“But Dthor,” the king said, “I have never seen you as alive as you are in his company. I have seen the way your eyes and his light when you are together. If he should be taken from you because of what I have asked . . .”
“King Janir,” I said sternly, “Dthor understands as clearly as you or I that nothing is accomplished without sacrifice. To eat we sacrifice our livestock. To destroy evil we sacrifice our safety and comfort and if necessary we sacrifice our lives. This we do each according to his destiny using the skills the Fates have seen fit to bestow on us for the purpose.”
“And how is your Lord Consort, Meriq?” Keelan asked as we settled at the Kings’ table for a small celebration meal.
“He is much recovered, and even better now for your asking, Majesty.”
“For Morgul’s sake, Meriq!” Keelan exclaimed making heads turn at adjacent tables. “Will you please call me by my name?”
“I am not comfortable doing that King Keelan.”
“Well I am not comfortable with you not doing so.” The king complained. “Janir . . .”
King Janir put up his hands in mock surrender. “My friend, you know as well as I not even a king may command wizards.”
Keelan grinned. “And so t’pahq your consort does well. Then perhaps we shall see him at our table sooner rather than later.”
“I am almost certain of it. He does little but complain of his boredom.”
“Such is the nature of the warrior,” Keelan stated with a smile. “Like commanding a wizard, I suppose. Warriors cannot be kept in a sickbed.”
“Karyn is making certain he is.” I replied noting Keelan’s reaction with some amusement.
“Ah—well—perhaps I spoke hastily. A shield-maiden and healer cannot be lightly dismissed.”
“As my Lord Consort is finding out to his cost, I hear.” I laughed.
With the wounded numbering in the hundreds the kings decided that we would rest the troops in Illios until the majority were properly healed. The Illojans were only too pleased to have the city garrisoned by the Zetans and Morlans, their own military presence having been all but destroyed by the invaders.
The Illojan governor, Zinden Parna, a man I vaguely remembered from my childhood as a kindly man, ordered that our troops should be offered every hospitality and requested that a battalion might be spared to keep the city safe when we moved on to purge Mederlana of its blight.
Jae’nt stood frozen in horror as his father sank back on to his bed and fell into a deep sleep as I withdrew my strength from him. He turned towards me suddenly angry.
“How long has this been going on, Meriq?” he demanded.
“Since I became Ez’n,” I answered. “I promised your father I would see him through this campaign. He will not survive without The Link.”
“Why did you not say something before? And what is this business with you and me?” This to Dthor as my consort moved to console the prince.
“I did not tell you before because the king did not wish it.” I told the prince. “And as for Dthor, he made the decision not I.”
Dthor nodded. “Meriq speaks true, Prince Jae’nt. He was making the oath but I put myself between him and The Reaver and took the blood pact myself. Meriq is already doing more than he should.”
The prince glanced back as his father where he lay pale and still. The muscle wastage was quite noticeable now. Jae’nt shook his head. “These are evil days; men living each other’s lives. It is not natural.”
“Decidedly not,” I agreed, “but it is necessary for now. The king wants you kept safe and so safe you will be kept.”
Jae’nt shook his head once more. “I will call Jalin to attend my father. Come, let us away from here. I cannot bear to see him like this.” He smiled as Jalin appeared in the doorway with the dogs. “Your timing is impeccable, Jalin,” Jae’nt said coolly, “were you spying?”
“I have sharp ears, your highness, and your voice carries well,” Jalin answered with a slight bow.
“You know what to do, Jalin.”
The boy nodded. “I do, Ez’n. No-one in or out unless it is you, the Lord Consort or Prince Jae’nt.”
I nodded. “Set the dogs.”
†
CHAPTER 30
SNEAK ATTACK
WITH ILLIOS repaired, secured and garrisoned the kings gave the order to prepare to march on Medravia. The weather was fair, the snows had now completely retreated to the highest peaks and it was now clear that the spring was well underway. The Medran plains were clear and the going promised to be soft underfoot; a fact which would be much appreciated by the infantry, and which would make the going easier for the horses. Getting the wagons across the veldt if it became too soft was a real concern, especially if the spring rains came in early; for as in the summer when the prairies could be as harsh and hazardous as any desert, so too, in the spring could they just as easily be as treacherous and any quagmire.
Aarin and Iannos busied themselves with packing up the essentials for the trip while Alna concerned herself with ensuring we had the necessities in terms of stores and, much to my delight, she also made certain that we had certain little luxuries set aside; things like bath oils and to Dthor’s obvious pleasure—shaving oil and a selection of very fine bearding knives which she had managed to obtain from the Illojan market.
“Vanity, thy name is Dthor!” I observed as the soldier stashed a couple of blades and a small battle of oil in his satchel.
“You would complain if you developed a rash from the wire on my face,” Dthor countered with a laugh, “And besides,” he added,” you are merely jealous that you have no beard to shave, lad.”
“Medrans do not grow facial hair,” I replied, “a fact you are extremely happy with, I notice. I do, however, have hair where it counts on a man.”
Dthor grabbed me and pulled me close, “Indeed, my little dragon.”
He was about to kiss me when Polo appeared in the doorway.
“Oh! Your pardon my lords.” The boy looked startled and quite flustered. “But I bring word from the outer guard. “The Queen and an entourage have arrived in the city.”
“Oh good!” Dthor muttered acerbically, “Thank you, Polo. Just what we need.” The captain scowled for sometime at the point in the doorway where the squire had been standing. “As if we do not have enough to contend with in the Black Legion we now have a deceitful demoness in our midst.”
“Splendid!” I said more to myself than to Dthor. “Perfect timing.”
My consort gave me a looking heavy with suspicion and misgiving. “Meriq . . . ?”
“Dthor?”
“What have you done?”
“Me? Nothing, my love. I let Sirazj do that with his recent dispatch.”
“I thought Kylos intercepted that.” Dthor gave me a dark look as realisation suddenly dawned. “Oh Gods! Tell me you did not.!
“Did not what. Exactly?”
“You sent it on did you not?”
“No I did not.”
Dthor let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Thank Zoar for . . .”
“I had Jalin send it.”
Dthor gaped at me, “What? Why?”
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” I responded. “It is essential that the queen is here from this point.”
Dthor look aghast. “I think you should not tell me anything further of this. I am certain I will not like what you are plotting.”
“As am I,” I answered. “Trust me. It is essential.”
“I trust you with my very soul, little dragon. It is that misbegotten harlotrous harpy that I do not trust.”
“Then put it from your mind.”
With Illios behind us and well garrisoned against any surprise attacks that might occur once the main army was out of range of the city, the kings gave the order for forced march speed. They were, I guessed, eager to engage the Black Legion and bring the campaign to an end. The horrors we had witnessed during the march had marked us all, infantry, archer an
d noble alike, and I wondered how long it would be before the nightmares that some of the men were having would stop and they would be able to sleep easily. I supposed, though, that the images of the burned, partially liquefied bodies of men, women and children—of men, women and children exploding into flame and slime would not be something readily put from mind.
At the end of the third day of forced march the monarchs ordered us to make camp. We had made good speed and distance across the veldt, but the appearance of storm clouds on the horizon warned that a heavy squall was imminent and neither of the kings wanted to march the men into an ocean of mud.
The break would, no doubt be welcomed by the men and women though I doubted that even the speed of the forced march had proven much of a distraction for those sorely troubled by the events of the campaign. But this operation was now no longer an act of political expediency; it had become a war of attrition
The decision proved to be a wise one for that night the rains came, harsh and heavy and stinging like a volley of arrows. It hammered on the canvas of the tents and hissed from the heavens like hordes of angry vipers. The ferocity of the downpour was like nothing either the Morlans or the Zetans had ever experienced. The rain stabbed the guards like needles, stinging any exposed flesh and threatening to blind any man who looked heavenwards. In the end Janir and Keelan both ordered pergolas to be set up at the guard posts so that the men would not have to shelter under their shields.
In the common marquees, however, the tempest did little to dampen the spirits of the soldiers who contented themselves with sitting around the central hearth singing bawdy songs.
The members of the Kyr-Garrin, however, seemed curiously unscathed by the events. That, or they were far more adept at hiding the truth of their minds than many of the others. They rarely spoke of the skirmishes, heavy fights and battles, and with the camp set they settled to contenting themselves instead with games of Choctaw and dice and learning a game of tiles the Morlans called Dar khirahn which translated into the common tongue as Wicked Grace. From what I could see the object of the game was to win a “grace” of five similar or consecutive tiles by any devious means without getting caught cheating. It seemed to cause much amusement and, on numerous occasions, brawls. This was, it transpired, part of the game as if a player defeated his opponent in a fist fight he could claim he was not cheating and then take his challenger’s tiles.
At one end of the tent soldiers had set up targets and were using the time to hone their throwing skills; many spurred on by Kylos’ infallible accuracy. Dagger, dart or axe it did not seem to matter to the Morlan. He could hit the centre of the target with almost unnaturally flawless ease. Some of the men even rather foolishly wagered with the young man—a fact that Aenar and Markos both found highly amusing, though for different reasons. Markos marvelled at the stupidity of the gamblers while Aenar was amused because it was swelling the couple’s coffers and contributing to the fund they would need to buy the vineyard they had decided they would retreat to after the war was over.
At the other end of the tent the men had set up makeshift arenas and were engaged in throw-down, glove-fights and in one ring some of the Zetans were learning Kalzaq—an extremely violent form of unarmed combat used both by the Kayetim and the Morlan regulars.
I had just settled at a table with Dthor and Markos when Faedron appeared breathless and flushed with excitement. “Meriq! Ez’n! My lord—whatever! You have to come and see this.”
“See what?” Dthor asked as the corporal began dragging us to our feet with very little regard for protocol.
“See what?” I echoed, cursing as I tripped on the edge of the bench.”
“He’s fighting Tariq! Quickly or it will be over before it has begun!”
“Who is fighting Tariq?” Markos asked falling into step beside us.
Faedron gave the Morlan a bewildered look. Clearly he thought it should be obvious to us. “Jae’nt. Who else?”
Markos stopped in his tracks as if he had been hit with a stick. “Oh by the Gods!” he exclaimed. “This I have to see.”
I looked and Dthor. “This I have to stop.” I said.
My Consort grinned. “No. Let the boy have his fun,” he told me. I will go back to the table. When he has done, bring him to see me.”
“But . . . .”
Dthor put a finger to my lips to seal them. “If he is to learn to be a king, Meriq, he must learn that his actions have consequence far beyond the base desire for acclaim and notoriety.”
“Are you certain you want me to let this be?” I asked quietly.
“No,” Dthor replied turning to go, “but it is necessary.”
In the centre of the ring the two combatants stood stripped down, Jae’nt in his breech cloth and Tariq, having shed his loin armour, wore just a subligaria which barely contained him. Seeing the Morlan archer so completely exposed caused quite a stir among the audience for he was truly an impressive sight. He towered over Jae’nt whose build, though ample and impressive by Zetan standards, paled in comparison to the bronze colossus he was challenging.
Markos jumped on to the ring side and leaned over the top rope. “Try not to break him!” he shouted over the din, “T’pahq will be most annoyed!”
Tariq turned to face the prince. “I will try not to hurt him too much.”
“I was talking to Jae’nt,” Markos replied laughing.
When the gong sounded the start of the bout, Tariq’s first blow lifted Jaen’t clean off his feet and sent him flying into the ropes. The prince, though startled by the speed of the attack, recovered his wits quickly and used the momentum of the recoil to propel him back. He shot back across the ring like the bolt from a ballista hitting Tariq square in the chest with his shoulder. The young archer hit the decking like a felled tree, sending a great cloud of dust into the air. A couple of the planks cracked under the impact.
Markos winced. “Owww! I don’t care what part of Morla he’s from, that just had to hurt!” The prince gave me a hearty smile. “Your Prince Royal is not the make-weight he appears to be is he?”
“No,” I responded darkly, “He is not. But I still cannot credit that he would voluntarily attack one of the titans—even for sport.”
“He’s probably doing it in your name, T’pahq. For honour.”
“Indeed? Well, I do not think my name is very pleased.”
“But just imagine if he wins.” Markos persisted.
Just as he spoke Tariq seized Jae’nt by his braid and threw him out of the ring as if he was nothing more than a sack of waste.
I gave Markos a disparaging look. “I do not think my imagination can stretch quite that far!”
“Nor mine,” Markos agreed as Jae’nt scrambled back into the fray.
The Morlan lunged at his opponent as he returned to the ring missing as Jae’nt rolled to the side. Then, in one fluid movement the prince rolled back, bringing his foot up and kicking Tariq squarely in the loins. The archer paused momentarily, let out a deep rasping breath and then . . . smiled. He stooped, picking the prince up by the hair holding him up so that their faces were level. He laughed and shook his head.
“Wasted blow,” Markos laughed. Noting my bewilderment he explained. “In combat of this kind we tuck our sweetmeats out of harm’s way. Morlan boys are taught how to return their balls to the safety of their bellies from the moment they drop. A very useful skill in the absence of the loin guards.”
“Very!” I agreed.
Our attention was pulled back to the fight by a sudden cheer from the crowd.
Jae’nt was sent careering across the arena and crashed head first into the corner post. The force of the collision staggered him momentarily and split his eyebrow. I turned immediately to Dthor. He had grabbed a cloth from one of the serving wenches and was holding it to his head. Even from where I stood I could see the blood.
By the time I turned back to Jae’nt the wound on his brow had closed. All the remained was the blood that had come when the wound was ma
de.
“You have to do better than that, titan!” Jae’nt mocked and launched himself from the ropes. With almost uncanny agility Jae’nt evaded his opponent’s attempt to grab him rolling underneath him before springing up and scaling the man with all the speed of a wall lizard. Wrapping his legs around the archer’s neck Jae’nt dropped backwards pulling the Morlan of balance and catapulting him into the corner post.
The whole ring shook from the force of the collision. Without waiting even a heartbeat Jae’nt was on the man’s back winding himself like a forest vine around the titan’s body, his right leg tucked around the archer’s right arm pulling it behind his back while his left leg locked over Tariq’s shoulder. Before the archer could even regain his feet Jae’nt locked his arms around Tariq’s neck. The archer rose to his feet, his bronzed face darkening and then paling as the blood left his brain. Then, like a beast in its death throes the Morlan threw himself backwards on to the decking. The impact stunned the prince. Tariq staggered to his feet, his breath rasping in his throat. Jae’nt lay still for a while and Tariq knelt beside him, suddenly concerned.
Jae’nt stirred and gazed blearily up at his opponent. “Ouch.”
Tariq smiled. “Indeed.”
“How long was I down?”
“Long enough to hand me a victory, shovaqi.” Tariq grinned offering the prince his hand.
“I almost had you, titan,” Jae’nt grinned as Tariq hauled him to his feet.
“Ah yes, shovaqi, but “almost” does not count!”
The couple shook hands and then repaired to the ringside to dress. I went over to speak to Jae’nt arriving just as he was handing the archer his loin armour. “You must teach me that climbing trick, shovaqi,” Tariq was saying, “It will be most useful against my brothers and other fighters.”
“No doubt,” I interrupted taking the archer’s bracers from the prince and handing them to him. “But there is someone I should like you to see, your highness.”
“Oh but I should do that,” Jae’nt said quickly as Tariq slid into his bracers. “It is your way, is it not that the vanquished should lace the bracers of the victor?”
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