The War Queen

by Jane Merkley

  “Chopping fire wood” was an exercise meant to strengthen endurance. The soldier would take his/her respective weapon and approach a tree, attacking it with specific fighting strokes a couple times and move to the tree behind it for the same thing, and on and on for a specific number of trees. The exercise was meant to symbolize what it might take to down an enemy and have the endurance to continue. After so many soldiers filed down and took their turn hitting the same tree, if they did it right, the tree would fall. At the end of the training, they would drag the felled trees back for fire wood.

  Still fueled from her brazen approach on Byrone, Altarn joined the training and relished the chance to exhaust this great sensation to its fullest. By the end, she was worn, but her troops were still energetic with the shared friendship that they had endured the suck together.

  Altarn dragged herself back into the castle where Kyree, bless her heart, had a hot bath waiting for her. Altarn fell asleep in it and felt... powerful.

  Moments of Clarity

  Some days the army tried to batter the temple doors. They, of course, made little progress and so eventually stopped. But a climb to the temple roof showed that they were definitely camped about the walls, patiently waiting to starve them out.

  “They still know Lorn is in here,” Gildeon responded to Miraha’s questions. “Huilian’s influence would be able to tell them. It’s akin to the same influence you priestesses are akin too for me. When we leave, they will follow.”

  Lorn stayed in the priestess’s room where she was initially laid. The priestesses took turns helping the girl bath in her few moments of clarity. She appeared calm in the surface, just like an ocean teaming with sharks beneath appeared calm. But once in a while, the sharks would come out, especially when the army outside grew impatient or bored and pounded on the walls and door. Lorn would scream and cover her ears, nearly strangling herself in her blankets as she writhed.

  Jaryd would check on her in these times, making sure she didn’t fall off the bed or do something destructive like claw at her face or tear up her fingernails trying to bury herself in the stone, like he had known some of his detainees to do when they were later transferred to the infirmary. Once, he dared go in to see if he could sooth her. He touched her arm and she stopped crying and looked at him in wonder, as if she couldn’t believe he was there. Jaryd couldn’t believe this had been plaguing her for sixteen years. No chance at a childhood. Did she have friends? Might she have had a boy interest? He knew the answers to all those. All this damage done to her because of a jealous angel wanting godhood too soon.

  She was still staring at him, and she was still calm, so he sat on the bed and coaxed her against him. She took the bait and relaxed into his chest, finally going to sleep. At this point, anything to give the girl peace was welcomed.

  It didn’t work every time, of course. But sometimes, it did. Jaryd would try to read stories to her from books that he found around the temple. Most were religious, but at least it was something. Miraha would do a sword dance to calm Lorn in her black moments. Sometimes that worked. Sashaia dressed up in wild clothing and acted out some funny skits, playing all five characters. Sometimes that worked. Juquan, who had the prettiest voice, sang, Gildeon and Herten prayed… sometimes those worked. With all of them, Lorn had very rare moments where nothing worked. They realized Lorn just needed a distraction from the monster tromping around in her head.

  Lorn was brought back from her bath. Jaryd was waiting in her room to go straight into a story he had thought of, to keep her distractions going. She sat on the chair at the nightstand and curled her knees into her chest, watching him with wide, black eyes.

  “I have a funny story to tell you, if you want to hear it,” he said.

  “I think I would,” she replied, and it was filled with intense desperation, like a small voice screaming from the middle of a vast void, but the voice was not loud enough to reach the edges.

  Jaryd began to pace the room, finding he told stories better if he was moving. He began the story, and eventually noticed a brush on the nightstand. Lorn’s black hair was a tangled matte. Easily, Jaryd picked up the brush and began to brush Lorn’s hair as he continued with the story, brushing as he had done a couple of times to his sister’s dolls, brushing like he had seen his father do for his mother. It kept his fingers busy, and Lorn didn’t mind. He was curious what she looked like when her black hair wasn’t a spider’s web of dismay.

  He finished his story and began another, putting the brush down and began to braid her hair before he had even realized what he was doing. He’d learned to braid from his sister who was the last to leave the house, and when mother was not around for such tasks she would make him do it. He didn’t mind. He had four sisters and had quickly gotten over such things. He came to the end of the story and the braid and looked about to tie it. There were no hair ties on the desk, so he cut the cuff off of his long sleeved uniform and tied it into a neat bow. His sisters had expected this of him. But if anyone else asked, he would deny it.

  He sat back on the bed to look at her. She hadn’t moved through the whole process and watched him again as if he were newly curious.

  She was pretty, now with her hair brushed and pulled away from her face. It made her look less wild, more sane. The room was small and the chair was a step away from the bed. Jaryd reached forward and brushed her cheek with a finger.

  “There you go.” He smiled, then took his hand away quickly again, having realized the gesture looked like one he had not meant.

  He cleared his throat and stood to walk out.

  “Jaryd?” Her voice seemed small, but through it a stronger one was fighting. He looked back over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  He smiled, looking at her eyes briefly that actually looked more brown than black in the light, and left the room.

  Gildeon announced they would be leaving that day.

  Small bags for each of them were already packed and shoes had been made sturdier. Jaryd automatically took Lorn’s bag to shoulder with his own and the seven of them made their way into the undertemple.

  Priest Herten’s horse had remained there since the day it arrived. Twice a day they would see to its water and food and the priestesses would take turns walking the aging animal down the tunnel to Ryre to deposit the digested oats and apples. A younger horse might have explored the vastness of the undertemple and tasted every food staple down there, but Shar had broken the crate of blankets and was more than content to lay in the pile all day. There was no sun out, but blankets were no worse a comfort.

  They found old Shar in the blanket mess now, as peaceful as any retired horse. He actually looked dead, now that they got a closer look at him.

  Herten walked the familiar way to where the horse had chosen to lay and kicked him in the gut. The horse flipped awake, rump and head rising at the same time with a grumpy whine.

  “Get up you old stink bag,” Herten accosted.

  The horse grudgingly did so, his hooves on stone resounding loudly. Gildeon replaced the saddle and reins and assisted the priest on. Once he was settled, Shar began to plod forward.

  “Where are you going?” the priest asked the animal, reining him to a stop.

  Gildeon took the reins. “Toward the tunnel back to Ryre.”

  “Figures.”

  Gildeon turned Shar in a different direction, and then proceeded forward behind Miraha who led the way.

  Mutual Acceptance

  The weather heralded colder days and though Blindvar would now be cloaked under snow, Ruidenthall was riddled with days of snow and sunshine, sometimes at the same time.

  Today was such a day of sun, and due to the physical exertion her solders were training to, they had stripped down to sleeveless shirts to combat the warmth.

  Altarn stood by to observe a group of soldiers spelled into the battle dance with their shorns. The soldiers knew the dance but she had a small handful of volunteer musicians who were learning the song so the training was for them.
True, the soldiers could fight and stay in sync without the music, but once the battle plunged to more sincere depths it would be too easy to skip a step and lose cohesion with the rest of the line. To lose cohesion was to lose strength.

  To further challenge the new musicians, Altarn had already acquired all of Greatmar’s violins and fiddles but was still short to properly equip her volunteer musicians. So she improvised and acquired flutes to fill in. Greatmar was more understanding than they had right, and were giving necessary items to the Blindvarns left and right for those things that the Blindvarns could not work for. Of course this was all under the understanding that Altarn would repay them once they had reclaimed their homeland. Unless they were privy to Byrone’s plans of taking Blindvar as payment for every cost. If they knew this, they did not say, but gave away these items with a smile.

  Most of the volunteers were secure in the song, but a young boy of sixteen whose parents had not yet made it to Ruidenthall was struggling with the flute to get the song right. She gave him the flute because it was easier and quicker to learn than either the violin or fiddle, and though she could have dismissed him, she was patient and wanted to give him the chance to aid in the reclaim of his homeland and parents if they were still there.

  “Our enemy may not have time for tea but I will invite them to dance.”

  Altarn cringed as Byrone approached from behind. He looked as if he’d been in training of his own by tell of his abused sleeveless shirt and sunburnt arms.

  “It will be a dance they have not learned. They may not be able to keep up.”

  “True. And if you catch them in their towels they won’t be able to use both hands to defend themselves.”

  Unbidden, Altarn’s cheeks warmed and she made a show of wiping sweat off her forehead, aware of the soldiers around her that were doing well pretending not to listen.

  “I must know,” he continued, and his voice was like a burr in her ears, “why you thought it was okay to burst into my private bedroom like you own the place. You were lucky I had thrown on that towel two minutes before. Did you think to fantasize about me?”

  “Oh, come on. You look better with your clothes on.” Wait, why was she baiting him? “Never mind. If you doubt the effectiveness of the shorns, I invite you to stand by and watch, then.”

  “I watched already. It made me want to dance along.” She couldn’t tell if her comment about his better appearance in clothes chagrined him or if he was charred that she had had the last word on their banter. She still won either way.

  “Then duel me so you can see firsthand the effectiveness.” The words exited her mouth before she could stop them, but she surprised herself with how eagerly she really wanted to pound her anger and frustrations on this man. It would be remarkably more satisfying than smashing a chair on his head. She suddenly, desperately wanted to fight him. A thousand reasons rolled into her mind: to defend herself for his kidnap, drugging, imprisonment, kicking mud at her, buying her clothes, wanting Blindvar… with every reason that tumbled loose into her mind, the more charged she became until she was heaving for air as her anger at it all strangled her.

  To her challenge, he laughed. Training around them ceased as soldiers waited tensely for the outcome. Byrone called for a page to retrieve his weapons and armor.

  Altarn had never felt so vengeful. Energy charged her skin and she grinned manically as she imagined beating him to a pulp. He may force her lands from her, but she would make him earn it. Her own page assisted her into her breastplate where she affixed her shorns to her back, resembling wicked bladed wings.

  “Bown,” she called to the young flute player, her voice shaking gently with nerves. “You will play for me.”

  The boy paled, understanding his still struggling short comings were about to be put on display, but nodded silently.

  “I will help him.” Another lad of twenty years with a drum stepped next to Bown.

  “Very good. Byrone here does not know how our army fights so I will demonstrate.”

  Byrone’s page returned with the requested items and Altarn stood by as Byrone’s bulk was buckled into his breastplate, pacing restlessly and was afraid she was showing her cryptic pleasure too much. Byrone noticed and smiled crookedly, buckling his sword on.

  Bown started playing nervously, glancing sideways at the drummer who was waiting for his cue.

  By now, a large group of Blindvarns and Ruids had gathered to watch their Lord and Lady. At any other time, such a crowd gathered to watch her would have made her nervous, but now it only empowered her. She wasn’t even afraid of losing the challenge she made. It would all be worth it to put him on the defensive for just a moment.

  Byrone rolled his shoulders once as he paced in front of her, flexing the sculpted muscles in his arms.

  Muscle only gets you so far, she thought to herself.

  Altarn issued the challenge so Byrone would make the first move. His sword was sheathed and his hand hovered expectantly by. Then in less time it took for a heart to beat, Byrone slid the sword out of the sheath as smoothly as a song and arched it at her.

  She was momentarily stunned by the graceful mechanics of which he drew and delivered, but on instinct she reached above her head and pulled her wings off her back at the first sign that he was moving to draw; the distinct tightening of his sword arm, the gentle squint of his eyes as he prepared to aim. She pulled her shorns in front of her just as his sword sliced across her, skimming the flat side of the shorns. He showed that he was likewise visibly impressed by her speed and elegance in which she drew and defended.

  But Altarn turned the shorns in both her hands so the edges were out. Her ears were pounding with adrenaline so she did not first notice her flutist and drummer who were now playing the traditional battle dance.

  She swirled the blades above her and jumped forward. As if two saw blades were flying at him from two different levels, Byrone ducked and they whistled above him. Altarn had sliced them a little higher than is advised for a death strike; some sensible part of her nagging her that she should probably not kill him. Byrone recovered and sprung forward with his sword in front of him like an angry fang.

  Her blades were serrated and caught the sword in one of the teeth, flinging it to the side. She was surprised Byrone held on to it.

  The flutist stumbled on a note but Altarn knew the song and stayed in choreographed step, her energy fueled by the smooth base of the drum.

  She swept her blades over his head and he ducked; there was simply too much metal. Someone tossed Byrone a second sword. Altarn could have objected, but she didn’t train much against a duel wielder and he wasn’t posing much of a challenge.

  His second sword came up as the other came down and she had to devote one blade each to them and she lost step. Byrone’s scouts had reported that their enemy wielded sword and shield so the song her shredders trained to was for that. There were other songs for other known weapons and general songs for unknown weapons. The flute player did not know anything beyond the single sword song, so there was a moment when the drum player filled in solo. But a violinist spectating stood next to the drummer and began to play the duel sword song.

  Altarn fell into immediate step to the new song and turned into a blur of glistening titanium. She was impressed when Byrone leapt at her daggered whirlwind with careless abandon, and she missed the sharp explosion she was supposed to spin into next because he managed to reach between her spinning blades and nick her breastplate. No damage, but he was at a level that would take personalized thought instead of generalized expectations.

  When the violinist saw she had abandoned the dance, she began to play a general tune to keep a beat to however Altarn stepped.

  Byrone hit hard and Altarn’s shorns were almost torn from her hands. Angry, she hit harder back. He did a spin, swords wrapped around him but still failed to achieve the effect since he didn’t have near the coverage of metal that she did.

  The brawn in his arms did not lie when they manifested th
e strength in them. Altarn was bowing under the sheer weight but found an opening and sprung anyway.

  They bantered back and forth for some time and people began to file slowly away as calls for dinner echoed about the field and tents.

  Their movements became remarkably slower, but Altarn’s anger wasn’t run dry yet. She grunted with every hit, almost falling in exhaustion when he struck back. She swung and he caught her blade by the teeth and forced it the opposite direction, losing his sword with it because of his sweaty hands. A single shorn and his sword flew together to the ground.

  Shredders where never trained to fight with one shorn, but there were emergency moves they were taught to get them away from the threat just in case. Altarn gripped the shorn with both hands on the handle and, though slowly, proceeded to move forward. At this point, she should have been retreating because of the loss of one shorn, but she was not going to give Byrone the satisfaction of showing that he had bested her. Since she was advancing, her shorn turned more into a shield that she used to throw his sword away from her.

  There was no song for a single shorn, so the violinist, flutist, and drummer stopped and left the field, trying not to look too eager to join the calls for dinner.

  Byrone slashed at her, and she caught his sword with the teeth on the edge of her shorn and threw it to the side with all her might. Because of how Byrone’s wrist was turned, he lost his grip and his sword went spinning into the dirt.

  Altarn relaxed and dropped her shorn to her side with a satisfied, mocking smile.

  But Byrone didn’t miss a beat. He took two steps forward and swung a fist at her jaw. Apparently he had a lot of anger toward her too. Altarn noticed just in time and almost fell backward to create distance, but not fast enough. His fist connected the side of her mouth and spun her halfway around. But she didn’t lose her footing. She had been hit like that before in training. She tasted blood and a metallic tinge of rage. Suddenly, this became more than a duel to demonstrate the efficiency of the shorns. This turned into a beating because she hated, hated this man.