It took only minutes to slash his way through to their captain. The man turned at Tarja’s cry, his expression confused. He looked as if he wasn’t certain how he came to find himself in the middle of this battle. But he was better trained than most, and instinct took over. He parried Tarja’s attack with unconscious ease, although he seemed not to have the wits about him to press home his advantage.
Tarja found himself fighting a real opponent for the first time since entering the fray. He countered the Fardohnyan’s strike and let the man counter-attack, turning the blow with a flick of his wrist so that his adversary was forced to over-correct to maintain his balance. Tarja rammed his blade into the man’s side, through the gap in his leather armour as soon as he saw the opening, jerking the sword free as the Fardohnyan cried out in agony.
The young captain let his sword slip from his hand, clutching his side, blood spilling over his fingers as he toppled from his saddle. Glancing around, Tarja was surprised to discover that most of the Fardohnyans were down. Then the sound of a horn reached him: three long, mournful notes calling the Karien retreat. They had given up, he realised, although the decision puzzled him. They had won nothing, lost thousands of men, and had not even tried to throw their knights into the battle.
“Sir!”
Tarja turned at the voice and discovered it was the Fardohnyan captain calling to him. He dismounted and knelt down beside the man. His wound was fatal, as Tarja knew it would be, but there was a light of intelligence in his eyes that had been missing before. Perhaps the shock of impending death had broken through whatever spell the priests had laid on him.
“Captain.”
“A... message,” he panted through the pain, speaking in heavily accented Medalonian. He was already pale from loss of blood. He would not last much longer. “To... my sister...”
“Of course,” Tarja agreed, although he had no way of knowing who this man was, let alone how to get a message to his sister in Fardohnya. But the man was dying. It would not hurt to let him die thinking his last words meant something.
“Treachery...” he gasped. “Priests... tricked us...”
“I’ll tell her,” Tarja promised as he made to stand up.
The man grabbed his arm with a final burst of desperate strength. “You must... warn her...”
“I will,” he said soothingly. “I’ll see if I can get a letter to her.”
The young captain shook his head. “No... warn her...”
“Warn her,” Tarja agreed. “What’s her name?”
The Fardohnyan closed his eyes and for a moment, Tarja thought he was dead, but then his chest heaved and he coughed a stream of bright blood, as his sword-pierced lung tried to cling to life. He muttered something, a name Tarja could barely make out. He leaned closed as the young man tried to speak with the last breath left in him.
“Adrina.”
The name took all his remaining strength and with a gasp, the light went out of his unusual golden eyes.
Chapter 28
Adrina woke to the sounds of battle. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say the silence woke her. The Karien camp, which was, even at its quietest, a bustling and noisy place, was ominously still. She lay in bed for a time, listening to the silence, wondering what it meant. As sleep gave way to wakefulness, she sat up with a start and pushed back the heavy embroidered curtains around the bed.
“Your Highness?”
Mikel looked up sleepily from his pallet near the brazier when he heard her moving about. The boy had been a permanent fixture since she had rescued him from the war council. Laetho had long replaced him as a page, so Adrina had considerately taken him on. He adored her, although he was obviously suffering under the misconception that she was some sort of living saint. It suited her to let him think that. He was a veritable fountain of information about the Medalonians and she figured she knew more about them than any other person in the Karien camp.
The child had given her some remarkable intelligence, which she fed the war council piecemeal to ensure her continuing presence. Sooner or later, Cratyn was bound to give into the Dukes’ pressure to exclude her, agreement or no agreement. Adrina was not one for relying on others when she could do the job better herself. If all it took to ensure Mikel’s continuing trust was letting him think she was the walking embodiment of Karien holiness, then she would bestow her blessing on him cheerfully. Besides, he reminded her of her youngest half-brother, Kander. Sometimes it was nice to have somebody around who loved you, just because you were you. She had actually grown quite fond of the boy. Tamylan, with her usual lack of tact, had rudely accused her of using him as a replacement for her lost dog.
“Mikel, go ask the guard why it’s so quiet,” she ordered, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
The boy scrambled from his pallet, pulled on his boots and disappeared outside with a hasty bow. Adrina stretched luxuriously, rather glad she had insisted on the huge feather bed being dragged to the front. She could have done without the heavily embroidered star and lightning bolt on the curtains, she thought sourly, but they did keep out the cold. Perhaps the Overlord was looking after her. In a roundabout, materialistic sort of way.
“They’re fighting!” Mikel burst out, running through the tent flap, his eyes burning with excitement. “We attacked at dawn!”
Adrina frowned. She had been invited to no war council last night. Nobody had mentioned attacking the Medalonians this morning. “Fetch Tamylan and then find us some breakfast. I want to get dressed.”
Mikel bobbed his head and raced outside again. He obviously considered war a grand pursuit. She wondered if he would be quite so enthusiastic once the casualties started coming in.
Tam was quick to respond, although when she entered the tent, her expression was grim. But she had obviously been up and about for a while.
“They left before dawn,” Tam explained, before Adrina could frame the question. “Tristan and his men went with them.”
Adrina was stunned. “Tristan? How? He’s my captain! Cratyn can’t order him anywhere.”
“Vonulus came for him,” Tam told her as she helped Adrina pull her gown over her undershift. “I didn’t hear what he said to Tristan, but it was enough to get him moving. He told me to tell you he’d report to you tonight.”
“What in the Seven Hells could Vonulus say to him that would make him follow Cratyn?” she wondered aloud.
“He didn’t say,” Tam shrugged. “With Vonulus just outside the tent, I don’t think he wanted to give away my presence, but all the troops were gathered to pray to the Overlord for hours before the battle.”
Adrina looked at Tam curiously. “He didn’t want to betray you to Vonulus? That’s remarkably considerate of him,” she said. Tamylan actually blushed. “Oh Tam, please tell me you’re not falling in love with him!”
“Don’t be absurd!” Tam scoffed, turning Adrina around with more force than was absolutely necessary to lace her gown. “You ordered me to become his lover. I simply do as I’m told. Slaves have a tendency to act that way.”
Adrina looked over her shoulder. “A duty you have carried out with great attention to detail, I see.”
Tam pulled on the laces so hard, Adrina grunted. “I am your loyal servant, your Highness.”
“You know my father is likely to legitimise him if he fails to get an heir, don’t you?” she asked. News had reached them in Yarnarrow that Hablet’s eighth wife had delivered another tiresome girl child. “He’s always been one of Hablet’s favourites and the more trouble he gets into, the more Father likes him. Tristan could never marry you, of course, but you could have a very rosy future as a favoured court’esa, if you play your hand right. Quite a step up for a slave girl.”
“You are reading far too much into this. Tristan and I... we are simply doing your bidding.”
“Of course,” Adrina agreed with a smile.
For some reason the idea of Tristan and Tamylan falling in love made her very happy. She loved Tam, as much as one could love a slave, and T
ristan was perhaps the only person in the world she loved unreservedly, with no thought for what he could do for her, or she for him. It was the curse of her birthright.
Adrina knew she was always going to be a stepping stone for others. Every suitor Hablet had ever proposed had been a grasping fortune hunter, although some had disguised it better than others. Cratyn had been the first suitor who matched her for title or position, but even he had plans to use her.
As a child, Adrina had prayed to Kalianah, the Goddess of Love, for a man who would fall madly in love with her, not her position, or the wealth she could bring him. She had realised the futility of her prayers soon enough, once she understood that as Hablet’s eldest legitimate child, she had no equal in Fardohnya. No equal in the world perhaps, with the exception of the younger Prince Cratyn in Karien and the heir to the throne in far away Hythria, who was undoubtedly as corrupt and perverted as his uncle, the High Prince Lernen. No, her prince would never come for her, she knew. Instead, it was a grubby line of lordlings each dreaming of the prestige attached to making her his wife. He’d be dreaming of the wealth, the land and the titles that Hablet would bestow on him for taking her off his hands.
She had adroitly avoided such a fate by being a harridan. Considering how greedy some of her would-be suitors had been it had taken quite an effort on Adrina’s part for them to finally decide that no amount of money or titles could compensate them for having to live with her. Eventually, the offers had dried up. Hablet had plenty of other daughters who were much more amenable than the dreaded Adrina.
Until Cratyn.
Until, through her own recklessness, she had left herself vulnerable.
She sighed, pleased that at least Tam had found love. Being a bastard gave Tristan more freedom than she had ever had. And being a man. That annoyed her even more than the fact that every man who had ever expressed an interest in her was looking over her shoulder at the wealth and power that came with her hand.
“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to wait until they get back,” she said, taking the small stool so Tam could fix her hair. “Cratyn has obviously gone out of his way to prevent me being involved in this. Would you like to make a small wager on the reaction of the guards if I ask for my horse, so I can watch the battle?”
“No need,” Tam replied. “They told me on the way in that you would be keeping to your tent today.”
“He’ll pay for this,” she muttered. Her list of things Cratyn was going to pay for was growing so long that she would need to remain married to him for a lifetime, just to make certain he suffered sufficiently.
Mikel arrived back before Tam could offer a reply, brimming with news at how well the battle was going. Adrina paid him little attention. There was no way the child could know for certain. It was his loyalty to Karien speaking, but she let him prattle on as they ate breakfast. His mindless chatter filled the silence and kept her mind off other things.
The day dragged on interminably. Mid-morning the Ladies Hope, Pacifica, Grace and Chastity arrived, suggesting that they pray to the Overlord to protect their men in battle. Adrina agreed absently. On her knees praying to the Overlord was actually preferable to trying to engage her ladies-in-waiting in intelligent conversation. Mikel gave her a look that bordered on worship as she knelt. Poor child. If only he knew she was silently asking Zegarnald to protect Tristan. And inflict a festering wound on Cratyn, while he was at it. Preferably a horribly disfiguring wound that offered a lingering, pain-filled death...
After an hour of kneeling, conversation didn’t seem such a bad idea after all. She glanced around at the small circle of young women, at their pious faces, and inwardly groaned. Gods, these girls are pathetic!
“Ladies, perhaps we should cease our prayers for the moment,” she suggested. “The Overlord has a battle to watch over. I am sure he has heard our pleas for victory this day. I think we presume much to distract him so.”
The Ladies Hope, Pacifica, Grace and Chastity agreed with her wise words and climbed stiffly to their feet. Adrina ordered refreshments, and as the cold sun climbed higher and higher she listened to their boring talk of inconsequential things – while a battle raged a few leagues away. She could not understand how they did it.
It was late afternoon before they learnt anything useful, and the news was not good. When the guard on the tent was changed, the newcomers spoke of a dreadful battle, of casualties too numerous to count. Adrina frowned, but she was unsurprised by the news. Mikel had told her of the hours the Defenders spent training, of the extensive earthworks the Kariens would have to breach. Defending a position was always easier than attacking. All the Medalonians had to do was sit and wait for the Karien forces to throw themselves over the border and pick off the attackers at their leisure. She hoped Tristan had the sense to stay clear of the battle. It was unlikely Cratyn would try to use her men in battle, she reasoned. He wanted the glory of this victory for Karien and the Overlord. It just would not do to have a bunch of heathens do the work for him.
Just on sunset, Adrina discovered how wrong she had been. Second Lanceman Filip, a young man assigned to her Guard, arrived at the entrance to her tent seeking an audience. He was bloodied and exhausted, his eyes hollow, his expression bleak. He fell to one knee, from exhaustion as much as respect when he saw Adrina. Her heart lurched at the sight of him. Tristan must have taken vast casualties to send a Second Lanceman to report.
“What happened?” Fear clutched at her stomach and her throat was dry.
“It was... we were slaughtered, your Highness,” he told her, his voice rasping with shock and fatigue. “The Medalonians had archers. Thousands of them. The arrows didn’t stop falling for hours. When they did, the rocks started falling out of the sky like hail. The priests... they did something to us. It was as if... we just couldn’t stop, your Highness. It was like... we’d lost our wits. We’d lost most of the force before we even saw a red coat, and then they took us from the rear.”
Adrina nodded, calling on all her reserves of strength to maintain her regal posture. The man needed to see her strength. In truth, she wanted to scream. “How many of the Guard were lost?”
“There’s barely thirty of us left, your Highness.”
Adrina staggered. Barely thirty left! There were five hundred men in her Guard this morning. Cold anger overwhelmed her grief. “What exactly did the priests do, Lanceman?”
“I couldn’t say, your Highness. We gathered on the field... they prayed over us, I think. After that, it gets a bit hazy... The next thing I remember for certain was the horns sounding the retreat.”
“Thank you, Lanceman. Go now and find some rest. I will commend your report to your captain.”
The young man looked up at her with eyes full of grief. “Captain Tristan is dead, your Highness. He died bravely, though... fighting a Medalonian. I’m... I’m sorry.”
For a moment, Adrina was numb. She felt nothing. Saw nothing. Did nothing. But slowly, grief crept over her like a sheath of ice that clutched at her fingers and toes and worked its way through her body until it settled around her heart. In the background, faintly, she heard Tam sobbing. She even had time to notice Mikel standing near the entrance, his eyes wide with shock.
“Has Prince Cratyn returned from the battlefield?” she asked. Her voice was ice wrapped in anger.
“I... I believe so, your Highness.”
“You are dismissed, Lanceman. Tell the other Guards that I will address them later. And tell them I honour their sacrifice and share their grief.”
Filip rose wearily to his feet, bowed and backed out of the tent.
“Fetch my cloak, Mikel,” she said calmly. The boy nodded and hurried to do her bidding. Adrina did not move. Her anger was like a solid, tangible thing. Had it been a sword, she could have killed with it.
“Your Highness?” Mikel ventured, holding out her cloak. She took it from him and swept it over her shoulders.
“See to it that Tam gets some hot tea, Mikel. She was very fond of the cap
tain.”
At the sound of her name, Tam looked up. She wiped her eyes and looked at Adrina suspiciously. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere you need to concern yourself with.”
“Adrina!”
Tam’s anxious cry followed her as she strode through the camp to the command tent. Her grief was so overwhelming that she could not breathe, could not think. She pushed her way into the tent, ignoring the startled looks of Lord Roache and Lord Palen. The ice shattered as her rage flared. She marched straight up to Cratyn, pulled him out of his chair and delivered a stinging backhanded slap across his face.
“You unbelievable, despicable bastard!” she screamed as he picked himself up from the table, gingerly fingering a small trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “What did you do to my Guard? What evil-spawned spell did your perverted priests cast on my men? You knew what would happen to them! You and your pathetic, craven knights sat back and waited in their damned tin suits while my brother and his men were slaughtered like cattle!”
Cratyn barely managed not to cower under her rage. He glanced at the two shocked dukes, taking a step back from her before he spoke.
“The princess is distraught at the news of her captain’s death,” he explained warily.
Adrina’s anger turned white hot. “I’m distraught? You disgusting, impotent, little moron, don’t you realise what you’ve done?”
“In war, hard decisions are necessary, your Highness,” Lord Roache said. “When you’ve had time to consider...”
“Forget your stupid war! You’ve killed one of Hablet’s sons! He was planning to legitimise his eldest baseborn son and name him heir. You just murdered the heir to the Fardohnyan throne!”
Oddly, her news seemed to strengthen, rather than frighten Cratyn. “Then it is as the Overlord wills. The heir to the Fardohnyan throne will be of Karien blood. A true believer.”
“Heir! What heir? That limp dick of yours hasn’t got the lead to produce an heir, has it, Cretin? Is that why you want to go to war so badly? Because a banner is the only thing you’re capable of raising?”
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