by Duncan Lay
He had found the last few weeks intensely frustrating. True, the Berellians were generous with both food and wine, and he had Lahra to provide amusement and diversion. But otherwise he had nothing to do except wait for the Berellians. Without them, he was helpless to seize back the throne that should have been his—and had been his for too short a time. Meanwhile, he fretted that the country was laughing at him behind his back. After the way he had manipulated the bards, having them tell the country about the Witch Queen and her Ralloran Butchers, would Merren be doing the same? Would everyone be laughing at the tale of how he had run crying from the throne room after being refused by the Dragon Sword?
He wished Mother was here. She would know what to do. He had brought a small portrait of her with him, one he had stolen from the palace. He talked to her every night, told her how sorry he was for hurting her. So far she had not said anything back, but he was used to that. She had often refused to speak to him when he had been a bad boy. But, eventually, he was sure she would forgive him, and speak to him again.
And he sorely needed her advice.
When he had crossed the river, bringing three thousand men with him, he had expected to stay just long enough to collect the Berellian army, then sweep back across the border and into the capital.
But while he had been greeted warmly by King Markuz and his adviser, the hooded Brother Onzalez, there had been no word of him being given an army to lead back into Norstalos.
And that, apart from flowery speeches, endless bottles of wine and performances by bards, had been the last conversation he had had. He had almost been ignored.
Meanwhile, Prent had been embraced, particularly by the hooded adviser with King Markuz.
‘Welcome, Brother!’ The man had taken Prent off to one side, although Gello had been careful to listen to what was being said.
‘Now you are here, I can help train you—and the first lesson is, never show your face,’ Brother Onzalez had declared.
‘Show my face?’ Prent had replied, confused.
‘Your face. Wear your hood up always. For there may come a time when you are glad that others do not know what you look like.’
Prent had nodded and lifted his hood, although obviously not really understanding Onzalez’s words.
Prent had been summoned daily to work with Onzalez. He had only been able to report that he was undergoing secret training in the arcane arts of Zorva—and knew nothing about the plans for retaking Norstalos.
Gello’s horses and men were given comfortable quarters at a town near the border, as were the remaining nobles; now just Cessor and Worick, whose loyalty was unquestioned but whose value was doubtful. Meanwhile Gello, Prent, his officers and a small honour guard were given luxurious rooms in the capital and treated with great honour. He had been asked to choose only those wounded men who had been saved by Prent—and converted to Zorva—for honour guard duty.
Gello had wanted to rage at the Berellians, demand they tell him what was going on—only he knew full well that he was helpless without them. So he had swallowed his temper and waited.
And now he had been summoned to the docks of the capital, along with Prent and his remaining officers, Feld, Livett and Heath—who had only survived the debacle at Pilleth by running for his life and leaving his men to die. Now the five of them stood quietly, surrounded by a squad of his red-clad guards.
‘Do you think it is some new weapon?’ Livett asked nervously, as the five Norstalines stood a little way apart from King Markuz, Onzalez and Markuz’s many black-garbed guards, watching a ship sail towards the docks.
‘Like what?’ Feld grunted.
Gello let them talk. He was thinking the same thing but did not want to show weakness—or rather, any more weakness—in front of his host.
The ship in question was of a strange design. Ships of Norstalos, and indeed the other countries on the continent, tended to be one- or two-masted, slim in shape, with long, pointed bows. But this one was bigger, wider and taller than the usual ship—and propelled by oars. Twin banks of oars on either side of the boat saw it move smoothly into the harbour, even against the wind. The rowers on one side lifted their oars and the ship pivoted smoothly; both sides drew the oars and it came to rest gently by the dock, where ropes were thrown down from its decks and made fast to the jetty.
Again there was a wait, and, as a company of men marched down the gangplank and towards where the royal parties stood, Gello could not restrain a gasp of surprise.
Half wore what looked like the skins of an animal, a fanged creature with black spots on a yellow hide. The pelt had been tailored to fit over them: the creature’s forelegs stretched down the men’s arms, the back legs down their legs, while the head, complete with sharp fangs, had been drawn over the men’s heads, like a strange helmet.
The rest wore cloaks made from bird feathers over their brightly coloured armour, which looked something like padded leather. The bird whose feathers had supplied the cloaks was some type of eagle, for its head, sharp beak open forever in a silent cry, was stuck on the helmets the second company wore.
And their weapons! Both companies carried what looked like a cross between a club and an axe, with the head not of bright metal but a strange black rock.
‘Where are they from?’ Feld wondered.
From their ranks strode two men, who marched over to where Onzalez stood behind King Markuz. Gello watched them carefully. Each was obviously a warrior—both showed scars on their arms and legs. The pair prostrated themselves on the ground, hands outstretched.
‘Welcome, warriors of Tenoch! Your arrival is timely indeed! Rise!’ Markuz boomed.
‘Where is Tenoch? I have never heard of such a place!’ Livett muttered.
‘Prent, go and ask them,’ Gello ordered.
‘I think we are going to find out,’ Prent whispered back, ‘sire.’
The two men stood slowly and came to attention.
The one with an eagle’s head attached to his helmet took a half-pace forwards.
‘High one, we have travelled far across the sea to serve you. A day behind us are the rest of our ships. We have Tenoch’s foremost fighters with us—eagle warriors, leopard warriors, as well as spearmen and slingers. Every man has fought in a score of battles, every man has taken at least one prisoner and seen him sacrificed to Zorva!’
Gello heard the words but it took him a few moments to understand them—the man had a strange accent. Then the import sank in and he had to grind his teeth to stop himself from shouting out. The Berellians must have sent for these men long ago! Certainly before he had been defeated at Pilleth! All this time he had been planning to turn on the Berellians, and they had seen it, prepared for it and would have met his treachery with their own! Only the fact he had nowhere else to go stopped him from walking away. He dearly wanted to talk this over with Mother. But he already knew what she would suggest were she to actually reply. He should nod and bow and pretend to be their friend, then, when he had the throne of Norstalos again, they would learn the folly of trying to trick him!
‘Warriors of Tenoch, I thank you for your help, as does my friend and ally, King Gello of Norstalos. Together, we shall win both victory for ourselves, and triumph for Zorva!’ Markuz stepped forwards and embraced both men.
As if on cue, the assembled crowd burst into cheers.
An immaculately dressed courtier hurried over to where a seething Gello waited.
‘His majesty would consider it an honour if you joined him and the warriors of Tenoch for a war council.’ The man bowed.
Gello forced a smile.
‘It would be a pleasure,’ he murmured.
Sendric tapped on the door. ‘My Queen, you sent for me?’
Merren had her back to him, and seemed to be deep in thought.
‘Count, come in, sit down—and close the door please.’
Sendric did so, settling himself into a chair.
‘What is it, your majesty?’ he asked.
Merren sigh
ed. ‘Sendric, you have been a great help to me these past few weeks. You and Gratt have been able to show the people a way forward; how commoners could hope to take the place of our absent nobility. And your reports, your surveys of the people, have been of immense use.’
‘It has been a pleasure. And it gives me a target to aim for—I am the last noble, and when my job is complete, I shall retire my title. I have no children to inherit a worthless name. And no desire to do anything other than see Gello held to account for his crimes. Seeing you these past few weeks—my Queen, you are everything that Norstalos needs. I can retire to my estate and know the country is in the best possible hands.’
Merren nodded dutifully at the compliments, then looked over to where a carafe of wine and a pair of goblets stood. She would have dearly liked a drink but, given Bishop Milly’s news, that was not a good idea. She shook herself. She had to do this, for her country, no matter what it meant for her.
She looked Sendric squarely in the eye. ‘I want you to marry me,’ she declared.
Sendric smiled broadly and leaned back in his chair, waiting the punch line of this amusing joke. After an uncomfortable silence, he leaned forwards again.
‘My Queen, surely you are not serious?’
‘No jest. You are the last remaining noble. Sworn to my service. I need you to swear on your oath and your honour to do this.’
Sendric’s face paled. ‘But, your majesty! I watched you and Rana grow up together! I could not—’
Merren cut him off. ‘Sendric, I am pregnant.’
His face whitened even further and he sagged back in his chair.
‘But who is the father…’ He trailed off then looked up at her with horror in his eyes. ‘It is Martil!’
Merren sighed. ‘It is.’
Sendric stood abruptly. ‘So you want me to play the surrogate—give the appearance of respectability to this—for the people will not accept a Ralloran mongrel on their throne!’
Merren surged to her feet. ‘Have a care, Sendric—that is my son and your future King you talk about!’
Sendric managed to control himself only through an effort, and years of practice.
‘And I am to play the dutiful Prince Consort, publicly supporting you, but sleeping in another bedroom while you and that Ralloran romp in another?’
‘All correct except for the last,’ Merren told him coldly.
‘How long has it been going on? How long before I am the laughing stock of the country?’
‘It happened the once—and it will not happen again,’ Merren snapped. ‘It only happened because Archbishop Nott told me it was the only way to secure victory.’ And if I tell myself that enough, it might even become true, she thought.
Sendric slumped back into his chair.
‘I know why it has to be me, your majesty. But why did this have to happen now? I thought our problems were over!’
Merren smiled grimly. ‘I don’t know why you are complaining, Sendric. I would have thought the problem was much bigger from my side—and only going to get bigger with time!’
Sendric groaned. ‘I will be despised, ridiculed! All my life I have tried to preserve my dignity and my final act of public office will be to trample that dignity into the dirt! The baby will not look like me—everyone will know I was cuckolded by a Ralloran…Is there not someone else? Is there not something you can do…?’
‘No!’ Merren surprised herself with the force of her anger. ‘Sendric, don’t you think I have considered all this? I am not giving you a choice. You will do this. I am sorry. Believe me, I wish I did not have to do this. But I did what was necessary to save this country, and I will do so again. The people will not accept a Ralloran Prince Consort, much less a half-Ralloran Crown Prince. I will not let this country destroy itself. You must put your personal feelings aside for the good of the country. We will announce the engagement tomorrow—and the wedding will be the week after.’
Sendric’s eyes glittered as he looked up. ‘I will hold to my oaths,’ he said sullenly. ‘I remember what I said. Naturally I shall not speak a word of this to anyone. But do not expect me to like it.’
‘Then that makes two of us,’ Merren told him coolly.
Inside, her heart was ice. If it had gone so badly with Sendric, how would Martil take it?
One thing about the Berellians—they certainly knew how to treat their guests, Gello reflected. Stunning serving girls, all in Markuz’s colours of gold and black, ensured every man had wine and food. You only had to raise your hand and your glass would be refilled. The food was superb—exotic dishes that Gello had never thought of trying before. Roast boar, an entire cooked bear, strange cheeses and pickled cabbage—it was all delicious. He was even able to forget, at least for a while, that the Berellians obviously had plans of their own.
He had brought Count Cessor and Earl Worick along to join him, feeling that the Norstalines were sadly outnumbered by Berellian nobles and officers. He was already at enough of a disadvantage. He talked to them but he could not bring himself to talk to Ezok—he pointedly ignored him, until it was obvious to all at the table. The Berellian had been lying to him.
This dining room was also clearly a touch of Berellian luxury. The wooden table was massive—another thirty guests could have sat around it in comfort—while beautiful tapestries covered almost every inch of the pale stone walls and an enormous rug covered the wooden floor. The cost of any of these would feed a family of peasants for a year, Gello judged. But, of course, it would have been wasted on them.
Finally the plates were cleared and the servants vanished, leaving only Markuz, Onzalez, Ezok, the Berellian war captains, the two Tenoch warriors and the seven Norstalines.
‘Bring your wine with you,’ Markuz invited warmly, as he ushered them over to a separate table, where a huge map of southern Norstalos and northern Berellia almost covered the polished surface.
Gello, who had been forced to leave his precious maps behind when he fled the capital, almost gasped in awe. It was incredibly detailed, drawn in colour, and had numerous wooden carvings, depicting regiments, lined neatly along one side.
‘Our friend and ally, King Gello, has been forced to flee his country, thanks to the foul plotting of Aroaril and His agents—and because he was betrayed by men he thought loyal. But with our help, and the aid of glorious Zorva, we shall give him back his throne,’ Markuz intoned.
‘Because he and his men did not believe! They have learned the folly of not embracing Zorva. If only He had been there, Aroaril would not have been able to save the Witch Queen of Norstalos! But, with my loyal fighters from Tenoch, we will crush her! And once we have Norstalos, the rest of this continent will be at our mercy!’ Onzalez declared.
Gello realised with a shock that Onzalez was the true power in this room, if the Tenoch warriors were loyal to him.
‘High One, what will we face in this Norstalos?’ the eagle warrior asked.
‘The council recognises Itlan of Tenoch,’ Markuz announced.
Onzalez turned to where Gello and his men stood, almost on the outside.
‘King Gello. What forces does the Witch Queen possess?’
Gello stepped forwards. ‘She has one regiment of infantry, two under-strength regiments of archers and one of Rallorans—all Butchers of Bellic.’
The Berellians in the room all hissed.
‘They will also form another regiment from the militia, and even then will have less than five thousand. But they have the Dragon Sword. It appears it is working. They will try to form an army of peasants and shopkeepers to stop us. But they will not be trained and few will be armed. They will not have the time. Or the money,’ Gello added, unable to stop his smile at the thought.
‘The Dragon Sword? What is this?’ Itlan asked sharply.
‘A magic sword, the symbol of kingship in my country. It was stolen from me by the Witch Queen and her foul Rallorans.’
‘Noble Yertlaan and myself will lead fifteen thousand onto the field,’ Itlan a
nnounced and his companion, the leopard warrior, nodded fiercely.
‘Berellia has eight thousand men armed and ready to march,’ Markuz added.
Gello could see where this might end. He could almost hear his mother’s carping voice telling him of the dangers ahead. He was clearly the junior partner—and there was every chance the Berellians and their mysterious allies, the Tenochs, would turn on him once his cousin was destroyed. But this was the only way he was going to get his throne back; they would need him, even if he was just a puppet, to hold Norstalos for them. Well, just let him get his backside on the throne and they would learn their mistake!
‘I have three thousand loyal men, including the only heavy cavalry. We faced the Witch Queen on a ground of her choosing, where I could not use my cavalry. This time we shall fight her where we want, where my heavy cavalry could win the battle all by themselves,’ Gello told them, looking hard at the men from Tenoch. They might dress prettily, but fancy feathers and furry coats would not stop a lance.
‘So the Witch Queen’s trained men will face an army five times their size. Any peasants they raise will be like chaff—easily swept away. And there is no possibility any of these men will desert us, despite the best efforts of Aroaril and His foul magic and loathsome minions,’ Onzalez proclaimed exultantly.
‘So when do we march? Every day we linger, we give my cousin more time to strengthen her hold on the country.’
‘The border is guarded by the Rallorans,’ one of Markuz’s captains pointed out. ‘They will not be easy to brush aside. As we know, they are experts at slowing an advance.’
‘But the pleasure of crushing them will be sweet indeed,’ Markuz said gleefully.
Gello suddenly saw an opportunity. If, while defeating his cousin, the Berellians and Tenochs were to take almost all of the losses, it would only help him. And if they massacred a few villages of peasants along the way, it would make the others more amenable to Gello’s calls for them to rise up and throw the invaders out…
‘Your majesty, I would like to suggest a way we can bring the Witch Queen to battle—and give you the Rallorans,’ Gello said slyly.