by A. J. Smith
Xander’s face twitched, as if he had heard that his brother was dead, and knew that he was now the only man of Tiris left alive. Then Markos removed his gauntlets and placed his hands on the general’s chest. ‘You, risen man, remove your herbs.’
Sigurd didn’t argue but did as he was told, lifting off the poultices to expose the deep gashes in Xander’s leg and forehead. Gashes that began to shine with a dull light.
‘Whatever power is left to me,’ whispered Markos. ‘As a paladin of the White and a servant of the One God, I ask that it be given to him. My lord, if you have one shred of power left in your land, use it now.’
The shine lengthened and rose across Xander’s body, flowing from the paladin’s outstretched hands and obscuring the wounds. Gwen had seen a thousand White clerics heal a thousand wounds, but never with such reverence, as if the power was now being squeezed from an empty reservoir. But, slowly, the One answered the prayer and gave back Xander’s life.
At the edge of her vision she saw a Purple cleric passing through the tent, ghosting through fabric and wood like a dream. He looked down at the Red Prince and nodded. No-one else gave any sign of seeing the apparition, but all simply knelt before Xander.
‘My general, my king,’ said Brennan, breathing heavily as the general’s eyes snapped open.
‘My general, my king,’ agreed Markos, removing his hands as the light faded, revealing clean flesh where before there had been blood and bone. The king shifted his weight, flexing his newly repaired back.
Gwen just fell against him, ignoring the ghostly figure and wrapping her arms a round her husband’s neck. When she looked up, the faded Purple cleric was gone.
‘Easy,’ he breathed. ‘Easy... easy.’
‘Stay alive, my love,’ she whispered, crying against his face.
Daganay gave them a moment before inspecting Xander’s wounds and nodding at Markos. ‘A worthy prayer, my lord. And I thank you for it. The One hasn’t totally abandoned us.’
‘He gives me strength,’ replied the paladin. ‘As long as I have strength, so the One God endures.’
‘Did we... did we take Cozz?’ slurred Xander, blinking his eyes and coughing.
‘We did,’ she replied, kissing him softly. ‘And you are to be king of Tor Funweir.’
***
‘We don’t have time for this,’ she said, running a comb through her tangled hair.
‘We’re making time,’ replied Daganay. ‘Everyone knows Sebastian is dead. Everyone knows Xander is next in line. But such things need to be formalized, so the Lords of Ro don’t argue when he tells them to bring every man they’ve got.’
She glared at him. ‘Formalize? With a bloody Brown cardinal? So, we stage a coup, seize Tiris, crown our general king, and use a bloody Brown cleric to formalize it?’
Daganay shrugged and poked his head out of the large tent. ‘Cerro was closest,’ he replied. ‘And he is a cardinal. Severen and Mobius are both dead; the Gold bastard, Animustus, is hiding in Arnon. Maliki Frith is in Ranen. Who else would you pick?’
‘What does it look like out there?’ she asked, binding her hair back into a topknot.
‘Like a military exhibition of some kind. Brennan has everyone assembled in ranks. You should probably go and make sure your husband is ready.’
‘He nearly died yesterday. Maybe we could put a crown on his head when he’s rested for a few days.’
‘I’ve had enough rest,’ said Xander, emerging from an adjacent section of the tent. He had washed and his armour had been repaired, but there were deep bags under his eyes. His strength had not fully returned, and there was a vulnerability about him. ‘I assume Cerro bought the crown with him.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ said Daganay, ‘everything is ready. We just await our new king and queen.’
The Red Prince took a deep breath and tried to smile at her. ‘Queen Gwendolyn Tiris, how does it sound?’
‘It’s okay when you say it,’ she replied. ‘I’m just not sure I want everybody saying it.’
He stroked a stray hair from her forehead. ‘A long time ago, I met a woman in Hunter’s Cross. She was the most dangerous, most fierce creature I’d ever met... and I fell in love with her. I made her my wife and she became the Lady of Ro Haran. I never thought she’d become my queen, but I can think of no more worthy soul.’
He held her hands and they kissed slowly, before turning and exiting the tent. Daganay held open the tent flaps and they emerged between a line of Hawks, each man saluting with shortsword and shield. Banners of red and gold flew overhead and the press of warriors flowed over the hills, up to the ruined northern gates of Cozz. Tents and pavilions dotted the landscape, and the crisp morning breeze caught each banner. Thousands of warriors: mercenaries and watchmen from Tiris, guardsmen and Dokkalfar from Canarn, Hawks from Haran and White Knights from Arnon. Beyond the warriors, at the end of the line, was Cardinal Cerro of Darkwald, the most senior Brown cleric. He stood on a raised wooden platform, with Major Brennan and Lord Markos.
‘Look upon this man,’ announced Cerro, so all could hear. ‘He is the descendant of High King Dashell Tiris. By blood and law he is our king.’
‘Look upon this woman,’ he continued. ‘By love and law she is our queen.’
They walked slowly, taking in the silent respect, their hands locked together. When they reached the platform, under thousands of eyes, Daganay took the lead and preceded them up a hastily erected staircase. Neither Xander nor Gwen was used to the formality, nor the theatrics involved in crowning a new monarch, but they kept their chins high and their backs straight, looking down across a sea of people. They turned on the platform, presented to the soldiers of Ro like the unveiling of a new cathedral or some wondrous painting.
Again, she saw the Purple cleric. He hovered in the air, above the closest ranks of soldiers, and bowed his head to the king and queen. Xander gasped and looked at her, making her realize that the apparition appeared to only the two of them. A sense of duty and order came from the ghostly figure, and a sense that it approved of their coronation. The shade held no fear for either of them and, as it faded from view, they shared a smile.
‘I’d say stay alive,’ whispered Gwen, ‘but I don’t think we’re in any danger.’
He tried to hide his smile as Cerro addressed the throng. ‘On this day, under this sun, on this earth, I proclaim to every man and woman of Ro that your new king is Alexander of the house of Tiris.’ He held aloft a crown of bronze and gold, decorated with jewels of a dozen colours. The crown of High King Dashell Tiris, the first man to unite Tor Funweir under a single ruler, was placed slowly on Xander’s head. ‘Look upon him and his lady, Gwendolyn Tiris, hereafter your queen.’
Bugles were blown, horns sounded, flags were waved high and the armies of Tor Funweir roared their approval, each man and woman saluting their new king and queen.
The Brown cardinal turned his fatherly gaze towards them and spoke quietly. ‘Your grace, perhaps a few words of encouragement.’
Xander gulped, his eyes twitching as he looked at the sea of cheering people camped on the northern fields of Cozz. Gwen imagined that his arms must be bristling with goose bumps, as hers were, and that they’d both need time to process their new station.
He raised his arms, gradually silencing the crowd. Neither of them were dressed for a coronation, both wearing battered leather and steel armour, but the masses didn’t care. They stared at their new king, proud to have been present when he was given his crown.
Xander puffed out his chest and lifted his voice to the crowd. ‘My father was crowned in the Purple cathedral in Ro Arnon. My brother was crowned in the Gold cathedral in Ro Tiris. Around them both stood a hundred clerics and a thousand lords and ladies of Ro.
‘I am proud to have been crowned on the fields of Tor Funweir, standing with an army of my countrymen.’
Cheers erupted again, more raucous now, flowing across ranks of Hawks, lines of guardsmen and mercenaries, and reaching the mounted Knig
hts of the Dawn in the distance.
‘Our country has been invaded,’ continued the king. ‘Even now, thousands upon thousands of Karesians camp round Ro Weir. And in their minds sits an enchantress, a witch of the Twisted Tree. I will rouse every fighting man of Ro and I will march south.’
Gwen put a hand on his shoulder and stepped next to him. ‘We pulled down the banner of the Twisted Tree in Tiris,’ she shouted. ‘We pulled it down in Cozz... we will pull it down in Weir!’
The cheering rose and extended, becoming a glorious cacophony of guttural shouts. Somewhere, deep within the cacophony, Gwen could hear their names being chanted. King Alexander and Queen Gwendolyn. They’d thrust themselves into power. In times of peace their actions would be considered little better than a coup. But with the Twisted Tree consuming Tor Funweir, and Sebastian’s death, the usual rules did not apply.
The cheers appeared to last forever; she certainly wanted them to, for as long as they cheered, they were happy. But reality intruded and formalities needed to be observed.
Cerro raised his arms for silence. ‘Riders will be sent to every free corner of Tor Funweir, announcing our new king and queen. They will receive oaths of fidelity from every lord and lady of Ro... and we will once again be united.’
***
Their first night as king and queen of Tor Funweir was spent under canvas on the northern fields of Cozz. A fire burned outside and took the edge off the night breeze, allowing them both to remove their armour and sleep in comfort under a thick, woollen blanket. They’d retreated early from the celebrations, but allowed everyone to drink and feast with no restrictions. Their coronation aside, this might be their last chance to enjoy the simple pleasures. They were riding to war and, when the sun rose, that would once again be all that mattered. Brennan had organized the army into cohorts and companies, while Ashwyn and Symon drew up plans for supply lines and ways of keeping the army fed and healthy as they marched to war. But that felt far away, too weak to pierce their armour at that moment.
They’d not spoken of the ghostly cleric. No words were necessary, just an understanding that the One God was paying attention on the day they became the king and queen of Tor Funweir. Neither of them were pious. A former Red Knight and a woman of Hunter’s Cross. But it was nice to know their way was finally the right way.
He kissed her and pulled her against him, to rest her head against his chest. She stroked her fingers along the faded scars where Markos had pulled him back from death and almost thought to offer a prayer of thanks.
‘We should probably have a child,’ he said suddenly.
She sat up and looked at him. ‘I think I missed the conversation that led to that decision.’
‘We always said we would one day. Just seems more urgent now.’ His eyes were sad, as if he felt obligated to provide an heir.
She kissed him again. ‘That’s the wrong reason to have a child. I’m not saying the idea isn’t pleasant, but a warm sitting room in Ro Haran is a far better place to raise a child than a military camp. If you can tell me we won’t be at war for longer than nine months...’
He wrapped his arms loosely around her neck and their bodies entwined into a tight embrace. ‘I don’t want you to die,’ he whispered. ‘And I don’t want to die. I want something of us to remain.’
‘You should probably try to keep me alive then. I’m the one who carries the child. You’re expendable.’
They kissed passionately, between shared laughter. Gwen kept hold of the blanket, making sure their naked shoulders were covered, and the laughter slowly turned into moans of pleasure. Somewhere in the corners of her mind, they were in that warm sitting room in Ro Haran. Or maybe now it was Ro Tiris. Somewhere, a child played across red carpets, and happy folk enjoyed the summer warmth of a world at peace.
CHAPTER 3
INGRID TEARDROP IN THE CITY OF FREDERICKSAND
THE SPRING MONTHS had always been a time of fun in Fredericksand. She used to love the rivers of snowmelt that dribbled their way from the mountains, through city streets, to the low fjords. She made bridges and small model boats, racing them down the fast-flowing streams of crystal-clear water. Her father told her stories of the first thains and how they built their city around sluices and wide sewers, enabling the yearly flood of water to drain off. When she was thainess, Ingrid would have a yearly festival, letting children race boats down the sluices, with prizes for the winners.
‘Girl! Come away from there, you’ll fall in.’
The speaker was Beirand Rock Heart. He was really tall and his chest bulged through his bear-skin robe. He was her babysitter. He said he was her protector, but they both knew he was her babysitter. She was fifteen and didn’t need a babysitter or a protector, but the men of Ursa who held Fredericksand were worried she’d sneak off. She probably would.
‘I’ve never fallen in. I’m not fat like you.’
She was small for her age, but her arms and legs were solid and she had limitless energy. Alahan used to say that she’d never wield a battleaxe, but would be a nightmare with a knife.
She smoothed back her long, brown hair and smiled at the man of Ursa.
Beirand grumbled over his matted black beard. He had hit her several times until Rulag Ursa told him not to. Now she tormented him at every turn, confident she’d not lose any more teeth.
‘I’m gonna slice you up the moment we don’t need you any more.’
Ingrid glanced at her feet and pouted. ‘Did I say something wrong? I was just saying that you’re fat... you are very fat.’
She smiled and darted away from him, sprinting along the sluices. She hopped from stone wall to cobbled path, nimbly heading into the centre of Fredericksand. Beirand swore and wheezed as he tried to keep up with her.
The city of Teardrop was spread out from the harbour, across the fjords, to the low cliffs. Most of the buildings were stout, built partially below ground to protect against the cold. Stone domes and thatched roofs were plonked chaotically in a huge, sloping semi-circle against the Fjorlan Sea. It was her home. It was her father’s and her brother’s home. But it was different now. The crying dragon had been replaced by a red bear claw. Her father was dead and Alahan was... somewhere.
She ran into a man leaning on the sluice. He wore chain mail that cut her face, and his rough hands grabbed her neck.
‘You going somewhere, Little Wolf?’
It was Harrod. He was a priest. At least, everyone called him Father and he appeared to be a priest. To Ingrid, no true priest would be as horrible as Harrod. Her Uncle Magnus had hated him, and her father had exiled him from Fredericksand. He’d come back with Rulag.
‘Just helping Beirand get some exercise,’ she replied, rubbing a cut on her chin. ‘He’ll be here in a second, ask him.’
Harrod smiled. His teeth were brown and his face had boils. She didn’t like looking at him. His hair was thin and greasy, and his fingers were too long.
Beirand appeared from a side street. He was panting and his face was red.
‘Father! Sorry, the little bitch was giving me the run-around.’
Harrod kept hold of Ingrid’s neck, roughly pulling her to stand upright. His hands were sweaty and she hated the feel of his skin. All of Rulag’s men smelled bad. It appeared to be a curse of Jarvik.
‘You need to keep an eye on this one,’ said the priest. ‘She’s a slippery one. Never does what she’s told.’
‘I do, just depends on who’s doing the telling.’
Ingrid smiled again. ‘My dad said I was rebellious by nature.’
Beirand caught his breath and spat on the snowy ground. ‘Your father’s wisdom served him well... before we cut him up.’
They were only words, and she’d heard similar a hundred times or more, but they still hurt. He’d always just been there. Algenon Teardrop had taught her right from wrong, chided her when she misbehaved and hugged her when she was good. He was the strongest, wisest, funniest man she’d ever known. And now he was dead.
&nb
sp; ‘Manners, Beirand,’ said Father Harrod. ‘She’s been through a lot.’ His smile was gloating and unpleasant. The teeth just made it worse.
‘My brother’s going to kill you,’ she said, her eyes wet and her throat dry.
They laughed, glowering down at her with ignorant, sneering eyes.
‘And Wulfrick, he’s going to kill you too.’
‘Let’s get this little bitch back to the hall before we get killed,’ said Harrod. ‘The Lord Bear Tamer is almost ready to leave.’
A glimmer of hope appeared in the vaults of her mind. If he was leaving, she’d be free of him. Left with only Beirand as a guardian, she’d be free in no time.
‘Stop smiling, little wolf,’ said Harrod. ‘You’ll be coming with us.’
***
Her father’s hall had changed. It was still huge and wooden, but the warmth had left. The trophy skulls of trolls and ice spiders had been taken down, as had the ancestral weapons. All trace of the house of Teardrop had been removed. Even their home, sitting unobtrusively at the back of the hall, had been gutted and turned into Rulag’s inner sanctum.
It was horrible, as if Rulag was afraid of Algenon’s memory. He’d been afraid of his axe; now he cowered in front of his legacy. This was her armour. Ingrid was a Teardrop – she had strong blood and a stronger brother. Too strong for Rulag to sweep aside.
She was led into the hall, guarded by Beirand and four men of Jarvik. All the men in the hall had strange weapons. Glaives, she knew they were called. Long hafts of wood and a saw-toothed axe-blade. Further into the hall sat dozens more swarthy men. Rulag’s captains were almost as bad as him; they stubbornly shouted about their superiority, spitting at the other cities of Fjorlan and pledging their warriors to the house of Ursa. He’d offered them power and influence in the ‘new Fjorlan’. They’d be thains and axe-masters, enforcing Rulag’s law. Just as he enforced the law of the Karesian witch. They talked about her all the time, as if she was their secret weapon. Half a world away, but her influence was felt in the hall of Teardrop.