by Duncan Lay
Merren smiled grimly. ‘I would have hoped it would not take me saving your family for that to pass. But I do intend to save them.’
Gerrin was almost sobbing as he followed Bayes down the street towards the gate. He could feel the eyes of the townsfolk on him. Every one of them hated him for this. Every one despised him for threatening to kill the town’s children in order to escape. The stories of the bard, the call to protect the town from the monstrous Rallorans; they were all forgotten now. No, what every person in the town would remember forever was the image of that long march to the gate. The swords and knives being held at the throats of women and children. How any of the hostages who screamed, or complained, or fainted were either hit into submission or dragged brutally along. Any of the soldiers who might have been inclined to mercy or who might have been tempted to surrender had their intentions changed by seeing what had happened to their comrades who had been hidden down in the crowd. These men were still moaning, or had lapsed into unconsciousness because of the burns they had received from their still-smoking armour.
All the time the people watched.
‘Baron! Please! Let us go!’
Gerrin recognised the speaker as Gia, Forde’s wife, now being dragged along by Bayes’s sergeant. But he just closed his eyes and shook his head at her desperate protest.
It seemed to take forever to make it to the gate and many in the crowd were now shouting threats at them. But they dared not do anything more than threaten, not with the swords so close to so many young necks.
‘Ignore them. Once we are on horseback, we will be safe,’ Bayes told his sergeant. ‘We’ll take a few of the women and kids with us, to deter any pursuit. The women can entertain us tonight. If they do it well enough, we might even let them live. But make sure you kill a few of those old councillors—and that idiot Gerrin before we go.’
‘Yes, sir!’ His sergeant grinned wolfishly, and tightened his hold on Gia.
Merren hurried onto the ramparts, where Tarik and his archers were already waiting. Rocus, Wime and a company of men had left forty horses on a section of grass in front of the tower where Tarik and his men were placed.
‘Are you just going to let them go?’ Forde cried. ‘They’ll take our families, do Aroaril knows what to them if you let them get away…’
‘Show the Queen some respect!’ Barrett snarled. ‘And trust in her wisdom and judgement!’
‘Thank you, Barrett,’ Merren said calmly. ‘Are you and Karia ready?’
Barrett smiled. ‘I am, my Queen. Karia?’
The small girl looked a little tired, but she could still smile. ‘Easy. Just the way I did to Conal, right?’
Down below, Bayes and his men were now out of the gate, off the dirt road and walking towards the horses. The grass was reasonably short, but still, it brushed their ankles and reached over the hoofs of the waiting horses. Wime, Rocus and their men were a safe distance away, and not barring the way to the road.
‘Ready, Tarik?’ Barrett asked.
The archer had an arrow ready, as did the men with him. ‘When you are,’ he grunted.
‘Don’t hesitate, Tarik. Kill any that might harm the prisoners,’ Merren instructed.
‘Now, Karia!’ Barrett said, and flung out his hand towards the ground.
Forde watched in disbelief. One moment there was a large group of soldiers in red, about half of them dragging or carrying a prisoner, tramping over some small plants towards the horses that would carry them away. The next breath, the same plants had exploded into growth, covering both soldiers and prisoners, gripping arms and legs and holding everyone immobile.
Or not quite everyone. Perhaps a dozen men on the fringes, ones only carrying spears, were left free or were able to tear themselves from the plants.
Before anyone could tell whether they would run, surrender or hurt the helpless prisoners, Tarik and his archers loosed their arrows. All except one were hit, a plump man not in red but in the rich clothes of a noble.
‘That’s Gerrin! He wasn’t a prisoner, he was behind this!’ Forde spat.
‘We’ll take him prisoner,’ Merren instructed, as Wime, Rocus and their mounted men rode swiftly in.
But, seeing the men in blue thunder towards him, the Baron turned and ran towards the prisoners.
‘Tarik!’ Merren snapped.
Bowstrings twanged and the Baron collapsed, just short of the captured soldiers and prisoners, three arrows in his back.
‘Thank you, your majesty!’ Forde gasped. ‘You have saved them all!’
A similar conclusion seemed to have been reached by the rest of the townsfolk, who had crowded onto the walls and packed the space under the gatehouse to see what was happening. Cheers and cries of relief were ringing out across the town.
‘It was my pleasure. But I will hold you to your pledge to be my loyal servant.’ Merren smiled.
Forde dropped to one knee. ‘Your majesty, I will give my life for you.’
Merren raised him to his feet. ‘Let us hope it does not come to that. Now go, your family will need to see you.’
She watched him almost sprint down the stairs and turned to Karia. A wave of relief was rushing through her. Not only had she outwitted Bayes and Gerrin, but she had won the town over. She could hear the cheers and screams of delight outside.
A chant of ‘Long live the Queen!’ was going up around the town, followed by ‘Three cheers for the Queen!’. Wime, Rocus and their men cut free the prisoners and returned them to their families, while leaving the soldiers helplessly entwined. Merren felt almost weak at the knees, now the tension was leaving her. At the same time, she felt a wild exultation. She had done it! Done even better than she had dared hope! She hugged Karia, laughing as the little girl hugged her back.
‘Tarik, fine work by you and your men! And Barrett—that was brilliant!’ she said.
‘What about me? Wasn’t I brilliant?’
‘You were better than that! You saved me and the town!’ Merren picked Karia up and hugged her anew. ‘Come on, we have to wave to the people!’
She carried Karia to the battlements and together they waved down at the celebrating townsfolk.
‘It’s the Queen!’
The cry alerted the crowd and the roar that followed was astounding. Earlier that day these people had been prepared to fight her—now they were screaming with joy just to see her.
Barrett watched, a little jealously. After all, it was his skills that had saved the day. Without him, none of this would have been possible. It had been he who had sent birds circling over the town to see the preparations and help work out the trap they were facing, he who had helped turn the trap on Gerrin and Bayes, he who had managed to rescue the prisoners.
‘Barrett! Wave to the crowd!’ Merren called.
He stepped forwards and half-heartedly waved. It did not seem to provoke a fresh outbreak of cheering. If only I had been the one to save Merren’s life, he told himself, she might even now be holding me. He could see the image now: the two of them, arm in arm, waving to the crowd. He glanced towards her, a little of the longing he felt inside showing through.
Merren caught sight of the expression on his face and felt a little of her joy leak away. She had enough complications with Martil. And more than enough to deal with just trying to win back her kingdom. Why was it that men could not think with just their brains? She put Karia down and straightened up. If there was one thing that Martil had taught her, it was that the work never finished when the battle was won.
‘Let us secure the town,’ she ordered. ‘We have much to do before we can march on Berry.’
5
Gello’s captains were not supposed to meet without him. But this was an emergency. Last to arrive was Grissum, the captain of the archers and now the regiment of criminals. Beq, who’d had the regiment of militia added to his nominal command of the rangers, ushered him inside, to where Livett, the captain of the light cavalry, waited. Livett, who had been seen as one of Gello’s favourite
s but whose regiment had been ruined by Havrick’s incompetence, was clutching a goblet of wine, looking as though it was not his first of the day.
‘What is this about?’ Grissum demanded immediately, accepting a goblet of wine. ‘We all know the penalties for being here together…’
‘I called this,’ Livett announced shakily. ‘It is my head already on the chopping block—and yours will follow if we do not work together.’
‘Well?’
‘I have been training the King’s new recruits, the peasants he has scraped together to form the basis of a new army. It’s not going well. These men have never held a weapon before. They are useless. Martil’s Rallorans would smash them without raising a sweat.’
Grissum drank his wine. ‘And how does this affect me?’
‘I’ve had advance word from the north. The passes have fallen—the Rallorans now hold them. The King will hear later today.’
‘What!’ Grissum forgot his wine and stared instead at Beq, who had obviously heard the news before, since he just looked grim, rather than afraid.
‘We won’t know what is happening in the north. Worse, that damned Berellian has been getting into the King’s ear, telling him he has to attack soon, that to give Martil time is to give him the chance to pull off a miraculous victory. So far the King has ignored him but, after this news…’
Grissum nodded. ‘He might order an advance now. Send everything he has north, to smash the Queen before she and her Rallorans can do anything else…’.
‘Aye. And there is our problem. Are the men you are training ready?’ Livett snapped.
Grissum opened his mouth, closed it again, then shrugged. ‘The archers should be all right. They’re all proud Norstalines, no matter what. The criminals…they can fight but I don’t know as if I’d trust them. There’s something funny going on. I mean, after the first bard performed, they seemed excited, ready to help. But with each new performance, there has been less enthusiasm and more muttering—’
‘And you, Beq?’ Livett interrupted.
‘The rangers are keen. The militia…not quite so. I mean, some of them are. But there seems to be an undercurrent in the regiment. Not unlike what Grissum said. As well as the bards, we have had a priest spout the new sermon about the Rallorans to the militia—after all, they’re supposed to like that sort of thing. But it seems to have had the opposite effect.’
‘Exactly. And what do you think the King’s reaction will be if he thinks that we haven’t got these men ready to fight when he wants to lead them north?’ Livett asked.
Beq and Grissum exchanged looks. ‘We’ll be replaced, if we’re lucky. Dead, if we’re not,’ Grissum sighed.
‘So we must all say the same thing—they are ready and eager to march?’
‘Agreed,’ Beq said, and Grissum nodded.
But for an accident of birth, I could be down here with these girls, Sister Milly thought as she gathered a dozen servants around her in a quiet corner of the big kitchen. They might be allowed to work for the church but daughters of the lower classes, no matter how devout, were almost never allowed to join the church by their families. Milly’s parents had been, while not noble, certainly rich. Her father was a hugely successful saddler and her mother had inherited money from her family, who were still one of the biggest coopers in the country. So when she had felt the call of the church, they were able to indulge her, help her and pay for her training. Seeing these girls, all of them bearing the same scared, haunted look—and at least three of them bearing the marks of Prent’s fists on their faces—made her thank Aroaril for her good fortune, as well as cringe with shame that the supposed archbishop of her church was behind this.
The girls were all dressed neatly in church-supplied dresses, all washed and their hair clean and tied back. But their faces told the story. Ordered to do whatever the Archbishop demanded, service here had become a nightmare. It was doubly monstrous—these servant girls, not one of them over twenty, lived at the chapter house, which meant to defy Prent was to lose your home as well as your job. That would put them out on the streets—and they would only have one job option open to them, which was effectively what Prent was forcing them into now.
‘I want to help protect you from that monster who calls himself the Archbishop,’ Milly told them.
‘How can you do that?’ one girl, who still sported a fading black eye, asked resentfully.
‘By giving you a charm that will make Prent unable to perform around you.’ Milly could not help but smile, even though this was hardly a laughing matter.
‘Perform?’ one of the girls asked.
Milly’s smile became a little embarrassed. ‘How can I put this? The bird will not rise from its nest, the snake will stay asleep on its rock…’ she hesitated, not sure that her metaphors were quite hitting the mark with these servant girls.
‘We understand,’ the girl with the black eye said harshly.
The others looked at her with a mixture of relief and suspicion.
Milly found herself glad the darkened kitchen would hide her burning cheeks, not just from her words but from the fact that she had not acted before now.
‘Also, I can heal any bruises or…or other hurts you may have.’
The servants looked a little happier at this but Black-eye stepped forwards.
‘So what do you want from us for this?’ she asked coolly. ‘Everyone wants something.’
Milly nodded. ‘You are right. I will want your help. But only to pass messages to the prisoners in the cells below. Messages that will not be seen by any guards, I promise. First, let me prove to you that I can be trusted.’
She waited, while the other girls all looked to Black-eye, who was obviously their leader.
‘I don’t know. What can you do for us that a bottle of stolen wine and a handful of goose grease can’t? And they’ll never want anything from us in return.’ The defiant words could not mask the pain, Milly knew.
Milly stepped forwards and lifted her hand. Instinctively Black-eye flinched, but Milly just brushed her hand across the girl’s face. The others gasped as the bruising and soreness vanished.
Black-eye no more, the girl touched her own face gingerly, then turned to see the reaction on the faces of the other girls. Her face broke into a smile.
‘Do that to the rest of us and it’s a deal.’
Hutter looked around at the table of men. He had never met these militiamen before but he knew their type: solid, dependable men who had devoted their lives to keeping the people safe. He had spoken to many such groups over the past few days. He had not intended to do so but, as more and more questions were asked of him, he had to come up with answers. Even now he was trying to work out how it had come to this. He had always been one for the quiet life—Chell had supplied all the excitement he needed. But, in recent days, a quote from Father Nott had come back to haunt him: ‘We do not get what we want, we get what Aroaril knows we need.’ Hutter had ignored the words then but now felt they were somewhat prophetic. He had certainly never wanted this—being dismissed from the militia then effectively kidnapped and ordered to go to war. But perhaps it was what he had needed. Once he had dreamed of wearing the insignia of an officer, even meeting the King. Thanks to what had been done to him, that Hutter was emerging again, appearing out of the extra flesh that was being sweated off him every day. As much as he still wanted the quiet life, he could not sit back, saying and doing nothing.
At first he had spoken to men who approached him but, as his anger and disquiet grew, he had begun to actively seek others out. Men like this group. They were used to finding the truth and uncovering mysteries, which was why they were searching for answers and eager to hear what he said.
‘We’re being lied to. I’ve met this Captain Martil and he could not have stolen the Dragon Sword, as the bards and priests are telling us. Nor do I think he was in the country to kill people. He was staying with the local priest, for Aroaril’s sake—and he was one of the good priests. He wouldn’
t have let a maniac stay with him, or given him his granddaughter to look after! And we all know that the Rallorans were here working at inns—and they hadn’t slaughtered anyone I’d ever met! So if they are lying about this, what else are they lying about?’
The other militiamen nodded agreement.
‘But why are they lying to us?’ one man asked.
‘Why do people ever lie to us? They lie to cover up a crime,’ another rasped. ‘Gello’s men were stealing anything that didn’t move and raping everything that did a few weeks ago—then all of a sudden they stop, we get dragged out here and told we have to fight to save Norstalos from mad Rallorans ravaging the north. Don’t know about you but that smells mighty strange to me.’
There was a rumble of agreement this time.
‘So what do we do about this? Our officers…’
‘Bloody officers! When have we ever listened to officers? All they’re good for is wearing shiny armour and writing reports.’ Hutter snorted and the militiamen, sergeants to a man, chuckled in appreciation. ‘No, lads, we keep quiet, and we keep our eyes and ears open. All criminals make a mistake—and that’s when we’ll be ready for them.’
‘We’re being lied to,’ Kettering told a cell full of men, all of them scarred, bearded and muscled. A few months ago he would have run a mile rather than walk past a man who looked like this, but now he was actively seeking them out, sharing a cell and a meal with them. Even stranger, they were listening to him. Leigh may not have brains, but he had a certain rat-cunning, as well as a big mouth, and he had ensured that Kettering’s tale was spreading through the criminal regiment at a rapid rate. It was helped by the fact a good half of this criminal regiment weren’t real criminals at all—just men who had tried to stop Gello’s soldiers stealing, raping and killing. Sent to jail on trumped-up charges, they had been scraped out along with the real criminals and dumped into this regiment. They were more than happy to listen to him.