by P J Berman
There was one emotion she felt most strongly of all though and in a way it surprised her which one it was – disappointment. Specifically disappointment that many people whom she had trusted and thought would show her loyalty, had betrayed her at the first sign of a shift in power. She felt sure that there must have been people in that room who knew inside that she would never have even dreamt of harming her father, let alone murdering him. But it was apparent that the sacrifice of her life and her dignity was a price they were willing to pay to further their own advancement. Trust, it seemed, would be a luxury she would no longer be able to afford.
Oprion’s refusal to risk his own neck was by far the most galling, but there were others. One such example was Sankil, the High Priest of Bennvika, who had, among others, served as her tutor when she was a child. He was the man who had taught her to read and write so that she could learn about her ancestors and worship Vitrinnolf and Lomatteva, the deified monarchs who had founded Bennvika. But he was also one of the people who had been too fearful for his own life to intervene when she needed him the most and despite his rank, he had meekly given in to Jostan without so much as breathing a word against him. In so doing he had cut her loose just like all the others did. But then again, she decided, she shouldn’t be too surprised. Old Sankil was many things, but he had never been brave and he would be easily intimidated and manipulated by Jostan.
However, it seemed an unlikely hope now that anyone else would do anything different. She had more distant family elsewhere in other noble houses, but she couldn’t see anything coming of that. Jostan had his stranglehold on power and surely by now everyone in the land could see the way the wind was blowing. There were still some sources of hope, some families who may decide to do the right thing and protect Bennvika from the new tyrant, but nothing could ever be guaranteed and many would be bought off easily enough.
The one thing Silrith still held on to was that, just as she thought she might, she had received a second visitor during her imprisonment, as was the man’s way with political prisoners. He had thought of no way to get her out, but he had been otherwise accepting of her task. She hoped he would see it through. There always had to be hope. The future of Bennvika’s people rested on that.
Also, underneath, hidden within her heart was another, darker emotion she was trying to suppress. Guilt. Though she had no intentional hand in it, she felt that her rank had brought about the death of one of her Lady’s maids, Afayna. With a shudder, she wondered if anything had befallen any of her other staff. But Afayna’s death was all too certain.
Before she left Kriganheim Silrith’s wrists had been bound together with rope that rubbed her skin raw. This had been attached to the back of a mule cart that carried some guards along with the driver as she walked behind. Clearly Jostan knew that Silrith was popular with the people, so he had ordered that they should leave the city in the dead of night, so as to avoid causing a riot, just a little over a day after her arrest. It was then that she had seen a sight that she would never forget.
The band of guardsmen were mostly militia, but two were Divisiomen and as they had started to move down the first few streets, they had run into another group of guards. The two groups clearly knew each other. They stopped and began talking a while. She couldn’t hear much of the conversation, but from what she could make out the other group were heading for Kriganheim Bridge.
‘Sir, permission to have a look at the prisoner?’ came a gruff voice.
‘Of course,’ came the noticeably more eloquent reply.
‘Thank you, sir. Let’s have a look-see at this little Princess then eh?’ A broad, stout Divisioman in scaled armour with the traditional green tunic and cape came into view, holding a blazing torch, followed by an Invicturion in a transverse crested helmet. He roughly pulled her hair out of the way and held the torch so close to her face that the heat burned her skin.
‘Whoa, we got ourselves a hot little slut here boys! I’m gonna have some fun with this. Let’s have a go on this little whore.’ More guards had gathered around her now, laughing and mocking her. The Divisioman looked over to his superior for permission to continue.
‘Go ahead. Don’t hold back,’ the Invicturion said jovially. ‘Take her. Give us some entertainment. Actually, why don’t we place some bets, boys? I’d guess thirty seconds before he’s done. Any advances on that?’
‘Yeh! Twenty seconds!’ someone else shouted, to raucous laughter.
‘Go ahead soldier,’ the officer said. ‘Show us what you’ve got.’
With a toothy grin, the Divisioman handed the torch to his superior, then lifted the front of his tunic’s skirt from below his armour. He groped one of Silrith’s breasts and cursed to himself as he tried to get some feeling down below. So far she had avoided any carnal attention from the guards during her short imprisonment and she was not about to let it happen now. Here was her chance.
She didn’t know what possessed her to be so reckless, but instinctively she kicked her foot into the man’s groin with all the force she could muster. He groaned in pain; his eyes full of shock. The other soldiers howled with laughter. Silrith met the Divisioman’s eyes with a defiant look. She realised how vulnerable she’d just made herself, but she didn’t care. After all, she was the daughter of the warrior King Lissoll and granddaughter of Bastinian the Great. She steeled her nerve and prepared herself for whatever the soldier might do next.
The Divisioman gathered himself and raised himself to full height. The laughter died down.
‘Very clever. I’m gonna teach you a lesson. We’ve got a little present for this little whore, haven’t we? Would you like to see it – Princess?’
Silrith didn’t answer, but simply stared back resolutely.
‘I think she would,’ the Divisioman said with certainty and the Invicturion nodded his approval, clearly enjoying the spectacle. The Divisioman was handed back the torch, as well as another object, but Silrith couldn’t make out what it was in the darkness.
‘Recognise this?’ the Divisioman sneered as he approached her again holding the object up to the light.
Silrith’s eyes widened, her blood ran ice-cold and she just managed to stifle a shriek. By a fistful of hair, the man held Afayna’s severed head. It stared back at Silrith as if in life. The expression of sheer terror may have gone from the rest of her bloodied face, but something in her eyes still retained some element of her final moments. Suddenly Silrith felt her bottom lip start to wobble uncontrollably. The Divisioman laughed.
‘Ha! Poor little Princess. Not so brave now are we?’ he jeered mockingly. ‘Shall I give her a closer look?’
Handing the torch back again, he came right up to her, grabbed her by the hair and shoved the severed head in her face.
‘Look! Look! Look!’ he taunted her. ‘Look! Look! Look!’ The unseeing eyes permeated deep into hers, the stench filled her nostrils and she could even taste the dead skin as she desperately tried to move away, but the lifeless face was again and again thrust towards her.
Suddenly the Divisioman withdrew a few steps as Silrith heard herself make an inhuman noise. Her insides convulsed and she vomited on the floor. Feeling that his pride was restored, the soldier exploded with laughter, as did his comrades.
‘Oi! Keep walking.’ A sudden pain in her back caused Silrith to snap back to the present. She had lost count of how many days had passed since the events of the night they left Kriganheim and the cart was now deep into the Forest of Ustaherta. Although they were travelling on a generally well-trodden track, the going was getting tough for Silrith, as she still had to walk behind the cart; her arms still tied to its back. The men taunted her mercilessly. One carried a whip and he would jump down from the cart and use it on her if he saw her slouching; something she was finding it harder and harder not to do.
The soles of her feet were being rubbed raw. She still wore the clothes that she had been wearing at the time of her denunciation by Jostan, or at least, the now ripped and muddied versions of
the same. Her royal sandals simply weren’t made to tolerate this kind of environment and as they deteriorated, the straps cut deep into her toes and ankles.
The cart was too tall and wide for her to see over or around it, so to stand any chance of knowing where they were heading, she had to strain her ears for clues she might be able to pick up by hearing snippets of the guards’ conversations. The word ‘Ganzig’ was being mentioned more and more often, so she guessed the River Ganzig couldn’t be far away. Deep into their journey, she was proven right in this.
There must have been a guard on the bridge because as they ground to a halt, she heard their driver say ‘Oi, lads! Anyone got a couple of coins for the toll man?’
Having found some, the driver jumped off the cart.
It was then that Silrith was briefly aware of some movement in the trees to her right, just for a moment, but no one else seemed to notice, so she decided she must have imagined it, or maybe it had just been a bird or some other harmless animal.
Suddenly, the guards all gasped and shouted, drawing their weapons as if they’d spotted a threat up ahead. Some of them jumped off the cart and ran in the direction of the toll man, but before Silrith could gain any idea of what was happening up ahead, she heard a roar as three, no, five men in dark clothes charged out from within the tangle of trees, bellowing their challenge as they went. In their haste to aid their driver, the cart’s guards had left their right flank exposed and two militiamen fell instantly, taken by surprise by their attackers. They were impaled on the ambushers’ swords before they had any chance to fight back, leaving their comrades to turn to meet the new threat.
By the bridge, the astonished driver slid back off his attacker’s sword and slumped on the ground. Stepping over the body, Gasbron sprinted forward to assist his men. The ambush had worked well, helped by his plain-clothed disguise, but the guards still numbered eight to their six and now the element of surprise had been lost. At least only two of the guards were soldiers of the Divisios, whereas the others were lightly armed militiamen in steel kettle hats.
Gasbron wheeled his two-handed longsword above his head as a spearman ran towards him. He feigned to the left then dived to the right, causing the tip of the spear to flash past him and over his shoulder, exposing the soldier’s chest. Instinctively Gasbron allowed his momentum to carry him into his opponent, the blade piercing the man’s leather jerkin and impaling him. The spearman howled in pain and Gasbron held him by the shoulder as he ripped the sword out of him, pulling his guts with it and spilling them on the floor.
As he carried on running to reach his comrades, he saw another militiaman fall to his men’s blades. The numbers were equal now. The two Divisiomen stood firm, along with the four remaining militia. As Gasbron joined the fray, the nearest Divisioman knocked one of Gasbron’s men to the ground with his shield. He was about to give the killer blow, but hadn’t spotted Gasbron, who slashed deeply into the side of his neck. The Divisioman dropped his shield and pressed his hand to the wound as it gushed with blood, before slumping to the ground.
Gasbron ran to the back of the cart, deftly dispatching another militiaman as he did and, for the first time, Silrith’s eyes met his. For a split second he was encapsulated by them; so mesmerising, dazzling, enamouring. Regaining himself, he raised his sword above his head and Silrith pulled the rope attaching her to the cart tight to achieve a quick and easy cut, wincing at the pain in her wrists as the rough rope tore deeper into her skin. Gasbron brought the sword slicing down on the rope with all his strength.
Silrith nearly stumbled backwards as the rope released its grip, but Gasbron caught her in his strong arms, sheathed his sword, took out his dagger to cut through the knot that bound her wrists. As he helped her get free of the rope, he again noticed those big dark eyes, but suddenly he saw them widen at something behind him. Dropping his dagger, he drew his sword and spun round to see a militiaman bearing down on him, but he had no chance of stopping the man piling into him and sending him sprawling. The swordsman came at him again, but as Gasbron parried the blow, his assailant was attacked from behind.
All Gasbron saw was a pair of hands holding a length of rope, which suddenly appeared from behind the man’s head, followed by the surprised look on his face as it throttled him like a garrotte wire. To Gasbron’s astonishment, the attacker was Silrith. She’d picked her moment perfectly. She twisted the rope tight and placed both ends of it in a strong fist. She picked up Gasbron’s dagger and buried it in the man’s neck, covering Gasbron in an explosion of blood. As the man put his hands over the wound he was ripped backwards, allowing Gasbron to get back to his feet.
The enemy soldier also tried to stand, but could only drop to his knees, coughing and spluttering as he bled a torrent of crimson. Silrith dropped the dagger and picked up the man’s sword, standing before him. Then she spun on her heel with deadly elegance to strike him from the world with a speed that was almost merciful.
That should show these men I’m not some shrinking violet just because they saved me. Your lessons were useful after all, Oprion, Silrith thought to herself.
Silence fell around her. All of her captors were now dead and her six saviours, whoever they were, caught their breath and stared at her; wide-eyed at what they had just seen.
As she walked towards them, trying to look as though she was used to having someone else’s blood on her clothes, all six men dropped to their knees and bowed low. Only one, a rugged, dark man in his thirties, evidently the group’s leader, looked up to speak.
‘My Queen, I bring word from your noble uncle, Lord Yathrud Alyredd. He acknowledges you as our rightful Queen and offers you sanctuary in the comfort of his citadel at Preddaburg, as well as offering his army in support of your cause. Will you allow us to escort you to him?’
Silrith knew the question was virtually a formality, as she could hardly refuse, but she was impressed that the normal customs were still being observed, so she replied in the proper form.
‘Why of course,’ she responded with a regal smile, while motioning for the men to stand. ‘I would be most honoured to be your master’s guest. I am deeply, deeply grateful for the intervention of you and your men, kind sir. What would be the names of the six brave soldiers who have come to my aid?’
‘I am Gasbron Wrathun, Chief Invicturion of Bastalf, my Queen,’ said the man. ‘These are my men. Yortha, Telvaen, Kinsaf, Laevon and my Corpralis, Candoc of Rildayorda.’ With his long ginger hair and beard, Candoc’s Bennvikan features didn’t quite fit with his Hentani name and he could hardly have looked more different from his clean-shaven Invicturion, Silrith mused.
‘My Queen,’ the five remaining men said harmoniously, briefly bowing their heads again. She politely bowed her head back to them in response, but then came an awkward moment where no one quite knew what to do or say next. Silrith’s lessons in etiquette as a child hadn’t accounted for scenarios such as these and probably none of these men had ever met a royal before. But then, given that they were assigned to serve the province of Bastalf, they had probably never expected to.
‘All of you have put your lives at risk to rescue me and for that, I shall remember all your names, Gasbron, Yortha, Telvaen, Kinsaf, Laevon and Candoc,’ Silrith said.
She looked at each one in turn as she said their name. Her royal training had at least taught her how to remember names and faces and how beneficial that could be. But aside from that, she decided she’d have to just make it up as she went along.
‘So, shall we?’ she asked cordially, indicating the cart, which had moved down the track a little, with the mules recovering from the scare of the skirmish.
‘Of course, my Queen. Though please first permit us to clean the blood from our faces and weapons.’
‘Certainly. I fear I too must be looking somewhat the worse for wear,’ Silrith replied jovially. It was a façade of strength that she knew she had to put on. They looked suitably impressed with her bravery, but they had still saved her life and she did
n’t want to come across as cold.
A quick splash of water each from one of the cart’s supply bottles and it was time to be on the move. As Gasbron lead her to the seat at the front of the cart, Silrith felt the searing pain in her feet and on her wrists begin to return as the adrenaline wore off, but she refrained from letting it show. As she reached to climb up, she was taken by surprise as Gasbron lifted her by the waist. Silrith was shocked. She certainly wasn’t used to having so much physical contact with any man, especially one she’d just met and especially a commoner.
She said nothing though. These men had, after all, just saved her from exile and deserved her gratitude. What shocked her even more though was the fact that part of her had liked it; his strong arms around her body, his hot breath on the back of her neck, his- ‘Silrith! Pull yourself together!’ she heard her late mother’s voice shout in her head and she swatted the thoughts from her mind. Gasbron had clambered up beside her, taking the reins and his men now sat in the back of the cart. He caught her eye momentarily as he sat down, then looked embarrassed for doing so and cracked the whip to move the cart forward towards the bridge.
Silrith bent down and slowly removed her sandals, biting down on her lip at the pain as she did. She’d have to do something to distract herself from her discomfort, she decided. She pursed her lips and tapped her fingers together subconsciously as she tried to think of an ice breaker.
‘So…’ she started uncertainly. ‘Have you served my uncle for long?’
‘Twelve years; almost since I first joined the army,’ Gasbron answered monotonously, looking dead ahead.
‘What’s it like being a soldier? You said that you hold the reward name ‘Wrathun’. You must have done something pretty brave and exciting to win that?’ she asked enthusiastically. Perhaps he’ll respond better if I show an interest in him, she thought. Anyway, she’d always been fascinated by soldiers and she had often wished that she’d been born a boy so that she could be one too. Common women could join the army and achieve the highest of ranks, but the women of the nobility and royal family generally had other expectations placed on their shoulders. Nevertheless, Silrith’s nannies had always had a nightmare trying to stop her from beating up the little boys at court when she was small, but fight she did and win she did also.