Risen Queen

by Duncan Lay

  Barrett and Tiera sat outside the village, watching a patch of flowers that grew, sprouted glorious blossoms, then shrank back to seedlings again.

  ‘Your control is improving greatly! Are you finding your stamina is growing, as well?’ Barrett asked.

  Tiera nodded. ‘It is! Even a week ago, that would have left me exhausted, even though we are only borrowing the magic, and returning the plants to their natural state.’

  Barrett smiled at her. She was certainly maximising her limited talents. But then, working every day with the greatest mage in Norstalos was something most apprentices could only dream about. Having a fellow pupil as talented as Karia was also a spur to her improvement. Barrett told himself it was merely his concern for her that led him to spend so much of his other, supposedly free, time with Tiera. The way her hair hung artlessly over one eye, the way a shapely lower leg showed from underneath her demure skirt, that had nothing to do with it.

  ‘What will happen when this tour of the country is over?’ Tiera asked.

  ‘Well, the Queen will return to the capital, as will I. You could go to the capital but I would suggest setting yourself up in a small town, where the competition is less…fierce. All the best mages are in the big cities—and often leave only slim pickings for new mages.’

  ‘A small town?’

  ‘Somewhere close, perhaps. I would like to visit you—and of course, as long as there is an oak tree nearby, such a journey would take but a heartbeat.’

  ‘I would like that. My friends were all left behind in the kitchens or servants’ quarters. Sitting at the tables of the rich and powerful is a strange experience. I am more used to cleaning them!’

  Barrett laughed with her. ‘Just remember, we are no different. Underneath our clothes, we are exactly the same.’ Then he blushed a little as he realised what he had said. Although she seemed not to have heard it.

  ‘Tell me again about grand balls at court. Will the Queen have them again? And would you take me to one?’

  Barrett smiled. ‘Of course! I would be delighted to have you as my guest! I didn’t go to many balls myself—I’m not much of a dancer, but I’ll tell you what I remember…’

  ‘Cessor is dead. He killed himself, and his family’s gone,’ Worick reported nervously.

  ‘What?’ Gello roared. ‘I bring the fat fool here, give him everything, and this is how he repays me!’

  ‘What should we do, sire? Do we alert the Berellians, ask their militia to search for his family?’

  Gello thought for a moment. ‘No. We shall show no sign of weakness. We shall tell them that he died of a weak heart. They may not even ask about him. Give them no hint that we are less than their equals.’

  ‘As you wish, sire.’

  22

  Hutter walked in the door and collapsed into a chair with a groan.

  ‘Let me get you a drink.’ His wife hurried over, a pot of ale in her hand.

  He took it with a wan smile. His family certainly liked their new house—the second-in-charge of the country’s militia lived in an imposing stone building in the capital, which came with a pair of servants and a large garden. But the amount of time he was working was certainly more than what had been expected back in Chell, where it was a rare day indeed when he was not home by midafternoon. Now, he was leaving home before dawn and returning well after dark.

  ‘You’re working too hard,’ his wife told him.

  Hutter tried a broader smile this time. ‘Has to be done. We have to get the militia back into the towns and villages, get some control back over the country. There’s still places where there’s more unsolved crimes than militiamen to look into them. Then there’s all the criminals that we had to give pardons to—the word about that didn’t get out to all the militia branches—and then there’s all those men who were arrested for no reason by Gello and need to have their names cleared.’

  ‘Well, it’s no good you working yourself into the ground,’ she scolded him fondly.

  She had never expected to hear that her husband was a hero. There was even talk he might get his own saga—or at least a verse in one! And in her wildest dreams she had not thought of meeting the Queen and hearing Hutter named as a full captain of militia!

  Hutter downed half his ale in one gulp. ‘Let me tell you, after surviving Pilleth, this is not hard work. There was nothing harder than that,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘So we decide who represents us?’ a farmer asked in confusion.

  ‘That’s right,’ Gratt said patiently. ‘I was a servant, now I am head of the town council for Sendric, and entitled to a seat on the new Royal Assembly. The Assembly will then decide which of its members goes to represent it at the Royal Council.’

  ‘But that’s the job of the nobles!’ someone else protested.

  ‘There are no more nobles,’ Gratt pointed out. ‘And, anyway, did they do such a good job? Not one of them had worked a hard day in their life! What did they know about your problems?’

  ‘And everyone gets to choose—even women?’ one grizzled old man snorted.

  ‘We have a queen who will be the greatest ruler Norstalos has seen! And do you want to be the one who tells their wife they don’t think they are clever enough, or important enough, to choose?’

  ‘I don’t want to tell her, but I don’t think this is right, neither!’ the old man growled. ‘Women rulers! People deciding what to do! No nobles! ’Tain’t right, I say! No good will come of it!’

  Gratt sighed. He had lost count of the number of times he had given this talk, and he had heard the same complaints time after time. Most of the people were starting to get the idea, even sounding excited about the prospect of having someone they actually knew and trusted to represent them. But many others, especially the older ones, were suspicious and distrustful and it was showing up even more in the Queen’s weekly surveys. It would take time for them to accept these dramatic changes.

  The trip west to a village twenty miles from Darry’s Inn was accomplished in a matter of moments. Forewarned by riders, the villagers, as well as many people from surrounding villages and farms, were there to welcome their arrival.

  ‘The Queen!’ The cry went up as Merren rode through the village to the inn, which had been emptied specially for the occasion.

  Merren made sure she stopped to talk to some of the people; accepted a bunch of flowers from a child; praised the owners of nearby houses; and tried to make sure all felt she cared about them, that she was not just another royal, riding past a pack of peasants.

  It was a slow procession through the village, and she was determined to take her time. This would be the first time a ruler had visited this village in its history, and she knew this day would be told and retold through the generations. Naturally she wanted them to talk about how much they had enjoyed it.

  ‘They love you, my Queen.’ Barrett smiled as they dismounted outside the inn.

  ‘For now. We must never take that for granted,’ Merren warned him. She stretched.

  ‘Louise?’

  ‘Here, my Queen.’ Louise, who had ridden straight to the inn, bustled forwards.

  ‘We need to find water for these flowers. We shall have a full council meeting in half a turn of the hourglass—for now, I feel the need for a bath.’

  ‘One is all ready for you.’

  Merren smiled. ‘I could get to like this—sometimes I almost wish it would not end!’

  Father Saltek settled himself in a chair and tried to get his thoughts in order. He would have to make the contact as brief as possible—the longer he maintained it, the greater the chance a Fearpriest would detect the use of Aroaril’s power. But there was so much to say!

  He took a deep breath. Cessor’s family was safe—or as safe as they could expect in Berellia. The way the people had fallen under the spell of evil horrified him. Certainly there were those who held themselves back, even tried to help others. But still…The most evil, the most horrendous deeds were now seen as merely commonplace. Once he h
ad wondered why the followers of Zorva were called Fearpriests. Now he knew—the stench of fear was thick on every street. Every person feared they would be the next sacrifice. Not a day went by without some poor soul publicly tortured and killed in front of cheering crowds.

  But none seemed to have the strength or courage to speak out. Through fear, the people were cowed, willing to do anything they were told in exchange for another day of life. For a man who believed in the essential goodness of people, it was hard to watch. But he had his duty, and would continue while he had breath in his body. He would contact the Norstaline Archbishop, then get as far from this house as possible. A saddled horse, fast and fresh, stood waiting for him. He had received word that Earl Byrez’s son wanted to see him—and out of respect for the memory of his dead lord, he would do what he could to meet the man. After this. He closed his eyes and began to pray.

  On the whole, Merren felt her announcement went reasonably well.

  Sendric had sat there with a face like thunder, while Martil refused to look at her. Barrett dropped the glass he was holding and the general gasp around the table would have blown out every candle in the chandelier, had it been lit.

  ‘Sendric? But he’s so old!’ Karia whispered in a voice that carried the length of the table.

  ‘The ceremony will be in a week’s time and will be rather low-key, given that we are struggling to find enough money to keep the country running—and won’t get any decent tax revenues until next spring,’ she continued, trying to ignore their reaction. ‘We shall take a break from this tour around the country for the wedding but, the next day, shall continue. That is more important. We shall be too busy to take an official honeymoon. This is probably a surprise, but it is what is best for the country. Norstalos is in a dire state, and we are slowly raising her up. Seeing a royal wedding, presided over by the new Archbishop; this will give the people hope again!’

  Father Quiller was the first one to his feet. ‘May I congratulate your majesty, and the Count, and wish you both a long and happy life together!’

  There was a horribly long pause, before everyone except Martil raised their glasses or goblets. Conal, sitting next to Martil, nudged him, and Martil reluctantly also joined the toast.

  ‘Well, now let us move on,’ Merren said briskly, trying to gloss over the awkward moment. ‘What new business?’

  She looked around the table and realised Archbishop Nott was absent.

  ‘Father Quiller, where is the Archbishop?’

  Quiller looked a little troubled. ‘He was receiving a message from a priest when I left. But I would have thought he should have finished by now.’

  ‘How goes the struggle to rebuild the priesthood?’ Merren asked.

  ‘Slowly, your majesty. We have many novices under training, but it will be six months at least before they are ready to go out to the people. In the meantime, priests are travelling from church to church, holding services whenever they can.’

  ‘Perhaps, Romon, you could get your bards to proclaim that news?’ Merren suggested.

  The newly appointed Royal Bard bowed his head. ‘Of course, your majesty.’

  Even Martil had to admit Romon had been extremely useful in the days and weeks since Pilleth. The Norstalines had lost trust in the bards—it seemed they no longer believed everything they were told—but to have the real story being spread around the countryside was still a help. Then there was the way Romon had helped drag the wounded over to the priests during Pilleth. There were at least six Rallorans alive and walking today because Romon had got them to the priests in time. And the experience seemed to have affected the bard; certainly his new saga, The Risen Queen, was actually a realistic depiction of the battle.

  ‘Your majesty! Terrible news!’ Nott raced into the room, his face agitated.

  ‘He’s just heard about the wedding to Sendric then, eh?’ Conal murmured to Martil.

  But Martil was not in the mood to appreciate the joke. He had never seen the old priest look so upset.

  ‘Archbishop! What is it?’ Merren leaped up instinctively.

  Nott clutched her shoulder, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

  ‘Your majesty, I have just heard from Berellia,’ he finally managed to say.

  ‘Archbishop, sit down! Someone get him some water!’ Merren snapped.

  Barrett jumped out of his chair, allowing Nott to sink down. Quiller bustled over with a goblet of water and Nott drank deeply before looking up at the ring of concerned faces.

  ‘I have been contacted by one Father Saltek, who claims to be the last practising priest of Aroaril in Berellia.’

  ‘It could be a trap. The Berellians are notorious for such things,’ Martil said immediately.

  Nott shook his head. ‘This was no trap. No priest can use Aroaril’s powers and lie at the same time. Besides, I remember Archbishop Declan speaking of such a one—Declan had been in touch with a Berellian priest. This man. He told me he had been ministering to the family of Count Cessor.’

  ‘I did not think that fat fool would still have the hide to try and pretend to be a churchgoer still,’ Merren sniffed.

  ‘He’s dead. He slit his own wrists, because he was forced to convert to Zorva—and sacrifice one of his daughters as an example of his loyalty to the Dark One,’ Nott said bleakly. ‘His last wish was that his surviving children and wife be given safe haven in Norstalos.’

  Barrett laughed harshly. ‘Why should we care what happens to them? It was the work of Cessor, and others, who brought us to this state. His family can reap the crop he has sown.’

  ‘There must be more to it than this,’ Merren said coolly.

  ‘Indeed there is,’ Nott agreed. ‘As a symbol of his good faith—and knowing it gives his family no guarantees—he wanted to let us know what Gello is plotting.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Merren said calmly, although her stomach was suddenly churning.

  ‘It is worse than we feared. Not only are the Berellians ready to go to war to put Gello back on the throne, but Gello’s conversion to Zorva has meant the Fearpriests have summoned help from their homeland.’

  ‘What sort of help?’ Martil interrupted.

  ‘Warriors. From the land of Tenoch. Cessor saw them in action. He says there are fifteen thousand of them, everything from spearmen to slingers. With Berellia’s eight thousand and Gello’s three regiments, they have amassed an army big enough to take not just Norstalos but the entire continent—they intend to convert us all to Zorva, by fire and spear. And they are coming soon. Within weeks.’

  ‘And their plan of attack?’ Martil asked in the horrified silence that followed.

  ‘Three-pronged. The Berellians will come straight over the border; Gello and his pack of traitors will travel up through Tetril and attack from the east; the Tenochs will land their boats on the west coast and attack from there; all three prongs to meet at Norstalos City.’

  There was silence around the table. All knew what the victory at Pilleth had cost. Now they were facing three such armies…

  ‘The Dragon Sword,’ Merren said through lips that had suddenly gone dry. ‘We must use the Dragon Sword to raise an army big enough to match Gello’s plan.’

  ‘I don’t think it is Gello’s plan any more, my Queen,’ Nott said apologetically. ‘It is now the Fearpriests who are in charge. Gello will be their puppet, no more.’

  ‘I know Gello, and he will be no puppet. He will be seeking to turn this to his advantage,’ Merren disagreed. ‘Although it does not matter whose plan it is. Three armies!’

  ‘Forgive me, my Queen. But they are actually planning four armies,’ Nott interrupted. ‘They want to attack from the north as well.’

  ‘With what?’ Conal cried.

  ‘Goblins. Or rather, to give them their proper name—the Derthals. The Fearpriests are sending a mission to convince the Derthal High Chief that they can keep any land they seize.’

  Merren seemed to slump at this, but rallied determinedly.

  �
��We have the Dragon Sword. As we proved at Pilleth, we also have a Champion who can wield it. We shall rally the people—’

  ‘My Queen, we cannot,’ Martil called, hating himself for having to say it.

  Everyone looked at him. ‘And why not?’ Merren demanded.

  ‘I cannot just raise the Dragon Sword and gather people together. Even if it worked…’

  ‘What do you mean, even if it worked? I thought you had unlocked its power?’ Merren exclaimed.

  ‘It will surely know that I do not want to use it to raise an army,’ Martil said strongly, to gasps around the table. He looked at them carefully. ‘Not like this. Because those men would be slaughtered. We have arms and armour to outfit a few thousand, but the rest would be fighting with what they bring. It would be a massacre. I have said it before—I hope not to say it again. Life is not like a saga. You don’t wave a magic sword and have an army appear to defeat your foes! It does not work like that. I saw what happened when Rallora marched conscripts against the Berellians. And you all saw what happened at Pilleth to the conscript regiments. We would murder thousands of men—and still lose. My Queen, I am sorry, but even if you commanded me to, I could not use the Dragon Sword to call men to their deaths.’

  ‘But this is their country they are fighting for! Surely the people will fight harder, knowing it is for their families! We could inspire them, use the Dragon Sword—’ Merren cried.

  ‘Bravery is no match for a wall of shields and years of training! Let us call in Kettering and Hutter, ask them how their regiments fared at Pilleth! Ask Kay! His rangers took on a shield wall and were cut to pieces! We would have a mob; at Sendric the mob managed to win, because there was no room for the soldiers to use their numbers and training. On a battlefield, the mob will be destroyed. I have seen it happen.’ He stopped then, overcome with memories. ‘I cannot use this Sword to call up thousands of men, just to lead them to their deaths.’