Free The Queen of the Tearling by Erika Johansen

Kelsea ducked again, but not soon enough. Talons punctured her neck and ripped through the skin. Blood, thick and warm, oozed down to her collarbone. The hawk soared off to her left. Kelsea turned to track it and felt the gash in her neck pull wide open, sending a shot of pain all the way down her right side.
    Hooves were pounding up behind her on the right, but Kelsea didn’t dare turn around; the hawk was circling in front of her now, preparing to come for her eyes. It was far larger than any hawk she’d ever seen, a deep, dark black rather than the usual brown, almost akin to a vulture. Suddenly it dived for her again, talons outstretched. Kelsea ducked a third time, throwing up her arm to protect her face.
    A sound of muffled impact thudded above her head. Kelsea felt no pain, waited a moment, and then peeked above her. Nothing.
    She glanced to her right, her eyes tearing with the pain of movement, and found Mace alongside her. The hawk’s body dangled from the spiked head of his mace, a pulpy mass of blood, feathers, and gleaming innards. He shook the handle truculently until the bird fell off.
    â€œMort hawk?” she called over the wind, trying to keep her voice steady.
    â€œFor certain, Lady. They’re like no other hawks in the world, black as midnight and big as dogs. God knows how she’s breeding them.” Mace slowed his stallion and looked Kelsea over, his gaze assessing. “You’re wounded.”
    â€œOnly my neck.”
    â€œThe hawks are killers, but they’re also scouts. A party of assassins will be behind us now. Can you still ride?”
    â€œYes, but the blood will leave a trail.”
    â€œAbout ten miles southwest is the stronghold of a noblewoman who was loyal to your mother. Can you make it that far?”
    Kelsea glared at him. “What sort of weak, housebound woman do you think I am, Lazarus? I’m bleeding, that’s all. And I’ve never had such a fine time as on this journey.”
    Mace’s dark eyes brightened with understanding. “You’re young and reckless, Lady. It’s a desirable quality in a warrior, but not in a queen.”
    Kelsea frowned.
    â€œLet’s go, Lady. Southwest.”
    By now the sun had risen fully over the horizon, and Kelsea thought she could see their destination: another brick tower outlined against the blue shimmer of the river. From this distance, the tower had the dimensions of a toy, but she knew that upon approach it would rear many stories high. Kelsea wondered if the noblewoman who lived there took toll from the river; Carlin had told her that many nobles who were situated next to a river or road took the opportunity to squeeze extra money from those who passed by.
    Mace’s head swung back and forth, as though on a swivel, while they rode. He had tucked his mace back into his belt without even bothering to clean it, and the hawk’s innards gleamed in the morning sunlight. The sight made Kelsea feel slightly sick, and she turned to study the country around her, ignoring the pain in her neck. They were undoubtedly in the center of the Almont, the great farming plains of the Tearling, with nothing but flat land in every direction. The river up ahead was either the Caddell or the Crithe, but Kelsea couldn’t determine which without knowing how far west they’d ridden. Far to the southwest, she saw a smudge of brown hills and a darker stain of black against it, possibly the city of New London. But then sweat dripped into her eye, and by the time she could see again, the brown hills had vanished like a mirage and green land stretched as far as she could see. The Tearling felt enormous, much more so than it had ever looked on any of Carlin’s maps.
    They had covered perhaps half the distance to the tower when Mace reached out and slapped Rake’s rump, hard. The stallion whinnied in protest but lengthened his stride, tearing off toward the river so suddenly that Kelsea