what little good it did him, these days, to be a man at all.

  As a brook horse, he had freedom beyond anything dreamt of by men or elves. If even a drip of water ran upon the ground, he could reach it, traveling through the water tables between the rocks, beneath the earth to mountain springs or valley waterfalls, to the smallest of burbling brooks and the roaring rivers, even to the sea with all its wonders, and the coarseness of its salt in his mane, crusted to his hide until he stank like the fish. Nor was he limited to the water alone. He could run as far and as fast as he liked over land. To the other side of the mountain, to the land of men, to the mountain top where the green-skinned Hrimthursar built their huts out of stone and sedge, to the forests of the elves, and the volcanic craters and caverns of the dragons.

  The world was his while he stood on four legs, instead of two. As it belonged to all brook horses, from the time before even Ingvifreyr and Vanadis crossed their bridge of light from the sky, before Sinmarra turned elves into orcs, and the dragons had raised the mountains to divide the lands. When the men who fished upon the banks of his lake still offered him their daughters in exchange for great catches of fish. When there had still been men in Tiveden, instead of elves, who had no need of a brook horse’s magic, so secure in their own.

  Once the door had shut, the woman relaxed her hold, sliding down his back to stand, slightly dazed, upon her own two feet, and Isolfur turned, bowing low. He had no interest in inspiring her fear—not when she was the first woman to come to him, to call him by his name, in nearly a hundred years. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, lady. For though you clearly know my name, you did not give me yours.”

  She straightened almost at once, cloaking herself again in that same unlikely confidence she’d displayed by the waterfall. “Signy,” she said. “Wife of King Gunnar and Queen of Gautar.”

  “Queen in a land where the honor means nothing at all but the luxury of a slightly more gilded cage,” he countered, after kissing the hand she’d extended and rising again. When she stiffened, he could not help but smile. “Forgive me, I’m overly sensitive perhaps, to such distinctions.”

  Her gaze took
in the cottage behind him and her lips pressed thin. “I see.”

  Isolfur believed she did. Odd, that. The maids and lads of his previous acquaintance had not been nearly so…well-informed. But then, they had not been queens, either, with his name upon their lips and their blood calling to him through the water.

  “Why should you wish to return to such a circumstance when you could remain here, with me?” he asked, studying her more closely now. “I promise you would be made free. And I would give you anything you wished for, take you anywhere you desired to go. You need not remain bound to your unworthy king.”

  “But I would still be bound by duty and loyalties beyond him,” she said. “I married Gunnar for a purpose, and I must remain with him to see it through.”

  Isolfur arched an eyebrow, seating himself at his humble driftwood table, and waving her to the matching chair across from him. “And what benefit is that to me?”

  She tilted her head, just so, and ignored his invitation, moving to the fireplace instead, and examining the bits and bobs he’d collected there. A handful of coins, a small flute, a small collection of books—always just shy of moldering—and a small wooden box, finely crafted and delicately carved. “I wondered that myself, when my father suggested I might call upon you. But after living with Gunnar—I imagine it cannot be easy, existing as you do. Are you not lonely, with all your friends trapped by iron and stone in Elvish stables, and so few of us left who know we might call for you at all?”

  He leaned back in his chair, startled by the directness of her speech. “Who are you, Signy, wife of Gunnar, Queen of Gautar?”

  “I am a woman unwilling to give children of my body to an unworthy king,” she said. “Must you know more than that?”