Free Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion) by James A. West Page A

homelands.
    But then whores were whores, and cared only for the coin they earned in pleasuring men. This Algar knew all too well, having suckled milk from the teat of a common slattern—his mother.
    Kill ‘im, Algar, her warbling, wine-soaked voice crooned in his mind. Stray thoughts never failed to summon his dear dead mother. Carve ‘is heart an’ have yer revenge, boy. Slaughter him and the whore he’s plowin’! Do it now!
    Algar gripped the hilt of his sword. The shadows around him boiled and pulsed, provoked by his hatred for both his mother and Rathe.
    Do it, Algar!
    Teeth grinding, he drew the blade an inch from the scabbard. He sucked in a breath and prepared to pass through the wooden door as easily as a ghost. Such was the gift of the dark magic nested within his flesh.
    No more waitin’, boy!
    Algar envisioned himself materializing in his enemy’s room from a cloud of shadow. He saw Rathe and Nesaea’s gasps of shock when they recognized him, the one they had named the Shadowman.
    Now, boy!
    A whine of tortured ecstasy squeezed from his throat, as he pictured Rathe and Nesaea’s astonishment become agony when he impaled them upon the length of his blade. Both at the same time! Two with one deadly thrust! Rathe and his filthy slut!
    Do it, boy!
    Algar saw them die in his mind, their corpses bound together by blood, steel, and the issue of their loins.
    Now! his mother howled.
    The spent breath burning in Algar’s chest burst out of him, cold now, foul, acrid. I cannot! He slammed his sword home. The shadows grew still as frozen smoke. Rathe will die , Algar promised the unrelenting harpy that had birthed him into such a detestable world, as will his whore … in time. But not yet. No, no, not yet.
    When will you act, you pissin’ wretch? asked his mother. Though she was long dead, Algar hated her as much as he ever had, maybe more, as her spirit was with him more now than she had ever been in life.
    Soon , he answered.
    Soon? How soon? How soon afore you stop shittin’ down yer leg whenever tha’ black-hearted monk says you must, boy? How soon afore you stand on yer own, and do wha’s yours by right to do?
    Algar tensed at the mention of his current accomplice. Jathen doesn’t command me .
    Well then, you mus’ be affrighted, boy. Affrighted the Scorpion’ll beat you a third time … and mayhap that’d be for the best .
    Algar ignored her last slight. First Rathe must know who will kill him and why … the Scorpion must acknowledge who is the better of us … the Champion of Cerrikoth must admit that he took for himself what was mine! And when he does, I’ll make him watch as I slaughter his whore, so that he feels the loss I felt at his treachery.
    You been makin’ the same promise for years, Algar. Methinks fear stays yer hand. As the boy was, so now is the man—a snivelin’ coward. Tha’s why you failed to cleave the Scorpion’s stinger not once, but twice, and tha’s why you stand here shakin’ now.
    No.
    No?
    No! Algar screamed in his mind. He cheated me of my honor and the king’s blessing! He took everything from me!
    Even now, years after their first meeting—a meeting Rathe no doubt didn’t recall—and long before hounding him over the Gyntors and crossing blades with him in the halls of Ravenhold, Algar could still hear the roaring jubilance of the crowd, could still feel the shame of defeat while lying in the shadow of the man who’d humiliated him. Rathe Lahkurin, with his upraised sword glittering in the summer sun, turning slowly before the King of Cerrikoth and the folk of Onareth. He was only boy then, as was I. The sharpest memory of that day was the cocky victor’s smile that had spread across Rathe’s lips when he leaned over Algar, hand outstretched like a father reaching to lift his fallen child.
    Taking my glory was not enough! Algar seethed. No, the bastard had to twist the dagger of disgrace by shaming me in front of his legions of admirers … in front of the