by E. D. Walker
She hesitated, but when her foot slid out from under her again in the goopy mud, she let out a weary sigh and gripped the king’s hand. That awareness, that kindling heat, flared between them again where palm touched palm, and a dull ache started in Aliénor’s chest. As soon as she was on her feet, she pulled her hand free and stumbled away from the king as if he were an unruly dog she feared might bite her. “Good night, King Thomas.”
“Good night, Princess Aliénor.” His voice was hoarse and low.
Without another word, without even checking to see if Noémi still followed her, Aliénor hurried for her own tent. The rain grew worse as she walked, and it pounded upon her like hard, cold beads thrown at her head by an angry spirit.
***
As soon as he figured out which tent was his in the dark and rainy muck, Thomas stomped toward it and flung the flap back. The good Lord Ysen had been generous and fitted the tent out with a feather mattress, chairs, towels, and a sturdy basin to wash in. Thomas grabbed one fine linen towel from the side of the basin and scrubbed it over his hair and face. He looked over as Llewellyn entered the tent and threw himself into one of the camp chairs.
“The Jerdic princess is quite lovely.” Llewellyn studied his nails as he said it.
She was at that. Taller than average with long limbs and graceful hands. A pretty face with a ready smile, sweet and kind. Clever too, it seemed. And her hair, such a beautiful red-gold color—
Llewellyn cleared his throat. “I’ve never known you to tryst with married women, my king.”
Thomas bared his teeth at his friend and tossed the towel away. “She is the only one in this whole bloody camp who seems kindly disposed toward us. If I cultivate her friendship, it is only to keep your worthless carcass from starving in the desert.” He kicked the bottom of Llewellyn’s boot as he passed by him.
Llewellyn crossed his arms on his chest and brushed a hand over his pale beard. “This army seems monstrously ill-run.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes, they have a sort of rolling system by which each baron is in charge of operations for a day, and it passes from man to man. Everyone takes a turn at being in charge.”
“Which means no one is. No wonder they had men practically camping in the river.”
“Hmm. Yes. They have constant problems with discipline too, so I’m told. Thieving and brawling. The soldiers have killed more of their comrades than the enemy thus far.”
“I’m not surprised.” Thomas lowered his voice. “And their prince?”
“An uncommonly pious lad, they say. Not puffed up either. Although he does sleep on a feather mattress. Still, he’s liked well enough.”
“But not respected.”
“Ah, no. I gather his mission is a convenient excuse to travel south. Not to the prince, of course, but to his men. Most of these men—soldiers and nobles alike—are here to grab everything they can get. Treasure. Land.”
“Younger sons of younger brothers who think this is their path to glory.”
“Yes.”
“Well, we are only bound to this rabble as long as it takes to reach the next friendly port. Then we will return home.” Heaviness descended on Thomas as he said it, a sort of crushing weight that bowed his shoulders.
“You’ve abandoned your plan, then?”
Thomas tossed a wry smile at his friend. “I should have listened to you and never come at all. My place is at home.”
Llewellyn’s eyelids drooped, veiling his eyes for a moment, not disagreeing, but he shook his head. “You had to try. The war hawks at home, like Troumper, they would have kept howling until you did.”
“I noticed when the time came, Troumper didn’t volunteer to accompany us.”
“Funny that.”
“And these colony cities were never much ours to begin with. They were held by the Tiochene not so long ago. I must trust that the people will weather this new change of fortune all right.”
“We have no army with which to reclaim them anyway.”
“Not anymore.”
Thomas scrubbed his fingernails through his hair, his gut churning with despair and indecision. “All those men. I led them to their deaths, Llewellyn. For nothing.”
Llewellyn sat forward in his chair and planted his feet on the ground as he frowned at Thomas. “How were we to know the Tiochene had so many spell-casters? In a fight of steel against steel we would have won. This is not like the courteous fighting we’ve had with Jerdun in which we each know the rules, the protocols. Our wars with Jerdun have become almost as genteel as a dance. No, my king, this was an ambush. None of us have had to fight like this before.” Llewellyn swallowed, and his face paled at the remembered slaughter.
“We did not know what we would face. We should have waited, studied the terrain more, the people… My pride led us to this.”
“Perhaps, but your wisdom will get the rest of us out of it and back home.”
“I’ve made the right choice then. To give up? Go back?”
“We no longer have the men to mount any kind of attack. We certainly don’t have the magic.” He sighed. “What would our other option be?”
“I could offer an alliance to Prince Philippe.” Thomas’s gut roiled at just the thought. “Unite our forces and take back all the colony-cities here, Jerdic and Lyondi. That might even help the peace at home.”
“Are you truly contemplating such a thing?”
“The thought had occurred, but no. I want to get home and see how the kingdom has fared without its king. If only my nephew hadn’t—”
“Young Gabriel may return someday.”
“If I believed that, I never would have left home.”
“My king—”
But Thomas did not want the gentle sympathy in his friend’s eyes. He waved a hand in the air. “Perhaps I should stay here and let the war hawks take Lyond.” Thomas fell into one of the camp chairs, dropping his face into his hands.
“You’re tired. That’s all this is.”
Thomas did not argue. His body was chilled. From the wet clothes, yes, but somehow this coldness ran deeper, as if his body were slowly freezing, turning itself to ice. Ending the generations-long war with Jerdun had been a great triumph, but it had also left Thomas adrift, aimless. His only family, his nephew Gabriel, had disappeared. Left him, rejected his place in society and in Thomas’s affection. Thomas had no heirs now. No legacy left but loss and failure.
Llewellyn slapped his shoulder. “We just need to get home. The sooner, the better.”
“Yes.” Outside the rain continued, and the tents swayed in the wind, promising a dark and dreary night for all in the Jerdic camp. Thomas dismissed Llewellyn to his own tent and readied himself for bed. The mattress was soft and down-filled, charming on a cold night, but still a ridiculous luxury to bring on such a campaign as this. How on earth do they cart the heavy thing around when they march?
Thomas tossed and turned on his feather bed, his wounds aching now he had nothing to distract him from their presence. He should summon Llewellyn and ask him for a healing draught. Yet something forewarned the king that on a wild, stormy night like this, it was probably best he have his wits about him. Still, because of his exhaustion he was able to fall into a light, fretful drowse soon enough.
Unfortunately for Thomas, almost as soon as his eyes had fluttered closed, a shrill scream pierced the night.
Chapter Five
After changing out of her muddy clothes, Aliénor stayed up late chatting with Noémi, listening to the winds rage. Violette’s elderly husband, Lord John, sent one of his men-at-arms to fetch his young wife back to his tent almost as soon as the storm started. After that, Noémi entertained Aliénor with a lovely reading from their precious store of books—one of the few pleasures that Philippe had not yet denied his wife. Meanwhile, the storm grew steadily worse as the night rolled on, the sides of Aliénor’s tent flapping and swaying with the winds.
Her rugs were soaked through with muddy water, and a small
trickle of water flowed downhill over the ground. “I do not think I should undress for bed just yet.” They had abandoned their reading, and she had to yell to make herself heard over the raging wind as it whipped through their camp. Noémi simply nodded—she also had not yet removed her gown for bed, either. They wrapped the blankets around their shoulders as the wind howled through the tent and made the canvas swell wide like a sail.
A great crash and the sound of gushing water startled them both. The screams of horses split the air, piercing even the horrid wail of the wind. Men cried out. The wind, like a punishing demon, blasted over her tent, and the sides billowed away from the ground. Aliénor flung herself down, and the canvas whipped at her head and body. The wind lifted the tent and tossed it away with the sound of tearing. Chill rain lashed at her body, soaking her clothes to her skin.
Noémi groaned beside her. Aliénor flung the blanket back. Blood covered Noémi’s face from a cut on her head. “Noémi.”
Her handmaid shook her head and mumbled something, but Aliénor could not make out her words over the sounds of the storm. More voices cried out. Aliénor heaved Noémi off the now-ruined mattresses and slung an arm around her friend’s waist. Noémi listed heavily to the side, swaying, and nearly knocked Aliénor down.
Aliénor stumbled through the camp, half-carrying her friend, unsure where she should go. Panicking soldiers rushed past them. One frantic man clipped Aliénor on the shoulder, sending her and Noémi off-balance and spinning to the ground. Aliénor shivered as the rain beat down. She tensed her muscles, drawing strength to stand again.
Another tearing sound filled the air as the tent beside hers was blown free of its poles. The wind flung the structure atop them, and Aliénor screamed as the soaked fabric plowed into her and pressed her down. The ground was muddy and slick. She punched and kicked to try to free herself from the heavy cloth as it flattened her into the sucking mud.
Suddenly the broken tent was lifted away and the icy rain pounded upon her once again.
“Are you all right?”
Aliénor’s heart leapt with gladness as she stared into the face of King Thomas. He wore only a light shirt and hose, and his feet were bare in the mud beside her.
“My lady-in-waiting. She’s hurt.” She bellowed the words and he must have understood her, because he moved to Noémi’s other side and lifted the dazed handmaiden to her feet.
“Allow me.” That tall blond man was with him again, and he helped the king half-carry Noémi into the nearest tent that was still standing. This proved to be Lord Ysen’s, but the baron was not about. Probably running around tending to the flood.
“This is Llewellyn, my second in command,” the king explained.
Llewellyn made a small bow as he tossed through Lord Ysen’s things with businesslike efficiency, turning the trunks out until at last he found a small towel. He carried Ysen’s washbasin into the rain, then came in with a full bowl almost at once. Llewellyn dabbed his towel in the wash water and proceeded to dab at Noémi’s wound, clearing away the mix of mud and blood.
“Is she all right?” Aliénor swabbed at her own face, her sleeve coming away muddy.
“I’m fine, Your Highness.” Noémi’s voice had a vague, slurred quality that worried Aliénor.
“Llewellyn is a healer. All will be well.” Even as the king said it, another great roar and crash boomed over the small valley. King Thomas rushed outside, and Aliénor instinctively followed him.
“The river!”
The charming stream, gorged now by storm water and snow melt from the mountains, had overflowed its banks, rushing and crashing against those who made their camps too close to the shore’s edge. A line of horses were still tied too near, and several men were frantically wrestling with their knots, trying to get the precious animals free before the water swept them away. They carried glow-spells, small balls of blue light. At least the witch Helen was doing her part to help.
The water crashed against the horses’ legs, and the poor beasts were hindering their own rescue as they kicked and bucked with fear. A familiar dark face holding a glow-spell caught Aliénor’s eye as she moved amongst those trying to free the horses. “Oh no.” Aliénor started forward, slipping and sliding down the muddy bank toward the water. “Violette, get back. Leave them.” She yelled until her throat was raw with the effort, but Aliénor’s impulsive little Amazon did not seem to hear.
Another swell reached the narrow section of the river. The cruel tide swamped rescuers and horses alike, tugging them into the river’s flow.
“No.” Aliénor watched with sick grief as the men’s and horses’ bobbing heads tumbled away downstream, almost too fast for her gaze to follow, let alone to attempt a rescue. Spell lights bobbed away down the river like drowned fireflies. The lights began flickering out one by one in the water and plunging all into darkness. Her eyes stung, and her gut twisted with nausea.
“Help.” One small voice seemed to rise above the clamor of the storm.
Aliénor’s nerves jumped, and she scanned the shore. Her heart squeezed to see one small glow-spell caught in a pocket of debris, and a scared, dark face lit by the blue light. There. “Praise be,” Aliénor whispered. A clump of debris was pinned against the shore for the moment by the curve of the bank and the current’s push. Young Violette clung to the mass, fighting the river’s murderous drag.
Violette’s glow-spell guttered out like a dying flame, and Aliénor’s breath caught. It’s the water. Magic doesn’t work over running water. “Hold on!” Aliénor called even though Violette probably could not hear her.
“Aliénor. My lady, wait.” Aliénor whirled at the sound of the king’s voice. He slid to a stop next to her and gripped her by the arm. Water dripped off his chin and into his eyes.
She dashed water from her own face so she could see him. “One of my ladies is down there.”
“I’m no swimmer, Princess, but let me find—”
“I am the best swimmer in this camp. I grew up on an island. Let me go.” She yanked her arm free, then staggered her way down the loose and muddy bank. At the water’s edge she hesitated. The river’s swollen banks crashed ahead of her, water lapping against her ankles and tugging on them.
“Aliénor.”
She whipped around as the king skip-hop-stumbled the last bit down the bank. He held a rope aloft in triumph and didn’t even wait for her permission before he slung it around her waist and tossed off a sailor’s knot. He tugged on the rope, pulling her waist toward him by the knot.
“That should hold.” His teeth flashed at her in the darkness. “Try to get to the other shore and get to her that way. Don’t try to swim straight across.”
“I know.”
He squeezed her arm. “You can do this.”
“I know.” Something surged in Aliénor then, a burst of feeling in her chest that left her nearly breathless. No time. She seized her skirts, dragging the hemline between her legs, then tucking her skirts into the knot the king had tied, creating rudimentary hose and leaving her legs free—and immodestly bared. Some things are more important than propriety. “Hold me tight.”
“I will.”
She scanned the debris pile. Poor Violette still determinedly, miserably clung to her pile of twigs and logs on the opposite shore. The glow-spell was dim and flickering still. Violette’s eyes were wide. The skin around her mouth showed nearly white with fear in the sickly blue spell-light.
Hold on, Violette. Aliénor flung herself into the river, the icy water like a punch to the gut that left her trembling and gasping. She tipped her head up, spitting water out the side of her mouth. A wave crashed over her and she ducked, then inhaled as she bobbed to the surface again. Something smashed into her from behind, pushing her under and leaving a stinging bruise across her back. She squeezed her eyes tight, her chest hurting, and kicked back to the surface. She sucked in another breath before a wave crashed over her again. Her arms and legs burned. Her linen dress dragged in the water, slowing her d
own. Her body felt sluggish, almost frozen. These waters were very different from those of the warm summer beaches of her home. I should have known that.
The other shore beckoned. So close. Aliénor clawed for the muddy bank, digging her fingers in and scrambling like a landed fish. Once she felt secure on the shore, Aliénor tugged on the rope at her waist. A signal to King Thomas.
The pounding rain had slowed to a misting drizzle. Legs heavy, Aliénor followed the riverbank down, staggering toward Violette’s debris pile.
“Princess! My lady, I—” Violette’s voice broke and she let out a small, broken sob.
The spell-light was caught in the tangle of twigs, and poor Violette was also pinned among the sharp branches. The pile was too big for Aliénor to reach Violette from the shore. Aliénor’s stomach clenched, but she saw another way. Bracing herself for the cold shock, she eased into the water beside the debris pile. The current took her at once, pushing her with alarming speed toward that knotted mass of broken wood.
Aliénor gritted her teeth and gripped at branches in the debris pile, flapping her cold-clumsy hand back and forth, trying to catch hold of Violette. Something cracked beneath her, and water rushed over her head.
Violette was screaming when Aliénor surfaced again. Aliénor flung an arm out, and the girl caught hold of her wrist, gripping it painfully. Aliénor grasped Violette’s other wrist and tugged her forward, fighting against the river. When she was close enough, the girl wrapped both arms around Aliénor’s neck, sobbing into her shoulder.
The angle was awkward, water rushing over the both of them so they were coughing and gagging. Aliénor yanked hard on the rope around her waist and felt an answering pull. They were jerked free of the debris pile, and Violette shrieked again, startled by the sudden movement into open water.
Aliénor squeezed her friend’s waist. “No, it’s all right. We’re almost out.”
Something caught at the billowing skirts of Aliénor’s dress below the water, and she jerked downward. She managed, barely, to turn her scream into a gasp as her head disappeared beneath the water.