Risen Queen

by Duncan Lay

  ‘Who we are you now know—as to what we want, I must meet the High Chief and talk to him! We have been led in circles, first by three Derthals who met us, then Chief Rath and his warriors.’

  ‘Chief Rath? How did you meet him?’ Alban gasped, his composure vanishing.

  ‘He ambushed our original guides, killed them and told us they were traitors. Then he wanted us to help him wipe out a Derthal village, to pass the High Chief’s test—and when we refused, he tried to kill us. Only Argurium’s intervention saved us,’ Merren explained, feeling a surge of shame that she had insisted they join in Rath’s attack.

  ‘What? Rath was the one who sent a message saying a group of Friny—enemies—were loose in the north and killing every Derthal they could see. That was why there were so many guards waiting for you. If you had had your guides with you, you would have been safe. But without them…Luckily the dragon was with you. So Rath wanted you to kill a village of Derthals?’ Alban was trying to make sense of it all.

  Merren wanted to understand what was going on, as well.

  ‘He wanted us to attack a village, then he and his warriors would kill the inhabitants,’ she explained.

  ‘It’s becoming clear now. I am afraid you have walked into the middle of a bitter dispute among the Derthals over who to support. Rath hates all humans, or Friny as he calls us—enemies.’

  ‘He called me Queen of the Friny,’ Merren confirmed.

  ‘He is cunning,’ Alban said, almost admiringly. ‘He decided to stop talking and take action. It must have been a trap for you. I expect the village would have belonged to High Chief Sacrax. How many warriors were there? Where was it?’

  ‘It was hidden in a small forest but there were no warriors, it was a small group of just women and children,’ Martil said.

  Alban gasped in horror. ‘That was no village, that was the High Chief’s household! Those were his wives and children! To touch them is to bring a sentence of death not only on your head but on your entire clan!’ The priest shook his head. ‘Rath is one of the smartest Derthals I have met. He could have killed you all, but that would have been disobeying the High Chief and probably resulted in the order for his death. Instead, he tried to trick you. If you had obeyed Rath, he would have dragged you before the High Chief. He would have won over many minor chiefs to his side and everything he wanted would have come to pass. The High Chief would have killed you and tried to destroy your entire clan—Norstalos.’

  Merren shuddered to think how close they had come to falling into the Derthal’s trap, and looked at Martil, wanting to say she was sorry, wanting to say something, but he was carefully avoiding her gaze.

  ‘He was very clever. He made it sound like he was from the High Chief, and sent to test us. Every word he spoke was not a lie, but was also obviously not the whole truth. He must have learned of the power of the priests to detect falsehoods.’ Quiller sighed.

  ‘Oh, Rath believes in knowing his enemy,’ Alban agreed. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Dead,’ Martil said shortly.

  Alban smiled. ‘That is the first good news I have heard today. We might be able to use this to our advantage. I shall go and explain to the High Chief what happened. But things might be difficult. If you had arrived with your guides, he would have accepted you. But Derthals died as soon as you came north. It will complicate matters further. There have been more developments here, apart from Rath’s deception.’

  ‘We must speak to the High Chief! Tell him that the only way the dragon will leave is if he will speak to us—and any treachery will see the dragon destroy every last Derthal,’ Merren instructed.

  ‘But—’ Havell began, only to have Merren silence him with a look.

  Alban nodded. ‘An excellent gambit. I am sure he will speak to you, under those conditions. Although how the dragon can take part…’

  ‘I shall wait outside. But Havell can speak on my behalf,’ Argurium said musically.

  ‘Wait here. I shall return.’

  They watched Alban hurry down the path.

  ‘Your majesty—’ Havell began, but she cut him off.

  ‘I know Argurium will not do that—but they do not need to know it. Agreed? Anyway, this Alban, can we trust him?’ Merren asked.

  ‘He is a priest of Aroaril. He also has Aroaril’s favour,’ Quiller said stiffly. ‘The only caution I have is his position is very delicate. He has to have the trust of the High Chief in order to stay, and survive. He must tread a careful path of helping us, without offending the High Chief.’

  ‘Do you think the High Chief will listen to us?’ Merren worried.

  ‘With a bloody great dragon sitting outside his front door, I think he has to,’ Martil grunted.

  ‘At least we avoided Rath’s trap! When I think of how close we came to disaster…’ Quiller grimaced. ‘Your majesty, I am so sorry…’

  ‘My Queen, I also made that mistake,’ Barrett said.

  Merren waved away their apologies—she did not wish to speak of it again. They had provided her with bad advice but the decision was ultimately hers, and she had to take responsibility for it, not blame others.

  They waited impatiently in silence, except for Karia, who wanted to touch the dragon’s scales. She pestered Martil until he asked Argurium for the favour. Smiling, the dragon extended a foreleg for Karia to lightly touch with her fingers.

  ‘They’re so warm!’ she told Martil. ‘Warm and soft and smooth!’

  Martil smiled back, although it was a struggle when he thought about all the tasks that seemingly waited for him.

  ‘I suppose you’ll want one as a pet, next?’ he suggested.

  ‘I want two!’ She laughed with him.

  ‘Here comes Father Alban!’ Quiller called.

  ‘The High Chief will see you, and guarantees your safety,’ Alban announced as soon as he arrived. ‘Thank Aroaril you had a dragon with you—I haven’t seen him this angry ever and doubt he would have agreed otherwise.’

  ‘Why not? I thought you said he had agreed to a meeting, that was why we came here,’ Merren asked sharply.

  Alban looked uncomfortable. ‘Things have changed since then. Look, we must hurry. I don’t want to leave High Chief Sacrax alone with them for too long.’

  ‘With who? What is going on?’ Merren asked, but Alban had already started walking.

  ‘Come on!’ he waved impatiently.

  Merren shrugged, then signalled for them all to follow, although Argurium stayed where she was.

  The Derthal camp was crude, but it showed evidence of organisation and tool-making: skins were stretched on wooden frames, being scraped; meat was being smoked; spears were being made. Martil was reminded of the camp where he had found Karia. It had that same bedraggled, grim look to it.

  Even though they were on horses, they only caught up to Alban when he paused at the main entrance to the caves.

  ‘Now, when we get in there, do nothing rash, no matter what you see,’ Alban warned.

  ‘What will we see? Father, you are being unnecessarily mysterious!’ Merren snapped.

  Alban wiped a sweating brow. ‘I am not allowed to say. The High Chief wants to see your reaction. It must be natural or he will suspect something, and I will lose his trust. This business with Rath was troubling enough but this…Look, I warn you not to underestimate Sacrax. He is very intelligent, a cunning fighter and a strong warrior. He, too, has studied us, and is no friend of the Norstalines. But he will do what is best for his people, not for himself.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No more time! We cannot delay. Follow me!’

  Alban strode into the caves and they had no choice but to follow.

  The first thing that struck Martil was the smell. The cave opened up into a wide passage, with many side tunnels. A few torches lit the area and the smell of smoke was thick in the air, along with the smell of unwashed bodies and untanned animal skins. Eyes peered out from the shadows, and Martil had the impression there were scores of Derthals packed
down the side tunnels, watching nervously.

  Alban strode ahead, looking neither left nor right, leading them into a much larger cave, which was better lit.

  The first impression was there were two groups of Derthals in the cave—although that was not quite right, Martil saw. In fact, it was two types of Derthals, in three groups.

  The first type was older, although obviously powerful, wearing some sort of animal-skin headband, similar to the one Rath had worn. These were likely to be chiefs. Many of them bore evidence of wounds. Scars from talons, broken arms or legs that had been set crudely and never healed properly, or even missing limbs—almost every chief in this cave showed some sort of wound. The second type was younger; unmistakably warriors.

  Along one side of the cave was a large group of mixed chiefs and warriors; along the other side was a smaller group of chiefs and warriors, while the final group were the only armed Derthals, a double line of about twenty young warriors, all carrying the spears that Martil had seen used with such effect. They stood near a crude wooden throne at the far end of the cave. In it sat a powerful-looking Derthal. He wore no headband like the other chiefs but he carried what looked like a huge mace, carved from the bone of some creature. It was his only sign of office, but there was an air of authority about him that proclaimed here was the High Chief of the Derthals.

  The three figures standing beside the throne captured Martil’s attention almost immediately after his eyes left the High Chief.

  The first was obviously a wizard, judging by his bright orange robes and long wooden staff decorated with bones and feathers, while the other two wore armour—and the black-and-gold surcoat of Berellia.

  Then he heard Merren cry out.

  Merren had tried to focus on High Chief Sacrax; she knew she needed to make a strong impression after the way their mission here had got off to such a bad start. But the three figures to the side of the throne had drawn her eye.

  The wizard she did not recognise—but the other two…It was Ezok, the former Berellian ambassador to Norstalos, and with him the assassin who had killed Wime, Forde and so many of her men—and almost herself.

  ‘It’s him!’ she cried.

  ‘Murderer!’ Jaret roared, drawing his sword.

  Martil heard Merren call and that only hardened his first instinct, which was that the Berellians were here for the same reason they were: to win over the Derthals. As far as he was concerned, the best Berellian was a dead Berellian, so he drew his swords as well and advanced on them. If the third Berellian was indeed the Champion who had killed Wime and Forde, as Merren’s cry indicated, then he would take no chances.

  ‘Hold!’ High Chief Sacrax’s voice echoed through the cave, and instantly his score of warriors stepped out, blocking the way between them.

  Martil stopped, but did not lower his swords; the Berellians appeared to be smiling.

  ‘I will not have fighting in my audience hall,’ Sacrax boomed, his accent thick but his words understandable. ‘Put up your weapons or leave, never to return.’

  Martil reluctantly sheathed his swords but noticed the Derthal warriors did not relax or move back to their original positions.

  ‘Welcome to my hall, Queen Merren of the Norstalines. You arrive strangely. I sent you guides, three trusted warriors, instead you come with a dragon.’

  ‘Our guides were killed by a Derthal called Rath. He tried to tell us that, in order to gain an audience with you, we would have to destroy a village of your wives and children,’ Merren said strongly. She decided that the best way to proceed was to confront this straightaway, and prove that the Norstalines were too noble to fall for such a trick—even though she almost had.

  ‘What?’ Sacrax said, and even though not all of the Derthals in the chamber knew what was being said, they recognised the alarm and anger in his voice. Instantly there was tension in the room and Merren could see the Derthals who did understand the words hurriedly translating for the others.

  The smaller group of chiefs and warriors began muttering, and Merren could hear the word ‘Friny!’ being repeated. That seemed to indicate they were the ones who had supported Rath, and she was pleased to see they were the smaller group.

  Father Alban stepped forwards.

  ‘High Chief, as I warned you, Rath had his own plans. I believe he has been making secret deals with the Berellians. He wanted to use this Queen’s noble mission to destroy you. He wanted them to kill your wives and children, knowing you would be weakened, knowing you would have to go to war with Norstalos in response. His dream was not just war, but to take your throne. As well as refusing, the Queen and just three warriors were prepared to fight Rath and a warband of his finest warriors to save your wives and children.’

  ‘How do they survive then?’ another chief, his shattered left arm strapped to his body, shouted out.

  ‘We were saved by a dragon. The same dragon that brought us here and waits outside these caves,’ Merren replied.

  That set the muttering off again, until Sacrax tapped the butt of his mace on the floor, the dull thud an effective call for silence.

  ‘And why does a dragon want to help you?’ Sacrax rumbled.

  Havell, hearing his cue, walked forwards from where he had been standing at the back.

  Instantly the Derthals in the chamber began talking among themselves, and there was much gesturing and pointing.

  ‘I am here because the dragons have created a powerful magical object, the Dragon Egg. To make this work, we need the Dragon Sword wielder. But his help has a price. He wants me to help convince you to fight for his queen, Merren.’ Havell turned and gestured to her. ‘On behalf of the dragons, and the respect you bear for them, I ask that you help Queen Merren.’ He turned to the Derthals and repeated his words in their language.

  The effect was dramatic. The Derthals began shouting at each other, shouting across the room, and the small group of chiefs and warriors began chanting.

  ‘N’ga! N’ga! N’ga!’

  Merren could sense the meaning: they were working themselves up for a fight.

  ‘I think you could have been a little more convincing,’ she muttered.

  ‘I cannot lie,’ Havell replied loftily.

  The High Chief leaped to his feet and let out a roar of anger. He slammed the base of his massive club into the ground, and the combination of the cry and the booming strike of the club silenced the chamber.

  The High Chief signalled to what looked like the captain of his guards, and spoke softly to the man, who grabbed a pair of warriors and hurried out of the chamber.

  ‘Tell us why you are here, Queen Merren of the Norstalines,’ the High Chief said heavily, sinking back into his chair.

  ‘I offer you friendship, a new start. I have learned that the enmity between our peoples was based on a lie. I would make up for centuries of hatred and hurt. I offer you your ancestral home, the northern forest, to live undisturbed, at peace with my people. Further, we will give you clothes and food, help you through the winter,’ Merren declared. ‘I offer a lasting peace, and the chance for Norstaline and Derthal to make a new beginning.’

  ‘And what do you want in return?’ Sacrax said immediately.

  ‘Your help in defeating an invasion of those who would kill both Norstaline and Derthal; we need your warriors so that the land may be preserved for both our peoples. Without them, there will be no peace, for those who stand by your throne will not share land—they will lie, they will steal and they will betray. They follow the Dark One, and will not rest until you are enslaved, or dead.’

  That got the rest of the Derthals muttering again, as the words were translated. Sacrax glanced over at the Berellians; Merren was already staring at them. Ezok was smiling and had placed a restraining hand on Cezar.

  ‘It is interesting. For years your people never wanted to talk to us. All you wanted to do was kill us. Now, in one day, I have been visited by Norstaline and Berellian. And you both want my help. You both promise much—and you both say t
he other is lying. You have given me much to think about. And I will not decide until I know all,’ Sacrax said heavily. ‘I must know the truth of what you say about Rath. I will send for you when we need to speak again.’

  Merren inclined her head. She did not want to appear to be too arrogant by pushing him to make a decision now. She also did not want to talk too much in front of the Berellians.

  ‘Father Alban, take them to your home. I will send for you again when I am ready,’ Sacrax instructed.

  Alban bowed.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said quietly, eyes averted.

  Martil did not want to leave straightaway. Instead, he stared coldly at the Berellian trio, who were being escorted out through another tunnel by a squad of guards.

  The assassin stared back at him and Martil saw the hatred in his gaze. But there was no fear there. In fact the Berellian seemed almost happy to see him.

  26

  ‘Why did you not tell us about the Berellians?’ Merren demanded.

  The Norstalines and Martil—and the dragon—had been escorted to Father Alban’s home, a large hut that also doubled as a crude church. Martil noted that while it was old, it did not seem to have seen much use. As well as the usual altar and a collection of crude benches, it had a curtained-off area for Alban to sleep in, and a small kitchen area. Alban had hurried around finding food and drink, which only Karia seemed eager to eat, while the others sat on the church pews.

  ‘I could not tell you about the Berellians. High Chief Sacrax is confused. He knows little about disputes between southern countries. To him, there are the Norstalines and that is all. The thought that other countries, such as Berellia, lie below Norstalos and want to take its land, is causing an enormous stir in Derthal society. The Berellians have been talking of revenge, of winning back lands, and there are many chiefs who like that idea. But, to Sacrax, it is a concept that is both dangerous and worrying. He seeks more information before he will commit the Derthals to a course of action that could see one or more armies of men seeking revenge on his people. And where will he get that information about the different countries far to the south? From someone he trusts. Me. But he only trusts me as long as I am seen to be impartial. If I had told you about the Berellians, you would not have reacted like that—and Sacrax would have known I had betrayed his trust. He would no longer talk to me. Then we would have an even bigger problem than we have now.’