Dragonfly

by Julia Golding

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  Tashi put her face in her hands, not wanting them to see her shame. She had never felt worthy, now this was publicly confirmed.

  "The procedure in this case is clear. The election is to be declared null and void and a search for the correct candidate to be instigated."

  The Second Crown Princess raised her hand.

  "Yes, sister?"

  "Are we not to vote on this?" Safilen asked, her voice tight with anger.

  Korbin shook her head. "We cannot vote to uphold a corrupt election. We have no choice but to reject the false one and quickly find a replacement."

  So that was it: they were casting her out. Abruptly, Tashi got up from her seat and turned to go. There seemed no requirement for her presence any longer and she had no stomach to sit through deliberations on the unfortunate girl to succeed her. At least now she could return to Holt and search for Ramil.

  That's if he still wanted her when she found him.

  "Taoshira, you are not free to leave," the Third Crown Princess said severely.

  "I would've thought you would be pleased," Tashi said quietly, standing with her head hung.

  "Anyone who has held the office of Crown Princess cannot simply walk out and rejoin society."

  "Then I'll go somewhere else, away from the Islands." Tears were running down Tashi's face. She brushed them off, angry at herself for her weakness.

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  "But, I repeat, you are not free under law to do so. You must return to the Silent Court and live out your days in the seclusion of the temple."

  Tashi spun round to stare in horror at Korbin. "I cannot--I will not believe that this is the Goddess's will for me! You take away my position, my self-respect, and now my last chance to find happiness. I beg you to show mercy."

  "Child," the First Crown Princess intervened, "there is no happier being than one who has chosen to serve the Goddess in the Silent Court."

  "But I do not choose it--not now, maybe not ever." Her voice cracked with panic.

  "Sisters," implored Safilen, "is this necessary? Taoshira has been tested enough. Why not let her be free on her own terms?"

  "Because that is not the law," Korbin said resolutely. She turned back to Tashi. "But you may bid your family farewell before returning to the Goddess's Enclosure for the last time. There is no law against that."

  Tashi stood for a moment, feeling as if her heart was crumbling into pieces inside her. She had nothing left to live for, no hope of rejoining Ramil, no future. Fergox had been cruel, but this was a trial beyond any she had endured. Mechanically she walked to her grandmother, knelt, and kissed the hem of her robe.

  "Sorry," she said briefly, then left with her escort, no longer caring what became of her.

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  Chapter 20

  Fergox's troops had a miserable time marching as fast as they could endure from their camp on the borders of Gerfal to the capital, Tigral--a journey of hundreds of weary miles. The wagon train was ambushed in Brigard.

  Stragglers were set upon by bandits in Kandar. By the time they reached the open plains of Holt, they were all itching to be home and take their revenge upon the slave rebels who had caused them to miss the conquest of Gerfal.

  Riding at the head of his army on his second-best horse, Fergox knew he was paying for his mistake of pushing ahead with expansion while

  neglecting the lands he already owned. He took the lesson philosophically.

  Perhaps this slave revolt was a timely reminder. Once the revolt was crushed and the ringleaders disposed of, he would have to impress his rule more firmly on his people. He pondered the punishment of killing a tally of all slaves across the Empire, even those who took no part in the rebellion. If he killed one in five that would reduce his workforce, but he could

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  make sure that only the least valuable were chosen to bear the penalty. Yes, that would be fitting and stamp out any embers of revolt. As for the one they called the Dark Prince, some jumped-up slave currently lording it in the palace, he would be executed very slowly in the slave market where he belonged.

  Fergox camped at the last crossroads before the city walls and summoned his commanders. In the last few miles, his forces had been swollen by those who had escaped from the city. They brought with them tales of the ferocity of the galley slaves and the widespread unrest. Most of the rich families had fled--if they hadn't been murdered in their beds by their own servants. The middling folk, the shopkeepers and the tradesmen, had stayed to look alter their property, making peace with the slave rulers, but the rich merchants predicted it wouldn't last.

  Fergox executed the officers who had been in charge on the day when the palace fell as a reminder to the others what was at stake. He then ordered his troops to form up in their ranks, ready for the onslaught.

  "We're facing a rabble army that has been fortunate enough to meet with general incompetence from those whose blood now stains the crossroads,"

  Fergox said, gesturing to the headless officers thrown ignominiously to one side. "We'll pass through the city like a cleaver through a carcass and retake the palace. Any civilian on the streets may be counted an enemy and treated accordingly. When we have attained our objective, you may teach the citizens of Tigral a lesson and reward yourselves for your loyal service to me."

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  The soldiers thumped their shields. It was rare that Fergox gave them free rein to take plunder after a victory.

  "Now ride out!"

  The army jingled into action: the infantry marching in tight squares of fifty men, the cavalry sweeping along behind. Fergox had no interest in retaking his capital street by street. His plan was to capture the center of power and then assert his authority over the rest. The slaves would probably crumble at the first sign of real soldiers. They could not possibly have any experience or training to match. He wouldn't be surprised if he was able to stroll in and win just by the terror of his presence.

  His views seemed to be confirmed by finding the city gates wide open to receive him. There appeared to be no one mounting a defense--surprising because at the very least he expected the most hardened slaves to try to prevent him from entering. He sent a division of his elite cavalry troops ahead. They clattered over the cobbles, through the gate and into the square beyond. All the shutters on the houses edging the plaza were closed, apparently abandoned. Normally this area was dominated by an equestrian statue of Holin, which looked uncannily like Fergox sitting upon his stolen blue roan warhorse. Today the god had been dismounted, leaving the rearing horse riderless.

  Cautiously the cavalry rode on, alert for any sign of resistance. The commander sent outriders ahead to tell them what lay around the bend in the road. They didn't

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  come back. He was about to send word of this to Fergox when a sound behind him made him turn in his saddle. The old portcullis, unused for years, crashed down, dividing the cavalry from the main body of the army. A huge man stood by the gate holding an axe, having just severed the portcullis rope with one mighty stroke. Before the commander could give an order, the shutters on the houses flew open and missiles rained down on the riders.

  They were caught in an ambush.

  "Ride on!" shouted the commander, knowing he had to get his men out of this deadly valley. The horses clattered along the street, men falling from their saddles sprouting arrows from their backs. They rounded the corner to come face to face with a barricade bristling with pikes and sharpened sticks.

  The commander tried to force his way through but his mount perished, driven onto a spike, and the commander was trampled where he lay.

  The massacre was soon over. Melletin grimaced as he surveyed the results of his plan: it had worked perfectly but the aftermath was ugly. Horses scattered in riderless panic until caught by rebels and quickly led away. The bodies of the men with scarlet threads in their beards and the mounts that had perished were dragged off the streets to be buried later.

  "First win to us, I think,"
Melletin said to Gordoc. "Take word to Ramil. Tell him Fergox is going to be really mad now."

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  Fergox had no commander to punish for the fiasco as not one of his elite troops returned. He'd underestimated the slaves, he admitted to himself.

  Someone knew what he was doing. This put Fergox on his mettle. He still had nearly two thousand men and knew the city well. He was not really concerned.

  "Commanders Horg and Finuil, take your men and enter by the East Gate; Minol and Kay, yours is the West Gate. I will lead the rest by the North Gate, making straight for the palace. It appears this rebellion has a thinking head; we have to cut that off before it can be crushed."

  Fergox gazed up at his beautiful palace, home of his wives and younger children. The slaves had probably killed them already as they had made no attempt to bargain with the lives of their hostages. He had already decided that he would not treat with the rebels. He had grown-up sons in his army--

  enough to ensure his succession. Though it angered him to lose any child of his blood, he knew they were a weak point if he allowed himself to become sentimental. As for wives, they were replaceable.

  Fergox crushed his reins in his fists. I'm angry, he thought in surprise. He had been in command so long, used to people doing his wil without question; he had not been defied for years and now it had happened twice since Midwinter. The strength of feeling reminded him of the early days when his reckless passion for conquest had driven him to turn himself from small bandit lord to ruler of the known world. He relished

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  the merciless rage for a moment, like a rider enjoying the speed of a galloping horse, before giving his commanders a chilling smile.

  "What are you waiting for? I want the heads of all the rebels at my feet by nightfall, but make sure you save the Dark Prince for me."

  King Lagan watched from outside the walls of his city as Fergox's sister, the Inkar Yellowtooth, led her troops from under the cover of the trees. His spies had reported their numbers, but seeing the rank upon rank of men march onto the green meadows of his land, he felt his heart constrict in his chest.

  He had delayed them as long as he could, sacrilicing many of his wardens in desperate skirmishes in the forest, but now the invaders were here.

  Lord Taris with his son behind him, both in full battle armor, rode up to the King.

  "We are ready, Your Majesty," Taris said.

  "It's going to be tough," Lagan replied, wiping his brow with his leather gauntlet.

  "Yes, sir. But without Fergox's cool head to guide them, we have a chance."

  "Not much of one."

  "No, but stil ."

  Lagan smiled.

  A helmeted man on horseback, followed by twenty others, trotted forward from the city. His armor was in the old style, embellished with swirls of bronze inlay.

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  He paused before the King and bowed, then flipped his visor up, revealing an old face with fierce blue eyes.

  "Lord Egret and the Brigardian exiles reporting for duty, Your Majesty."

  "Ah, so you're Lord Egret," said the King, touching swords with the man in greeting. "May I say that your wife is a treasure?"

  "You may, sir. And I'm here to defend her and all those of our nations who cannot fight."

  Lagan thought the old man looked as if his fighting days should be over too, but there was a steely glint in Lord Egret's eye that forestalled such comments.

  "You are a very welcome addition to our forces. Take your orders from Lord Usk, please, and fall in on our right flank."

  The Brigardians trotted away with the Prime Minister's son in the lead.

  Lagan paused to admire his army spread out across the field: so many young lives and brave hearts about to plunge for the first time into the messy horror of battle. It was one small mercy not to have to worry about Ramil being among them.

  The Empire herald galloped across the battlefield with a white flag. He reached King Lagan and bowed.

  "The Inkar Junis wishes to parley," he said briskly. "She wants to offer terms."

  "I'll hear her, but the only terms I'll accept are unconditional withdrawal,"

  Lagan replied.

  The herald nodded and turned his horse to take the message back to his mistress.

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  "Are you coming with me?" Lagan asked Taris.

  "What? To see your old sweetheart?" The Prime Minister chuckled. "I wouldn't miss this."

  The two men rode forward to meet the Inkar halfway across the meadows that separated the two armies. She approached them alone, making a fearsome sight as she galloped towards them, the feathers on her helmet fluttering in the breeze.

  "Junis." Lagan bowed as soon as she reigned her horse to a standstill. "It is always a pleasure to see you. But why come in such warlike fashion?"

  The Inkar frowned, disliking what sounded very much like mockery.

  "Surely two old friends should not meet like this?" continued Lagan. "If all my men hadn't been so busy defending my nation, I could have thrown you a nice little ball. I seem to remember you liked dancing."

  Junis bared her yellowed teeth at him. "I danced with your son at Midwinter, did you know that?"

  Lagan smiled grimly. "No, I did not know he had that pleasure."

  "And where is the stinking horse thief? I'll make him dance when I've killed you and all your little fighters and flushed him from his hiding place. You've not a hope against my army. You're outclassed and outnumbered."

  "Outnumbered, perhaps," said Lagan, stroking his beard. "But not outclassed. I see that your diplomatic skills are still as strong as ever, Junis."

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  She snapped her fingers at him. 'That to diplomacy. I do my business by the sword."

  Lagan sighed and looked at the skies as a relief from her vindictive face. A strong wind blew in from the sea, and the clouds were moving rapidly like hosts of white soldiers driven to assault the land. Junis had betrayed the fact that Ramil had not been recaptured, another good thought to cherish on this terrible day. This desperate battle did not seem so hopeless if Ramil survived somewhere in the Empire.

  "Your herald mentioned terms," he prompted her.

  "Yes." She licked her lips. "If you surrender the city, I will spare the civilians, take your soldiers into slavery or recruit them to my forces, and see to it that you are given a dignified death. Your daughter will live as a guest in my house; your son, unfortunately, will not."

  "Very generous," Lagan said in a hollow tone. His eye was caught by a glimmer out to sea on the horizon. A tiny white sail appeared, followed by others, until the whole ocean seemed to be covered by a flock of birds come down to rest on the waters. "I don't believe it!" he murmured.

  "You had better believe it," said Junis, "because it is my final offer."

  Cheers and bells could now be heard in the city. The Blue Crescent ships already in harbor fired a salvo that echoed from the walls.

  With an upsurge of hope, Lagan turned in his saddle and snapped his fingers. "That to your offer, Junis. I

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  reject your terms. Look to the ocean. You should be thinking what terms you might accept from me." He spurred his horse to retreat.

  With a scream of fury, Junis galloped back to her troops and ordered the attack. Her infantry advanced, tight ranks of soldiers in red tunics crawling like ants over Gerfalian land. Lagan signalled his own men forward.

  "You fight for your homes and your freedom!" he shouted, riding along the lead edge brandishing his sword. "Charge!"

  The cavalry swept forward, driving into the pike-bearing infantry as battle was joined on the flower-studded meadows. Soon the spring blooms were trampled under boots and hooves, the ground wet with blood. Men cursed; horses screamed. Lagan's forces were hard pressed, pushed back to the walls by wave upon wave of Empire soldiers. Lord Taris fell as he defended the gates. Ramil's cousin, Hortlan, was trampled when knocked from his horse. The King fought by his standard bearer, aware that
his knights were dying around him. Lord Usk went down, wounded by an arrow. Lord Egret killed Junis's second-in-command only to die on the Inkar's sword. Lagan spurred his horse forward to meet her in battle. She yelled with delight as she saw him charging towards her. Their swords met with a clang, sparks flying.

  A shout went up from the harbor.

  "For the Goddess!"

  Now under new orders, hundreds of Blue Crescent

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  sailors from the ships that originally came with Tashi rushed to the relief of Gerfal. More warships arrived, disgorging their cargo of fighters onto the harborside. Armed with swords and long knives, the Westerners hacked and slashed their way through the Empire's infantry. An elite force of riflemen took up position on high ground to fire upon the invaders. Cannon boomed from the decks, shot sailing overhead to pound the Inkar's reserves.

  "Witchcraft!" shrieked the Empire soldiers as comrades fell to invisible missiles, which left circular bloody wounds. Some turned to flee only to be shot in the back.

  In the midst of battle, Lagan and Junis exchanged arm-jarring blows. She caught him with a swipe, cutting his cheek to the bone. He replied with a slash that smashed into her left arm, leaving it hanging useless, blood spurting from the wound. Junis stared down at her arm in mild surprise.

  "Lagan," she said faintly.

  The King struck, killing her with a blow to the head.

  "Sorry, Junis," he said as the Inkar fell from the saddle. "These are the only terms I offer."

  Reports from all over Tigral reached the rebel headquarters in the palace throne room. East Gate had fallen but the galley slaves were holding their own at the barricades in the Cloth Market. West Gate still survived but the Brigardians were taking heavy casualties. No one had tried South Gate again.

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  Ramil paced the room restlessly. He knew their fortunes were balanced on a knife edge. The only way they could win was if he could take out the Spearthrower himself. He was relying on Fergox's pride to bring him to the palace. He just had to hope the warlord would take the bait.

  Yelena dashed in, her face shining with excitement.