It was enormous.
Massive beams, twice the width of Bran, held the structure aloft, and square holes in its slate roof allowed for pulleys and ropes to hoist lumber. Strange, that a place like this would be in the heart of Farren's worst district. But then, the city was old. The mill could've been built before the latest problems.
Gar Tsi's wagon and mule stood beside two massive sliding doors. The animal huffed, shot her an annoyed look, and stomped its feet. It obviously didn't care for this place.
Good taste.
Two men, dressed in Kinslek's armor, guarded both beast and building. One grinned as she drew nearer. "Doubtful you'll believe what we've found. I wouldn't have believed it myself, if I hadn't seen it."
She frowned at them and entered the millhouse.
The smell of spruce and oak mingled together to caress her nostrils. It wasn't an unpleasant scent, but one that reminded her of the warehouse where Crest had been burned. Sawdust coated every surface, though the passage of boots had revealed a simple stone floor. A massive saw dominated the far corner, its blade rusted and pitted from years of disuse, and dried lumber was piled upon tables, benches and racks.
Laughter rang out from the other corner, behind a stand of thin wooden posts. A narrow staircase, with an iron railing on one side and a wall to the other, led to the basement. She ducked her head beneath a low-hanging frame as she descended.
Coldness. Dampness.
Though summer's heat still nuzzled Farren, this place was more like a winter day. The frigid iron railing shot a chill through her, and her cloak did very little to protect against the cold. The air smelled of salt and blood and moisture, and torchlight flickered against the walls.
Kipra moved closer.
Her boot crunched against the floor, and Gar Tsi swirled to face her.
"Now there's nothing we can't be doing." He waved a torch from side to side, circling to shine its light across the basement. "Void's tit, woman, would you be looking at this!"
Rows of steel shelves stretched into darkness. Wooden crates sat upon them, nailed tight by tiny shafts of metal. One rested at the merchant's feet with its top pried open, and a horde of salted, frozen meat rested inside.
Gar Tsi laughed again. "I can be feeding this city for a month with this much. Sure, I'll be rationing it so we'll all eat, but think of it. No one will be starving after today, that's being for sure."
Kipra huffed, but couldn't find a reason to disagree. She snatched the torch from his hand and swung it to reveal another row of meat. Then another. "How did it get here? And, bloody blazes, why is it so cold in here?"
"I'm not knowing and not caring, girl. It's here and we'll use it. We managed to be finding ourselves eight barrels of grain, farther to the back. There'll be bread and meat for everyone!"
This discovery would indeed feed Farren for weeks. A slice of jerky and a chunk of bread was enough to keep the soldiers upright, the builders stacking the wall higher, and the crafters producing weapons.
But the coldness of this place, in the midst of summer....
How could she trust this?
It was too perfect.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The food Gar Tsi found will help.
-It felt wrong. Like something warm and reassuring, but it shouldn't have been either of those things. The cellar was too cool, and all that meat in one place? I didn't design it. No, it should've been... ah, I wish I could remember.-
Try!
-It felt like gentahl. But it's impossible anyone could use gentahl in Farren. My son and daughter are with the Mad King, and Villeen murdered Helt, who was the only other man with the strength for something like this. Who else is left?-
Teach me to use gentah—
-No, and I wouldn't even if I could. It's too dangerous.-
Abennak won't hesitate. He'll crush us without a second thought, and we've no way to stop him. Especially if he uses gentahl. You're the only man who can teach me to counter it.
-So little is understood and so much is forgotten. Nak.-
Damn you, make sense!
-Do we remember how the power first took us? No, it's better to keep those secrets close to our heart, for no good comes of remembrance. Think of our city instead.-
The walls stack ever higher, and my soldiers train with everything they've got. I'm proud of them, and this food helps more than I could've imagined. It strengthens us, gives us a reason to press forward. If the Mad King comes at us with only men, then I'll stop him. However, I'm helpless if he uses gentahl.
-Ah, but we lost long ago, didn't we?-
What do you mean?
-I'd intended Helt to stop the Mad King. He was the man who should've risen from his pain, discovered love because he lost it. The details don't matter anymore, do they? We were only supposed to provide him military support. Void take me, he shouldn't have died in Targ.-
Why design a world that you don't stand at the center of?
-Because standing at its heart terrified us.-
Chapter Fifty-Three
The Mad King's army thrived to the west of Rippon.
Villeen walked between rows of hastily placed tents, careful to keep clear of the sludge produced by ten thousand parchment soldiers. Muck stained her boots, and the smells of the camp overwhelmed her senses—shallow latrines, hunks of deer and squirrel roasting over low fires, and the bitterness of that ever-present mold.
Kleni sauntered at her side as they headed toward the generals' tent. The woman had taken Abennak's advice, though she hadn't yet met the king, and she wore a flimsy black shift with a deep neckline and tight-fitting skirts. Long gloves stretched to her elbows, and a leather strap pressed a dagger to her thigh. It was too seductive for this crowd, and the soldiers lowered their food to stare at her with barely concealed desire.
Lerrin followed two paces behind, his violin singing clear and true. He measured his steps with care, so as never to stumble amongst the muck, never to mar the music. His lips were always pressed together, and he hadn't spoken a word since Villeen met him.
Kleni lifted and dropped her hand in time to the violin.
The soldiers' gazes followed her.
"You play this roll well," Villeen murmured.
Kleni glowered at a tent far in the distance. "You should know why, unless you'd care to have another romp through my head? I'll be sure to include something more alluring. A kiss? A slippery dance? I'll take the latter."
Villeen struggled to withhold a smirk. This woman still feared her, especially after what she'd done in the caverns. Understandable, as gentahl was terrifying for those who didn't understand it, and no one enjoyed seeing their secrets unraveled.
But Kleni was dangerous.
She understood how to use her body and wits to acquire what she desired. Where seduction failed, ruthlessness dominated. That alone would've forced Villeen to be careful, but amongst thousands of men who simply wanted to see Kleni's desires fulfilled....
She must be handled with extra care.
A soldier moved into their path. His skin was white and flaking, and he scraped his nails over his forearms as if to scratch away loose pieces. He dropped his gaze to the ground, then spoke in the strange, crackling tone of a parchment man.
"March soon?"
Villeen opened her mouth to reply, but Kleni cut her off.
"Soon, my beauty." She lifted his chin with a gloved finger, allowing her touch to linger a second longer than necessary. "You'll see Farren's walls. Then you'll tear them down, brick by filthy brick."
He offered a ragged cheer, and the soldiers closest to him joined in. Their celebration spread through the camp, rippling like a stone in a bowl of water. From one throat to another, one raised arm to another.
These people didn't know what they cheered for. They did it because others did. They were perfect, mindless little puppets, forged by Villeen's father. Was that why Kleni managed to manipulate them so easily?
They couldn't think for themselves.
>
Kleni sauntered past the soldier and approached the generals' tent. "They need a little prod, then they'll march like a boy on his first night with a woman—tense, uncertain, but with so much anticipation."
"It isn't your place to make promises," Villeen said.
"Isn't it? This is why Abennak brought me here."
The generals' tent rose two feet above their heads, and stretched twenty paces from corner to corner. It provided plenty of space for standing men, tables, maps, plans, and anything else they may require. Simple, unadorned canvas formed its walls, and iron spikes had been pounded into the soil to provide stability.
Kleni pulled the flap aside, waiting for Villeen to enter. "After you. Lerrin, play us something suitable, an old military song, like 'March of the Peasants.' How fitting."
And the violin sang.
Five men surrounded a wide table, heads lowered over a map of the island. They glanced up as Kleni entered. Rokand frowned and ran a hand over his perfectly pressed uniform.
"Someone stop that damned screeching," he demanded.
A voice from the corner complemented the violin. "Screech and scratch, wither and catch! I've never known a song or a dove, but I've known a loss and a love. Where do the two meet?"
Villeen froze.
Abennak should've been sitting in his castle, safe and secure, unable to disrupt this meeting. Kleni required a certain delicacy in how she was handled, and her first interaction with Rippon's generals was crucial, lest things spin further from Villeen's control.
The Mad King rose to his feet. He lifted and dropped one hand in time to the musician's song, just as Kleni had done only moments before. In his other hand, he held a large glass jar, stoppered by a wax seal. Ants scuttled within, churning over one another in an attempt to find freedom.
Abennak skipped around the table, patting Rokand on the head as he passed, and angled his face up to gaze at the tent's ceiling. Into Lerrin's face, he shouted. "Wipple and wopple and beautiful!"
Spittle struck the musicians face, but the song continued.
"My king," Rokand said. "This is highly unorthodox—"
"Hush and hush." The Mad King giggled, grabbed Kleni's wrist, and pulled her into the tent. "Come and come, meet your new ants. They'll march at your command, bite and tear at your whim. You enjoy a bit of the bite and tear?"
Kleni grinned a terrible grin.
Abennak winked at his newest general. "I thought and thought you might."
Rokand's face paled.
Silence marred by music—brooding, dismayed.
Control slipped from Villeen's fingers like a handful of sand drifting away in the breeze. She'd hoped to integrate Kleni amongst these men as their equal, allowing Rokand the final decision in all things, but the Mad King plopped Kleni at their head.
"My king," Rokand said. "She's inexperienced and untried. Our armies would be a disaster in her hands. Does she even understand how to supply our troops, once we march?"
Abennak moved to Rokand's side. He crossed his arms to imitate the general and pulled his face into a long, worried frown. Then he spoke in a deep, mocking voice. "My dear ant, what and what a good point you provide."
Rokand scowled.
The other generals remained silent, content to examine their hands, unwilling to echo Rokand. They hadn't grown up with the king like Rokand had, and they rightly feared Abennak's madness.
Men died for less than a word these days.
Kleni's smile stretched wider. She stepped to Rokand's other side, her movements confident and sensual, and she caressed his arm. She leaned closer to whisper in his ear, lips less than a breath from flesh.
The paleness of his skin deepened, tinged by a flash of crimson.
The Mad King clenched jar to chest, petting it and giggling. Kleni turned to the other generals, circling them like a lioness at the hunt. Each man received her touch, and each produced a quick, sudden blush.
It was too easy.
Lerrin's melody changed to a high screech, flashing like lightning, before dropping to a slow, brooding dance. Villeen frowned. The man possessed an uncanny ability to sense the mood of a room and adjust accordingly.
"Abennak, this isn't right," she said. "Rokand is correct. She doesn't have the experience or knowledge to lead an army, and it would end in disaster if everything were left to her."
The king tilted his head. "It's already a disaster and disaster, isn't it?"
"No! It's not too late—"
"And how would you know and know what she's experienced?" He tossed her a knowing grin. "Have you weebled and wobbled through her memories? Gobbled them up? Ah, my precious Vill, have you done and done what you swore you'd never do?"
Villeen snapped her mouth closed. It was pointless to argue, for he already knew more than she'd ever dreamt or feared.
"Tsk tsk!" the king shouted. "We're all a lie, and you're the biggest of all. But what of me? I'll whistle and thistle and fix it. Yes, I'll fix it. And Kleni, my lovely little ant, will nibble and scratch and tear."
"I prefer a nibble," Kleni said, running her hands over a general's chest. "But I'll make do with what I have."
"Then do it." Abennak plopped down in the far corner, uncaring if the sludge and mold stained his robes, and proceeded to pet his jar of ants. "Don't mind or mind me, I'll just watch."
No!
Villeen's throat tightened. If only she could've stormed to where he sat, struck him across the face, and demanded he rescind his order. But events had progressed too far for that. The king had spoken, and, like good little subjects, his generals would heed his command.
Bastards.
Kleni continued to circle. "How many spearmen, bowmen, and swordsmen does my army contain? Are there any others? Stragglers? Camp followers? Whores?"
"It's not your army," Rokand said with a growl.
She slapped him. "How many!"
He cast a stricken glance to his king, though Abennak hummed and shook his jar.
"Two thousand spears, fifteen hundred bows, and nearly seven thousand swords," Rokand muttered. "There's nearly a thousand others—cooks and blacksmiths, fletchers, seamstresses. Rippon doesn't have whores, so you can find them elsewhere if you really feel they're neede—"
"Naïve to your core, aren't you?"
He stiffened.
She pointed to another general. "Find them."
The man scurried from the tent, and Kleni pointed at Rokand. "Those women will give your men a reason to die. They crave love, and a woman can give it to them, even if it's just a night or an hour or a second. But you don't understand that, do you? No, of course not." She snorted. "How long until we can march this army to Renek? We've piddled here long enough."
"Five days."
Kleni nodded. "And then to Farren?"
"Another five days."
"Gather our captains and inform them we march with the dawn." She cast her gaze across the generals. "All of you."
With the room empty, Villeen sighed. Ten days until Rippon's army smashed against Farren's. Blood and fury and death—she'd craved these things for so long, but she'd been wrong. Her father's general would prepare Farren like no other. It was programmed into him from birth, and these two forces would clash like two opposing avalanches.
"Can't stop or stop it," Abennak said, and again he smiled knowingly. "We'll snatch and snatch Renek, and then we'll wait. The city will burn, the southern kingdom will tremble, and we'll simply wait and wait."
Kleni arched an eyebrow. "For?"
"Irreor Ark's Kilnsmen."
Chapter Fifty-Four
Irreor's Synien hung from his belt, opposite a plain longsword.
The dagger's coolness, weight, and memories brought him a type of confidence, though it was tentative, like a spinning top about to crash down. He'd won it the day he saved Kipra, the same day his father died and his world tumbled over a cliff. Too many things for a young man to digest.
Now the dagger belonged at his side.
'I
f you want men to follow you, push them to the brink,' his father had said. 'Make them think they're about to die. Then, when the moment is right, yank them from that precipice. Lift them up, and they'll climb ever higher.'
"Move your legs!" he shouted.
He stood in a makeshift observation stand, built of dry lumber and long nails. The men below were clad in ragtag uniforms, wielding rusty blades and cracked shields—the best they could find. They sprinted from one picket line to the next, dropped to their knees before hopping to their feet and sprinting back to the first picket.
Irreor had gathered a force of over three hundred men, not nearly enough to halt Abennak, but enough to start. They trained west of the city, on the same bluff he'd used to train Kipra and Bran, and the morning sun bathed their faces with warmth.
"Back again," he shouted.
His budding army panted and groaned. With a smaller force like this, he could cull out the weak, define the strong, and root out leaders for the rest of his army. He'd considered using Kipra and Bran to lead, but they were too valuable to use here. He needed them in the city, organizing, pushing the council for new options and ideas.
To his side, Pernik muttered, "They're about to break, Ark."
"Not yet." Irreor again shouted for his men to pivot and sprint. "Abennak won't have mercy if they're not in shape, so neither can I."
A recruit brought in just this morning fell, flailing his arms and legs and drawing three others down. They lurched to their feet and stumbled onward, weary muscles pumping and clenching, sweat gleaming.
"They don't have the food to fuel their muscles, nor the drink to keep their minds sharp. You know this as well as I, just as you know you'll kill them if you keep on like this."
Irreor sighed. "Gar Tsi gives them all the rations he can, and we do our best with what we have. Feel free to hope for more, but don't expect it."
"A stick of meat and slice of bread isn't enough for a soldier, and you know it. We need twice that. Three times!" He lifted a hand to block out the sun. "When do you expect the scouts back from Renek?"
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