by P J Berman
Then she saw him, Jostan, behind his army’s lines, astride his horse. He was wearing the long, flowing bright white robes of a non-combatant with a ceremonial golden cuirass and no helmet. Yet he was accompanied by a group of mounted guards in black armour and was gesticulating and shouting some unintelligible words at his troops.
‘Shout all you like, Jostan,’ Silrith bellowed. ‘Death comes for you now.’
He didn’t seem to have seen or heard her, as Silrith locked her sights on to him through the haze of battle. In her mind, the hunter became the hunted. She would be the lioness to see off this pack of wolves.
She barely looked at the troops she felled as she hacked and slashed, hardly even thinking about what she was doing. It was like the Goddess Lomatteva herself had taken control of her body, pushing her forward and slaying everyone in her path in a mad, crazed dance of death.
She was through! She charged directly at Jostan, looking him straight in the eye as he bellowed for his royal bodyguard to protect him from the sudden danger. It was clear that for an instant Jostan had been the only one to see Silrith, leaving him exposed, but just as Silrith’s way seemed clear, one of the horsemen, wearing the black armour of a Verusantian Lance Guardsman, blocked her path and knocked her to the ground; his sword glancing off her helmet as he thundered by.
She scrabbled in the mud as she tried to stand up again, expecting to see more of her soldiers arriving in support of her, but it seemed that any more who had come through the gap in the line had been killed, though the reformed enemy formation was on the verge of collapse.
She charged forward and attacked again, but now the remainder of Jostan’s bodyguard had reformed in a tight group around him, leaving the first horseman to deal with Silrith and the chance to kill Jostan was surely gone.
The horseman rounded on her again, but she buried her sword into the neck of his horse and the man crashed to the ground, his leg stuck underneath it. He desperately tried to pull it out, but Silrith raised her sword above her head and brought it down with all her strength, decapitating the rider. There was a cheer behind her and she turned to look. The enemy line had broken. Some of her soldiers now charged to assault the flank of Jostan’s Divisiomen, who still defended the gate, while others pursued the militia in Silrith’s direction.
Reinvigorated, she ran past the dead horse and rider, again charging at Jostan’s party, who had turned and were now in full retreat. So focused was she on getting to Jostan, that she only vaguely heard the distant shout of ‘My Queen!’
She was hardly aware of it initially; just a hard thump against her left side that knocked her off balance. She tried to regain her footing and carry on, but then there was an explosion of pain as her muscles and flesh tore against the arrow that had embedded itself in her shoulder, causing her to cry out.
Almost stripped of conscious thought, she instinctively tried to wrench the arrow free of her flesh, but suddenly she was grabbed from behind and pulled away.
‘No! Leave it in there!’
She looked up through hazy eyes. Dark features. A strong build. Was that Gasbron’s face? She hoped it was. Had the enemy Divisios been broken by Gasbron’s troops? Could the battle still be won? Her vision was blurring and her head was swimming until swimming felt like flooding and she was engulfed by a strange sense of drowning within her own body.
‘Forward! Attack!’ she tried to shout, but her movements were limp and her words weak.
Gasbron looked at her.
‘My Queen you must live!’
‘No, I must fight on!’ she said with all her strength.
‘You must live! You! Quickly! Help me take her from the field!
She was being carried by more than one man now, or so she thought.
‘See! The rebel Queen falls! The rebel Queen falls and your city burns!’ Jostan’s voice carried over the carnage; piercing Silrith’s soul so deeply it felt like being hit with a second arrow. She tried to turn her head to see for herself. She couldn’t see past those carrying her, but even amid her hazed senses, the expressions of dread on the faces of so many of her soldiers confirmed the awful truth; while dozens of them were cut down as they looked over their shoulders. Through it all, she heard Yathrud’s voice.
‘Rally to me! Rally to me!’
And then all was gone.
Chapter 26
Rocking. Gentle rocking against the sound of waves and the creaking of wood. Tentatively Silrith opened her eyes, squinting as they adjusted to the light. She was lying down on a bed of some kind, surrounded by blurry faces.
‘She’s alive,’ someone said.
‘The Gods be praised! My Lady?’ said another voice.
As her vision began to clear, she saw that the closest face was that of Shappa, just to her right. To her left was Gasbron. Both wore full armour, except for their helmets and were streaked with blood and dirt.
‘My Lady, try not to move,’ Shappa said.
But it was too late, Silrith had already tried to do so and felt a searing pain in her left shoulder.
‘You were hit by an arrow,’ he said. ‘We have stemmed the blood flow but you are very weak and must rest.’
‘Where? How?’ was all Silrith was able to say.
‘Well I’m no physician,’ said Gasbron. ‘But you were in the hands of the Gods when we got you here. Now though, we’ve patched you up and if you let yourself rest, the wound will heal and you’ll live to fight again.’
He was direct and to the point as always, but Silrith felt strangely calmed by his formal public demeanour, despite the pain she was in.
‘We’ll land in Etrovansia one day hence,’ said Shappa. ‘You’ll be able to recover there.’
Etrovansia? They were on a ship? Suddenly she was wide awake and aware of everything. Trying to ignore the pain, she looked around and took in her surroundings. They were in a hastily constructed tent, but the sound of wind against the canvass, the splashing of water against oars and calling of voices from outside gave away that it was true; they were out to sea.
Aside from Shappa and Gasbron, all the five or six other faces were those of soldiers and servants that she recognised by sight but not by name. She inwardly scolded herself for the truth of that. Then a horrible thought struck her, piercing as deeply as the arrow had done.
‘Where is my uncle?’
Her fear rose as a look of sorrow appeared on the faces of all present. It was Gasbron who spoke first.
‘My Queen, Lord Yathrud did not make it back to the ship, not this one at least. After seeing you fall and witnessing the city burning, our army broke. Your uncle stood firm, calling for our soldiers to keep fighting, but I lost sight of him in the chaos. We fear that he may be dead or taken prisoner.’
Silrith tried to find the words for an answer, but this was all too much to take in at this moment and nothing came. Not for the first time, she fought to hold back any sign of emotion from such public view, but she felt sure that the tears that welled up in her eyes were visible. Yathrud had given his life for her and yet here she was, still alive and sailing away.
‘We must return and soon,’ she said with certainty as her thoughts began to de-cloud. ‘My uncle must be avenged, in the way that he came to avenge me. It may be too late to save him, but not to save his memory.’
‘Of course, my Lady,’ Shappa said, ‘but you are still weak and you must-’
‘-I will recover,’ Silrith said, fighting not to show the pain of it despite her feelings of weakness. ‘And when I do, we will raise a new army to add to any who remain loyal to us and we will return to Bennvika. Now, leave me to rest.’
All turned to leave.
‘Gasbron,’ Silrith said, just as he, almost the last of them bar Shappa, ducked his head to leave the tent.
‘Your Grace?’ he asked, turning around.
‘Stay a while. I would speak with you more about what happened at Rildayorda.’
Shappa gave her a look of surprise, but she just stared back at him
until he left, as Gasbron came to stand beside her bed, which she realised now was just a physician’s table with a pillow and a few sheets of linen thrown over it. She looked at Gasbron. His face wore a gentle expression, yet it was impossible to read his thoughts on the exchange he had just witnessed between herself and Shappa. He was frustratingly good at hiding them.
‘When you were hit by the arrow,’ Gasbron said once they were alone. ‘We attempted to move you away from the action to increase your chances of survival. Lord Yathrud assumed command of our troops in the heat of battle, rallying them while we tried to get you to safety. Things started to unravel when one of our soldiers saw that you were wounded and cried out, obviously assuming that you were dead. By doing that he caused a load more to turn and look for themselves and all of a sudden one of them says there are flames coming from the city and there were. The whole city was ablaze. Then Jostan starts shouting his mouth off and everyone’s looking. Looking at you. Looking at the fire.’
Silrith listened intently as Gasbron continued.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it. In that moment it was like they’d all forgotten about the enemy around them and some of them were punished for it. Just like that, our soldiers broke; all of them, running towards the city. Despite everything, we managed to get you out of there. I found a horse for us both and I tried to regain some sort of order, but it was no good.’
‘And controlling a horse despite having me slumped in front of you amid such chaos must have been very difficult and at great risk to yourself Gasbron. To say that I am grateful that you have once again saved my life doesn’t even begin to describe my thankfulness,’ said Silrith.
‘I thank you for your gratitude, Silrith,’ he said. It pleased her to hear him remembering to call her by name in private. ‘But it was my duty and any good soldier would have done the same. Anyway, I tried to restore some order, but anything like that had gone out of the window, especially once we got near the city. Most of the soldiers seemed to be fleeing around the sides of it. I guess they didn’t want to get penned into Preddaburg and have no way out. I rode down the east side, still trying to get them back, but there was no chance really. It was obvious that somehow the enemy had got inside and were causing havoc. There were civilians everywhere too; hordes of them coming out of the East Gate. Most seemed to be heading deeper into the forest, but a few were heading south, which gave me an idea.’
Silrith could see where he was going with this, but let him continue.
‘The only chance we had was to escape by sea. I thought that it was a good bet that our sailors were still on the ships. As we knew, a few of Jostan’s troops had simply commandeered them. I thought if we could overwhelm the guards we may be able to get some of the ships out to sea before the enemy could stop us. I remembered talking to one of the Prince’s knights weeks ago. He said it doesn’t take much to get these Etrovansian vessels moving, something to do with the shallow hull. They can carry a lot of people too. So I managed to rally some of the troops and others followed their lead. It worked. We lost a lot of troops in retaking the ships, including the Hentani Princes, and it seems and some vessels were put to the torch. But I guess most of their soldiers were more interested in plundering the city than chasing us, so a few of our ships still got away, even a couple of our big Bennvikan ones. So here we are.’
Silrith thought of the terrible things people are capable of in such circumstances and shuddered as a horrible realisation came to her.
‘And what of my cousin, young Yathugarra?’ she asked.
‘I know that she and her escort left the city safely, but whether or not they are on one of the other ships, I can’t be sure. We will only know that when we land in Etrovansia.’
Silrith nodded solemnly, trying to force her worries about Yathugarra to the back of her mind.
‘You did well,’ she said. ‘Your quick thinking during the battle might just have saved the entire campaign. Thanks to you, we live. But of course, that is only so that we can fight again. We will take back Bennvika. For the sake of our people, we must.’ She steeled herself as she said this, trying hard not to show the emotions she felt. She had a second chance and she vowed she would see it through. But if she was to regain her throne now, to avenge her father and now to avenge her uncle, she would desperately need people like Gasbron around to advise her.
‘Gasbron,’ Silrith said.
‘Yes, my Queen?’
She hesitated and inwardly cursed herself. On impulse, she had almost said that she loved him. She didn’t know why. She hardly knew him really. But she felt secure when he was around. It gave her hope and in any case, having someone save your life, especially more than once, builds a strong connection, binding you to them. Was it debt? Or gratitude? Or even loyalty? Or was it more? She thought the latter, but couldn’t form the words.
‘Thank you,’ she said eventually. ‘I thank the Gods for your support and loyalty. It will be needed more than ever from now on.’
‘You will always have my loyalty, Silrith,’ said Gasbron, with a grave expression.
‘We will still win this war, Gasbron. I assure you. I can see now that the prophecy on the Amulet of Hazgorata is more than just that. It is an instruction for what we must do now. Mother of many, Mother of none, a Queen will fall and a Warrior will come. I must be a mother to my people, even though I have no child of my own. I fell in battle and I must be reborn from that setback as more than just a Queen. I must be a warrior.’
Gasbron’s worried expression gave way to a wry smile.
‘Well, we can only hope that’s true.’
‘Yes,’ said Silrith with a sigh. ‘Once we make landfall and as soon as I have fully recovered, tell the army what I have said, and tell them that my recovery is proof of the Gods’ blessing.’ A flame of excitement flickered inside her, but she refrained from letting it show.
‘It would be an honour.’
‘Thank you. Now, would you fetch Prince Shappa back for me, please? I have just thought of something else that I would speak to him about.’
‘Of course, my Queen,’ he said, his formal tone returning and after a slight pause, he bowed and left.
A moment later Shappa lifted the tent flap and re-entered.
‘You wanted to see me again?’ he said; a look of confusion dominating his features. For the first time, she noticed that there was rather less sparkle in those blue eyes than there had been only days ago. His flowing locks were now ragged and dirty and his bouncing joviality had been replaced by the drooping shoulders of a defeated man. Yet he looked at her expectantly, as if he still took some hope from her, as she took hope from Gasbron.
‘I have a proposal for you and your agreement would be of great assistance to me, bringing my eternal gratitude,’ she said.
‘I’m all ears. What would you have me do?’
Silrith winced again at the pain in her shoulder but proceeded anyway. ‘We both know that we are not going to be welcomed with open arms when we arrive in Etrovansia. Not by your family anyway. After all, you have been banished from the Kingdom and I think it is likely that as soon as Jostan finds out where I am, he will put pressure on your father to find me and return me to Bennvika. We must be strong if we are to see off such a threat. More than that, we must demonstrate our intent to our remaining followers by making a solid statement of unity.’
Shappa raised his eyebrows. Silrith smiled appreciatively.
‘I think you know what I am about to suggest,’ she said. ‘We must unite our houses and create a new dynasty. It is that or our destruction.’
‘I am flattered by your proposal, my Lady and of course I accept,’ he said.
Silrith’s first reaction was internal frustration at Shappa’s persisting reluctance to call her by her name even in private. She wasn’t bothered if Gasbron forgot occasionally, as she could see where his habit came from, but with Shappa, somehow it didn’t fit with the rest of his personality. Then another thought struck her.
�
�You have reservations?’ she asked.
‘No, but if we are to pursue this course of action, our next move must be carefully planned,’ he said. ‘As you said, once we arrive in Etrovansia, my father and brother will see our arrival as a threat. They could be bought, but we have little to bargain with, so it is vital that we have enough soldiers to defend ourselves if need be. How do you propose we do that?’
Silrith thought for a moment.
‘When we were introduced by my uncle, you boasted of your popularity in Nangosa. Surely you can utilise that to recruit soldiers from the local population if we dock there? After we’ve gained control of Etrovansia and you have the throne, we can return to Bennvika to take back my Kingdom as well.’
Again Shappa looked reluctant.
‘Shappa, is there something you’re not telling me? Something that may make it harder for you to convince people to fight for us? This doesn’t fit with the man who got over two hundred knights and their families to move across the sea with him. So why the lack of confidence now? If we are to survive and my family are to be avenged we must have no secrets from each other, only trust.’
She was getting angry now. Shappa sighed.
‘My Lady, I assure you there is nothing to cause you concern. Nangosa is my Duchy and the troops will be of the finest quality. I am confident they will serve us well.’
Silrith eyed him suspiciously.
‘And I’m sure you will lead my army well,’ he added.
Silrith resisted the temptation to rise to the curt statement.
‘Good,’ she said eventually. ‘Now leave me. I must rest.’
RILDAYORDA, BASTALF, BENNVIKA
Rildayorda had been reduced to smouldering ruins. The walls still stood of course, as did the remains of most of the city’s smoking buildings, but now they had a ghostly feel. Sooner or later, any refugees who had gone into hiding or had escaped would return to take over the place; wretched souls clinging on to life.
They should have allowed themselves to be killed and retain some small amount of honour, thought Vinnitar as he surveyed the walls of the dead city, standing outside his tent. He’d have happily stayed to seek them out and kill them himself, but now he had new orders from Jostan. The bulk of the army may have been preparing to leave, but his mission wasn’t over. He ducked back inside his large, personal tent. He sat down at his expensive wooden desk, on which sat a single burning candle, brought in by a servant a moment earlier. He opened the desk drawer and took out a quill, a pot of ink and a roll of parchment and began writing a letter.