Barrows gaped, all his smugness gone. “What—Mr. Reaver, sir, that’s ridiculous. I’m your servant, not hers!”
Reaver gave the queen an admiring look. “Well played, Majesty. That’s twice tonight you’ve managed to thwart me, at least slightly, in my aims. I confess, I had thought you a simple little thing, but now I see you’re made of sterner stuff. You should be aware you might have played your hand too soon, though. I shan’t underestimate you again.”
“You will honor your word?”
“I always do,” he said, and even as Barrows gibbered and begged, Reaver calmly cocked the pistol, aimed, and fired.
No one took much notice of the queen’s absence over the next several days. Since the arrests of Page and Captain Timmins, she had not appeared publicly much, and the populace, as populaces will, had adapted to her new schedule. There was some speculation over ales at the Cock in the Crown tavern and elsewhere, and not a little bit of complaining. Still, the end result of most such conversations, save the ones that were overly fueled by alcohol, was that the queen was a lovely and kind thing, and it must have been very upsetting for her to learn that her friends had betrayed her so. And as for the rules and taxes, well, war was expensive; better to tighten belts now than later, eh? Besides, spring was coming, and the almanac was predicting a lovely and fertile one. And wasn’t it the other fellow’s turn to get the ales this time?
When it was revealed that Her Majesty would be making a Very Important Announcement in the gardens of the castle, everyone was abuzz. Was there word on the war? Were there confirmations of some of those nasty rumors of the darkness lurking around the edges of the comfortable lamplight of smaller towns? Was there going to be a grand party or a new holiday declared? Well, a chap could always hope.
So they gathered in the gardens, filling it to capacity and beyond, eager to get a glimpse of Her Royal Majesty Queen Laylah after so long and hoping for good news. As she appeared, the crowd burst into cheers and applause. Goodness, had she always been so thin? It was hard to tell, but she seemed paler, didn’t she? Of course, everyone was pale in the winter. Behind her walked Reaver, and a single loud “Boo!” uttered in comfortable anonymity wafted up.
The queen smiled and waved, then indicated they should quiet down. They obliged.
“My beloved subjects,” she said, and my, didn’t her voice sound subdued, don’t you think? “It has been some time since I have formally addressed you—or even informally come to your places of work, or been welcomed into your homes. I regret the necessity which has kept me so cloistered. I will keep this brief, as there is still much that requires my attention on a daily basis.
“Some time ago, two people whom I considered friends turned traitor. They were arrested, and made their escape—by attacking me physically.”
Gasps of horror and sympathy rippled through the crowd. Hurt Queen Laylah? How could anyone even say anything cruel to one so gentle, let alone harm her?
“They are extremely dangerous. I know that in times past, you all thought well of them. So did my husband—and so did I. But those times are indeed past. As of today, I am doubling the reward for information on them to five thousand gold, and to those who can find and bring them to me, d-dead or alive, I offer ten thousand.”
Now that was some real money! Hadn’t the pie maker over the hill said he thought he’d seen Captain Timmins the other day?
“Now, as to the war,” the queen continued, “I have, regretfully, heard nothing from my husband the king as to its progress. But he is in a faraway land, and truly, none could reasonably expect to hear anything for a long time. I know all of you are doing your duties as good citizens here, and your helping your kingdom, and me, helps the king.
“To that end, Mr. Reaver has offered to expand Reaver Industries.”
Ah, now, that … unhappy muttering went up. Queen Laylah lifted her hands imploringly. “I know that in the past Mr. Reaver has not been … popular. But hear me out! Our ruler is at war, protecting the interests of Albion. Can we do no less? If Mr. Reaver steps up production, it means more employment, more productivity, more weapons to protect us here at home if the darkness does choose this time, when we are depleted in our weapons and manpower, to attack.”
Hmm … hadn’t thought about it that way.
“Increase in farming tools will help you sow your crops more efficiently, which means more food come harvest time. I personally will be working with him to ensure what is best for all.”
There was a smattering—just a smattering—of dubious but polite applause. After all, Queen Laylah would always do what was best for her people.
“Finally, until this war is over, we are ceasing all trade with Aurora. While it is true they are our allies as my husband braves Samarkand, we cannot afford to support them at a time when our resources are already depleted due to tending our own populace and to the war effort. Albion must focus on its own needs until such time as we are victorious, at home and abroad.”
More than anything, the general populace was puzzled. How was not helping Aurora, Albion’s ally, helping the war effort? Then again, Aurora was helping itself by fighting alongside the Albion troops, wasn’t it? So … it made sense. Kind of.
“I thank you again for your loyalty to the crown and your country. Long live Albion!”
“Long live Albion!” This, at least, was a thought easily understood and readily embraced.
“And long live Their Majesties!” shouted Reaver, speaking for the first time.
“Long live Their Majesties!”
The speech was over. Time for an ale. Maybe two.
“You were magnificent, my dear,” said Reaver as he “escorted” the queen back to her quarters. “Even I would be hard-pressed to deliver so eloquent and impassioned a speech.”
“I hate you,” Laylah spat.
“Well, we both know that,” said Reaver. “But it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate and even applaud your thespian abilities. Keep this up, and I daresay you won’t have that many jobs to fill at the castle. Have you hired a new butler yet, by the way?”
“You know I haven’t. I’m waiting for one of your toadies to show up.”
“I’ve not had much of a chance to interview toadies; I’ve been too busy with minions and lackeys.” They had reached her quarters. One of Reaver’s men stood guard at the door. As he opened it, Rex, who had been curled up on the bed, got to his feet. He glanced at Laylah, his tail wagging slightly, then at Reaver, and he growled.
“Now,” said Reaver, “be a good little queen and settle in until I’ve need of you.”
“I need to let my dog out first,” Laylah said. Reaver frowned, clearly mistrusting the request. “Oh come now,” Laylah burst out, “he’s a dog. He needs to go outside. Or do you expect me to clean up when he goes inside?”
“Well, that would be rather untidy,” Reaver said. “Let’s let him out then, poor fellow.” He smiled at the dog. The dog bared his teeth—a similar gesture, but an entirely different meaning.
“Come on, Rex, off you go,” said Laylah. She gripped the border collie by the collar, leading him to the door that exited onto the gardens. Turning so her back was to Reaver, she quickly let Rex sniff one of her gloves. Rex wagged his tail, then bolted.
“Here now, what’s this?” snapped Reaver. He hurried to the door and drew his pistol on the dog.
“No!” shouted Laylah, tugging his arm down. The shot went wild, and Rex was out of range and harm’s way. Reaver turned on her, not bothering to hide his fury, and even after all she had seen from him, Laylah quailed inside at the look on his face.
“What mischief are you up to now, hmm?” He grabbed her arm and squeezed painfully.
“You’ve already got several innocents as hostage,” she replied. “I’m not going to let you have a poor dog’s life to hold over my head as well!”
“You and the king and your dogs,” Reaver sighed. “I’ll shoot the cur on sight if he returns, you know. You’d best hope he doesn’t.”<
br />
Laylah prayed he wouldn’t. She stood, straight and silent, until Reaver departed, closing the door behind him. When she was certain he was gone, and she would not be heard, Laylah flung herself on the bed.
Oh, my love, I have unwittingly betrayed us all. But I will thwart him every way I can until you come safely home. I promise, I promise!
Chapter Twenty
The training with Garth began immediately after their meal and quickly took on its own rhythm. The king would rise at dawn, break his fast with something simple, then meet the masters of the various martial arts—the staff, the sword, the rope, and what was cryptically termed “our weapons.” The king was most proficient with blade weapons and a variety of guns, but less so with the others. He recognized the uses of such things as the staff and the hammer, and the handiness of a rope, chain, or whip, though the proper usage of such things challenged him. He was, however, totally unprepared for the dangerous weapon known as:
“A rake?” the king said, staring at the pronged instrument used for breaking topsoil.
“A rake,” the monk said. “We also have scythes, spades, and shovels with which we fight. You will notice this is no ordinary rake but one we have adapted to use for a martial purpose. Still, any of our monks could find any such tool and fight well with it. It is a higher art than the sword—being able to make use of whatever comes to hand. That is why we call them ‘our’ weapons—we make them ours, and they serve us.”
“I do see how that could be useful, particularly if we are arming a populace,” the king said. “Very well—show me how to fight with rakes and spades.”
The monks did, and the king, who was no slouch when it came to battle, found himself marveling at not just the skill but the grace and seeming tranquillity with which the monks fought.
He held his own when it came to sword fighting. Even so, the monks taught him different parries and feints than the ones he had learned from Sir Walter or in the thick of combat, where necessity was a fine teacher. They taught him how to use his attacker’s own force against him, and time and again the king found himself flat on his face when it appeared to him the monk sparring with him wasn’t even breaking a sweat.
After the exhausting training sessions, he would meet Garth for the midday meal, which was the heaviest of the day—roasted meats, bread, cheeses, and fruits. Garth began teaching him ways to stretch, move, and hold his body that felt more like punishment than the actual sparring did. After the third day, the king asked, “I understand why I am learning to fight with different weapons. But … why am I learning how to do these?”
“So you can sit for hours and meditate,” came the confusing reply. The king reasoned that Garth knew what he was doing—at least Percy hadn’t indicated that the Will user had gone stark raving mad—so he obeyed.
Then came the sitting. It was the hardest discipline of them all. Just … sitting. At first the king fidgeted, trying to get and stay comfortable and clear his mind as Garth instructed him.
“Your mind chatters like a monkey,” Garth observed. “I can hear it from here. You are thinking to yourself, why is this old man having me sit when we could be making plans?”
“Um,” said the king, blushing a little.
“Because when you learn to be still in your mind, it will start opening to you. And you will discover things about how to use it you have never even imagined. I sat for a decade in Lucien Fairfax’s hellhole of a spire, honing my Will, being still, and unlocking the secrets of my mind in order to escape. We don’t have the luxury of so much time, but you are a Hero. Things come easier to us, more naturally. It is part of our heritage. So perhaps the little time we have will be sufficient.”
The change happened almost from one breath to the next. The king was sitting, bored, his mind chattering like the monkey Garth had said it was, when all of a sudden—it clicked. He understood. His breath was energy, it flowed through him, and as if he had unlocked a treasure chest, suddenly he realized the full potential of his mind.
“I’ve got it!” he cried, and of course the focus shattered.
Garth had sighed.
After that, the king was able to dip deep into the resources of his brain. The fighting became easier as he learned to think like the monks. The meditation left him clear and refreshed instead of bored and twitchy. Garth began teaching him new spells, new ways of looking at old spells. It wasn’t quite effortless, but there was a flow to it that the king had never quite grasped before. No wonder his father had extolled Garth as one of the greatest Heroes of Will ever known.
It all came together; calmness begat focus, focus begat harmony between thought and action. And by the time a monk hurried up to Garth with word that the army had been sighted and Percival had landed, the king felt as if he had barely known who he was before.
Percival landed in the same open area he had before, this time bearing Ben, Kalin, Shan, and Shalia on his back. The king strode up to them with a broad smile on his face, hugging Shalia and Kalin, clapping Shan on the shoulder, and giving Ben a thump on the back and a warm handshake.
“You seem … different, Your Majesty,” Kalin observed.
“I am, and for the better,” the king said. “Garth has been teaching me in many things.”
“Garth,” said Ben, suddenly subdued. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
Garth inclined his head, accepting the compliment. “His Majesty has spoken well of all of you,” Garth said, and when his eyes fell on Shan, he smiled. “I am especially proud of my young Samarkandian brother. And sister,” he said, including Shalia in his smile. “But time is not our friend. The longer you are in Samarkand, the more likely it is that word of your arrival has reached the Empress. We must begin our strategizing and plan the assault.”
He unrolled the map he had brought with him. Rather to the king’s surprise, Garth sat down and spread the parchment right on the bare earth. At the king’s expression, he said, “We could retire to my small home, but then our friend Percival would not be included.”
Percy looked startled, then pleased. “I must say, you newer Heroes are a much more polite lot than the ones I served a few centuries ago. Thank you, Garth, I shall contribute as best I may.”
They all sat in a circle, regarding the map intently. “I have been to the palace as a guest of the Emperor before it was fully corrupted by the Empress,” Garth said. “It pains me even now to think of its beauty. I know not what we will find, but I have drawn a map of the city as I remember it. I would imagine the basic structure has not changed. I did not see the wall when it was completed, but I know it has a timber frame and is covered with hard-baked earth. It rings the city completely and stands forty feet high.”
“How do you know all this if you’ve never seen it?” Ben asked.
Garth smiled. “I may have rejected the outside world for many years, but I still have my sources,” he said, then turned back to the map. “Outside the city, wandering nomads and the farmers who fed the general populace dwelt. The river Zaha, which gives the city its name, flows through the center, dividing it in half. Zahadar consists of five parts: the northern and southern outer city, the northern and southern inner city, and the palace.”
The king nodded. The city was very tidily structured, its geometry nearly perfect. “The outer city is where the ordinary folk live and work. Here you’ll find markets, merchant stalls, that sort of thing. General food items were sold in the southern half, and mercantile and textile items in the northern. The northern inner city was reserved for government buildings, the southern part for private residences for the higher classes. And the palace, of course, was for the Emperor. As you can see—”
“All three parts have walls,” Ben said glumly. It was true: one massive one about the entire city, one enclosing the more urban part, and one ringing the palace itself. “We’re going to have to do a great deal of architectural redesign.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Garth said. “The river flows through here and here,” he con
tinued, indicating Xs on the wall on the east and west sides. “The main gate opens to the south.” He glanced up at his companions with dark eyes. “It would be my supposition that the walls are patrolled day and night, and the single entrance heavily guarded. Your Majesty, did you bring any siege weaponry?”
The king grimaced. “We have some,” he said. “What didn’t get sunk by hollow men or stolen by sand furies or just plain stuck in the sand.”
Garth nodded. “A pity. Well, we’ll just have to make do. Now, based on my knowledge of Zahadar, this is my plan.”
The next town that Page and Timmins came to was a place called Thorndeep. Until recently, it had been abandoned for centuries, and many dark things had dwelt there. But once the king had defeated the Crawler’s armies, he was determined to restore not just the damaged Old Quarter, but all of Albion, if possible. Hardy souls who were willing to clear out Thorndeep, build homes, and make a community there were paid well for their efforts, and the little place was thriving.
“Hard to believe this was once a bastion of evil,” Timmins commented as they approached the outskirts of the town.
“Even in winter, it seems cheery enough,” Page said. Cottages were nestled a few yards from the road. Most of them had candles in their windows and smoke from hearth fires streaming up into the afternoon air. Others, though, stayed dark, and Page noticed that there were no footprints in the snow around these. “Though it looks like some people have left for the winter,” she added.
“Now that’s a bit odd,” Timmins said. “It’s not really a summer town per se.”
They exchanged glances. “Let’s hope that the villagers are both alive and still human,” Page said.
Alert now, they were cautious as they reached the town proper. It opened into what was clearly a market square, with government buildings, an inn, a tavern, and places of business lining it. No market in the winter, of course, but it still felt—and looked—oddly empty.
A door to one of the buildings opened and a cheerful-looking, stout lass emerged carrying several loaves of bread and what appeared to be a freshly baked pie, and they relaxed. “Looks alive and human to me,” said Timmins.
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