Elektra ate a horrid stew alone in a corner of the little common room. The only other customers were locals, drinking and muttering in another corner, throwing sideways glances at her. She drank watery ale and went to her room, barring the heavy door. She needed a weapon; the little knife she’d grabbed wouldn’t be enough if someone came for her.
The room was cold and dark, with only a small candle provided for light. Elektra crawled under the suspicious-smelling covers, leaving her clothes on in case she had to leave in a hurry. She was exhausted, but needed to get out of Isenwald fast.
She only hoped no one was looking for her yet. With any luck, Princess Viviane would work to secure her palace first. Perhaps she’d assume Elektra had gone to the river with her friends. If only.
Elektra squeezed her eyes shut, unable to believe she’d left Princess Maryna alone with the temple guards. Truly, she didn’t mean her any harm, and hadn’t been thinking of the consequences in all the excitement.
No doubt Anton and Maryna thought her an idiot, if not outright treacherous, while Karil would be even more convinced of her guilt. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake like that again.
Fortunately, sleep came, rescuing her from unpleasant thoughts. When she awoke it was still dark, but someone thumped around the room below her. She got up, gathered her things, and hurried downstairs, poking her head into the kitchen, since the rest of the inn still seemed sound asleep. “Might I have something to eat?”
“Bread’s not baked yet,” the cook said, dusting her hands on her apron. “Though I have a crust from yesterday.”
“That’s fine,” Elektra said, adding, “I’m in a hurry.”
“I’d be too, if I’d stole a nice cloak like that.” The cook dipped a hunk of bread in some kind of fat and handed it to Elektra.
“I didn’t steal it.” Elektra took the bread as she backed away. “Not exactly.”
“Huh.” The cook’s small eyes regarded her carefully. “But you’re in trouble, that’s for certain. Smart to leave before daybreak. If you think someone might be after you, best to head deeper into the woods. Go north from here to a little crossroads and then east.”
It seemed the cook meant well, so Elektra chanced it. “I need a weapon,” she said. “Are there any towns along the way?”
“Nothing big, though you’ll find a blacksmith in time. Name is Rolf. Tell him Gerti sent you and he’ll help you out.”
Elektra thanked her and hurried out to the stable, gnawing on the bread. Dipped in bacon fat, it tasted delicious. She shook a sleepy groom awake and ordered him to saddle her horse. It all seemed to take forever, and by the time she was on the road, the trees stood outlined against a pale gray sky.
Elektra found the crossroads about two leagues north and turned east. Everything looked the same here, endless trees flanking narrow, straight roads. Every now and then she’d cross a stream on a tiny wooden bridge, or smell smoke from the cookfire of an invisible cabin.
The sun rose. Though monotonous, the forest was pretty, clad in the gentle green of spring. It grew warm and Elektra shed the cloak. She wondered how much she should trust the cook and her blacksmith.
She rode east for hours. Judging by the grumbling of her stomach, and the height of the sun, noon wasn’t far away. Elektra was wondering whether she needed to look for a woodsman’s hut hoping to find food, when she heard the distant clang of metal against metal.
She urged her horse on, and soon a village came into view. It wasn’t much, only a handful of houses clustered around a tiny wooden temple, but before that, the black smoke of a smithy rose between the trees.
A young man was hard at work inside, a grubby leather apron over a bare torso. He hadn’t seen Elektra coming, so she allowed herself a moment to admire his muscular physique, then dismounted and came nearer.
The young man stopped his work and looked up, brushing brown hair off his sweaty forehead. His eyes were light blue and rather piercing. He smiled. “Hello there. Can I help you with something?”
“Yes,” Elektra said, resolving to be careful, no matter how appealing he appeared. “I’ve been riding rather hard, and was hoping you could check my horse’s shoes. A woman named Gerti recommended you.”
“I see.” He put down his tools and walked to the horse, grabbing its reins. “Where are you headed?”
Elektra swallowed. “Terragand.”
“Taking the long way ‘round, eh?” He picked up the horse’s foot with a practiced hand and inspected the shoe. After working his way around he said, “Looks good. Likely you’ll make it.”
“Good,” Elektra said. “I was wondering, since I’m traveling by myself, perhaps I should buy a weapon. Do you have anything?”
The young man looked down at her, smiling. “Smart girl. With a horse that nice you never know who might try to take it off you. And you’re headed to Terragand.” His face turned serious. “There are strange rumors coming from there.”
“Strange how?” Elektra felt an odd pressure against the side where the paper with the ancient text rested in her pocket.
“Have you eaten?” the smith asked. “Maybe you’d better come inside so we can tell you what we’ve heard.”
Trystan
“I already have an idea of what’s going on,” Trystan said to Queen Zofya. “I heard there’s a new Maxima, which surprises me, since King Gauvain replied to my letters, telling him Natalya is alive and well.”
“Where is Natalya?” Zofya’s eyes darted toward her ladies-in-waiting clustered in the corner, staring at Trystan with frank curiosity. “I hate it in here. Someone is always listening. Come, we’ll walk in the garden.” She tugged on Trystan’s arm and led him to a door, which stood open to a terrace. It was a warm afternoon and a scented breeze blew into the room.
Zofya held Trystan by the elbow and took him out onto the path covered in tiny white stones, winding between beds of pink and blue tulips laid out in an elaborate curlicue pattern.
Their feet crunched on the stones. If they spoke softly, even someone walking behind them wouldn’t be able to hear a thing.
Trystan took a deep breath of the fragrant air and sneezed.
“Vica’s blessings,” Zofya said with a laugh. “Gauvain has the same problem. Spring is dreadful for him, but he won’t let me give up my flowers.”
“The king seems kind,” Trystan said. “Natalya should be with him right now. She thought it best to get in through the servant’s quarters while I tried the front.”
“I hope she made it,” Zofya murmured as they walked. “So many people here hate her, and became open about it when Charlise de la Tour took over.”
“I still don’t understand how that could happen. Natalya is Maxima and the king knew she was alive. Why would he displace her?”
Zofya stopped at a bench and looked around. “Good,” she said, “no trees or bushes nearby for anyone to lurk. Let’s sit here.”
“How awful this must be for you,” Trystan said, meaning the lack of privacy.
“You can't imagine.” Tears filled Zofya’s eyes. “I love the king, but I learned some upsetting things in the past months. Things that forced him to make Charlise de la Tour the Maxima.”
“That makes no sense.”
Zofya pulled out a lacy handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “This is difficult to talk about, but I must tell you so you’ll understand why this has happened.”
Trystan wished she would just get on with it. What could be so bad?
Zofya took a deep breath. “The king and Natalya have a daughter.”
“Together?” Trystan asked, stupidly. “I see,” he added, hoping he’d concealed his shock at least a little. He’d known there were rumors of the king and Natalya being inappropriately close, but having a child together made them ... well, a lot closer than Trystan liked. “How terrible for you.”
Zofya drew in a shaky breath. “The little girl is nearly eight, so it happened long before I came here. I'm not certain, since the king won’t speak
of it, but I don’t believe he and Natalya have been... together...” She dabbed at her eyes again and took another breath. “I don’t believe they’ve been together since before my arrival here. It still doesn’t make it easy to bear.”
She sniffled. “I like Natalya, you must understand.” She looked at Trystan earnestly. “But I can’t help but feel jealous that she and the king are still close.”
“That’s understandable,” Trystan said, his voice rough. He still wasn’t feeling quite right after the revelation. He took a deep breath. “What does their daughter have to do with what’s happening?”
“The de la Tours took her hostage,” Zofya said. “Joslyn—the little girl—had been living with Natalya when she disappeared to go help Princess Gwynneth. When she didn’t return for a long time, the de la Tours told the king they’d be happy to take care of her. I know he would have liked to raise her here in the palace, but he worried about upsetting me.” Tears filled Zofya’s eyes again. “It’s my fault she wasn’t here.”
“It’s not your fault,” Trystan said. “And the king was right not to bring her here. It would have been an insult to you. It’s not uncommon for high-born bas—I mean, illegitimate children—to be raised by another noble family. Normally, it would have been a good thing for her.” He sighed. “But clearly, the de la Tours took advantage of the situation.”
Zofya nodded. “Not right away. But when Natalya had been gone several months, they told the king to make Charlise Maxima, or they’d kill Joslyn. The king wouldn’t tell me about it for a long time.
“He had to agree not to look for Natalya, which is why there was no rescue operation before you came. He held out quite a while before giving Charlise the position, but a few months ago, they hurt Joslyn and he gave in.” Tears ran down Zofya’s face and she could barely speak.
“Hurt how?” Trystan’s mouth was dry.
“They sent the king one of her fingers.” Zofya sobbed into her handkerchief.
A wave of nausea swept over Trystan. He had no great feeling for children, but this was Natalya’s child, an innocent little girl. “How does the king know it was her... finger...” He swallowed. “And not some other child’s of the same age?”
“I asked the same question.” Zofya wiped her face with the soaked handkerchief. “But Joslyn has a birthmark on her left hand, spreading across three fingers, and one of them...” She broke down in tears again.
Trystan wondered if some of this was pent-up grief. With so many people always hovering over her, the poor girl probably hadn’t cried her eyes out in a long time. He fumbled in the pockets of his jacket and pulled out a soft, clean linen square.
He handed it to Zofya. “This belongs to a Galladian farmer. I’m sure he’d be honored.”
Zofya took it and blew her nose. “He shall be rewarded of course.”
“Don’t worry about that right now. Can you get me to the king? It’s clear we need to do something, but we must act quickly.”
Lennart
It was good to have Gwynneth out of the way, and Lennart knew Braeden would take care of Devyn. Now he needed to concentrate on getting the job done. Scouts had told him that while Balduin’s forces surrounded the city, they were strung out in a few thin lines.
They outnumbered Lennart by a little, but he reckoned a two-pronged attack, with Braeden leading from the other side, stood a chance of scattering the majority before anyone realized what was happening. Even if Balduin had a few experienced military commanders, they likely wouldn’t react fast enough.
It looked like Balduin had made a half-hearted attempt at digging in, but the few fortifications were shallow and scattered. Lennart also knew their location and could avoid them.
He’d chosen a large Norovaean battle charger for his mount. After noticing Franca Dura’s, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her beautiful horse and how impressive he would look on one like it. So he’d bought one off Princess Edyta at a terribly inflated price.
Lennart didn’t care. Broga was taller than any horse he’d ever ridden, and strong. He’d already been battle-tested, his pale gray flank marred by a jagged scar. Lennart swore he wouldn’t get another.
When he’d first looked Broga over, it crossed his mind that the long-ago dream of his own death had featured a light-colored horse. But that horse had been white, Lennart was sure. Not that he believed in anything like prophetic dreams anyway.
A gentle rain fell, drumming on newly unfurled leaves as Lennart walked Broga to the edge of the woods. As far as he knew, the besiegers had no inkling of his presence. And there had been no sign of Franca Dura. Lennart needed her to stay away for today and he’d deal with her later.
He nodded at Destler, still riding at his side. In a moment he would peel off, taking a smaller force to secure the southern gate. “If they run, let the ordinary soldiers go,” Lennart said. They were likely to be untrained militia anyway. Fortunately Balduin was short on funds and hadn’t been able to hire a mercenary army. Lennart was happy he wouldn’t have to face someone like Sonya Vidmar. “But I want you to capture any officers; especially any nobility.” If all went well, one of Devyn’s first public acts would be overseeing an execution or two.
Destler nodded, then led his force down a country road going south. Lennart spurred Broga on. They traveled down a wide road, and it was hard to believe Balduin would leave it unwatched and undefended.
Ridiculous as the pretender’s situation was, Lennart gave him credit for acting quickly. If Lennart had been delayed somewhere, he might well have taken the city, making him much harder to dislodge. Lennart suppressed a shudder, thinking of his wife and daughter, but then smiled to himself. If all went well, he’d see them both later today.
The enemy camp came into view through the misty rain. According to Lennart's information, Balduin had taken his own position on the other side of town, where Braeden would deal with him. Whoever was in charge here wouldn’t hold out long.
Lennart held back the urge to shout as he bore down on the first resistance. It seemed they didn’t realize he was coming yet, and the further he got into the line before they understood what was happening, the better.
Lennart drew his sword, but someone else cut the enemy soldier down. Holding it at the ready just in case, he wove Broga between tents, looking for anyone who might be important.
Someone who might have been an officer ran out of a tent holding a pistol, but Lennart cut down on his arm before he could use it and the man fell out of his way, with an extra kick from Broga.
“Good boy,” Lennart said with a grin.
Now the camp was in confusion, with soldiers running around shouting, and every now and then getting off a shot.
Lennart let those on the run get away, and concentrated on anyone who got in his way. He emptied two pistols and got back to work with his sword.
At some point he realized he was alone, and squinted through the rain for his escort. They weren’t far, chasing a few enemies between the tents. Before he got to them, an officer galloped up to Lennart.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone, Your Highness,” he said. “What if someone gets off a lucky shot at you?”
“No one’s that lucky.” Lennart smiled. “How does it look?”
“Almost done here.” The officer looked around. “We took one prisoner, though he refuses to give his name. A lord, by the looks of him.”
“Good. Mop up the rest and bring the prisoner.” Lennart wanted to make for the city, but needed information first.
He came soon, walking between the guards, his head held high.
“This here’s the King of Estenor,” the guard said. “Mind you’re respectful.”
“I suppose I can speak to a king,” the man said haughtily.
Lennart almost laughed. The short, round and balding man carried himself as if he were better-looking than Kendryk. Lennart admired his nerve.
“Who’re you?” he asked.
“I am the Count of Hornfels.” The man star
ed up at Lennart.
Lennart was puzzled. “Isn't Arian Orland Count of Hornfels?” There was no way this man could be the famously handsome Arian raised from the dead.
“He’s been dead for years. I’m the new one.”
“What are you doing fighting your rightful ruler?”
The count laughed. “Balduin is the rightful ruler, as you proclaimed.”
Lennart grimaced. “True enough, but you should have known better than to follow him when he threatened Edric Maximus.”
“That’s why I followed him. It’s time we returned to the true faith.”
“Not happening,” Lennart said. “Tell me where Duke Balduin is and I might spare your life.”
“Prince Balduin is safe on the other side of the city,” the Count of Hornfels said with a sniff. “You attacked the wrong side.”
“Hardly.” Lennart chuckled. “Take him away. Let’s meet up with Count Terris and enter the city.” He couldn’t wait to see his family.
Braeden
The musketfire took down a few of Braeden’s troops, but he focused on what lay ahead. If they didn’t pause now, the enemy wouldn’t have time to reload. He fired two pistols into the hastily reloading ranks, shoved them back in the saddle loops and drew his saber.
Kazmir didn’t slow down, and ran right over the first rank, Braeden cutting into the second an instant later. With his visor down, he couldn’t see those on either side of him, but judging by the way the enemy scattered, he sensed his own troops did their work well.
He peered into the distance, but all was pandemonium in the camp. It looked like the only resistance had been here. Still, Braeden knew enough to remain cautious. Sometimes it only took one enterprising officer to rally a group of fleeing troops into serious opposition.
Braeden wheeled Kazmir around to check on Devyn. The young prince, flanked by his guards, was chasing down a few fleeing musketeers. Braeden pushed his visor up and grinned. Devyn was safe, and even better, showing some ability on the battlefield.
Fall of the Titan (The Desolate Empire Book 5) Page 18