Garrity led his troop on the right flank, his long, dark curls streaming in the wind, a brown banner for his men to follow. The enemy horde expected an ease of victory like what they had known in South Drian, but proving their mettle, the Drinian’s held fast their ground. Moving with the precision of a mill, Garrity and his men were one machine, slicing the monsters before them like a knife through butter. The monsters bared their teeth, trying to rip off an arm or bite off a head, and they were terrifying. But each man fought with the strength of ten, spurred on by their faith in Trinian, and their love of Garrity. They fought harder and braver than mortal ability.
On the left, Phestite led the charge, eager to swing his mighty arms like a mill, to blow the monsters away like the wind; to throw his great spear and mow down the horde. He was too wise to know that the Drinians could win, but he wanted to sink his teeth into the monsters who dared to attack his citadel. To get his bit of flesh before all was ended.
The battle raged for three hours, and not until the sun was beginning to dip in his round did the Drinian soldiers then, with stubborn reluctance, give ground.
Afias swung his sword in a high arc to behead a monster on the left, and then charged his horse forward to trample a beast charging him in the fore. But the monster anticipated him and stuck a spear into the ground. His horse trampled the beast, but was pierced through the breast in the process. Afias threw himself off, landing in a roll, so his steed did not crush him in its fall. Immediately, he was on his feet again, meeting another towering creature as it descended upon him. He stabbed it through the heart and swiped the beast’s head from its neck, and then took stock of his surroundings. Most Drinians were on their feet now, unhorsed and fighting hand to hand. He saw Asbult and Trinian through the fray, and gripping his sword tight, fought his way toward them.
Trinian was breathing heavily, realizing with dismay that they now fought with their backs against the very stones of the city. Fresh soldiers untiringly replenished the enemy’s lines. Despite the high hope and faith of his army, the enemy was gaining the field. Trinian knew they could not stand ground, and he called to Asbult, who had never left his side.
“In no time now, the enemy will rout us. I am going to call a retreat. The Drinians can go to Saskatchan, and build a defense there.”
“No! We must hold the city! We can barricade within.”
“Asbult, the city is lost. We do not have enough soldiers to hold it. Before we lose the gates to their horde, before we’re trapped inside like meat in an oven and they decimate our army, we must retreat. Go now!”
“Are you coming?”
With a roar, Trinian lunged past his brother and slit the throat of a monster. “Go!” he yelled again.
“Are you coming?” Asbult insisted, for the light of despair glinted in the king’s eye as he struggled with himself, loath to let the city fall, and more reluctant still to live after he had failed. He was torn between responsibility and guilt, and Asbult witnessed his desperation. With love and strength, he gripped the king’s arm. “This is not a final defeat, you hear me? We will rise from this, and we will need you. You must come.”
Suddenly, a beast reared above their heads. It had broken through the ring of men who fought about them, and as Trinian raised his sword to meet it, too late, the beast fell to the ground, pierced by their third brother’s blade.
Afias approached them, bloody and scratched, and eager to fight to his last breath, and it was his battle fury and determination that finally awoke Trinian. If these two men were willing to fight to the death for him, then he ought not to die for them; and seeing the light of future victory burning in his brothers, Trinian accepted that he should live to fight another day. He met Asbult’s gaze. “I will come. You must lead the army, but I will remain with the rear guard and meet you at the river fort.”
“I’ll make sure he gets there,” said Afias to Asbult, and his brother gripped his arm in gratitude.
“I will see you both there,” Asbult said, and with a final glance at his friends, forced himself with gritted teeth to ride to the head of the army and call them into retreat. Then the army fled west to Saskatchan, abandoning the red city to her fate.
30
The Pain of the King Turns to Desperate Resolution
Saskatchan was a large field beyond Fort Jourinan, just beside Rordan River. It was a small fort built of clay walls, hardened over time to an impenetrable concrete, and it barely accommodated Trinian’s army. He had a tent erected in the center for himself, and put his family in the most fortified house at the southern end. Astren and Adrea had not made it out of the city, and neither had Gladier. Trinian was alone and without counsel for the first time since he was crowned king.
Soldiers milled about the clearing dotted with tents and over-laden carts. The once-green ground was overturned by so many feet and wheels, and was ridden with so many mud and wagon ruts, that they all resided in squalor. The air resounded with the rough shouting and raucous laughter of men.
Though his heart was steeled in anger, Trinian struggled not to succumb to despair. He was haunted by the image of the cobblestone streets of the Drinian markets, the glistening palace, the red brick houses, and the bright-paneled shops and barns ravaged by monstrous beasts. He wanted to believe it possible to reclaim Drian, but his fears where overwhelming him, and he wondered how many citizens would still live when he returned.
Most of all, his strange dread of Power, whom he did not know, and believed only to be a natural god, oppressed him. Yet something deep inside warned that there was more to this terror that he did not understand, and it was the fear of the unknown, his lack of counsel, and the personal guilt over losing Drian that finally banded together in his heart, and forced him to make a desperate resolution.
That evening, Trinian called his family to the command tent, and they gathered in the waning light of day. Afias had not left his brother’s side since they returned from battle, but Trinian had kept his own counsel, remaining silent and non-communicative, and the prince watched him with a worried eye.
Adlena was sitting in a cloth chair, constructed for her by one of the soldiers, with Jacian cradled drowsily in her lap. Cila and Asbult entered late and sat upon the rug in the center of the tent, and Viol went to where Afias sat on a low stool. She saw the worry in her brother’s face, and sympathetically ran her hands through his hair, seeking to comfort him; and he, comforted, leaned his head on her shoulder.
“Are you alright?” he asked under his breath.
“Is anyone?”
He frowned, his eyes still watching Trinian. At that moment, Lavendier, the last to enter, did so in a blaze of orange glory, in a dress resplendent as the sun, in varying shades of orange, vermillion, and yellow. She was preceded by a page bearing a cushioned stool, who set it upon the ground beside the table. Another page followed, laying out a dainty dinner scavenged from the meager kitchens: a roll, a chicken leg, and some grapes, with a decanter of wine.
While she situated herself, like a queen of dawn, upon her makeshift throne, Garrity entered the tent and Trinian drew him aside to speak in private.
“I do not know what Trinian will do with me,” Viol confided after a moment, glancing at Lavendier. “We are underfoot here.”
“Wherever he sends you, or whatever he tells you, you will listen to him, won’t you? We have to set the example. Everyone looks up to us.”
She smiled at him. She was young enough still to be glad when someone told her what to do. “Of course I will. No matter what.” She thought a moment. “I think he’s doing a good job.”
He squeezed her hand. “I think so too.”
Trinian, meanwhile, was speaking quietly with Garrity. “I am sending the women of my family up the river to Kelta to stay under King Wrelle’s protection – you will lead them.”
“Sire?”
“You have kept Viol safe before; now you must protect them all.”
Garrity stared at the floor a long moment. “I do no
t want to leave you or Drian,” he said at last, looking frankly at him. “I feel like my place is here.”
“Where are you going?” cut in Lavendier’s voice from across the room, for she was now quiet and settled, and had dismissed her pages from the tent.
Trinian ignored her and spoke under his breath. “And I feel like mine is with my family. But neither of us has the privilege to choose.”
Garrity nodded. “Yes, Sire. Do I have permission to take my squadron?”
“I wish I could say yes. I know their loyalty, and their love for you; but no. Merciec will be the only other Drinian soldier. You will be traveling with the captain who brought the soldiers to us from Kelta; Drinian sailors will accompany you, but the remaining soldiers will be Keltian. They know their land and their king, and we need all the soldiers we can here for the next battle.”
“Then you do plan to retake Drian?” Garrity watched him hopefully, eagerly, anxiously.
“I cannot afford to plan anything else. We must!”
Lavendier was growing petulant as she tried to follow their hushed words. “We must what? Why did you call us here Trinian?”
Garrity bowed. His heart ached, and he did not trust himself to say more. “Yes, Sire.” He turned to leave, but came to attention again and looked upon his king. “I have your oath, sire, and you have mine: your family will be safe.”
He left with a heavy heart, ignoring Lavendier and nodding reassuringly to Princess Viol. But Lavendier was not concerned with him any longer, and she looked demandingly upon Trinian.
“Well,” he began, moving to the center of the tent, in front of his throne, and looking about at all of them gathered about him, “I am sending the ladies and Jacian up the river to Kelta to stay with King Wrelle.”
Afias started up from his seat, his body stretched taut and tense, “You’re what?”Viol tried to calm him, tried to pull him back, but he whirled on his brother. “You can’t send them away. There are witches and natural gods, and all manner of dangers that wish to claim them! What are you thinking?”
“I am not leaving!” cried Lavendier.
“Sit down, brother,” said Trinian.
“We’ll be alright, Afias,” soothed Viol. “We have to listen to Trinian.”
Like a mad man, the prince’s head flew about the tent, taking in all those who were before him, trying to retain them with his gaze, but his heart was filling with grief, and he looked into Viol’s eyes. “I don’t want you to go,” he gasped, gripping her shoulders as if he might keep her through pure might.
“I know,” she whispered. “But you have to let me. I’m not a little girl anymore, and I will be alright.” She looked frankly at Trinian. “He is sending Garrity to protect me - all of us - aren’t you?”
Trinian nodded; defeated, Afias resumed his seat and pulled Viol onto his lap, “You will always be a little girl,” as he squeezed her tight, she blushed, and they both felt better.
“Well I will not go! And you cannot make me!”
“Be silent, Laven,” Trinian ordered, but she would not. Remaining stolidly in her seat, as if too good to let her emotions move her, she cried out that he was wicked and cruel, and cared nothing for the feelings of others. Trinian, pushed now to the breaking point, turned on her with fire in his eyes and an anger he had never before unleashed upon one of her sex.
“How dare you!” he said. “How dare you question my authority! You force me to turn upon you and rebuke you in a manner in which I once would have been whipped by my father.”
Lavendier flushed, for the mention of her father filled her with guilt, and stifling that guilt filled her with bitter anger. “Father knew you never loved me!”
“Never loved you,” he said, forcing his words through gritted teeth, and ignoring Jacian’s whimpers, for the little boy had been awakened by the angry shouts. “It is you who has never loved another person in your life! You are selfish, vain, stubborn – everything unvirtuous and unwomanly clings to you like a disease, festering beneath a fair, false façade. Never loved you! I cannot even give a good reason why it is I do love you; I’m sending you away for your own safety. I thought you might like the chance to sleep in a real bed again – that’s all you care about, is it not? General!” he cried, and Phestite entered from outside the tent. The large soldier, so brave and confident on the battlefield, immediately flushed in embarrassment at being brought into the middle of a family debacle. “Escort the princess to her chambers, where she can pack up her neat little boxes of luxuries.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she cried.
“It means,” said he with cutting precision, “precisely what you think it means. It means there is only one person in this entire world you love.”
“And it isn’t you!” she shot back, screaming over Jacian’s loud sobs.
“I pray that you will learn to love while you are gone!”
She rose slowly, cloaked in self-righteousness, and glowered upon him, her eyes ugly as they dripped hatred, and she swore, before the whole family as witness: “I will always hate you,” and she swept from the chamber.
Trinian fell into his throne, weary in body, mind, and soul. The family looked askance at one another, and except for Jacian, who was now whimpering into his mother’s shoulder, all were silent. This confrontation had been building between the two proudest members of their clan for many years, and some were in shock that it had actually happened, and some were only surprised that it had taken so long. Lavendier had always been a thorn in Trinian’s side, a pain he did not know how to address, but she had never openly declared hatred against him; he had ignored her, as she ignored him, unless she found it convenient to ask a favor; but in their inevitable encounters he had always tried to treat her kindly. He had not expected her to be grateful when he took care of her best interests, so now he was angry at himself for letting her words strike him; but he was a man who loved approval, and her tongue had pierced him where he was most vulnerable.
Presently, there was a rustle, and Asbult stood up, glancing about the somber chamber. Trinian looked up at his brother-in-law, whose smile seemed to bear the sun, and whose active spirit was a welcome balm to the general gloom.
“We always knew our sister had spirit,” he said, and Cila and Viol cracked reluctant smiles.
“I hardly know to whom the defeat belonged,” sighed Trinian.
“Well, my practical wife has been whispering with me, and I think we have got a plan, if you’re willing to listen.”
Trinian looked at him expectantly, his reticence to hear advice dampened, and Asbult’s energy infecting his own.
“I would like to offer my services as personal guard to the queen and princesses. On the journey, there may be some danger from the Mestraff coasts and, as you know, I’m familiar with those woods. Also, I believe everyone, my wife especially,” he gave her a warm smile, “would be comfortable knowing that I took responsibility for their safety. You know I can handle Lavendier. I will abide by your decision, of course; but let me go brother – please.”
Trinian’s face relaxed into a warm smile, and he rose from his throne and embraced his brother-in-law. “I did not consider you for this task because you are neither a captain nor a sailor…and I think, I wanted you for myself. But I see now that you are right; there is no better man to keep our family safe.”
Viol smiled, Cila clapped her hands, and Asbult grinned, ignoring his brother’s sentiment and concentrating on the honor. He puffed up his chest and strutted to the map spread out on the table, leaning against it and pretending to study it carefully.
“What are you doing?” asked Trinian, grinning despite himself. “You have no reason to look at a map.”
“Unless you’re trying to find fault with it,” laughed Viol.
“Just sticking around to give you more opportunity to admire the man who will save us all.”
And so the family meeting ended with laughter, and they all departed the tent to pack for their journey.
31
The Nian Family Journeys Up the River to Kelta
The party that departed the camp at Saskatchan, besides the women and little prince, was nine; three officers and six soldiers. The three officers were Commander Garrity, Prince Asbult, and Captain Merciec, and the others were sailors from Kelta.
On the ramp, before they departed, Trinian embraced his wife. “I love you,” he whispered.
“And I you.”
“I could not assemble a better guard to protect you. I have provided for you as well as I could.”
“And I for you.”
He tilted his head in surprise and pleasure. “Yes?”
“You will be well cared for. I’ve seen to that.”
He held her close, tightening his fist around her silky gown as his arms wrapped about her waist. He buried his head in her breast. “I love you.”
She laughed, and her peal, which was so rare a thing, stamped itself into his mind and rang there in all the lonely nights afterwards. “Your love is worth all the riches of the world.”
“You mock me.”
“Never,” she whispered with a smile, and caressed his hair with her delicate hand. “We will be safe with Garrity and Asbult.”
“I wish you could tell me that for certain,” he sighed, wishing she still employed her inner sight, and regretting its loss.
“Trinian, I’ve told you I cannot. Even if I wished to, I have forgotten how. And besides, I would live in terror if I knew the true states of men’s souls.”
“Not mine,” he said, “not Garrity or Asbult’s. There are good men – I just wish you could see it.”
“I believe it. Isn’t that enough?” Anxiety was growing within her, and she did not want to part if he thought less of her.
“Of course it is. I am sorry, my dear. I believe so much in mankind and our fate, and I just want you to see it.”
She wanted to warn him against seeing what was not there, against believing too greatly in the selflessness of mankind, against placing his trust too strongly in weak mortals, but she still undervalued her insight into humanity, so she only kissed him one last time, and they parted on the shore of Rordan, their lives destined for great pain and trial before they would find one other again.
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