Tyrolean caught Draken, gauntleted fists thudding into the back of his armor, and shoved him back upright. The Monoean’s axe crashed into Draken’s mailclad arm, breaking links and ripping through flesh. Gods spare him, the angle was too awkward to break the bone. Still, agony pierced his battle-rage.
Draken snarled in frustration. The Moneoan raised his axe again; Draken thrust out with an awkward twist to his blade, caught the metal strapping on his vambrace with the tip of Seaborn. The Monoean’s axe crashed to the floor. Using the wall and his bleeding arm to brace himself, Draken struck the less protected seax arm from beneath the wrist, grunting with exhertion. The Monoean cried out, thick and guttural. The seax skipped against the wall and clattered away, the better part of a hand and forearm with it.
The tower seemed to rock back and forth as Draken tried to catch his breath.
Someone screamed again from the room beyond, pleading, terrified. Draken grabbed the soldier by the collar of his armor and spun around, shoving him back toward Tyrolean to finish the job with his dual swords. His aching legs pumped up the last few steps and he burst through the broken door of the room.
One of the Monoeans had Elena’s maid cornered. She panted screams, lined eyes wide with terror. She threw a cup at her attacker, who raised his seax with a snarl. Tyrolean shouted as he rushed in, drawing his attention.
Another had Elena locked in battle, nightgown swirling around her feet as she lifted a sword for a strike with two hands. The Monoean darted in to try to stab at her. Draken’s heart skipped, but Elena yanked back just in time and swung, the blade missing her belly swollen with their child. The Monoean blocked her awkward swing with his metal-banded bracer and snarled a laugh.
Draken rushed toward Elena, sword upraised, gripped too hard. He crashed the edge down on the shoulder plate of grey armor. Pain ratcheted up his arm as he struck but he kept his grip on Seaborn. The Monoean staggered and tried to turn. Elena took the opportunity to try to stab into the apparent weakness on the armor, but the long sword ruined her leverage. It also put her dangerously close to the Monoean again. He reached out with his free hand and grabbed the front of her nightgown, trapping her within stabbing range.
In that moment, all noise and reek and fear fell away. Draken’s arm swung up as if Seaborn led it. The blade caught the Monoean under the arm. Blood spurted and a rough scream penetrated Draken’s clarity. He drew back and stabbed at the break between the backplate and curving shoulder protection, angling to hit the heart. The tip of his blade stalled inside the body—stopped by the inside of the Monoean’s armor.
The Monoean reeled into Elena and she cried out as his weight fell into her, toppling them both. They fell in a heap, Elena writhing beneath a mass of heavy grey armor. Draken leapt forward, grabbed the Monoean by his arm and hauled him off. He moaned and swung his seax feebly. It clattered to the floor. Draken slammed his boot into the join between the Monoean’s head and neck armor. An audible crack and he didn’t move again.
Tyrolean was just finishing his man off. The maid slumped against the wall, blood blanketing her nightgown. Damn. Draken dropped to a crouch by Elena, wincing as his knee protested. Her sword lay to one side. Her fingers crept for its hilt and then froze as her eyes met Draken’s.
He set his blade aside and reached for her, gathering her into his arms. He knew his armor must not be comfortable for her to rest against, but he couldn’t resist holding her tightly. “Are you all right? Elena?”
She moaned softly and pressed her face against his chest.
“Elena? Talk to me.”
She just clung to him tighter, her fingers curled around his arms, one of them digging into the healing wound in his bicep. Her whole body shook and her breath hitched. He kissed her hair and stroked her back. “Be easy, my love. I have you.”
A strange tremor ran through him, from his boots. Elena startled in his arms. He blinked down at the floor. A spiderweb of cracks spread through the wood under his boots. Earthquake? Or some ethereal horror? Crises seemed to come in groups.
Tyrolean’s tall frame caught his eye. He’d removed his helm and held it under his arm, his head cocked to listen out the doorway. “I think we’re secure for now. I don’t hear anyone coming up the steps. Halmar must have it guarded as you said. I’ll check and be back.”
Draken turned his attention back to Elena. “I’ll take you out of here.” He started to lift her, but she pushed back on him and slipped a hand between them to wrap her arm around her swollen belly.
“No! It hurts.”
He bent his face to her hair. She smelled of floral bathwater, her hair still damp. “We cannot stay here.”
“I mustn’t move. I need a healer …” Tears streamed from her black-lined eyes. “Please, Draken.”
“Just until Tyrolean comes back.” He settled down onto his knees, ignoring the sore one, and held her close. She tried to ease against him but her back stiffened and she moaned softly. The baby? Draken couldn’t will himself to ask. He just held her, his throat tight.
“It’s clear,” came Tyrolean’s voice again. “The enemy are all dead or captured.”
“I’ll carry you,” Draken said. He released her to rise and swipe at his blurred eye; his hand came away smeared with red. The sting was gone. He ignored it and wiped his sword on the nearest cloth he could find, a blanket from her bed, and slipped it into its scabbard. Then he knelt again and lifted her as gently as he could.
She gazed up into his face. “You’re bleeding.”
How would he explain all his unnaturally healing cuts? “A scratch. I’m fine.”
She twisted her neck to look back at the room as he carried her out. Her breath caught. “Melie …”
Her maid sprawled in the corner in her bloodstained nightgown. The Monoean who had attacked her lay nearby, his head nearly severed by Tyrolean, but too late. It would take buckets of salt water to scrub the floors clean.
Tyrolean stood in the doorway still brandishing his two bloody swords. “I will see your maid is handled with care, Your Majesty. Do you have orders for the prisoners?”
Elena closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against Draken’s shoulder. “Kill them.” Her words were soft, muffled against his chest. “Kill them all.”
CHAPTER THREE
Draken leaned over the stone wall of the tower at Seakeep and pressed his eye to the viewing glass. Elena’s carriage and a large host of Escorts made their way across the field to Brîn and his healers. They were almost to the gates. He longed to be with her, but there were things to tend here. He sighed and turned round to study Blood Bay again. The many trade ships had given the Monoean ships space, mooring on the far side of the Bay or moving out beyond the breakers to drop anchor.
His armor felt too tight on his sweaty skin. Blood had dried in the creases of his fingers. The side of his face was stiff with it, mostly his own. He’d waved off the healers in order to examine the three Monoean warships on Blood Bay. Doubtless healed skin lay beneath the crusted stains.
Tyrolean, Halmar, and another szi nêre, Konnon, who had survived the morning gathered behind him. All were gore-splattered and warming themselves by the great flaming fire lighting the top of the tower. There wasn’t much room left for the two barefoot boys who kept the flames of Seakeep going night and day. They were quiet as cats. Below on the seawall, Brinians and Escorts worked side by side, stripping Monoean dead of their valuable weapons and dumping the bodies unceremoniously into the sea.
Three damn ships, just as reported. A drizzly fog rolled in, ready to close over the land. Ahead of it ran a chill wind that cut through the warm sun still shining overhead. The Monoean ships were deadly shadows, their sails fading to mist as they retreated. The ships were nearly to the partially constructed twin towers guarding the entrance to Blood Bay.
Draken cursed under his breath. A retreat, but he’d wager his throne it wasn’t permanent. This was the Monoean Navy come to call, the most powerful waterborne force in the world. It always d
ragged death in its wake. It simply didn’t retreat. Plus, they’d left prisoners here, even officers. Also unheard of.
He lowered the glass but still stared out to sea. Trade ships were armed against pirates, and plenty of foreign war galleons had been refitted for transporting goods. The heavy weaponry wouldn’t have drawn more than a cursory glance. And this was supposed to be peacetime. Still. The Monoeans flew war banners any Brînian fleetman would recognize.
Tyrolean spoke. “From downcoast as we thought. The baywatch thought them trade ships. From Felspirn or further.”
Draken shook his head. The White City sailed ships to match its legendary ghoststone walls, with sails like snow. He remembered their elegance contrasting with the practical grey Monoean battleships in Sister Bay in Monoea. “Felspirn traders wouldn’t come past the Hoarfrost straights, not with the Eidola Islands to navigate. And our bay watch patrol should have recorded their passing the Bay. So why didn’t they?”
Brînian coastal defenses had been laid well before his time and the Eidolas were difficult navigation anyway, but Draken’s father had let the fleet and bay watch age shamefully during his reign. Doubtless he’d thought falling in league with the Mance King and launching a war against the gods negated the need for a properly maintained navy and coastal guard. With all Draken had to learn and do while taking the reins of the Brînian city-state, improving the defense of Blood Bay and the coast was one of many duties fallen by the wayside.
Besides, a Sohalia ago he’d been a part of the Monoean Royal court and there’d been not a whisper of plans for invasion then. He would have known … nay, as the court’s resident adept on Akrasia he would have been intimately involved. What had changed? Why now?
Except now left little time to examine the question and do something about the possible answers.
“I sent word to ready two ships to prepare, Khel Szi,” Halmar said.
The shifting winds tugged Draken’s locks forward. He shoved them back. “Only two?”
“The better part of the fleet is out on trade patrol.” As part of their surrender terms to Monoea after the Decade war, Brîn had agreed to policing the trade routes against piracy. Or rather, the Akrasian crown had promised Brînian patrols to the Monoeans. “The Bounty and the Reavan are still in dry dock.”
“Sail the Bane, then, to take the request to parley.”
“May I speak freely, Your Highness?” Tyrolean sounded sharp.
Draken waved a hand of assent, though he didn’t turn around.
“The heads of three High Houses lay dead. Va Khlar is already retreating to Reschan to bolster its defenses. The Queen was nearly killed. There is small chance at parley from our end.”
How Draken loathed his birthright that set him ahead of his friend. And yet, others were listening. This was wartime and he could ill afford questioning. Besides hindering his ability to lead, some questions might lead to uncomfortable answers about his past.
“Thank you for your advice, but we must try. Monoea is too valuable an ally and too dangerous an enemy. Send the galleon to follow. We must make some show of force.” Ideally they’d have matched them ship for ship, but he had fair faith in the Crossing, a heavy battle galleon. “And have fresh scouts ride downcoast. I’ve a bad feeling this isn’t their only attack.”
“What of the prisoners?”
They still huddled, disarmed and bound, in the courtyard.
Kill them. Kill them all. Elena’s last words to him still resonated.
Such an act could lock-step them to war, even more so than the Monoean attack. They couldn’t win a war Monoea chose to wage. He felt certain this had been a warning, especially now with this retreat. But how to relay that to Elena without betraying his intimate knowledge of Monoean armed forces eluded him. He started down the tower steps. When the curving stone walls had cut the wind and cloaked them in darkness punctuated only by arrow slits, he spoke.
“Keep the prisoners chained for now. Bring them into the great hall, out of sight.” Elena wouldn’t see them from the Citadel, but Escorts might relay to her they were still alive. “I want only Brînian guards on them. I’ll see to them later.”
“Your Highness, I thought the Queen—”
“Captain.” Draken backed up to the wall and paused on the steps.
“Aye, Your Highness?”
“Didn’t you ever put off unpleasant chores as a child? Snatch fruit from market stalls? Borrow a horse for a ride or run away from home or steal kisses or skip temple to fish?”
Tyrolean’s eyes narrowed. “My father would have whipped me.”
Draken sighed. “Mine, too. Good fortune they are dead. Do as I bid. It is mine to answer to the Queen, not yours.”
“Aye, Your Highness.” Tyrolean passed him, trotting with all the nimble energy of a man fresh from rest and half Draken’s age.
Draken snorted softly and paused to peer through an arrow slit. He couldn’t be certain but he thought the Monoean ships dropped anchor outside the breakers protecting Blood Bay. He watched his own ships get halfway across the Bay before he sighed and went down, avoiding looking into the room where the Queen had defended herself. He and his szi nere had to step around the maids and soldiers carrying bodies and scrubbing blood stains.
Thom met him at the bottom step. His brow above the mask was furrowed. Draken bit back a curse. “What now?”
“Khel Szi, Moonlings await your audience at the Citadel.”
Moonlings? He stared at Thom a couple of breaths before it came back to him. Lady Oklai was due this sevennight and had seen fit to travel quicker than he expected. Perhaps the Abeyance aided their speed. “Of all the bloody days … Send word I will come. In the meantime make certain she is welcomed and cared for. See to it yourself, Thom.”
“May I mention another thing?”
Draken resisted bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was in a mood, he knew, and if Thom had the stones to hold him up when he could see that so clearly, it must be important. “Aye?”
“It’s odd, and I’m not certain it’s important …”
“Thom. I am pressed for time.” He leveled narrowed eyes at the Gadye.
Thom cleared his throat. “Right, Khel Szi. It’s just … the Monoeans. They’re touched.”
Touched? Not possible. “What are you trying to say, Thom?”
“They’ve no fear of us. No fear of our threats. They aren’t resisting, but they aren’t frightened at all. One mentioned he was glad to die and hoped he could die by your hand.”
“Mine?” Clearly he’d have to see for himself. “It doesn’t matter. They’re still condemned, by order of the Queen. Keep the Moonlings happy for me until I return.”
Before the Gadye could answer, he turned to Comhanar Vannis, who strode toward him. He was as bloody as Draken and ignoring a couple of shallow slashes on his arms and chest. Trails of blood had crusted on his skin. None of the Brînians seemed to mind that Draken wore armor after the style of the Akrasians, but he wondered what sort of blessing the Brînians had to fight without such protection.
Draken lifted his chin in greeting. “What news, Comhanar?”
Vannis’ fingers wrapped his sword grip like he might draw again at any moment. The guards on the battlements and on the ground kept arrows to the string. The attack had everyone’s back up and well it should. “Fair rough, Khel Szi. Apparently the Monoeans put in another galleon downcoast and divided into big guerilla bands. We’ve had a couple of runners from outlying villages this morning, during the battle.”
“Seven bloodied gods. Are they killing or just putting people out of their homes and looting them?”
Vannis’ voice dropped and he glanced around them before answering. “Killing, Khel Szi.”
The Comhanor stood politely, his wizened face an absent mask, while Draken cursed more. Draken stumbled to a stop when he realized he was waiting for orders. They needed help. More soldiers. Servii—Draken’s servii at Khein. But that was several days’ march and he only had fifty
of his own in the city to augment the three hundred or so Escorts accompanying Elena. Half of them had died in the battle. With the attack still fresh on his mind, he wasn’t willing to send Akrasian Escorts away from their Queen. She came first.
“How many troops can you spare to send out from Brîn City proper?”
Comhanar Vannis blinked. “Just the on-leave. A hundred or fewer. And it’s a risk.”
Aye, a bad one. “Khellian’s stones, there’s nothing for it. Call them to duty. And Comhanar? They should stalk the Monoeans. Stealth. Break them into squads of no more than a dozen each.”
“One runner reported groups as large as thirty, maybe fifty.”
“Like I said. Stalking. This is strike-and-retreat action. Gods willing it won’t all turn to war.”
How he wished he could lead a band himself, tell Vannis all he knew of Monoean tactics. He wondered how many people would die to inadvertently keep his past secret. “They should—no. No further detailed orders. I just know if fifty or a hundred Brînian troops go tramping about, the Monoeans will find a way to massacre them. They are superb, if the morning was any indication, at head-on battles. Our men need to be agile and quiet enough to strike and escape, but they’ll have to work out details on the march.”
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