by Duncan Lay
Kettering reached out and grabbed one by the back of his tunic, sending silver knives and forks showering across the blood-stained wooden floor.
‘Where is your master?’ he growled.
‘I shall fetch him!’ the servant babbled, disappearing up the stairs at a run.
‘Leave those,’ Kettering snapped at Leigh, who had a handful of the cutlery.
‘I was just picking it up,’ Leigh protested weakly, then dropped them reluctantly, all but a couple of teaspoons. He winked at the archer as he pocketed them.
‘What is happening? We need that carriage packed and ready to go!’ Fergus stormed down the stairs, his moustache bristling, then he saw Kettering and the others and raced over, shaking their hands like a demented man.
‘I was wrong about you boys! So wrong! You saved my life, my family’s lives. Those monsters would have cut me down like they killed Herena, as if we were dogs. That one was about to brain me when one of your boys spitted him like a chicken. I am forever in your debt. Here, take these.’
He swept up a handful of the fallen silverware and tried to press it on Leigh and Hawke.
‘Thanks, but I’ve already got some like it.’ Leigh smiled.
Kettering grabbed Fergus by the shoulders.
‘You will unpack any valuables and replace them with wounded men,’ Kettering told him. ‘Then you will leave immediately!’
Fergus’s mouth opened and closed, he gulped, then he nodded.
‘Right away. Leave those!’ he shouted at the servants. ‘Go with this archer and help bring his wounded around to the carriage entrance!’
Kettering left them to it, went out to see what was happening in the street and found a cluster of archer officers waiting for him.
A lieutenant saluted. ‘Tenochs are all dead, or have fled! Lower town is ablaze—I think they plan to let it burn us out before they land any more men.’
‘Good. Because we shall be long gone. And this fire will drive out any people who thought about staying behind. We’ll load everyone we can find onto the carriages. Don’t let a carriage leave if it’s carrying books or clothes or silverware instead of people or food.’
‘But what if they protest, sir? These people with carriages have friends in high places…’ one officer began.
‘If they don’t obey you, send them to me. I’ll give them something to complain about,’ Kettering snarled.
They nodded, then flinched as a Tenoch fireball exploded in a house at the bottom of the street, sending bricks flying and bowling over a pair of running archers.
‘What are you waiting for? Get your men moving!’ Kettering barked, then watched them run to obey him.
He walked out to see Rocus and Cropper now being carried away. ‘Thanks very much, you bastards,’ he told them.
Hutter had wanted to defend the river city of Worick, even before the orders came. Letting invaders land unopposed was like watching a crime and not acting to stop it. But he did not even get the chance to hurt the Tenochs. Their vessels had rowed into the river mouth all flying the flag of Worick, a white ship on a green background. But the Tenoch ships did not go near the jetties.
Instead of landing an army, the Tenoch ships began launching catapult stones and balls of flame into the houses.
Hutter and his men had rescued as many people as they could, loaded them into boats and set off upriver while Worick burned. But it was not a real escape. Eventually the River Worick turned south—and they would have to get out and walk from there.
It was rare indeed to see so many wizards in the one place. They never worked together and, while most knew each other—by name if not by sight—they were not friendly. After all, a wizard who had spent years building up his trade in a town was not going to welcome a competitor.
But Barrett was the Queen’s Magician—and the most powerful wizard seen in a generation. A summons from him had brought every wizard who could travel through an oaken gateway to hear what he had to say.
They were clustered in the large ballroom that had been the least used part of the Royal Magician’s house since Barrett had moved in. They had all eaten hungrily, drained by the journey there, now they merely nibbled on the food.
Barrett looked across the room with a soaring heart. He had felt so lost, but after many talks with Tiera, he had come up with this idea. For too long each wizard had worked against each other, labouring only for money. They were seen as aloof and arrogant, slaves to the gold that they charged. But there was so much they could do to help the people. Not just in this desperate situation but in normal life. So much misery could be averted through magic. So much good could be done. If only they listened to him!
He began to talk then, explaining how wizards had been given a gift, had been blessed to be able to work magic. How, instead of giving thanks for this gift, they had used it to make themselves rich, had refused to help those unable to afford their services.
‘I know why it began—our ancestors needed rich patrons, someone prepared to feed, clothe and house them while they learned their arts, and while they experimented. But, somewhere along the way, it became all about the money. I propose we change all that. That we band together, work together, to help the people…’
He trailed off as the angry muttering rippled through the crowd.
‘Do you mean to make us lapdogs of your Queen, as Tellite wanted us to submit to the rule of Duke Gello?’ someone shouted.
Barrett shook his head. Tellite, who had tried to stop him—and died in the attempt. ‘No. I say we should be independent, but work together for the people. Work for free, at times. Give something back…’
‘Easy for you to say, living in this large house, with your cellars stuffed full of gold. Some of us have families to feed!’ a portly mage called.
Many agreed and Barrett felt he was losing them. He glanced sideways, to where Tiera sat at the side of the room. She smiled at him, and nodded, and he turned back to them with fresh determination in his voice.
‘Hear me out. I do not seek to make the rules. I say we should talk, all of us, hammer out an agreement. Coopers, smiths, leather-workers, tailors—they all have guilds. Why not mages? If we can still make a good living with more respect from the public, what is wrong with that?’
The last sally seemed to hit home. All had suffered the indignity of being abused on the street.
‘Tell us more,’ one invited.
‘It is not just us being held back, sire,’ Prent reported. ‘In the west, both Tenoch landings have been slowed by resistance. When the Tenochs used catapults to crush the defenders, the towns caught fire and slowed them even more.’
Gello ground his teeth at the thought of both Worick and Cessor going up in smoke. Those were two of the richest towns in the country!
‘In the south, the advance goes slowly. Markuz has discovered the Rallorans have fortified the bridge across the River Brack, at Wells. Everyone reports that the countryside is almost empty. Dust clouds indicate that they are staying ahead of our forces.’
Gello swore bitterly. This would not do at all! He needed to bring Merren’s forces to battle, and the best way to do that was hurt the people. Then his soft-hearted fool of a cousin would try to stop him, and he would smash them and take back the country. But he could not force them to fight when they could keep retreating across the country whenever he got close. If they weren’t careful, the bitch could actually escape into the north—and then it would be near impossible to pry them out of there before winter.
‘We cannot let them escape. Tell Onzalez that we need to slow the refugees down somehow, force the soldiers to stand and fight, so we can rip them apart!’
Khaliz, the Berellian King’s Magician, was more than a little frightened to receive a summons from Brother Onzalez.
He had survived the failure in the north, and Cezar’s death, only because Berellia had few magicians, and none capable of replacing him. Still, being dragged before a Fearpriest was not a good sign. Khaliz was not without p
ower, but the Fearpriest was in another realm. He was sweating when he was shown into Onzalez’s tent—and shocked to find himself given a seat and poured wine.
‘Tell me, Khaliz, what know you of weather magic?’ the Fearpriest asked warmly.
Khaliz licked dry lips. ‘Such a thing is normally the province of priests…’
Onzalez waved his hand dismissively. ‘The priests of Aroaril are blocking me. That is why I want you to try. They cannot counter natural magic, as I could not stop the storm the Norstaline wizards conjured, which slowed down the sailing of our Tenoch brothers. I want torrential rain. Rain enough to turn their roads to mud and stop their retreat, so we may defeat their soldiers.’
Khaliz took a gulp of wine. ‘I can try, my lord,’ he said eventually. ‘But if the Norstaline wizards detect what I am doing, they will oppose me. And Barrett can defeat me. My strength is not equal to his. All they have to do is delay me, and I shall perish in the task.’
‘That will be a necessary sacrifice,’ Onzalez told him. ‘You shall eat well, then begin.’
Khaliz felt the sweat stand out all over his skin again.
‘Yes, lord. But if I am to be successful, I shall need support. Such a task is best achieved slowly, secretly. I need to let it build gently, until it is too late for them to stop me. By the time they detect it, they will not be able to stop it.’
‘I don’t care how it is done. Only that it is done,’ Onzalez growled. ‘Succeed and you shall be well rewarded.’
‘Yes, lord.’ Khaliz bowed his head. He knew what the alternative was.
7
Merren rubbed tired eyes and tried to concentrate on what Conal was saying. If keeping track of what was happening across the country was not hard enough, her mind kept creeping back to Martil and Karia. She wanted to go and see Martil, to talk with him and forget about Norstalos’ death struggle, for a short while. But she was also afraid they would probably end up shouting at each other. He was grudgingly obeying her orders, but was sending back strongly worded reports to her. Each time one of his men was wounded or killed saving a Norstaline he was sending a note, every word a thinly veiled attack on her instructions. They made her blood boil. And having Karia constantly in her ear was not making it any easier. As well as not-so-subtle hints about being a family, Karia had begun suggesting Merren relax with her, play some games and read some books. Relax! Because she had been away from the palace, she had been up half the night as it was, going through reports and over maps, writing out fresh orders for soldiers scattered across hundreds of miles…
‘Your majesty?’ Conal said gently.
Merren blinked her eyes open.
‘Keep going, Conal,’ she said.
The ex-bandit cleared his throat. ‘It’s going well. Almost according to our plans. We have roads full of refugees but our soldiers are able to keep the invaders at a safe distance. Meanwhile, the Derthals should reach Sendric in the next day—and will be at the passes a day later. Father Quiller says they are in good spirits and making better progress.’
‘There have been losses,’ Louise admitted. ‘Cessor and Worick are almost destroyed—we don’t know how many people died in there. Kettering managed to get a few hundred away from Cessor, fewer made it out of Worick with Hutter. Those two are now in command in the west, we have lost both Cropper and Rocus. They were badly hurt defending the city and are on their way back here—they may not survive.’
There was silence around the table. Rocus was the last of the original leaders of the rebellion, the man who had led the charge at Sendric to save Martil, the one who had charged with the Queen at Pilleth.
‘What else?’ Merren said heavily. She had spent the previous day on Argurium, dropping in on refugees on roads, trying to speed them up and raise their spirits. It had worked for them, although left her feeling exhausted by the size of the crisis. Worse, she had seen more looters—and some of these had melted away into the trees rather than paying the ultimate penalty at the hands of the Berellians, Tenochs or Gello. How could people behave like that?
‘Anyone south of the River Brack, barring the ones being brought out by Kesbury, is either dead or wishing they were dead. In the east, Gello is advancing slowly, Captain Kay is keeping him well back from the refugees. If we can keep this up for another week, we should be able to get the people safely away,’ Conal explained.
‘And where is Barrett?’ she asked, suddenly aware the wizard was not at the table.
‘Still locked up in his house with a bunch of wizards and his new apprentice. If you ask me, the wizard’s thinking with his little staff, not the big one,’ Conal grunted.
‘This is not a Tetran inn, you fool,’ Louise chided him.
Merren struggled to think. ‘If he is happy, perhaps we should give him some space,’ she suggested.
‘We should tell him to get off his…backside—and start using his magic to help us again,’ Conal offered.
Merren could still see clearly the look in Barrett’s eyes when she had told him she did not love him and never could love him—after using him to escape from Gello’s trap at the ranger barracks. He deserved a little happiness. And perhaps he would return in a better mood and the uncomfortable feeling between them would be gone. For all his pompousness and misguided puppy love, he had been an enormous help to her over the years and she owed him a debt of thanks for saving her life on several occasions—as well as Martil’s life.
‘We shall leave him be for a few days. He has earned that much,’ she said. ‘If we really need him to transport people ahead of the invaders, we shall call on him then.’
‘As you wish, your majesty.’ Conal bowed his head.
‘I wonder if you could visit the south again, your majesty,’ Bishop Milly suggested. ‘And I wonder if I might come along with you? I have a feeling I shall be needed there.’
Merren considered this for a moment. Obviously the woman had some reason and it would keep Karia happy. Besides, perhaps she and Martil might not argue…‘As long as the dragon is happy, I have no objections. But we shall leave now. I will be back by nightfall—and will need to know what has happened elsewhere as soon as I land.’
Louise and Conal exchanged glances. With three invasions, thousands of refugees on the roads and a rescue force of Derthals coming from the north, it meant another long day for them.
‘Your majesty, if I may have a quick word,’ Conal said softly, as the meeting was breaking up.
‘What is it?’ Merren asked.
‘Your majesty, I don’t know if I can keep doing this,’ Conal admitted. ‘Making decisions each day that cost lives or save lives. The pressure of not making a mistake. I’m…I’m having trouble sleeping and my mind is never at rest…’
Merren smiled grimly. ‘I wish I could let you go. But I need you more than ever. You have had a taste of what I must deal with. You know what it requires. I cannot do it all by myself.’
‘But surely you do not need me? I’m just an old, drunken bandit. There are many others…’
‘Where are they? Who are they? You want to make up for what you once did? There is no better place, no better time than now. Conal, I need your help.’
Conal could not meet her eyes.
‘Look at me,’ she said gently, and he reluctantly did so. ‘Lives depend on you. I depend on you. Don’t let them, or me, down.’
Conal slowly straightened up. ‘I shall keep working, your majesty,’ he said hoarsely. ‘But can I say I now appreciate what it means to wear a crown…’
‘Thank you for your words—but I am afraid you don’t know the half of it,’ Merren told him, then brushed his cheek with her hand before hurrying out.
Gratt had done many unusual things since he stopped being a servant and began being the leader of Sendric’s town council. But this had to be the strangest.
‘Greetings!’ he shouted, as the horde of Derthals faced him.
All day, terrified people had been flooding into Sendric, declaring that there was a massive
goblin invasion heading for the town. Gratt had tried to explain that the Derthals were here to help, that they had agreed to protect the Norstalines—but that had done little. Only a few of the oldest residents could remember an actual goblin attack—and they had been children then—but all had been raised on those stories and nothing would convince them that goblins could be here to save them. He dreaded to think what their reaction would be when they discovered the goblins would be living in the northern forest—a fact the bards had not been broadcasting. But first they had to get the Derthals to stay.
In desperation, Gratt and the town council had ridden out of the gates to meet the Derthals. The Queen had impressed on him how important it was to show them that things had changed, that the Norstalines could be trusted. Having the townsfolk hurl everything from abuse to rocks and rotten fruit at them was hardly going to help. But now he was this close to so many gob—Derthals, the stories that his grandfather used to tell him seemed horribly real. Even though he knew they were here to help, he could feel the sweat making his tunic stick to his back.
‘Gratt! A welcome face,’ Father Quiller greeted him. ‘Come, meet High Chief Sacrax.’
Gratt gave a nervous bow as the Derthal chief approached. Short, powerful, with plenty of scars and a broad smile that showed missing and blackened teeth, Sacrax was every bit the image of the monsters of Gratt’s childhood stories.
‘I am the head of the town council of Sendric. On behalf of Sendric and Queen Merren, we welcome your help and ask if there is anything you need?’
Sacrax’s smile grew even more broad.
‘You are afraid, town council man! But there is nothing to fear. We shall march down to the passes, and we shall stop your enemies. Then we shall live in the forest, as our ancestors did.’
Gratt cleared his throat, aware of the danger of his voice sounding too high-pitched.
‘Then you shall be valued neighbours, and we shall welcome you,’ he declared, as Queen Merren had told him to, and hoping it would prove true.