Upon the Flight of the Queen

by Howard Andrew Jones

  Rylin remembered that Feolia had planned to leave with the refugees for a mountain village, but perhaps she had joined N’lahr’s camp.

  “Lasren can still freely walk the streets without fear, because he was sent forth with Denaven. He can talk to the councilors about what Denaven actually did. All of this information may be enough to begin a formal inquiry, but the queen is likely to resist, strenuously. And she has the unquestioned backing of the Mage Auxiliary.”

  “Do you have specific instructions about what you want me to look for?”

  “I want you to find out what they’re doing with the hearthstones. That is of paramount importance, Rylin.” Those dark eyes seemed lit with fury, though the commander’s voice changed little. “All the evils she’s done owe to her absorption with these hearthstones. She’s planning something she is willing to kill for, presumably something that should be stopped.”

  Rylin nodded acknowledgment.

  “All else I leave to your discretion. If you see an opportunity, grasp it. Remember: We need the realms primed to unite against this new Naor invasion. The queen’s unlikely to be concerned with that and probably minimizes the threat in her official speech and actions. You may take appropiate steps to remove her, lest she do more terrible damage.”

  “Appropriate steps?” A chill that had nothing to do with fever spread slowly through him.

  “Legal avenues are vastly preferential, Rylin, to ensure the legitimacy of her successors. But consider that if you follow only the writ of law, you might lose the option for both justice and beneficence.”

  Mind versus heart. He knew the old arguments, for they’d been drilled into him. Seek the truth. Correct wrongs. Harm none if you can. Protect the innocent. Always, first and foremost, protect the innocent. Still. He had to say it out loud to make perfectly clear he understood. “To protect the people I may need to destroy their leader.”

  “In this case. Yes.”

  17

  Koregan’s Fall

  Once again Vannek found himself beside the speaking stand in the morning while his brother harangued a crowd. Syrik and his attendants stood close at hand, as well as the tribal kings. Many of the last laughed heartily at Koregan’s jests, and so did the guards who ringed the newest crop of Dendressi prisoners, each of whom held the stake they were going to drive into the ground for their own impalement.

  Vannek had no love for Dendressi. Since time immemorial they had hoarded the best lands, using treachery and magic to drive back their betters. They were so soft only a handful ever bothered to train with weapons, and they celebrated pointless and decadent arts.

  Yet he abhorred his brother’s plan for retribution. This was not how a wise ruler treated slaves needed for work. And there was much work to accomplish in this city, starting with crops that needed planting and tending. From prisoners they’d learned that there were at least two Altenerai within the city, and more than a hundred of their warriors-in-training. Vannek had reminded Koregan that the fighting Dendressi were a mighty warrior clan, and not to be confused with the Alantrans themselves. Bloody demonstrations would not cow them, only make them more determined.

  But Koregan had laughed and called him a woman, claiming that he would strike so much fear into the fae slaves that they themselves would turn on the Altenerai rather than suffer more torment.

  More concerning yet, Koregan seemed to really be enjoying the attention, and strutted, rubbing the end of his beard. He was likening the stakes to phalluses both men and women fae enjoyed … when he took an arrow through the mouth.

  It didn’t fall alone. Five rained in and struck the Naor general. Another missed, and one hit Rolk’s hand as the grizzled general leapt to shield him.

  It was too late. Vannek’s brother had already been fatally hit, and dropped gagging on the stage as though he’d swallowed too large a piece of meat and not a wickedly barbed arrow. To make matters even more final his death throws sent him rolling off the edge of the platform, and he landed on his head. Probably the whole city heard his neck crack.

  Syrik grabbed Vannek’s arm. “General! The arrows came from there!”

  A bugle call of alarm rang from a distant corner of the city.

  Vannek whipped into action while the tribal kings yelled to themselves or searched the skies. He called to the king of the Swift Hooves. “Tozhok, take your men and head north! Syrik, come with me! “

  With his mage and bodyguard he raced for his horse even as an additional flurry of arrows winged toward the stage.

  “How is it we didn’t see the arrows sooner, like now?” Vannek demanded as he grabbed the reins from a slave and hurried into the saddle.

  “They were shielded from sight,” Syrik said beside him.

  “You guess, or you know?”

  Syrik spoke softly as he looked up at him. “I saw them coming in.”

  Something in the mage’s tone alerted him. “You let them?”

  Now Syrik sounded defensive. “I saw their target,” he said quietly but insistently. “You needed him eliminated.”

  At some level Vannek had always known his brother would have to die. He’d just never imagined it would happen so soon. He dropped his voice as the attendants drew within earshot. “Now might not have been the best time.”

  “It was the perfect time. You leapt immediately into the lead. Now we need only find the assassins. Or at least one.” Syrik climbed onto his own horse, a shaggy-maned white.

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Not so hard. I see through the eyes of my apprentices and slaves, and I had them stationed about the square. We want to veer left.”

  His guards cried out for Vannek to hang back as he and Syrik led the way on horses. He ignored them as they headed into the abandoned blocks of buildings, scanning the rooftops for archers. Before long they arrived at a block of second-story homes. Syrik diverted through a narrow lane and up a side street. “They’ll be heading this way. For that house.”

  By all rights he should already have arrested his mage and chief advisor. But that would hardly help his own standing, and he would lose his most capable follower. He didn’t mind that Syrik had allowed the death as much as he minded the mage hadn’t asked. On the other hand, a good subordinate had to be given rein to act on their initiative.

  They arrived at the side of a wooden one-story building that had been painted green, and Syrik shouted again that this was the one. Vannek vaulted to stand in his saddle as they drew close, then leapt to the coping and pulled himself up.

  “Follow the general, fools!” Syrik cried to their foot soldiers.

  Vannek climbed up a slanted gable and on to a second story over the back half of the home. Once there he was shocked to find a Red Feather archer on the other end of the roof with a nocked arrow aimed his way. Vannek took a knee and whipped up a knife as the arrow sailed over his shoulder. The bowman collapsed as Vannek’s weapon buried itself hilt-deep in his throat.

  His mother had set him to practicing with a knife since he was a small girl.

  Three more of the Dendressi leapt over from the nearest house, each of them disguised as Red Feather archers. Vannek smiled in satisfaction. Syrik had perfectly anticipated their movements.

  He dueled briefly with the first before he drove a blade through armored chest. By then two of Vannek’s guards were up and fighting the second Red Feather, who killed one and wounded the other before Syrik climbed up to drive a spear through the imposter. The third Dendressi wove past, dashing for the ledge and a jump for the next house over.

  As the nearest guard readied to pitch a javelin, Vannek knocked the weapon aside. “Catch him alive!”

  Syrik stepped up beside him, extending a hand as the last false Red Feather put a foot on the edge, then froze. Was the enemy soldier hesitating?

  Vannek saw Syrik’s strained expression, his bared teeth, and understood he worked a spell. Vannek dashed over to grab the immovable soldier’s arm. He thought it strange the man’s limb was hairless. It wa
sn’t until he twisted the warrior back from the edge that he saw her face and realized it wasn’t a young man, but a fresh-faced woman, her eyes rolling in hate. Vannek grabbed his second knife and shoved it to the Dendressi throat. “Yield!”

  His soldier came up from behind and grabbed the woman’s other arm. Now would come answers, at long last, and as he pulled the knife free he smiled wolfishly.

  And then the arrow slammed straight through the woman’s neck, coming in one side and going out the other with a splash of blood.

  Vannek instinctively released the arm and dropped. Blood fountained, but the woman remained in place, dying from the wicked injury, but unable to fall with Syrik’s spell holding her in place.

  Crouched, Vannek spun, and saw a figure on a distant rooftop shaking his bow. A dark-haired man in a blue khalat. N’lahr. Vannek had never heard that the swordsman was so fine an archer.

  The alten dropped away.

  Vannek, cursing, climbed to his feet even as Syrik released the body and let it fall to the rooftop. He trudged to stand before Vannek.

  “They shot their own rather than risk her capture.” There was no missing the approving note in Syrik’s voice.

  Vannek looked down at the young woman, wondering who she had been. What it must be like to be able to choose your role in society without having to worry about your gender. But there were more important matters. “That was N’lahr. Again. He’s in the city.”

  Syrik looked doubtful. “N’lahr is no bowman. And that archer used sorcery.”

  “You can also tell me N’lahr’s dead, but I keep seeing him alive.”

  “It could be someone pretending to be him. There was definitely spellwork in that arrowshot. I felt it as it touched my magic holding that girl in place.”

  “It’s N’lahr.” Even as he insisted it, Vannek wondered if he was being too sure.

  Syrik decided not to press the point. “Whoever it is, he’s formidable. And now it’s completely up to you to stop him, General. You acted swiftly and issued orders, which were obeyed without hesitation. Now you can return, with your brother avenged and these archers as the proof.” He nudged the woman with his booted foot. “But you’d best act fast before your so-called allies maneuver themselves into position. You may need to carry out some examples.”

  “They’re fools! Rather than fighting among ourselves we need to focus on the Dendressi here. They’re far more cunning than we’ve been led to believe.”

  “You can tell the tribal kings that and waste your breath, or you can get them in line.”

  “I’ll get them in line.”

  “Spoken like the new ruler of Alantris,” Syrik said with a smile.

  18

  Final Plans

  Sansyra and Varama’s strike team could spare little thought to success and failure in their mission as they raced for their warrens. This time pursuit followed so closely they were forced to collapse a tunnel behind them.

  By the time they had advanced the long way to the central halls reports had arrived from sentinels posted at key watch points. Word of the Naor reprisals spread quickly through the ranks of the Resistance, and as the officers filed into Varama’s little office, Sansyra was surprised by how many faces were twisted by anger rather than grief. The countenance of the archer, Tevrik, was downright belligerent.

  From behind her desk, Varama addressed the eight of them with little preamble.

  “Early reports suggest that the kings are already scrabbling over city resources. Their rule is fragmented as they struggle to find a new leader. A runner reports that Lemahl’s distraction succeeded beyond expectations. He freed several hundred able-bodied men and women, who overpowered Naor at a sally gate and won freedom outside.”

  “Meanwhile thousands are dead,” Tevrik interrupted. Like all of the men of the Resistance, he’d let his beard grow, lending his sharp-chinned face a savage cast. “Thousands more are being tortured. Our women are being raped. You call that success?”

  Varama’s eyes were cold. “Ask leave to speak, Tevrik, before you interrupt your superior.”

  Tevrik visibly mastered himself as Iressa put a calming hand on his armored shoulder. He gave the barest of head bows and then addressed Varama with icy courtesy. “With your leave, Alten, I would like to speak.”

  “You may do so when I finish.” Her voice betrayed no resentment but brooked no opposition.

  Tevrik’s teeth showed in his beard.

  Varama’s gaze shifted from him to her staff. “We achieved our goal and returned alive.”

  Sansyra heard someone mutter softly to this, though she couldn’t understand the words.

  “Some of our comrades did not survive to return with us—”

  “And you shot one of them,” Tevrik said.

  Varama’s mouth set firmly. “If you do not intend to follow the chain of command, then you may leave my service.”

  “Are you even going to hold a memorial for Denalia and the others?” Tevrik demanded.

  “We will honor all of the dead, as well as the sacrifices of the living in due course. But we have no time for luxuries.”

  “Luxuries?” a burly Alantran soldier asked.

  “When we’ve so much to do that even sleep is rare, yes, time to mourn is a luxury.” Varama put a snap in her voice. “Listen well, for I despise repetition. By my calculations, reinforcements should arrive from Erymyr and Ekhem before the Naor reinforcements, as these have been delayed. Before they are here we need to so weaken and divide our enemy inside the city that they are rife for destruction by the forces beyond the wall. Now, who would like to speak?”

  Tevrik said nothing, so Iressa asked quietly, “Do we know for certain that our reinforcements are on their way, Alten?” She wore her squire armor and tabard, her dark hair braided tightly.

  “I can predict with reasonable certainty, given our mutual defense pact. If Arappa has withstood their own attack they may well send aid themselves.”

  “Alten.” The third ranker, Virian, haggard and worn, tentatively raised his hand, then lowered it as Varama shifted her gaze to him.

  “Speak,” she said.

  “What if Ekhem and Erymyr only send help to Arappa? Not us?”

  While she waited for Varama to speak, Sansyra appraised her fellow officers. The three Alantrans, she decided, were the most angry. But the squires were confused, worried, weary, and even frightened. Only after looking at all of them did she ask herself how she felt, discovering she didn’t know. It was as though she had been closed off from her own emotions.

  “Unlikely, but this is war,” Varama said bluntly. “We cannot guess the future but we can calculate likelihoods. We must prepare based upon the information we have so that we may act when opportunities present themselves.” She looked away from Virian and addressed them all. “I know you mourn. Every loss is a bitter blow, and not just because we treasured their company. But you must not let yourselves be ruled by emotions. If we are divided, then the Naor win. And I will do my utmost to keep that from happening. Now you must rest and gather strength. Soon, very soon, there will be more that we must do.” Her gaze shifted to Tevrik. “Is there more you wished to say?”

  His answer was short and gruff. “No.”

  Varama nodded once. “Dismissed.”

  Sansyra thought that Varama’s speech had given the squires heart, at least, and even assuaged some of the Alantrans. Tevrik still fumed, but he exited with the rest. Sansyra remained, closing the door behind them.

  Varama, still standing behind her desk, arched an eyebrow at her. “Is there something you require, Sansyra?”

  “I thought you might need assistance.”

  “No. Thank you.”

  Sansyra hesitated, wanting to offer some comfort to her commanding officer. “I thought you handled that situation well, sir. It could have gone very badly.”

  “The compliment is appreciated.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing you need?”

  “Is there something
that you need, Squire?”

  Yes, Sansyra thought, though she found she could not speak. She wanted to be told that they were making a difference. She wanted reassurance that all would be well. She didn’t ask for what Varama could not give. She wanted companionship, but her closest friend Renahra had been slain by the queen on the long exodus from Erymyr, and Lemahl had left the walls in the company of the prisoners he’d freed. Who could say if he might return, or if he had even survived?

  “No, Alten,” Sansyra said at last.

  “I need some time alone. Take some for yourself. I’ll have need for you soon enough.”

  “Yes, Alten.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Varama was true to her word, as always. Sansyra had eaten more from their rapidly depleting stores, then grabbed a nap before her commanding officer requested a briefing on the aerial project. With the sewing complete, the team had shifted to construction of lightweight platforms, which were proving more troublesome even than manipulating the thin fabric. Most of the men and women assigned this task chafed that they weren’t deployed in the raiding parties. Sansyra had told them of Varama’s experiments, but they couldn’t quite envision the outcome.

  Only a month ago, Sansyra had stood with her mentor on the bluffs east of Golden Darassus as the fifth iteration of Varama’s heated balloon had risen into the air. Her mentor had thought it might be used as a signaling device, or, if they solved some nagging issues, even to take people aloft.

  Now Varama intended the balloons for an entirely different purpose.

  After updating her superior about that team’s progress as well as the state of their supplies and other matters, an exhausted Sansyra sat in the dirt at the foot of the ladder nearest the hidden exit from the city Lemahl and his assistants had created.

  She gnawed on a strand of jerky with all the texture of shoe leather. It was terrible, but it gave her something to contemplate apart from Denalia’s death, and Lemahl’s absence.