An attacker knocked Kran’s sword from his hand, so Kran picked up the plank of wood resting on supports that had been set up as a sitting bench. The big Raider wielded this long plank almost like a scythe, knocking over a group of Marauders as if they were but a gaggle of ducks.
Thalen’s stomach rebelled at the sight of so much blood and death.
He leapt onto the wooden trestle table and blew a piercing whistle through the thumb and middle finger of his left hand. Everyone looked up at him.
The excitement pouring through him made Thalen want to shout, but he knew the advantages of quiet.
“Marauders,” he said with control. “You have failed at your task. The queen isn’t even present to fall to your plot. Inside, five of your fellows are down.”
“Two more in the kitchen!” shouted Cerf.
“If you wish to live to see tomorrow,” Thalen continued, “drop your weapons and sit on your hands.”
A long pause ensued as the Marauders looked at one another and glanced around at their injured, dying, or dead comrades. Each was loath to look craven.
Captain Yanath walked up to the foe standing closest to him. Very deliberately, he grabbed the man’s wrist and pried the sword from his hand. Then he pushed on the man’s shoulder until the man bent his knees and sat. One by one, the others complied.
As always after a skirmish, Thalen’s first thought was for his men. Kran thrashed on the grass like a wounded stag. Thalen ran to him; his hand encircling Kran’s broad back immediately grew slick with hot blood. At some point during the battle, he must have taken a thrust from behind, and swinging the plank had ripped the wound deeper. Thalen bent on the ground on one knee and held his friend in his arms as, wordlessly, Kran bled out and his eyes turned glassy.
Laying the body down gently, Thalen stood up and inventoried the others. Dalogun had taken an injury in his foot; Kambey—whose wounds weren’t as serious—already had the boy laying down and a tourniquet on his ankle. Wareth was squatting in front of Jothile, holding his shoulders as the latter vomited on the grass.
Cerf was bleeding from multiple slashes but his two hands braced about his knee.
“How bad?” Thalen asked him.
“Fuck!” said Cerf, squinting at his own wounds. “I’ll need stitching.” He reached for his commander’s arm and nodded toward the one upright bench. Thalen helped him cover the grass as Cerf limped and cursed.
“What is it?” Thalen asked, for he saw no rent in Cerf’s trousers.
“Drought damn shattered kneecap,” said Cerf through clenched teeth. “A villain in the kitchen smacked me with a poker.
“Get my saddlebag and tell everyone to lay the wounded on this table. This time I’ll work sitting down.”
Crossing to Cerf’s horse, Thalen noticed that many of the bodies laying lifeless on the blood-soaked grass wore the livery of palace servants because the Marauders had attacked unarmed and untrained civilians first. Fury flamed even higher inside him when he spotted several shields carrying the flopped figure of the queen’s maid Geesilla onto the table as Cerf’s most urgent case.
When Thalen sprinted back with the saddlebag, Cerf rummaged through it frantically, finding a small bottle of milk of the poppy. While Thalen tied a bandage tightly around Cerf’s knee and padded a slash in his neck and tied a strip to keep it in place, the healer took a controlled sip. Cerf then roared to Mabbie, who stood nearby wringing her hands, “Fetch hot water and bandages. This woman is dying.”
Looking about, Thalen next tried to judge how the Queen’s Shield had fared. Most were on their feet, disarming and tying up Marauders. Two sprawled on the greensward in the indignity of death: a female shield and an older man with a broken nose.
Captain Yanath sat clasping that man’s hand in two of his own.
Thalen touched Yanath’s shoulder, and the captain roused himself and rose to a standing position. “Branwise was my friend for over twenty years,” he said. “You wouldn’t know it to look at him now, but when he joined the Shield at eighteen summers, he was gorgeous. The first time I saw him, light was at his back. He looked just like—exactly like—a hero out of ballads. Strong, invincible. Now a miserable old sot, not fast enough against scum like these here.
“You fuckin’ miserable old sot,” Yanath cursed at the prone figure. “Drought damn your eyes, to leave me now.”
“I’m sorry,” said Thalen, trying to make the statement sound less inadequate. Then, getting to business, he prompted, “Wounded on the table there. You brought a healer?”
“Aye. Mirja.” Yanath’s gaze flicked over the dead female shield sprawled paces distant. “That’s not her. I’ll get Mirja started.”
Satisfied that the most urgent cases would be dealt with, Thalen walked to a well in the middle of the yard, winched up a bucket, and started washing the blood and gore off his arms.
Destra appeared at his side with a jar of soap and a mug of coffee for when he’d finished.
Both the water and the coffee called him back to himself, pulling his mind away from the image of Kran’s vacant eyes.
“Commander, why did the queen return to Cascada?” Destra asked.
Thalen told her about the hawk’s message.
“Someone wanted her out of Cascada and dead, today. If you were planning on breaching Cascada’s harbor, isn’t that what you’d want?” she asked.
“I figured that out myself!” Thalen snapped, angry at Destra for implying he was stupid, but angrier at himself for leading them into this trap and for letting Cerúlia ride off only lightly guarded. He drew in a breath. “Which is why I am leaving you and the captain to care for our wounded and clean up here. I’m riding back to Cascada as soon as I can get ready.
“Tristo,” Thalen shouted. “Where the devil are you? I need you to see to that mare I’ve been riding.”
“You’ll also need food for the journey,” Destra said with no trace of pique. “I’ll raid their pantry.”
Wareth joined him at the well bucket.
“I’m coming with you, ’Mander,” he said.
“Aren’t you hurt?” Thalen asked, pointing at the blood trickling down the side of Wareth’s face.
“About as much as you.” Wareth pointed to Thalen’s bleeding knuckles and the shallow slash across his waist where a sword tip had caught him. He washed Thalen’s cut and hand in fresh water and hollered for unguent and bandages, which a shield fetched for them.
Thalen blotted and inspected the scalp gash leaking blood into Wareth’s curls, then wrapped together his friend’s sprained or broken fingers. When he finished, he asked, “How is Jothile?”
“He’s upset is all; there’s not a scratch on him. Somehow he’s got his speed and skill back—fuckin’ saved me from a bastard just about to skewer me.”
“Hmm,” Thalen grunted. “So maybe the Fountain did him some good we couldn’t see.”
“Why do little things hurt so much?” Wareth asked, staring at his hands. “I swear my fingers throb as much as that lance in my back in Oromondo.”
“Hold your hand upright so the blood doesn’t flow down to your fingers and make them swell. You were so drunk on milk of the poppy you just don’t remember the pain from the lance.”
Tristo’s face was a mass of swelling bruises, and his lips were torn and bleeding—perhaps from a collision with a heavy fist and sword guard—but the boy just wiped the blood out of his eyes as he prepared the horses and fed and watered the dogs.
The sun was lowering on the horizon and the air was cooling by the time two horses, two dogs, and two Raiders were ready to ride.
“Don’t kill the hostages,” Thalen shouted to Yanath across the yard.
“Now whyever would we do that?” replied the captain. “We’re not bloody barbarians.”
“We’ll see you in Cascada,” Thalen, his foot in his stirrup, called down to Destra.
“Aye,” she said. “If Fate be willing.”
Thalen had started to trot away when Destra ran af
ter him, desperately calling, “Thalen! Wait!” He pulled up his mare.
“Thalen, keep in mind. It takes Three Spirits to defeat any One.”
50
SeaWidow Cliff
Sending Pontole and Fedak to escort her back to the palace showed sense and caution, but Cerúlia burned with impatience. Their horses kept pace with Smoke for the first league only because she held her gelding in check. Then their mounts began to tire and lag, while her anxiety over the hawk’s message amplified. She hoped to get back before dark, before all the diurnal birds retired for the night.
Accordingly, disregarding her guards’ shouts of outrage, the queen pulled out in front and gave Smoke his freedom. When she reached the crests of small hills on the High Road, she reined in to make Smoke breathe, turned around, and waved her arm at the small figures behind her to demonstrate that she was fine. But the shortness of the autumn daylight undermined the queen’s chance of reaching bird informants in time, and soon made it impossible for her to reassure the furious men behind her.
Nevertheless, she galloped on, slowing Smoke only for brief spells of rest. The cold wind chafed her cheeks and made her eyes water, her shoulder ached, and she recalled that she had not eaten at the inn she left behind. Cerúlia’s legs and gown grew damp from Smoke’s sweat, and occasionally great gobs of saliva foam flew back at her.
Do you tire? she asked Smoke as, two hours later, he began to clatter on the cobblestones of the outskirts of Cascada.
One never gets to run like this. Being pent up in a field makes one rage. This is one’s talent, and using one’s talent feels right, the horse responded, though he acknowledged hunger and thirst.
Due to obstacles, Smoke was forced to moderate his pace as he approached the center of the city. Cerúlia was assailed by a not-quite-graspable memory of doing this once before: riding Smoke fast through the cold autumn air of the city at night, pedestrians shouting alarms and getting out of the way.
At an even slower canter she turned him into the avenue that led to the Arrival Gate. As soon as she saw in the torchlight that the gate was closed for the night, she began shouting like a wild woman, “’Tis the Queen—open the Gate! ’Tis the Queen—raise the Gate!” The guards sprang to the winch. Both she and the horse had to duck their heads, but they made it through without stopping to wait, which would have felt intolerable in her state of anxiety.
At the formal palace entrance, she slid off her winded mount. “Walk him for at least an hour,” she said to the stableman who, misbuttoning his waistcoat, ran out to take Smoke’s head.
Turning briefly from the height of the entrance steps, she noted that the palace and the city lay peaceful except for the dust she herself had caused. She allowed herself to hope that the hawk’s message had been in error. In which case she might look like a lackwit for this mad dash, but she’d prefer to suffer embarrassment than have the city suffer assault.
Footmen opened the door for her, shocked to see the queen back alone, and in such a bedraggled state. Cerúlia caught the subdued hum of the palace; no doubt the staff was enjoying a quiet night after all the festivities.
“There’re some guards and dogs coming on behind me. They’ll be worn out and need care,” she said, as if this explained everything.
“Very good, Your Majesty. We will watch for them.”
“Food, a bath, and my Circle Council, in that order—but all with dispatch,” she said to the footman.
“Very good, Your Majesty.”
She rushed toward the Royal Stair, too apprehensive to move sedately, even though her own fatigue made her leg muscles shake. Her eyes blinked to adjust from the night’s darkness to the flicker of wall torches lighting the palace at night.
She saw Nana standing on the top step almost in a trance, twisting her hands in her apron, her face vacant. Cerúlia paused, struck by Nana’s odd pose and the slight shimmer in the air about her.
When Nana saw her, the light came back on in her eyes and she called out, “Oh, thank the Waters, you’ve returned!”
And Cerúlia knew with certainty that Cascada was under attack.
* * *
To their credit, none of the councilors panicked when the queen met with them briefly that night.
Wilamara started counting up ships and sailors currently in port in Cascada. By pressing into service any of the mustered-out mariners who had just been honored but lingered about celebrating, she calculated she could manage a rough blockade of the harbor.
“That will only buy the city a few hours,” she said. “Our ships can’t hold back a whole fleet. There is going to be a battle—a bloody battle—on the streets of Cascada. Send for the Ice Pikemen and the cavalry.”
“Indeed, we must,” Cerúlia agreed. “But given General Yurgn’s long influence over them, can we trust them? Will they fight the invaders or welcome them?”
“We have no choice,” said Steward Alix, already writing the order and dispatching it.
Marcot and Naven had started plans for evacuating women and children from the city. They would immediately requisition every cart, carriage, and horse, pony, mule, or donkey to be had.
“Where will you send them?” asked Cerúlia.
“To the inland duchies. The invaders might rampage, but at least they would find fewer citizens right at hand. The Pellish want easy plunder—they won’t travel far from the coast.”
“But if easy plunder is what they desire most, why have they traveled the length of the continents to strike us?”
No one had an answer.
After they all snatched a few hours of sleep, they met again, an hour after dawn, in the Circle Chamber.
“Councilors,” said the queen, “I’ve talked with the original gull. Birds can’t count, but as far as I can determine she saw more than twenty black-sailed ships and war galleys. There is no longer any doubt that Pellish are upon us—we estimate that they will arrive in two days.
“None of the measures we discussed will save Cascada from a terrible invasion. I don’t want to slow down the Pellish ships nor hide our citizens. I want to stop this before they come ashore.
“Why do we have no towers, no chain, and no trebuchets? Why is it that our harbor is so completely open to the sea, so defenseless?”
“You could ask Chronicler Sewel about ancient history,” said Duke Naven. “As far as I know, we’ve had raids along the coast and once an invasion in Maritima, but Nargis has always protected the city through the queens’ Talents.”
All the councilors lifted their heads from the lists they were drawing up.
“Could you order birds to drop fire arrows, like in Femturan?” asked Nishtari.
“I thought of that. But that worked because the birds only had to fly a short ways holding the arrow. Flying out to sea—the arrows would burn their claws and the birds would drop them. No, we need a threat that comes from the sea itself.”
“You can’t whip up a storm, can you?” asked Duke Naven.
“No, no. Nothing like that. My Talent only extends to animals and birds.”
“Sea creatures?” asked Steward Alix.
“I’ve talked to dolphins in the past when they came up to the surface. But I don’t see how dolphins could stop a Pellish armada.”
“What about whales? Could whales sink a ship?” asked Marcot.
Cerúlia startled. “Are there whales close by?”
Wilamara spoke about the body of water, fifty leagues wide, that separated the Western and Eastern Duchies. “The Bay of Cinda is a summer feeding ground for humpbacks, blues—”
“And the little ones,” Nishtari said. “I’m so rattled words escape me. What are they called? Pilots. Travelers climb to the top of SeaWidow Cliff to watch the whales spout!”
“But they leave in late autumn for warmer climes,” Wilamara continued. “What if they’ve already left?”
The queen bolted out of her seat. “That’s where I’m going—SeaWidow Cliff. That’s my command post for now. Proceed with the res
t of your plans as a fallback, but pray the Waters that whales still linger close by, that they hear me and agree to obey my requests.”
She took the first horse the stablemen offered, leaving her guards and other attendants to follow as best they could. The climb up SeaWidow Cliff, just north of the harbor, consisted of a narrow footpath, braced in worn spots by logs or stones, that wound through sparse tree cover of now-barren deciduous species. She leaned against the horse’s neck, letting it pick its own footing.
Dismounting, Cerúlia realized that in the moons since her return she should have made time to visit one of Cascada’s most famous attractions. At the top, one came out on a flat hilltop, about as large as Nymph Salon. An ancient stone lighthouse (which queen built it and why, she couldn’t recall) stood near the edge, no longer kept lit but serviceable as shelter from the wind that whipped so strongly on the bluff. A short trail—dirt hard-packed by the pacing of women waiting for their sailors or tourists seeing the view—stretched along the hem of the drop-off in front of the lighthouse, with tumbled slabs of rock leading to wave-pummeled boulders in the water. In front of her she saw league upon league of open water, sparkling; behind her the city and the palace’s white towers stretched placidly in a normal midmorning. Below to her right, down a steep drop-off, she saw the harbor, already swarming with activity whipped up by Wilamara.
Some fishing boats bobbed in the waters outside the harbor, searching their normal haul. She strained her eyes to the southeast, but she could not make out any large sails—black or otherwise.
Gulls. Attend me.
First one, then five, then dozens, hundreds of seagulls within range of her call fluttered to the ground at her feet.
She sent her numberless scouts out to look for the Pellish fleet. Then she scanned the Bay of Cinda below, looking for any sign of whales.
By this time, people from the palace caught up with her, bringing all the things that in her haste she had overlooked, such as food, a warmer cloak, a spyglass, a stool, boys and girls to serve as messengers (including Tilim), and palace guards to protect her. Kiltti reported that her canine corps was too sapped by yesterday’s wild dash to attend her. The dogs were footsore and spent.
The Cerulean Queen Page 37