Queens (The Wielders of Arantha Book 2)

by Patrick Hodges

  Mizar chuckled. She had definitely earned the right to call him by his true name. “So it would seem.”

  “Perhaps you might join me for a private dinner in return?” Twilla purred, her haughtiness giving way to flirtatiousness.

  Mizar's eyes widened. Twilla had expressed a keen interest in Mizar for years, but he'd always found a way to politely rebuff her advances. It had become a game of sorts, and he admired her persistence, but her cavalier offer sent the blood rushing to his face. “I will consider it,” he said, not unkindly.

  She smiled, giving him a playful wink before turning to the open doorway. “Zeeba, bring her in!”

  Both men watched the door with bated breath.

  Sen gave an audible gasp as Vaxi stepped through it, Zeeba right behind her.

  Mizar couldn't believe this was the same girl who had departed only two hours before. Were it not for her tanned skin and doe-eyes, he might have thought it was someone else.

  The stained white tunic had been replaced by a flowing, floor-length dress, dark green in color, a perfect complement to her dark skin. Cinched at the waist, the top half hugged her trim form. Long sleeves snugly covered her muscular arms, but the material seemed to be in no danger of bursting at the seams. Her long brown hair was now partially pinned up, with the rest flowing down her back like a waterfall. The dress was certainly flattering on her without exposing too much skin.

  Sen, leaning on the work table, suddenly lost his balance as he shifted his weight, causing his left hand to slip. He had to grasp the table to keep from falling over. His face reddened, but his starry-eyed reaction to Vaxi's new garment spoke volumes.

  Vaxi's face sported a look like she'd just been through an ordeal as harrowing as being hounded by the Vandan raiders. “So, am I … acceptable now?” There was no masking the indignation in her voice.

  “My dear,” Mizar said, striding forward and grasping her by the shoulders, “You look absolutely lovely.”

  “Really?” Vaxi blushed, fingering the material in her skirt. “I've never been called that before.”

  Mizar turned back to see his apprentice, still staring goggle-eyed at their young guest. “Sen, what do you think?”

  He shuffled forward, measuring each step, finally stopping five feet away. He looked her up and down, and a huge grin appeared on his face. “Vaxi … you're beautiful.” He caught himself. “I mean, you were always beautiful, but now … wow.” He leaned back against the edge of the work table.

  For some reason, Sen's approval seemed to turn the tide. Vaxi smiled warmly at him, then turned to Mizar. “I guess it'll do.” She faced Twilla. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, my dear.” She waggled a stern finger at Mizar. “Next time, give me fair warning, or the answer is an unqualified 'no'. You hear me, High Mage?”

  “Loud and clear,” Mizar said. “I can count on your discretion regarding this matter? And your assistant's?”

  She gave him a dismissive wave. “Of course. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to sort through the Queen's capacious closets for something appropriate to wear for tomorrow's reception. Good day.” With that, she turned on her heel and closed the door behind her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Elzor called a halt to the second day of their trek across the desert after discovering a deep swale between two large ridges. Rahne reasoned that it must have once been to an ancient river. At least it would provide a small respite from the frigid wind that had marred the day's journey. Most of the Elzorath had to ride with their heads down and their mouths and noses covered.

  Rahne alit from his merych, a dark brown steed with far more stamina than he'd expected. Then again, having to pull Sekker's gargantuan bulk around would have required tremendous strength. He had no idea if the beast had a name, so he decided to name it Rokon, the same name he'd given to a rather mangy perin he once had as a pet.

  He walked a few hundred yards from camp to relieve himself. Upon returning to unpack his bedroll, he found Kalik and several other soldiers waiting for him. He noticed Kalik held two swords in his hand, one of which he threw to Rahne, who caught it by the hilt.

  After two days of riding and very little quality sleep, this was the last thing Rahne wanted: an impromptu training session. He was tired, hungry, and not in the mood to spar with Kalik. His right hand, still bandaged from the shallow cut General Langon had slashed into it following his swearing an oath of allegiance to Elzor, throbbed with pain. He considered declining Kalik's unspoken challenge, but quickly pushed that thought from his head; he was surrounded by men who barely knew him, barely respected him, and wouldn't hesitate to turn on him if he refused.

  Instead, he decided to go in the exact opposite direction, and act like it was exactly what he was hoping for. He shifted the sword to his left hand, testing its weight by swishing it through the air. There was nothing special about the weapon, a four-foot blade attached to a thick metal hilt wrapped in leather straps, but it would have to do.

  With as much bravado as he could muster, he pointed the sword at Kalik and smiled. “Have at it,” he said, placing his left foot forward as he dug his right heel into the dirt. His eyes locked onto Kalik's, awaiting the older man's first move.

  “Let's see what you got, boy,” Kalik said, and charged forward, his blade swinging in a horizontal, shoulder-level arc.

  Rahne instinctively backed away a half-step, but brought his own weapon up to parry Kalik's attack. The clang of metal rang out through the twilight air as Kalik adjusted immediately, thrusting his sword toward Rahne's legs. Again, Rahne was able to block it while sliding to his left. Placing both hands on the hilt of his sword, he managed a swing of his own. Kalik, caught off balance, barely brought his blade up in time to fend off Rahne's swing before the flat of the blade struck his midsection.

  Kalik nonetheless pressed forward, his movements practiced and precise, just as Rahne expected from such an experienced soldier. Rahne was thankful the older man wasn't going all-out in an attempt to wound him, and it soon became clear to Rahne that the long ride across the desert had fatigued Kalik as much as himself.

  For the first minute, Rahne was content to fight defensively, blocking his opponent's thrusts while making only a few half-hearted attempts to gain any offensive advantage. This seemed to frustrate Kalik, who ramped up his attack, but Rahne either avoided or deflected every blow, save one that glanced off his hip with little discomfort.

  Noticing a small crowd of Elzorath watching from a respectful distance, Rahne decided about two minutes into the fight to show his new captain what he could do. Ignoring his growling stomach and aching rear, Rahne leaped forward, swinging his sword in a high, graceful arc that Kalik nimbly parried. Before the thickset man could retaliate, Rahne spun around, landing a strike with the flat of the blade on Kalik's bare shin.

  The look of surprise on Kalik's face fired Rahne up even further, and he pressed home his advantage, raining blow after blow down on his opponent's sword. The bearded man thrust again, with considerably less energy than before, and Rahne brought his blade down hard on Kalik's gloved hand. Kalik yelped in pain, his sword dropping to the dusty ground.

  Rahne held his sword at the ready, waiting for Kalik to pick up his weapon and resume the fight, but he did not. He, like the men watching from the perimeter of their encampment, simply stared at him.

  And this time, it was with respect.

  Thank Arantha.

  * * *

  “So, how'd I do?” asked Rahne, biting into his ration of salted meat.

  Kalik, rubbing his sore wrist, scowled at him. However, Rahne had learned to interpret his instructor's frowns, as this was his usual mode of expression. This particular scowl was not one of disdain or annoyance, but of grudging acceptance. “Not bad, kid. Not bad.”

  Another soldier, a tall wiry man with a shock of dark hair that seemed to be immune to the wind, spoke up. “I thought you said you only knew how to use a spear.” The words came out somewhat mangled, as he preferred not
to finish chewing before talking.

  “Jabel's got a point,” Kalik said. “You never said anything about being able to fight with a sword.”

  Rahne quirked an eyebrow at him. “No, I didn't, did I?”

  Kalik's eyes narrowed, and then a smile cracked through his stony façade. A raucous laugh followed immediately, and soon, the other men surrounding their tiny, inadequate campfire had joined in.

  Calib, a stocky man with fair hair and the twangy accent typical of those from the northern regions of Barju, roared, “Ya sneaky braga!” He slapped Rahne hard on the back, sending arcs of pain through his stiff, sore body. Rahne rolled his shoulders, trying to will the pain away.

  Despite being tired, cold, hungry, and as sore as he'd ever felt in his life, Rahne joined in the laughter. Against all odds, he felt happy—for the first time since his father died. He was certain these men didn't look upon him as one of their own, but at least he'd earn some small measure of esteem.

  “How'd a fisherman's son come to learn swordplay?” Kalik asked, digging a small metal flask out of his saddle-bag.

  Rahne took a bite of his bread ration. It was hard and cold, but his stomach welcomed the solid mass of food. “Have you ever heard of darchan?”

  “The game with the colored stones? Course we have,” said Jabel.

  “My father taught me to play when I was a boy. By the time I was sixteen, I was an expert at it. Even in a small town like Larth, there was always a game if you could find it.”

  Calib's face crinkled into a frown. “Didn't ya get in trouble with the constables?”

  “Nah. A few coins slipped into their hands, and they looked the other way.” Rahne drew himself up. “I sent many a dockhand home to his wife with a sour face and an empty purse.”

  Kalik took a swig from his flask and passed it to Rahne. “So yer good at games o' chance. How does that make ya good with a sword?”

  Rahne threw back a gulp of the warm liquid, and his eyes immediately began to water. The manza cider burned his tongue, his throat, and all the way down to his stomach. It was all he could do not to retch, but instead, he fought to keep his face calm and even. His cohorts had obviously expected him to be a weak drinker, but he'd proved them wrong again. He tossed the empty flask back to Kalik, who gave him a look of what he hoped was admiration.

  Rahne continued, “The seediest tavern in Larth is called the Bark's Den. One of its regulars was a retired soldier named Dask. After a few flagons of ale, he liked to boast that he wielded 'the finest sword in all Agrus'. Which may have been true, but he was the worst darchan player on Elystra.”

  “Nah,” Kalik interrupted. “That title goes to Jabel here.”

  Jabel's face reddened. He reached down, picked up a small pebble from the ground, and chucked it at Kalik with a bellicose, “Blag off, dung-breath. Ya got lucky!”

  Kalik easily dodged the errant throw, shooting Jabel a wicked grin. “All ten times?” The circle of men laughed. Rahne joined in once again. Jabel responded by downing a gulp from his own flask and glaring at the fire as if it had insulted him as well.

  Rahne went on, “Anyway, Dask was the kind of man to keep doubling the bet even after his money ran out. Finally, after eight straight passes, I took pity on him. Rather than make off with his last coin, I decided to have him pay his debt by teaching me how to fence.” He looked upon the faces of each man, watching them nod in acknowledgment. “Turns out he really was a great swordsman.”

  In a heartbeat, Rahne saw all the humor vanish from Kalik's face. “Have ya ever killed anyone?”

  This silenced the others, and all heads turned to face Rahne. The breeze that whipped across the desert above them was the only voice Rahne could hear, whispering its hushed judgments.

  “No,” he finally admitted. “Larth wasn't the kind of place you could get away with something like that.”

  Kalik leaned forward, a steely glint in his eyes. “Yer surprisingly talented, boy, but this ain't a minstrel's troupe you've joined. When we get where we're going, there will be fighting. People will die, preferably at our hands. Do ya have what it takes to end someone's life?”

  “Where are we going exactly? And who are we fighting?”

  “We go where Lord Elzor tells us to go. We fight who he tells us to fight.” He pulled a hunk of bread from his bag and snapped off a bite.

  Kalik said this with such finality, Rahne wondered if he should let the subject drop. However, if he was marching to his death, he wanted to know at least a few details about the man who had liberated him. “You've been with him a long time?”

  “Years,” Calib said. “He's a great man. A visionary.”

  “Do ya believe in Arantha, boy?” Jabel sneered.

  Rahne nodded.

  “Well, if ya grew up in Barju, ya probably wouldn't. Things like faith tend ta get beaten out of ya when ya join the militia.” He harrumphed. “'Join'. Like anyone ever joins the militia on his own.”

  “What does that mean?” Rahne asked.

  Kalik raised his hand, and Jabel relapsed into silence. “Just be thankful you spent your childhood far, far away from Viceroy Callis. He demands unwavering loyalty from everyone in Barju. If you don't feel like giving it, he'll get it from you by force. And if you cross him …” He, too, fell silent.

  “He has you killed?”

  Kalik shook his head. “No. Far worse than that.”

  What could be …

  Oh.

  “Your family?”

  Kalik stared at the ground, chewing the last bite of his dinner. He didn't respond. He didn't have to.

  “I don't understand,” Rahne said. “If Callis is so bad, why not just overthrow him? With a Wielder on your side, how could you possibly lose?”

  “Ya don't get it, boy,” Jabel cut in, his chest heaving. It was obvious to Rahne that Jabel's experience with Callis had been as unpleasant as Kalik's. “Barju is Elystra's main source of machinite ore. The armorers of every country from Agrus to Darad depend on it for their weapons and armor. Overthrowing Callis would mean inviting war from everyone who stands to lose if the flow of ore is stopped. A few hundred men and one Wielder, no matter how powerful, cannot hope to stop the combined might of all Elystra.”

  “So you invaded Agrus to …” He hoped one of the men would finish his sentence.

  “Elzor is searching for something,” Kalik obliged. “A Stone. Two Stones, in fact. We sacked Talcris to procure the legendary Agrusian Stone. All we found was an empty vault.”

  Rahne couldn't believe his ears. “That's why you slaughtered our army? King Morix and his family? For a stone?”

  “Don't weep for them, Rahne. They died defending a lie. A falsehood maintained by the Agrusian royals for centuries. Lord Elzor gave Morix the chance to save lives, but he refused.”

  The knot in Rahne's stomach twisted. He could barely vocalize his next thought. “I heard a rumor that he ordered Elzaria to massacre a school full of children. Is it true?”

  Kalik didn't even blink. “It is.”

  Rahne felt his jaw drop open.

  “Don't look at us like we're monsters, Rahne. We're soldiers, and in war, sometimes innocents die. We do what has to be done. I'm sure tales abound that we are a gang of filthy heathens with no more morals than a band of Vandan raiders. But it's not true. We take only what we need, and we don't victimize the innocent unless it's absolutely necessary. Lord Elzor could've ordered us to set fire to every home in Talcris, to murder every citizen we came across, but we didn't. Had Morix been honest with Lord Elzor from the start, it would have saved many lives. So if you're looking for someone to blame, start there.”

  Rahne buried his face in his hands. And he'd thought Sekker was bad. The obese magistrate's acts of paltry greed were nothing compared to this.

  “What … what happens when he finds these Stones?” His voice was but a whisper.

  Kalik's answer was as conclusive as it was terse. “Victory.”

  They locked eyes. Rahne had no doubt h
is face conveyed his confusion.

  Calib and Jabel stood up, nodded goodnight, and walked several yards away, reclining on their bedrolls. The other men who'd shared their meal with him did the same.

  Kalik, however, remained. He strode over to Rahne, looking down at him with an icy glare that chilled Rahne's blood. “Welcome to the big, bad world, boy,” he said, his voice as frigid as the wind. “We invaded your country, killed your people. You knew that, and you asked—no, you begged—to join us anyway. If you thought this was going to be some lighthearted, rollicking adventure, think again. What we do is ugly, but we do it because we're soldiers.” He pointed up and to his right, at the top of the hill they had descended to make camp. “If you're not up to it, Agrus is that way. If you leave now, you might just get home in time to explain that fat braga's death to the person whom whatever's left of your government sends to replace him.”

  He bent over at the waist, bringing his face close to Rahne's, drawing out his words like a knife blade. “Think very blagging hard about what it is you want, boy. Because if you're still here in the morning, I don't want to hear another question come out of your mouth. From this moment on, you're either with us, or you're not. If you're with us, I will continue to train you. If, however, I catch even a whiff of hesitation or indecision on your part, you'll regret the day you ever met me.”

  With that, he kicked dirt onto the campfire, snuffing the flames, before stomping off to his own bedroll.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sen listened as Twilla's footsteps faded down the corridor, then watched as Vaxi fixed Mizar with a harsh glare. “I feel like a fool. Is this really what women wear here?”

  “Oh, no,” Mizar grinned, “the dresses the Queen and Princess wear, especially for official functions, are far more elaborate. You'd probably suffocate.” He chuckled softly.