The Risen Queen

by Duncan Lay

  To Julia, Fiona and Christina

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  Character List:

  Map

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Praise

  BOOKS BY DUNCAN LAY

  Copyright

  Character List:

  Aroaril: The Sun God, God of Light

  Argurium: A dragon

  Alban: Priest of Aroaril who works with Derthals

  Aviland: Fought in Ralloran Wars, defeated by the Rallorans

  Albiona: The continent

  Barrett: The Queen’s Magician of Norstalos

  Bayes: Officer of Duke Gello, who fights at Gerrin

  Berellia: Fought in Ralloran Wars, defeated by the Rallorans

  Bellic: Berellian town and scene of infamous massacre

  Berry: Northern town; ruled by Baron Berry

  Beq: One of Gello’s War Captains

  Borin: Martil’s childhood friend; killed in Ralloran Wars

  Byrez: Berellian Earl and opponent of the Fearpriests

  Cessor: Count of Norstalos; he obeys Duke Gello

  Cezar: Champion to King Markuz

  Chanlon: Former priest of Aroaril and enemy to Rallorans

  Chelten: Duke Gello’s former bodyguard

  Conal: Ex-bandit and friend of Martil

  Croft: King of Norstalos; Merren’s father

  Cropper: Archer officer

  Darry: Norstaline innkeeper on the Tetran border

  Declan: Archbishop of Norstalos

  Derthals: Primitive men who live north of Norstalos, cruelly called goblins

  Dunner: Ralloran sergeant, friend of Kesbury and Nerrin

  Edil: Father of Karia

  Ezok: Berellian ambassador to Norstalos

  Fearpriest: A priest of Zorva

  Feld: One of Gello’s War Captains

  Forde: Militia officer from Gerrin

  Gamelon: Bishop of eastern Norstalos

  Garie: Ralloran officer; killed at Bellic

  Gello: Duke of Western Norstalos; cousin to Merren

  Gerrin: Northern town; ruled by Baron Gerrin

  Gia: Forde’s wife

  Gratt: Servant to Count Sendric, later leader of town council

  Grissum: One of Gello’s War Captains

  Havrick: Officer of Duke Gello’s and foe of Martil’s

  Havell: An Elfaran dragon-rider

  Hawke: Criminal who serves Kettering

  Healey: Norstaline bard

  Heath: One of Gello’s War Captains

  Hutter: Militia officer from Chell

  Ivene: Duchess of Norstalos and Gello’s mother

  Itlan: Tenoch war leader

  Jaret: Militiaman of Gerrin who joins rebellion

  Jennar: Commander of the Sendric garrison; loyal to Duke Gello

  Karia: Young girl with magic powers

  Kay: Ranger officer and Captain of Merren’s Royal Guard

  Kesbury: Ralloran sergeant; later a priest of Aroaril

  Kettering: Inn manager framed for murder who joins rebellion

  Khaliz: Royal Magician of Berellia

  Ladria: Daughter of Count Cessor

  Lahra: Whore who looks like Queen Merren

  Leigh: Criminal who serves Kettering

  Lilith: Servant girl who works for Prent

  Livett: One of Gello’s War Captains

  Loft: Norstaline innkeeper on the Berellian border

  Louise: Wime’s wife

  Macord: Ralloran captain; a Butcher of Bellic

  Martil: Ralloran war captain and now Champion to the Queen of Norstalos

  Markuz: King of Berellia

  Menner: Dressmaker from Wollin

  Merren: Queen of Norstalos

  Milly: Priestess of Aroaril; former secretary to Archbishop Declan

  Nerrin: Ralloran sergeant who is inspired by Martil to join Queen Merren

  Norstalos: Biggest country on the continent of Albiona

  Nott: Priest of Aroaril and Karia’s grandfather

  Oscarl: Ralloran captain; a Butcher of Bellic

  Onzalez: A Fearpriest

  Prent: Archbishop of Norstalos, appointed by Gello

  Quiller: Priest of Aroaril at Sendric

  Rocus: Guardsman of Sendric and officer to Merren

  Romon: A Norstaline bard who joins rebellion

  Rowran: Ralloran captain; a Butcher of Bellic

  Ryder: Ranger sergeant to Captain Kay

  Saltek: Berellian priest of Aroaril who serves Earl Byrez

  Sendric: Northern city of Norstalos; ruled by Count Sendric

  Slax: The Derthal High Chief

  Sillat: Owner of the Golden Gate brothel

  Smer: A Derthal chief

  Snithe: Ralloran captain; a Butcher of Bellic

  Tarik: Chief Hunter of Count Sendric and a leader of rebellion

  Tam: A soldier of Duke Gello

  Tenoch: The Fearpriest homeland

  Tiera: Servant girl who works for Prent

  Tomon: Martil’s childhood friend, killed in war; later the name of Martil’s horse

  Tolbert: King of Rallora

  Turen: Militiaman of Chell who serves Hutter

  Warnock: Berellian bard

  Ward: A soldier of Duke Gello

  Wilsen: Guardsman of Sendric who joins rebellion

  Wime: Militiaman of Sendric and a leader of rebellion

  Worick: Earl of Norstalos, who serves Duke Gello

  Yertlaan: Tenoch war leader

  Yvonne: Daughter of Count Cessor

  Zorva: The Dark God

  Map

  1

  ‘Captain! Wake up!’

  Martil’s eyes snapped open and he rolled out of bed, his heart pounding.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded, unable to suppress a shiver. He could hear—and smell—rain in the dawn.

  Only the day before, he had led his regiment up to the River Meads, to spend the next month protecting the Ralloran border. He’d spent most of last night writing out patrol orders and had left instructions not to be woken at risk of, if not death, then certainly a week’s latrine duty. So what had happened?

  He looked at the officer who had woken him, Lieutenant Garie, and toyed with the idea he was about to announce King Tolbert had demanded his presence back in the capital for a parade.

  But Garie’s face was grim. ‘Scouts are back. And there’s smoke in the dawn, sir.’

  Martil scrubbed his face with his hand and ducked out of the tent. The sun was trying to appear over the horizon despite the dark clouds overhead, dropping a cold, fine drizzle. It was light enough to see the unmistakable sign of smoke on the horizon to the east, where the sky was brightest.

  ‘Report!’ Martil barked.

  A pair of scouts hurried over.

  ‘Berellians came across the river in the night and hit a village. We think between one hundred and one hundred and fifty of them,’ the first scout announced. ‘We’ve got men tracking them back across the border.’

  Martil closed his eyes momentarily. After the devastating war, people were naturally reluctant to return to villages close to the Berellian border. So King Tolbert had offered them land with no taxes attac
hed for the first three years, as well as constant patrols to ensure the border was safe. Martil had only taken over this section of river the day before but that still made this attack his responsibility.

  ‘They must have known about our patrol schedules,’ he snarled.

  ‘It’s the only explanation,’ Garie agreed. ‘I thought Captain Oscarl said he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of a Berellian in the past month?’

  Martil grunted. Although he heartily disliked Oscarl, he did not take up the invitation to criticise a fellow war captain.

  ‘How bad was it—did the villagers hold them off?’ he asked instead.

  The scout hesitated. ‘Sir, you really need to look yourself. It’s—it’s worse than anything I’ve ever seen before.’

  Martil felt the anger roar through him and made no effort to fight it. ‘I want to see.’ He turned back to Garie. ‘I want messages to Captain Rowran, on our right flank, to Captain Snithe on our left and to Captains Oscarl and Macord behind us. Tell them what happened and get them here. Then take our cavalry company. I want to see where those Berellians are running to, so I can hunt them personally.’

  The border patrols consisted of three regiments patrolling the River Meads, and a further two waiting ten miles behind, in relative comfort, in case of trouble. Their orders were to destroy any Berellians who came across the river—and they could pursue survivors into Berellia. The Berellians knew that, so why had they tried this? Martil could not see the sense in it but, then again, he had never seen much sense in the Berellians.

  Orders were bellowed into the dawn and riders went off in all directions. Martil, along with the two scouts and a squad of men, rode east, towards where the smoke stained the sky.

  Even if the smoke had not drawn them, the birds they saw circling overhead would have. The crows and ravens had become fat and plentiful over the years of war—they were perhaps the only creatures who were sad there were no more battles racking these southern lands.

  Martil ignored them, dreading what he would find. He, along with every Ralloran soldier, had seen enough evidence of Berellian brutality over the years. This village was in a safe location—barely ten miles from his camp, the same distance from the river. No wonder their watchmen had been taken by surprise. He felt the anger bubbling away within him. He could tell himself that it wasn’t his fault but the truth was undeniable—they had been under his protection, and he had failed them. Lured here by the chance of avoiding Tolbert’s hefty taxes for a few years and soothed by the King’s promises of a safe life, Martil had let them down.

  The rain, which had stopped now, had slowed the fires doing their work. Most of the village still stood, although many of the roofs were gone and just about everything smouldered, sending the dull smoke spotted by Martil’s men up towards the sky. Every animal in sight—from pigs and chickens to dogs and cats—was dead. But there were no human bodies.

  ‘Spread out! See if there’s anybody left hiding!’ Martil ordered.

  With only the scouts following him, Martil rode straight to the centre of the village where the small wooden church, alone of all the buildings, was untouched by smoke or flame.

  ‘We only had a quick look, sir, but I think they’re all inside,’ one of the scouts said. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather not go back in there.’

  Martil dismounted and looked up at a handful of sleek crows perched on the church roof, plucking up the courage to enter. Just like him. The scent of blood was thick here, overpowering even the smells of charred wood and damp, singed thatch. He waited until the rest of his men had joined him after completing their sweep through the village.

  ‘Not a soul, sir,’ his sergeant reported. ‘Most homes had some sort of hiding place—cellars, hollow walls and the like. Every one of them was torn open.’

  Martil steeled himself for what he was about to see and pushed open the church door.

  ‘Nobody else has to come in,’ he told them.

  Most of the squad glanced over at the two scouts, who were already backing away, but none wanted to look bad in front of the others, so they lined up to follow Martil inside.

  The small church windows offered little light, but it was still more than enough.

  ‘Out! Out!’ Martil snarled, his voice harsh and strangled by rage and horror.

  His men needed no second invitation and stumbled outside, where several took the opportunity to go around the side of the church to be sick. One solid-looking corporal, whose face was familiar but whose name escaped Martil, seemed to be crying.

  Martil glared up at his scouts through the tears in his own eyes. ‘I want all four war captains here to see this, then alert the regiments. We are going to Berellia and we are not going to stop until the bastards who did this are all dead! Move!’

  The scouts raced away and Martil sank to the ground. He understood why the scouts had not wanted to go back inside. The scene was burned in his mind forever. The men had been impaled and left to die in twitching agony. The women raped, and their hands cut off, then left to bleed to death, while the children…Dear Aroaril, the children! The older ones had their hearts cut out. The only ones who had been spared that were the babies—they’d had their brains dashed out on the stone altar. Terror and agony had been etched on every face. But one in particular seemed to accuse him. Somehow a dying woman had managed to crawl across to where the children lay and had gathered her baby into her handless arms, its mutilated head a horrifying counterpoint to her body. Martil’s mind told him the expression of hatred and despair and anguish on her face was aimed at the Berellian murderers but his heart was certain it was aimed at him. What that woman had gone through, what her effort to reach her child must have cost her in blood and pain, Martil did not want to think about. He had seen many terrible things in the war but this surpassed them all.

  It was a shaky council of war that convened a few turns of the hourglass later outside the church. The other four war captains had been inside only to hurry back out.

  ‘Why?’ Macord asked simply.

  ‘Terror. They want to scare every Ralloran away from their border. It’s a message. Says nobody is safe and, if you want to live, you better run now,’ Martil spat. ‘They want word of this to spread, so the villages will empty.’

  ‘We will hunt them down!’ Snithe declared. ‘No matter where they try to hide!’

  ‘That is the one thing that does not make sense. They know we will come after them,’ Oscarl mused.

  ‘They must have a safe hiding place planned,’ Macord pointed out.

  ‘Nowhere is safe for them. We won’t rest until they are all punished for this,’ Martil stated.

  Grim nods followed his words.

  ‘Riders coming in,’ Rowran announced shakily.

  The five captains turned to see a pair of scouts gallop into the village and pull up in a spray of dirt beside them.

  One shouted down at Martil, not even getting out of his saddle. ‘We know where they went, sir! They’ve made for Bellic!’

  ‘So that’s their plan—they think we won’t be able to get into a walled city before King Markuz sends a rescue force,’ Martil snarled.

  ‘And they’re right. We don’t have any siege equipment,’ Macord said reasonably. ‘And then there’s the political angle. It’s one thing to chase a bunch of raiders but quite another to attack the biggest town in southern Berellia. The King won’t like this…’

  ‘The King won’t like that we let a pack of murdering bastards get away! I say we march on Bellic and demand they surrender the company of raiders. And if Markuz has a relief force close by, we’ll smash those bastards as well!’

  ‘But the King…’ Macord again tried to inject some reasonableness into the debate.

  ‘I’ll send a message to him. Meanwhile, my regiment marches on Bellic! Who’s with me?’ Martil glared around at the other four, who could do nothing but nod. ‘I’ll bury those poor people in there and see you at Bellic!’

  It had seemed so straightforward
back at the murdered village. Martil had felt sure that Bellic would surrender as soon as they saw the instant Ralloran response. But it had not quite worked that way. His regiment had the shortest distance to travel, so had arrived first at Bellic, even after burying the murdered villagers.

  Bellic, like all Berellian towns, had an impressive wall. Martil doubted its garrison was any more than five hundred soldiers but it seemed as though the entire town was packed onto the ramparts and crowded into its towers, brandishing crossbows, spears and other weapons. And it was not just men—women and even children could be seen on the battlements, shrieking defiance at the camp the Rallorans had set up.

  Martil watched the crowd carefully before summoning his officers.

  ‘They’ve been told to make a brave display, to make us think that any attack on Bellic would be impossible. Most of them aren’t soldiers, they’re shopkeepers, apprentices and labourers. They’ve even got their women on the walls, for Aroaril’s sake!’

  ‘But, sir, I hear that the Berellian women are more fearsome than the men!’ Garie added, to general amusement, before a look from Martil stopped the laughter.

  ‘I want our archer company to keep them awake all night. Aim for the men but if a woman or two collects an arrow, I won’t complain. I want them tired and I want them frightened. Then, just before the dawn, march most of the men around to the north wall, to make it appear as if we are going to try an escalade. When their attention is diverted, I will take one company in and fire the main gates. With their gates gone, and the other regiments here by the morning, they will surrender.’

  Martil looked around at his officers. He could see many thought this was not a good idea, that attacking the gatehouse was risky. But they all trusted him too much to say anything.

  Martil knew the sensible thing would be to wait until the other regiments caught up, and then hope a show of force would impress the town. But he was in no mood to do something sensible.

  The morning brought the other regiments, who were greeted by Martil and his men. The newly arrived Rallorans stared at the tired, mud-encrusted men who stank of smoke—and at the gates of Bellic, which were now in ruin. The top half of each one was still recognisable though charred, but the bottom halfs were gone. Martil had lost a dozen men in the attack but Bellic was now at their mercy.