The Risen Queen

by Duncan Lay

  Merren did not take much comfort from that.

  ‘You have to find a way to get the people moving! You have to! Don’t let me down!’ she told Conal and Sendric. ‘Try anything you want—you have my full authority to do whatever it takes. Have the militia carry people out of their homes, if you must!’

  ‘And the ones closest to the border? Time is already running out for them,’ Conal warned.

  ‘Then we must decide if they are worth sacrificing our soldiers to protect. It will be judged on how many there are, the roads they must use and whether they have skills we can use or supplies we need. A village of ironworkers is vital—farmers, we have plenty of. I shall leave you detailed instructions. Carry them out as best as you can. I trust you.’

  She felt bad about giving them this responsibility but there was no point in getting the people to leave their homes unless they had somewhere safe to go to—and for that she needed the Derthals.

  Now she, Barrett, Quiller, Martil and Karia were preparing to head north, using one of Barrett’s magical gateways to jump to the most northern oak tree he could find. They would ride the rest of the way, to where an honour guard of Derthals would meet them. As for guards, all they were bringing were Jaret and Wilsen.

  They sat around the table in Barrett’s kitchen. Wilsen and Jaret were packing food for the journey and Barrett was devouring a plate of fruit, then they would leave through the tree in Barrett’s garden.

  Quiller was lecturing them carefully. ‘The first thing you need to remember about the Derthals is they are not monsters. They look like men, but are different in many ways. They care for their families and are capable of complex emotions. Concepts such as good and evil do not necessarily apply to them. They consider what is good for them, what is good for their family and what is good for their tribe. Family disputes are settled by the chief, tribal disputes by the High Chief. But, if necessary, disputes can be settled by combat. The winner is judged to have been the one telling the truth. Their loyalty to their tribal chief is absolute but while those tribal chiefs obey the High Chief, they are not necessarily loyal to him—particularly if they think they should be High Chief.

  ‘What we are asking the High Chief to do will test the bonds of his tribal chiefs—if they support him, we will have an army. But if they refuse, at best we will only have the Derthals from the High Chief’s own tribe. Many of the tribal chiefs, as well as the more important warriors, will speak our language, having learned it from generations of priests. So we must tread carefully. They will be suspicious of us, and it will be easy to give offence. If we lose this chance…’

  ‘We lose everything,’ Merren finished. ‘So we give them respect, do whatever they ask to prove ourselves worthy of trust. Understand?’

  ‘When can we see one?’ Karia asked.

  Merren ignored her; she was thinking her father would be apoplectic at the thought of handing over part of Norstalos to anyone, let alone ‘goblins’. There would be many other Norstalines who would be outraged, as well. As with the Rallorans, she just had to hope that the people would accept the Derthals when they came to save them. She was afraid she could save the country, only to have it reject her, for using Rallorans and Derthals to achieve victory.

  But there was no other choice. The Ralloran King was too blind to see his best chance of long-term survival was to attack the Berellians. Although she had had no reply when the Ralloran ambassador had pointed out: ‘You could have saved Rallora, your majesty, by invading Berellia’s north, when the Ralloran Wars started. But I believe the reply your father, King Croft, offered our desperate pleas for help was along the lines of: “This is a matter between Rallora and Berellia. It is none of our business.”’ She was reaping what her father had sown.

  The only bright spot in all this was nobody had mentioned her marriage to Sendric. He had been given the task of organising a simple ceremony while she was north. It was not much of an incentive to hurry back.

  ‘When we get there, the honour guard will lead us to the High Chief. After we greet him, we should be given the chance to wash and eat. We must use this to talk to Father Alban. There, we may find out the latest situation among the Derthals, whether there is a strong chance of success and if any of the tribal chiefs will oppose us. Any other questions?’ Quiller finished.

  ‘Can they understand us?’ Merren asked. ‘Can we talk among ourselves without fear of being understood?’

  The indecision on Quiller’s face spoke louder than words. ‘There will be some who can understand our language—but, more than that, there are many among the Derthals who are able to read your body language. The Derthal language is simple but words can be given emphasis by how loudly they are said, and the accompanying gestures. So if you say one thing, but mean another, they are often able to pick up the hidden meaning before the verbal one. It is something that priests have learned, to their cost.’

  ‘How fluent are you in their language?’ Merren asked sharply.

  Quiller shrugged. ‘I know a few words. That is all. I would not try to interpret. The chance of making a mistake, possibly a fatal mistake, is too high.’

  Merren took a deep breath. ‘We should leave now. Quiller, let Father Alban know we shall be there soon. Barrett—are you ready?’

  ‘As always, my Queen.’ Barrett looked up from his plate.

  Merren had noticed he had not taken the news about her marriage to Sendric too badly. She did wonder about that. She had expected him to sulk, at least—and quite possibly fall into fits of petulant anger. But there had been nothing. She was not sure if this was because of the attractive young student he was devoting so much time to—or because the marriage was not to Martil. Either way, she was relieved not to have to worry about it.

  ‘Do you think I can play with some of the young Derthals?’ Karia asked. ‘Da used to say he would send me away to play with the goblins. I want to meet them!’

  Martil shuddered at the thought. ‘Perhaps.’ Then he smiled at her. ‘But how will we know which one is you? I mean, you probably already look like a goblin!’

  ‘Dad!’ she said, outraged. ‘They’re ugly!’

  Martil laughed at the expression on her face. He had grown accustomed to only using humour to try and keep his sanity among the madness of war. Now he was enjoying using it with Karia, watching her jest back at him.

  ‘Well, you smell like a goblin!’ she told him and he laughed again.

  ‘Anyway, we have to make sure they are our friends first before we play with them.’

  She nodded and he turned to where Jaret and Wilsen were hefting large packs onto their shoulders.

  ‘Stay close to the Queen, both of you,’ he ordered. ‘The Derthals might seek to test us, might even challenge us to see what we are made of. Do nothing unless I tell you, but do not let the Queen come to any harm, for anything.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  Martil would have liked to bring along a pair of his Rallorans—Dunner and Kesbury for preference—but Kesbury was trying to become a priest and Dunner was needed down on the border. Besides, after they had led the charge to get in front of Merren at Pilleth, the Queen had asked for Wilsen and Jaret to come along—and he could not ignore that.

  ‘When you are finished, I am now ready,’ Barrett announced, swallowing a last mouthful of apple.

  Martil reflected that, just a few months ago, he would have shuddered at the thought of trusting himself to a wizard. But now he took it for granted. And, although he and Barrett were no longer likely to be friends, at least they were not trying to attack each other at every opportunity. Barrett must be teaching Tiera more than magic, or she might be teaching him, Martil thought to himself. He had already endured Karia complaining about how Barrett’s attention was not entirely focused on her now that Tiera was around. Not that Martil was likely to ask Barrett about it. Especially as his better relationship with Barrett was more than compensated for by the problems he was having with Merren. Even now he could not look at her without feelin
g a pang. He stared out the window to avoid watching her.

  ‘Come on, Daddy! They’ll go without us!’ Karia grabbed his hand and broke his reverie.

  ‘I’ll be there.’ Martil smiled at her. At least he still had Karia.

  Hutter had always suspected that the west of Norstalos, being near the coast, believed itself to be far superior to the rest of the country. It even held itself up as being the ‘true’ Norstalos. Westerners were known for looking down their noses at the ‘easties’, who they often termed country bumpkins, or worse. As a born-and-bred eastie, and a former sergeant in an insignificant village, his words were unlikely to impress the genteel westerners. And having a one-armed ex-bandit and pardoned criminal as his boss was hardly a recommendation, either.

  But he had his orders. Cessor, with its wide, natural harbour and large fishing and trading fleet, was an obvious place to land. Worick, with its large river mouth and straight, paved road to the capital, was the other. If he was invading by sea, he would have landed at either, or both, of these places. What he would have loved to have was a fleet of warships to unleash on the Tenoch boats. But there had never been problems with piracy; the Norstaline navy consisted of two small ships. Trying to attack a fleet of warships with fat trading ships did not seem like a good idea to Hutter—and the Queen had forbidden it, fearing she could lose her men far at sea.

  So now he was reduced to persuading suspicious town councils that they should flee. They had been less than co-operative, so he had just sent his militiamen into the streets to tell the people to get out. But this was not working particularly well. He strongly suspected there were plenty of people here who would be happy to see Gello back.

  ‘We would have nothing to fear,’ one councillor had even told him.

  As far as Hutter was concerned, they could suffer and die when the Tenochs arrived. As long as they didn’t take too many ordinary people with them.

  They had emerged from an oak tree at the edge of a wood far to the north of Sendric, and climbed onto the horses they had brought with them.

  ‘The only thing further north of here are a few mines, and of course the Derthals,’ Quiller had announced as soon as they stepped out of the tree.

  ‘How come the Derthals don’t attack the mines?’

  ‘Two reasons—firstly because they have no use for gold or silver. They used to attack farms to get food, or attacked towns in an attempt to drive us off their land, but they are afraid of holes in the ground. The second reason is the mines are well defended and hard to get into. They have learned to leave the mines alone, because they end up with dead warriors, to no purpose,’ Quiller explained.

  ‘I wonder how the prisoners we sent to the mines are getting on. Perhaps we could get them to fight for us, now we have the Dragon Sword working…’ Merren mused.

  Martil knew he should not seize every opportunity to argue with her, but it just seemed to work out that way.

  ‘Apart from the fact they hate us and want you dead, Pilleth told us what happens when you go into battle not being able to trust part of your army. If they defected back to Gello at a critical point of the fight…’ Martil grunted.

  Merren sniffed.

  They rode on in silence—well, almost in silence, because Karia was always full of questions. Then Quiller told them they were in Derthal territory.

  ‘How can you tell?’ Barrett asked.

  ‘He’s right—don’t everybody look now, but there’s three of them over to the right, watching us,’ Martil said quietly.

  Too late. As it was pointless to hide their curiosity, Martil joined the others in staring at what looked like three short men standing quietly under a small tree. Being watched did not seem to make them run, or attack, so Martil looked closely.

  They were shorter than a man; Martil was average height and he guessed the tallest would only come up to his shoulder. But they seemed solidly built, with heavy shoulders, barrel chests and powerful arms. All three carried spears, but not the long, iron-tipped version taller than a man that Martil knew and had used. The Derthals’ were no longer than a sword, about the length of a man’s arm, with a thick shaft and a huge stone head, easily the width of a man’s hand at the base, tapering slowly to what looked like a fine point. This was a spear for close, thrusting work, Martil saw at once. With those massive arms, shoulders and chest, the Derthals would be able to deliver a powerful blow. Even though the spearheads were stone, he guessed a Derthal could probably drive it through a mail shirt. And it would deliver a terrible wound.

  Their faces seemed unusual, but Martil could not see them clearly. All three wore what looked like deerskin tunics.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Merren asked.

  ‘I would say they are waiting for us,’ Quiller suggested quietly. ‘I told Father Alban our route. By the look of them, these three could well be personal guards to the High Chief.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Merren demanded.

  ‘We go over to them, slowly, and greet them,’ Quiller decided. ‘Better let me lead the way.’

  ‘As long as you are ready to call upon Aroaril’s protection at a moment’s notice,’ Martil snapped. ‘One of those spearheads would drive a big enough hole through you for us to see daylight on the other side.’

  ‘Really! How?’ Karia wanted to know, but Martil managed to quieten her.

  ‘Stay close to the Queen,’ he told her. ‘Jaret, Wilsen, watch the Queen in case there’s any more around. Father, let’s go and say hello to your Derthals.’

  Together, Quiller and Martil rode across to the three figures, who watched them approach calmly, making no move to either run or attack.

  Martil looked even closer at them. Their arms and legs were hairy, but no more than he had seen on a normal man. Their faces were also without beards, although their hair was long and wild. Up close, their large noses dominated their faces, while a low, overhanging receding brow and chin made them look somewhat like a man, yet strange enough to be something set apart.

  ‘Greetings! We come in peace!’ Quiller called loudly, and slowly, then repeated his words in a guttural language.

  ‘I thought you didn’t speak their language,’ Martil muttered.

  ‘I don’t. I just know that phrase,’ Quiller whispered back, neither of them taking their eyes off the three Derthals.

  Then one, the biggest, bowed his head slightly.

  ‘Welcome to Queen Merren. Follow us,’ he said, his voice low and harsh, as though unused to speaking the human tongue. Also, he seemed to struggle with the pronunciation of Merren.

  ‘You speak our language? You are from the High Chief?’ Quiller said with a smile.

  The three Derthals exchanged a look, then the first one spoke again.

  ‘Khoniz,’ it sounded like, with a guttural inflection. Then he cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Welcome to Queen Merren. Follow us,’ he grunted.

  ‘I think they only know that phrase. Probably been taught to say that, and no more,’ Quiller sighed with frustration.

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Follow us!’ the Derthals all said together, then turned and began trudging away, up a grassy slope.

  ‘I suppose we follow them. Should we take the horses…’ Quiller said.

  The Derthals turned and waved.

  ‘Rella!’ one called, then the leader waved again. ‘Follow. Us!’

  Merren rode across, Barrett, Karia and the two guards following her closely.

  ‘Well, that seems obvious. They’re here to guide us,’ she declared.

  ‘Should we leave the horses here?’ Barrett asked.

  ‘Take them. They make us look more impressive,’ Martil said immediately. ‘I go first—Jaret, Wilsen, you watch the rear.’

  They rode after the three Derthals, who were not setting a fast pace but, when they saw they were being followed, seemed to stride out a little more, over the top of a small hill and onto what looked like a game path. This seemed to wind into the hills, which themselves soon
turned into mountains. Patches of trees clung onto the ground in between the hills, but the way the mountains loomed over all told Martil that this was not a hospitable place. Logically it should be warmer the further north you came, but the height they were at made it colder. Even though the sun was out, and it was mid-autumn, there was a chill in the air, and the odd gust of wind told him it would be a brutal place to survive in winter. He spotted a circling bird, high up and many miles away. It looked to be a fearsome size. No doubt there were other, unfriendly creatures here, too.

  24

  The Derthals led them along the game trail at a steady pace. Martil was examining the three of them trying to see whether or not they would be good warriors. He wondered how far into the mountains they were going. And he was not the only one.

  ‘How much longer are we going to ride for? I’m hungry!’ Karia grumbled. ‘And the Derthals don’t talk to us. That’s boring!’

  ‘Well, they probably can’t get a word in with you talking all the time,’ Martil suggested.

  ‘Ha ha, Dad. Very funny. One of your jests.’

  ‘Be patient—we are their guests,’ Martil said.

  ‘Why can’t we ask them to stop, so we can have something to eat?’

  ‘Because we don’t know their language,’ Martil pointed out.

  ‘Could we try to talk to them, the way we can talk to animals or birds?’ Karia asked Barrett.

  ‘But they are not animals or birds—they are men, they just have a different language. Using the magic to communicate with them could be a dreadful insult.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’d make them angry,’ Martil explained.

  ‘Oh.’ Karia rode on in silence for a little further. ‘Can’t we just stop anyway? I’m really hungry!’

  Perhaps the Derthals heard her, and understood the tone of voice, if not the words themselves—or perhaps they had always planned to rest at this point of the journey. The trail led up around a huge boulder, and they stopped here and waved to Martil and the others.