A Crown of Lilies

by Melissa Ragland

  When our enthusiastic trainees learned of the impending assault, they pressed me relentlessly to be allowed to march with us. There were only a few dozen of them in total, but each and every man and woman insisted with unwavering tenacity. In the end, I was forced to relent. This is our fight as much as it is yours, they contended firmly, and I could not in good conscience argue the point, determined as I was to ride to war myself. In the end, I turned our tiny refugee militia over to Brenna, who saw them outfitted with a motley assortment of armor and assigned a position near the rear of the main infantry column. Their eyes lit with the promise of retribution, and I fretted for them all.

  We moved our camp to the southeast side of the forest, far enough into the trees to allow for a few central cook fires. A strict ban on other campfires was firmly enforced, as well as a standing order for silence. We would take as few risks as possible. It wasn’t easy to keep four thousand soldiers quiet, but with the Freyjans’ help, we managed it for three whole days. On the night of the fourth, the overcast sky lingered and Brenna ordered everyone to prepare to move at midnight. Watches were posted, and the rest of us struggled to get a few precious hours’ sleep.

  I tossed and turned in my tent, my mind racing. At first light, I would be in battle. To be sure, I would be in one of the less risky units on the field, as a mounted archer harassing the flank, but it rattled me nonetheless. I had gone willingly to my almost-certain death before. This time felt different. The vastness of what was at stake shook me to my core. If we failed, thousands more would die because of me, and Selice’s army would be crippled further for it. The faces of those who were trusting my judgment swam in my mind. If we failed, the Persicans would send skirmishers into the forest. Stephan, Amita, Henry, and all the others would be slaughtered. I thought of Leanne and baby Seth and fretted.

  Abandoning all hope of sleep, I threw off my blankets and buckled on my arms once more, making for the nearest smoldering cook fire. As I approached, I spotted several other sleepless figures seated in the dim light, chatting in hushed tones. Among them, Quintin, diligently sharpening his belt knife with slow, quiet strokes. Pale eyes flicked up to meet mine and I crossed toward him, acknowledging a few casual salutes from around the fire.

  “You should be asleep,” he scolded quietly.

  “So should you,” I pointed out. He knew me. I didn’t bother trying to conceal my unease. My mind spun, chest tight with preemptive guilt for the blood to be shed come morning. I didn’t want to be alone with the dark torrent of my thoughts.

  Sheathing his dagger, he shifted to make room for me against the log at his back, one arm raised in invitation. “Come on,” he murmured. I sank to the ground beside him, leaning against his chest as his arm settled around my shoulders. I stared into the smoldering coals, feeling his breath rise and fall. We didn’t speak for a long while. There was comfort in human contact, a reassurance that steadied my shaking nerves.

  “Are you sure you won’t ride with us tomorrow?” I pressed one final time, unable to keep a hint of hopefulness from my voice.

  “I’d rather you stayed behind at the camp.” he countered. We’d rehashed the same argument several times in the last three days. I had no place on the battlefield in any traditional sense, but these men were marching to save my own. Honor demanded I ride with them. As the ranking noble present, General Brenna had assigned me my own command of cavalry. I’d forced a confident demeanor, but inside I had trembled at the idea of leadership of a whole different kind. I still trembled, digging for memories of my mother’s reassuring voice. Courage. I could hear her in my head as clearly as the crickets in the night.

  “You know why I can’t.”

  He bit his tongue on the many retorts he’d thrown at me before. “And I’m better on foot,” he said instead. “You’ve seen me with a bow.”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle at that, remembering his attempts to shoot from the saddle. He nudged me sourly with one shoulder, and I muttered a half-hearted apology and resumed our mutual silence. The last bits of wood in the pit flared and crackled, rustling as they settled deeper into the coals. Flames cast soldiers’ faces in deep shadow, drawn and solemn. I wondered if they thought of home or family, or if they just worried what tomorrow would bring.

  “Are you afraid?” Quintin asked gently.

  “Afraid to fail,” I admitted, still watching the faces around the fire. “All of these people could die because of me.” He didn’t offer hollow words of comfort. For that, I was thankful. A kind lie is still a lie. We both knew the truth of it. Fully aware that I may not have another chance, I forced the long-prepared words from my mouth. “If I fall tomorrow, promise me something.” I looked up at him in earnest. “Burn me. Burn me, like they burned my family.” He considered me silently and I could tell he didn’t understand, but eventually, he nodded his assent. Satisfied, I settled back onto his chest to stare at the flickering embers.

  “Sleep,” he murmured against my hair. Cradled against him, eventually, I did.

  It felt as though I’d just closed my eyes when Quintin shook me awake. Sitting up stiffly, I stretched my neck and let him pull me to my feet. Fetching my borrowed armor from my tent, he helped me secure the various straps and buckles over my tunic and breeches. The Freyjans had scavenged a light chest armor for me, a mix of plate and boiled leather that would offer some protection without weighing me down too much. My father’s helm and gorget had been fished from the stores in the main camp. I had to conscript a blacksmith’s apprentice to add a bit of padding inside the helm, but it fit after his adjustments. I’d protested against both, preferring to fight bareheaded, but Quintin had refused to let it go. Eventually, I had relented in the face of his stubborn insistence. A pair of leather chausses covered the fronts of my thighs down to the knee, with greaves below. It was light, as far as armor goes, but I felt horribly encumbered. Quintin grasped the shoulder straps of my breastplate and gave an experimental tug. Satisfied, he met my eyes. “Ready?”

  I squared my shoulders, checking my weapons, and nodded. General Brenna rode quietly through the tents, shooting me a querying glance and a stiff gesture to meet the rest of my cavalry to the north of the camp. I raised one hand in acknowledgment and she moved off into the darkness. All around us, men donned their armor and made ready for battle, smearing soot on plate and flesh alike. It was a grim and sobering sight.

  To my unspoken relief, my steadfast companion walked with me as I led Valor through the camp toward the north. As we wove through the dark trees, boots padding on the loam, I couldn’t help but wonder if this would be the last time I would see my long-suffering guardian. He was the most skilled swordsman I’d ever known, but all men are mortal. The thought of continuing on without him struck me with a fresh wave of panic that threatened to consume me. I quickly forced it down into the dark chasm in my gut. It was too late for fear. I had to find my courage. He’ll be fine, I reassured myself firmly as we approached my waiting cavalry. He’s too damn stubborn to die. The rest of the unit was nearly ready, a few stragglers such as myself trickling in.

  “Remember what I said about heavy weapons,” Quintin murmured as I turned to bid him farewell. “Stay out of the fray. Keep a clear line out at all times.” He grabbed my belt knife and jerked the hilt with emphasis. “And don’t forget about your damned left.”

  I nodded solemnly, unsure what to say as silence stretched between us. Instead, I grabbed the back of his shaggy wheat hair and pulled his brow to mine. One callused hand closed on my forearm as he leaned against me. Please don’t die, I begged silently. Steeling myself, I pulled away and released him. “I’ll see you after,” I said with a lightness and a confidence I didn’t feel. Pale eyes bored into mine from behind his careful mask as he gave me a stiff nod.

  Afraid to lose my nerve, I turned away from him and hauled myself into the saddle, settling my father’s helm onto my head. Valor shifted under the unusual weight of my armor. I checked my quiver and bow one final time and joined General Br
enna to wait as the last few fell in. Will shot me an excited smile from a few rows back, surrounded by Captain Rory and his volunteers. Amid the throng, one of Henry’s boys looked small atop his tan mare, the emerald banner of my house proudly in hand. He had begged earnestly for the honor, and I hadn’t the heart to deny him.

  He’ll be safe enough, I told myself. We’ll be far from the thick of it. He was so young, and I wondered yet again if I’d made a terrible mistake.

  Brenna sidled up to me atop her sturdy roan. “You know the plan,” she said quietly, extending one hand. “We’ll meet you in the middle.”

  I clasped her forearm, taking heart from her confidence and strength. She left me then, with two hundred cavalry at my command. Every face watched me and waited. I was responsible for these lives. I met as many eyes as I could stand before I raised my hand and gave the signal. A low thunder of hoof beats fell in behind me as I led my company through the dark forest.

  We emerged from the trees far north of the fort and doubled back over the open terrain. Cresting the final hill, we waited. My young standard-bearer fell in on my right, Will fetching up to my left. We locked eyes on the distant horizon until the flash of a white banner waved for barely a moment before disappearing once more. General Brenna was in position. A barely-discernible flow of dark shapes moved down the hill from the tree line, our infantry closing across the field. On the horizon, the first lights of day began to peer into the black sky.

  I spun Valor to face my two hundred, heart pounding in my chest. “For home,” I said as loudly as I dared. Only two dozen of my unit were even from Laezon, but it didn’t matter. Alesia was home to us all. Below, in the valley, sat an enemy who meant to take it from us.

  “For home,” the call echoed quietly through the ranks.

  I unslung my bow, secured the loops of my tether, and spurred Valor toward our unwitting enemy. He erupted beneath me, and I had to rein him in to keep him paced with the rest. Shouts rang out from the Persican scouts and torches scrambled to raise the alarm as we closed on them. Pikemen moved to the flank, setting a hasty perimeter. I felt horribly insignificant, rushing at them with my tiny contingent of mounted archers, two hundred against five thousand. I knew we weren’t alone, but it was terrifying nonetheless.

  Go, the beast seethed in my chest, somersaulting and driving me onward. I grabbed hold of my rage, clinging to it in a desperate bid for courage. “Draw!” I hollered, my voice taken by the wind. I couldn’t turn to see if they’d heard, so I simply drew, picked my target, and loosed as Valor veered to the side. Two hundred arrows flew with mine. Soldiers cried out and fell as we retreated out of range once more.

  By our third pass, they had archers ready. We ducked low over our mounts’ necks as we dove in an out of range, harrying their flank. Far to my right, the main column of our infantry broke into an all-out charge, closing the final distance with roaring cries. We’d kicked a hornet’s nest, and they responded with immaculate precision, their commanders shouting orders over the din. A veritable wall of shields formed at their rear to receive our infantry as the flank reinforced to repel us. On each pass, arrows picked off a few more of our number, horses, men, and women crying out as they fell hard. We reeled our lathered mounts back out of range and I called for a short rest to gauge the state of the battle.

  The first lights of morning climbed in the sky, washing the valley in a grim red dawn. The core of our infantry pressed the center, General Brenna’s mounted unit battering the far flank mercilessly. On the walls, the fort had spurred to life, arrows, rocks, and burning pitch raining down on the Persicans as they backed away from the press of our forces. Our enemy was beset on all sides. Heartened, I raised my bow and led another charge.

  Make them pay, the darkness roiled in my chest.

  We circled back time and again, barreling down the hill toward them to unleash hail after hail of arrows. My veins coursed with vengeful fire, the beast insatiable beneath my skin. In my fervor, I failed to pay attention to the bigger picture, too caught up in every mark. The last time we charged, I led them too deep, callous in our effectiveness and driven by my hate. A detachment of mounted skirmishers circled around to trap us against the fortress walls. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. We were pinned between the fort and the Persican flank.

  Oh gods, what have I done, I realized, a wash of icy terror gripping my chest. Guilt could not save us, could not help me. I clung to my rage, slinging my bow over the saddle and yanking my sword from its scabbard. Well over a hundred others rang free around me. The Freyjans unleashed an ear-splitting battle cry and I raised my own in solidarity as the enemy closed in around us.

  We would die. Of that, I was certain.

  Take them with us, the beast hissed.

  I did my best to make it so.

  I laid about with my sword from atop Valor’s powerful figure. He spun fearlessly amid the chaos, a warhorse, born and bred. I clung to him with my left hand buried in reins and mane, which completely invalidated my shield arm, but the tempest roiling beneath me offered no alternative.

  Despite our fury, the enemy picked us off one by one, closing on my position near the center. At Valor’s front, one plate-clad soldier thrust a spear at his face and he shied, rearing suddenly. Caught off-balance and encumbered by my unfamiliar armor, I fell.

  The impact of the ground rushing up to meet the flat of my back forced the air from my lungs and knocked my blade from my hand. One enemy promptly closed in atop me, brandishing a well-bloodied short sword. Instinct quickly set in as I flailed for a grip on his wrist to waylay his blade. I heard him laugh beneath his helm as his strength rapidly overtook mine and the edge closed in on my throat. My gorget screeched beneath it, metal on metal. Suddenly his eyes widened and dimmed in quick succession and he fell forward onto me. When I managed to roll him off, I eyed the shaft of a spear protruding from the back of his neck, nestled in the crease between his helm and breastplate.

  I had barely gained my feet again when a familiar fire rang through my side. Turning toward it, a pair of panicked hazel eyes met mine through the slit in a simple plate helmet. A jolt caused me to stumble as he wrenched his blade free of my ribcage. The hardened leather panels had slowed his strike, but I could already feel the wet warmth of my blood spreading down my flank. I drew my knife as I turned to square up against him, my sword long since lost in the mud.

  Hesitation, fear, both were plainly written upon his face. His simple emerald shield bore a golden chevron with a crescent cadence above. The second son of some hedge knight, trying to make a name for himself in the service of the Divine Origin. My heart heaved. I’d never thought to face my own countrymen in the field. I wondered how I could possibly kill this boy, younger even than I. The frenzy was all around us, death and rage and anguish pressing in from all sides. Men roared with battle fury, others cried out in pain. Horses screamed as they died. Neither of us moved. The boy’s eyes flicked to something just past me, but before I could turn, a great weight struck me from behind and I saw no more.

  QUINTIN

  The smell of blood hung thick in the air, cloying to our every breath even as the pitch smoke burned our lungs. Men and beasts lay dying, screaming in the mud. Freyjans moved through the field, granting peace to those who could not be salvaged, enemy and ally alike. The camp followers tended to the rest. Riderless horses wandered through the remnants of the melee, wide-eyed and panicked. The stink was unimaginable, blood and smoke and shit. The bards don’t sing about the stench of it. They don’t sing of much of any of it, I suppose. Only of glory and victory, hollow afterthoughts in the wake of such visceral carnage.

  I scanned the laden field for any sign of Elivya. Her face swam in my mind, our repeated arguments replaying in my head. I’ll even wear that ridiculous throat-guard you value so much. That was what she had said to convince me to let her lead the cavalry flank, not that I could have stopped her. In the end, she had kept her word and worn the plate gorget and helm from her f
ather’s armor. It brought me little consolation now, as I stepped over the crushed body of her standard-bearer.

  I had been wandering the field for over an hour before spotting the golden stallion of her House. As I moved past the dark-haired boy and the emerald flag he had carried for her, I knew. My pulse raced as my mind slowed. Eyes searched, flicking from one corpse to the next. Then I saw her. Sprawled in the mud, I recognized the boiled leather and plate of her scavenged armor. My knees abandoned me along with my breath. Part of me was still hoping, praying beyond reason that somehow I was mistaken as I rolled her over. That face… I could not deny her then. A sound escaped my lips, more spectral beast than man, anguish in its purest form. Her father’s helm lay a few feet away, the back caved in. Short hair was matted with blood, her nose and mouth crusted red. The leather protecting her side had been sundered, breeches below stained crimson.

  Cradling her head in my hands, my voice echoed hollowly into the din as if it were someone else’s. “No, no, no, no, no” it repeated over and again, half muttering, half wailing. Her skin was cold as I wiped the mud from her face. I shook her. I called for her to wake. I shouted at her until my throat was raw. I cursed at her. Stupid girl, stubborn girl, why couldn’t you just listen to me for once? I clutched her motionless body to me and grieved in silence.

  A great emptiness came upon me, a numbness following the crush of anguish and panic. I stared the soulless, shallow stare I had seen in the faces of the refugees who had fled from the Origin’s advance, those she had worked so hard to save. Never me, I had thought. Now, the gods laughed at my hubris as I held her corpse in my arms. She was mine. Mine to protect. I had failed her, as I had failed her father. She would never raise the Lazerin banner again, never knit her brow in determination at some new drill or bit of instruction, never laugh or smile or glare at me from across a room.