by Duncan Lay
‘Why are they waiting?’ Loft wondered.
‘Who cares? Let’s get out of here before we’re next for the spears!’ Edgar cried.
Loft turned and ran for his stable, where he had kept a pair of fast horses saddled since the Rallorans had warned him. He thought, with a pang, of last night’s takings in the back room as well as his house and breakfast but consoled himself with the thought he had enough gold already packed in his saddlebags to keep him in comfort until he could return here in safety and dig up the rest of his hoard. It took him no time at all to jump into the saddle, grab the reins of his spare horse and spur out of the stable. A woman and two children ran in front of him and he was forced to check his progress. He recognised her as Mabel, Edgar’s daughter and parent to a pair of brats of her own.
‘Out of the way,’ he snarled.
‘Loft! Quick! Save my children!’ she shrieked.
‘Are you mad? Get away!’ He swerved around them and pointed the horses to the north, kicking them to the gallop.
The horses responded instantly and he concentrated on getting the last bit of speed from them. Men and women yelled at him, called out for help, and begged him to save them, save their wives, save their children, offering him everything they had if he would only stop and help. But he ignored them. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw the Berellians move from the walk into a canter—but they would not catch him. He felt himself relax as he galloped along the road, leaving his village behind with every stride. The only question was how to explain why he was the only survivor of the village.
He was thinking about that, so failed to see the Berellians that rose out of the tall grass and bushes on either side of the road until he was almost upon them. Screaming with fear, he tried to turn his horses, but a Berellian leaped forwards and smashed the butt of his spear into Loft’s head. He was catapulted onto the road, where he hit the ground hard and did not even see the other Berellians grab his horses.
‘An early one!’ the Berellian captain laughed. ‘And a fine prize! I’ll take those horses for myself!’
‘He’s still alive, Captain Slokek, sir!’ one of his men reported.
‘Excellent! A shame to waste the entertainment. I’ll wager a silver coin we don’t see a villager before he dies!’
‘Sir, shouldn’t we leave that until the village is taken?’ his lieutenant suggested carefully.
‘There’s no danger from a rabble of Norstalines! What are you, some sort of Aroaril-lover?’
Loft was slapped back into consciousness, then stripped and carried over to where a greased, sharpened stake had been sunk deep into the earth. The innkeeper regained his senses as they hoisted him up, and realised what they were going to do to him just before they began. But his desperate struggles were useless against the many hands holding him.
‘I hope Bilek’s company hurries up and drives the rest of the villagers this way soon. That noise is beginning to annoy me,’ Slokek commented, as Loft’s shrieks echoed across the road. ‘As soon as we see the first ones, Lieutenant Harek, you can silence him then close the trap.’
They peered expectantly down the road, but could see nothing.
‘Can you hear something over at the village?’ Slokek asked.
‘Sorry, sir, all I can hear is that,’ Harek said sourly, gesturing towards where Loft still screamed.
‘Lieutenant, are you criticising my orders?’ Slokek growled.
‘No, sir! I just don’t think this is necessary. These are unarmed villagers and could have been captured without any trouble if we had just ridden in there.’
‘I thought you fought in the Ralloran Wars? Or did you just make that up?’ Slokek asked scornfully.
‘I fought under Earl Byrez and served Berellia faithfully, sir. But I can defeat the King’s enemies without massacring unarmed villagers,’ Harek said defiantly. ‘And let us not forget there are supposed to be Rallorans in this area. We should not split our forces with them around…’
‘I have heard enough, lieutenant! One more word out of you and I shall report you to the Fearpriests! You came to me with recommendations for bravery but a warning that you come from an area of Aroaril-lovers and do not show the right attitude!’
Harek bit his tongue to stop himself from answering but, as Loft’s noises finally ceased, he had to speak.
‘We should have seen something by now, sir. Bilek’s company should have driven the villagers out.’
Slokek nodded reluctantly. ‘You are correct. Form the companies up—we’ll go and see what has happened.’
Mabel watched Loft ride away, and felt her heart go with him. He had been one of her father’s friends—he had been at her wedding for Aroaril’s sake! How could he not save her children? Her husband, Bernerd, had left at dawn to work in the southern fields. She knew he must be dead. She had not loved him, their match made to bring more land to both families but how would she look after a farm without him? Then she realised her future was likely to be short indeed. Her children, a pair of girls aged six and four, were wailing, and she grabbed their hands and started to run with them. Men, women and children—her friends and her family, her neighbours—were also fleeing, all trying to get away from the slow advance of the riders. The terror made it feel as though she was running through the thickest mud—she seemed to be making almost no progress. Terror seemed to have sapped the strength from her legs. Instinctively she knew she would not escape. She prayed her daughters would have a quick death, and thought that was too much to hope for, herself. She turned to see what the Berellians were doing and saw them spur into a gallop. She stared at them, hating them—then her jaw dropped open as the fields around the village came to life.
She blinked and looked again. That was impossible! Then she saw it was not grass and bushes that was standing but men! Men throwing off sacks and blankets and the earth, grass and plants that had covered them. Men in dirty blue surcoats, who now strung bows and loosed arrow after arrow into the Berellians, sending them crashing to the ground.
Mabel gaped, unable to believe what her eyes were seeing—then riders in blue appeared from behind the rise, bright swords in their hands—hundreds of them. The Berellians tried to rally, but they were wilting under the arrow storm.
‘It’s the Rallorans! The Rallorans are coming to save us!’ Mabel found her voice, and her shout made every villager turn to watch.
Martil watched grimly as his men finished off the shattered Berellians. A handful tried to surrender but he had ordered no prisoners be taken. He was in no mood to be merciful, especially to Berellians. After leaving Merren’s office with outrage mingling with his anger, he’d had to tell Karia he was going south.
She had burst into tears, begged him not to go, using the fight against Cezar as the perfect reason for him to stay with her. It had taken him the best part of a turn of the hourglass to calm her down and disentangle himself. Leaving her had been hard enough but then Havell and Argurium had taken the trouble to berate him once more about risking his life, and reminded him yet again of all that rested on his shoulders on the flight south. They had been reluctant to leave him to return to the capital and he had been forced to swear on Karia’s life that he would not fight, only direct his men. Added together, it had him itching to take his anger out on somebody.
A quick talk with Nerrin had shown him he would not have long to wait, for the Berellians were moving. He had barely had time to set this trap up, to turn the Berellian ambush on itself. It had worked just as he had planned but that could not hope to balance everything else he was feeling. So he was hardly smiling as he led his men into the village where the people, ecstatic at their rescue, were cheering wildly, trying to hug or shake the hands of every Ralloran they could find. He viewed the display coldly. Nerrin had told him the last time the Rallorans had been there the villagers had hurled rotten fruit and animal dung.
‘Quiet!’ Martil stood in his stirrups and bellowed. ‘Where is Loft?’
A young woman, clutching
two children by the hands, pushed through the crowd.
‘He ran away. He ran out on us, left us to die!’ she cried.
Martil had to restrain a cynical smile. So the village chief, who had worked so hard to keep this village from leaving for safety, had been the only one prepared to go. He must have been the one seen galloping away earlier.
‘Then he is dead, and the rest of you will die too, unless you listen to me this time!’ Martil shouted.
‘I need you to pack. Warm clothes and food only. You must be ready to leave quickly. There are two companies of Berellians out there, lying in wait along the road to our north. We have to kill them before we can escape in safety.’
‘So you knew they were going to attack us?’ the young woman asked.
‘Of course. Now, I need—’
But the woman interrupted him. ‘My husband was killed this morning, walking to work in the fields! Why didn’t you stop him and the other men? Why did you let them go to their deaths?’
Martil glared at her. ‘We don’t have time for a discussion, woman!’ he snapped.
‘I know why, because you don’t care about us! You used us as bait for the Berellians!’ she accused.
Martil could not deny her words. He could have attacked the Berellians immediately they crossed the border, although a fair fight would have cost his men more lives than springing the perfect trap on the Berellians. And his men were more important than a few more villagers. But he could not say that. ‘You are alive. Your children are alive. Be thankful for that. Remember, we were not the ones who attacked. We were the ones who saved you…’
‘Saved us for your own purposes!’
‘Enough!’ Martil barked. ‘There are still two companies of Berellians out there! Now, unless you want me to take my men and ride away, I would advise you to listen!’
A portly farmer came forwards to lay a comforting—and cautioning—arm around the woman. ‘What do you want us to do?’ he asked.
‘Who are you?’ Martil demanded.
‘Edgar, and this is my daughter Mabel. I suppose I am head of the village council now.’
‘Then, Edgar, I need six villagers to act as bait, to draw the Berellians onto us,’ Martil said, seeing Mabel turn away in disgust at his words.
‘We shall do whatever you ask,’ Edgar said heavily.
Captain Slokek stared at the village in frustration. They had approached as close as they dared without being seen—but the last one hundred yards or so would be without any cover. As it was they had left all their horses back at the original ambush site, half a mile away.
‘What do you see, Harek?’ he asked.
‘Villagers walking around as if nothing was happening, sir. No sign of Bilek. Perhaps he had to withdraw, sir. We know there are Rallorans in the area—if he saw something, he might’ve headed for the border,’ Harek suggested.
‘But he should have sent us a runner, at least!’
‘Or maybe, sir, the Rallorans drove him off. This is just a village. Destroying it serves no purpose anyway. Perhaps we should just withdraw…’
‘I cannot go back to the King and say we ran away from a village of soft Norstalines!’ Slokek said furiously. ‘The King himself ordered this village destroyed, for it sits on land that should be Berellia’s. Bilek must be lost, or something. Full attack!’
‘Sir—’ Harek began.
‘Not another word or I shall denounce you as worshipping Aroaril,’ Slokek warned.
Reluctantly, Harek signalled to the sergeants and led the men forwards.
As soon as the Berellians broke cover, the few villagers in sight ran for it. That was too much for many of the Berellians and they immediately broke into a run, despite the best efforts of Harek and the sergeants to keep them in a tight formation. Within moments they were strung out, the faster runners racing to be the first into the village, led by Slokek himself.
Harek watched him in disgust. He had agreed to serve again because he passionately believed he had a duty to his country. But fighting for Fearpriests and fools like Slokek was testing his patriotism to the limit. He had always been taught by Earl Byrez to fight with honour but the Earl was gone and, it seemed, all honour had left Berellia with him. Harek had hoped to provide some experience to the thousands of raw recruits who had swelled Berellia’s depleted regiments. But rather than lead these men, officers such as Slokek and the King’s Fearpriests used fear to keep them in line and obeying orders. It left men like Harek feeling bitter and useless. Harek followed the rest of the men, hoping he could survive this and return to Berellia. He had heard Earl Byrez’s son was trying to organise a rebellion against Markuz. He had thought it his duty to fight for the Fatherland but now he wished he had stayed in Berellia, helped fight for something he believed in.
Then the arrows began to fly through the air.
Harek saw men dropping and heard shouts of alarm, from behind and to either side. Hundreds of Rallorans appeared, on horseback and on foot, while still more poured out of the village to form a shield wall in front.
‘Rallorans! Run!’ Slokek screamed in terror.
But there was nowhere to go.
Harek watched his commander fall to his knees, crying for mercy, although he received none. Many of the new recruits ran in panic, or tried to surrender, but Harek knew there was no give in the Rallorans. Not after what had been done to their country. Years ago, Earl Byrez had warned Markuz that would happen, that brutality and cruelty would only be repaid in kind. Now they would reap what Markuz had sown.
Harek tried to rally men together, hoped against hope he could get away, so he could desert from the Berellian army, but the Ralloran ring tightened inexorably and he died fighting back to back with a new recruit.
Martil waved to Nerrin and Dunner. ‘One company to clear the road of bodies, one to fetch their horses, and one to watch the road south. The rest on me—we need to get these villagers a long way away from here, before the rest of the Berellian army attacks!’
‘And those other Berellians, sir?’ Dunner asked.
Martil grimaced. As well as these three companies, scouts had reported a squadron of Berellian cavalry riding across the border, in a different direction. Obviously they were going after the villagers Kesbury had rescued.
‘Thanks to you, sergeant, we have already sent a squad of men. A squad we cannot afford to lose. This retreat is not about saving Norstalines but about conserving our men. Every one of us who makes it back over the passes can train ten men. Another villager is just a useless mouth to feed.’
Martil paused. He had already shouted at Dunner for this last night—abusing the man further would do no good. Besides, he knew Dunner and Kesbury had been friends. He softened his tone a little, although he knew it would not make Dunner feel any better. ‘Besides, even if we sent men, by the time they arrived, it would be all over. He knew the risks when he went in there. Only Aroaril can save him now.’
Merren looked longingly at the wine but contented herself with a cup of herbal tea. But Gia and Louise had a glass each and now toasted her cautiously.
‘This could be the most important duty I give you,’ she told them. ‘I need a diversion from what we face—I need people to talk to. In this room, we are just three friends: Louise, Gia and Merren. What is said in here stays in here, and you must give me your honest opinions, without fear.’
This was an unusual step, one she could never imagine her father ever taking. But she had just received the latest batch of surveys, from the refugees who had already made it safely to the north. The answers were exactly what she had dreaded, confirming what her head told her. The people, many of whom had seen Martil save themselves and their children, were strongly against him being made Prince Consort. It was not overwhelming but, if it was like that up there, what was being said in parts of the country that hated the Rallorans?
She needed to talk, needed to see if she could drop her royal persona and just be herself around someone else other than Martil or Karia. Fo
r they were the only ones who seemed to let her just be Merren, not the Queen. But if she could not be with them, then perhaps Gia and Louise might give her the outlet she needed…
There was an awkward pause when nobody said anything, just sipped their drinks. Gia and Louise exchanged glances. Both were holding their goblets of wine as though they were shields. Louise’s first meeting with the Queen had resulted in Merren screaming at her in anger. She had begun to see another side of Merren as the rebellion progressed, and they had grown closer after her husband’s death. Both she and Gia were older, and while they would have normally tried to offer advice to a troubled young woman, it felt exceedingly strange to offer that same advice to a queen—the hope of Norstalos. But they had seen the stress she was under, even had a taste of it themselves. They had to help her somehow.
‘What did you want to talk about, your majesty, I mean, Merren?’ Louise finally asked.
‘Everything except invasions and war.’ Merren smiled.
‘How about we talk about your wedding?’ Gia offered.
Merren made a face at that.
‘Perhaps we should talk about who you should marry?’ Louise said shrewdly. ‘We have all seen the looks Martil gives you.’
Merren put down her tea. ‘But would I be happy? Sometimes I wonder what is my attraction to him. Is it just because he represents everything my father would hate, because I am rebelling against all I was taught?’