Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “This is not acceptable. We would have sacrificed so much for nothing,” said Erik Malless, long, lightly-greased raven hair framing his young, angry features. Like his father, Malless was a large and well-built man. Just barely more than a boy, really, thrust into an impossible position long before he’d been ready.

  “Sacrifices must be made in war. I lost one hundred-and-fifty of my soldiers today. A fifth of my force,” said the Silver Lady, taking a sip of her wine. She still wore her silver breastplate, though the hour was late. Her eyes were rimmed with red.

  “Yes, and I lost thousands, mercenary. But I am not ready to tuck my cock and run!” shouted Malless, perfect white teeth clenched.

  “We have won a major victory,” repeated Escamilla for the fourth time. “But our tactics relied on being able to split their forces between a well-manned, fortified city and our own camp. They couldn’t commit to one without leaving themselves open to another, particularly with the destruction of their siege equipment. We’ve slaughtered half of their conscripts, but not without losses of our own. Our cavalry is decimated, mostly of its own accord, and the enemy has not yet brought theirs to bear. As you said, your grace, you have lost nearly half of your forces, and there is only a token left in Florens.”

  “I cannot leave my city to be razed! What about your damned magicians? Can’t they even the odds?” asked Malless.

  “My greenies are exhausted. They turned the tide of the battle, but need at least a day of rest,” said Ferl, who had his feet propped on a second chair.

  “With respect, your grace, it is either Florens or Ardia. Despite the bravery of the men today, our strategy has been upended. The Rostanians will not pursue us before taking Florens, and it will take at least a few days for them to rebuild their floating armada. We can use that time to create some distance between us and them, and plan our next move,” said General Opine, the hero of the day. Empton was still alive, but he was confined to the medical tents. Half of his face was paralyzed, and his heart was beating weakly. The poor man was not even forty years of age.

  Emma would hate to say that Empton’s near death had been a good thing, but Opine was clearly more competent, if insufferable.

  “What about their cavalry? They’d not need their horse to take Florens, and we’d be cut down on the road,” said Captain Braston.

  “We can only hope they send their cavalry, further dividing their forces. With scouting and outriders, we could surely set up an ambush and massacre them. At Edwin’s Gap, for instance, or Atwater. We’ve myriad options.” Opine was confident, his handsome face unflappable.

  “So, already you plan your route, boy? We have not yet agreed—” Malless began.

  “Your grace, I will not consign these soldiers, and therefore the only hope of Ardia, to defeat. And that is exactly what will happen if we take the field. They are too many, and we are too few.” Malless clenched his mug, fingers white and shaking, at Opine’s logical words. The duke did not get on well with Opine—who was probably only a couple of years older than him—despite Opine having orchestrated the rescue of the Florensian forces. Or, perhaps because he had rescued them. You never knew, with men.

  In the corner of the massive command tent, amidst generals and nobles and officers, there was a snorting noise. Morgyn lay in a ball atop a blanket, fast asleep—a cat bored with the affairs of the evening. Escamilla smiled at the sound, and Emma wondered whether her lady planned on adopting the girl.

  Malless sighed, his eyes bloodshot and his hand still shaking as he took a sip of Sestrian red. He’d likely not slept for days and, though he’d managed to escape injury in the melee, the deaths of his men had clearly affected him deeply.

  “I know, in my head, that retreat is the only option. But, my heart bleeds for my people. I have failed in my duty to protect them. My father—” he choked. The death of his father, though weeks ago, was still an open wound. He hunched over his stone cup, hanging his head as if defeated. He appeared extremely young in the lamplight, and Emma thought she saw a solitary tear fall into his drink. The other officers pointedly ignored this display of emotion, and even Escamilla was too distant to provide any sort of support.

  “Your grace, if I might speak.” Emma leaned forward. “I saw your father in the face of the tyrant, the little duke. He was ever brave, even at the threat of torture and death. He said that Florens would never give in to the little duke, regardless of his own fate. He died, rather than be manipulated, so that he could save your life and so that you could take his seat. He had great faith in you, that you would make the right decisions and continue fighting. I see him in you, your grace.”

  The young duke composed himself, straightening his back, and gave her a considering look. “Who exactly are you, girl? I fancied you a servant, albeit a well-dressed one.”

  “She is my protege. My ward and heiress. Lady Emma Dram-Breen,” said Escamilla, a touch of pride in her voice.

  Cocks, that was news! Escamilla did not meet Emma’s searching eyes, but instead focused on Malless.

  With another sigh, this one much deeper, Malless went on. “Escamilla, my men are with you. We will begin the process of withdrawing with your forces, though we will need to work out some more details…”

  “My lady.” One of her guards—an Apple Knight—had ducked into the tent. Emma recognized him as Havert, one of the men who’d escorted them from the Plateau to Brockmore. A good man, by her estimation.

  “Havert. What is so important that you interrupt a war council?” The man paled in the lantern-light, but handed Escamilla a red envelope and bowed his head.

  “My apologies, my lady! We just received word from… your friend in Rostane. His messenger was near dead on his horse, so I thought this important enough to merit your immediate attention.”

  “Thank you, Havert. You are dismissed.” His shoulders were hunched, as if he were expecting further admonition, but when none was forthcoming, he bowed to the officers and darted out of the tent.

  Escamilla’s fingers were on the envelope, and she began to break the seal.

  “Before we were interrupted…” said Malless, “we were going to discuss the plans to retake Florens and make reparations to its people following our success in this war. I need assurances—”

  “Your grace, perhaps first we should plan our withdrawal. Moving over ten thousand men, including wounded and a baggage train…” Opine began.

  “Not until we discuss—”

  “Gentleman, please. Let’s start with the withdrawal and then move to future plans. Lady Dran-Breen, please call for a scribe.” Escamilla rubbed her eyes and set down the red envelope from Tennyson.

  A letter of warning, which lay unopened and forgotten.

  ---

  It was hours before a strategy had been decided upon for an effective withdrawal, but it was done. Come first light, the army would begin an organized retreat, the cavalry providing cover. The wagons had already started heading east.

  The fate of Duke Penton was still unknown, but runners had reported an inferno in Ingram. It was probably too much to hope that the disgusting man would have been caught up in the flames.

  Escamilla had fallen asleep, head in her hands, immediately after the last officer had left the room, and Emma let her sleep. Morgyn still slept in the corner, her rest occasionally interrupted with a snort, whimper, or moan. Emma figured she should try to befriend the young girl. Morgyn seemed there to stay, and she had certainly been through a lot.

  All of them had.

  And now, Emma was Escamilla’s heiress, her successor. Taking her name—Lady Dran-Breen!—and likely her fortune upon her lady’s death. Her, Emma Dran, a serving girl with a crippled hand who had never made a more important decision than what tea to provide for her mistress! And, even then she’d sometimes made mistakes! And now, was she supposed to manage dozens of businesses, and negotiations with underhanded merchants and backstabbing nobles, and cater to the needs of thousands of hirelings? Not to mention the war
? Emma couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.

  It would have been nice if Escamilla had asked her what she wanted with her life.

  Out of habit, she began clearing the command table of wine cups, dumping the dregs just outside of the tent. The familiar activity was calming, and Emma started to relax. Maybe she would grab an hour of sleep tonight, after all.

  A sound, just audible in the distance, made her drop her armload of cups. Her legs were suddenly jelly, and her ears strained to catch what she heard.

  “Emma? Sorry, I must have fallen asleep,” said Escamilla, starting at the sound of cups clattering to the ground. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, Camilla. I thought I heard something.” There’d been nothing more—just the echo of a fearful memory.

  Escamilla rose stiffly, stretching her arms. “I’m getting far too old for such a late night. You were fantastic tonight, by the way. You quelled the duke’s doubts while bolstering his spirit with that story of his father. He will follow us now, though I expect him to be a pain. A young royal trying to escape the substantial shadow of his father. That’s how we ended up with the little duke, though I think Malless is made of better stuff.”

  Emma was silent for a moment, glancing over at Morgyn. The girl was finally sleeping soundly.

  “Your ward? Your heiress” Emma asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

  “Yes, my ward. I have so much yet to teach you, but I need you to have more authority among these soldiers. This is too much for me, and I fear I can no longer keep up. Seeing Empton fall today, his heart failing him… He’s much younger than me. The strain of all of this could kill me at any time.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Camilla! You are the strongest woman I know!” Truth be told, Escamilla had been looking her age more and more.

  “I think not. You are more than capable of filling my shoes, you know. You are strong, stronger than you believe, Emma. Why do you think I have been pushing you all of these years?”

  “All of these years? How long have you been planning this?” Emma was stunned. She thought of the questions and quizzes, the missions and errands. The huge amount of information that Escamilla expected her to keep organized in her memory. The gentle slaps when she failed, the subtle praises when she succeeded.

  “From not long after your mother died. She was my friend, you know. Friend and great ally, though she perished most ignobly.” Covered in shit and reeking of pungent death. “Remember when I told Penton that, upon my death, half a dozen barristers had my will and testament, naming an heir? That wasn’t a bluff. It’s been you for two years.”

  Emma’s jaw was hanging open, looking as lady-like as a panting dog. She didn’t know what to say.

  “Escamilla, I… I don’t think—” her stammering was cut off by a great screech, a thousand voices venting rage in unison.

  “What in the name of Yetra was that?” asked Escamilla, her fearful expression mirroring Emma’s own.

  “I’ve no idea!” Suddenly, the late night air was full of such shrieks, splitting eardrums and loosening bowels. Soldiers were shouting and scuffling, and terrified death cries had begun to lace the night in a rising pandemonium.

  There was something grimly familiar about these howls.

  “We must be under attack by… something! Emma, where are my Apple Knights? We need to wake the—” Escamilla was cut off by a retching, gurgling cough. Emma rushed toward her as Escamilla tried to say something, but instead the lady hacked flecks of blood into Emma’s face.

  “Camilla! What is—” Morgyn was crouching just behind Escamilla in the dim lantern light, ripping her dagger from where it had been stuck into Escamilla’s upper back. Emma tried to reach around Escamilla to grab at the girl, but did so with her crippled hand, catching nothing but a bit of cloth. Morgyn kicked the back of Escamilla’s knee then, collapsing the pierced woman into Emma and knocking them both to the ground.

  In another moment, Morgyn had dashed off into the night, with sounds of malice, battle, and death drowning out Emma’s calls for help.

  She finally managed to ease Escamilla to the side just as Havert, his breastplate wet with blood, rushed into the command tent.

  “My lady, we… What is happening?” he called, rushing over and helping Emma with her lady. Escamilla’s mouth was rimmed with crimson, and each breath was a sputtering gasp of agony. Her eyes were filled with pain, and tears mixed with the blood.

  “She needs help! She needs a physician immediately! She’s been stabbed!” Emma cried to him, gesturing to Captain Braston and General Opine as they rushed in. Braston was unarmored and bleeding from a horrid wound in his neck. Opine’s confidence was obviously shattered.

  “What? Did you do this, girl?” shouted Braston. The bearded captain stalked toward Emma, hand on his wound, but still coming strong.

  Through her agony, Escamilla struggled to sit up, grabbing Emma’s arm and shaking her head. Her move halted Braston, though he still gave Emma a hard look. Escamilla wanly gestured, with a shaking arm, at the tent flap. Her meaning was clear. What is going on out there?

  “My Lady, we are under attack. These… things… came without warning. They were nearly silent at first, rushing into camp and devastating our pickets. They had infiltrated the camp before we knew it. They got many of the men while they were sleeping! They were right outside this tent before we slaughtered them. We are still fighting and have a perimeter near here. Even near dead, these fu… these creatures continue to fight us! Our losses have already been… staggering.” Opine was aghast. This wasn’t the war that he had prepared for. This wasn’t in the storybooks.

  Escamilla tried to speak, coughed up some blood, and frantically looked to Emma, her pain-filled eyes pleading. Emma gripped Escamilla’s arm tightly in return, a vice, before the older woman released her and mercifully lost consciousness.

  Opine and Braston stood nearby uncertainly, neither taking steps to fend off this threat, nor to plan for the future of the army. They were both dazed, stunned, unable to act. These men, these peacetime captains set adrift in a fearsome war, needed a leader. The woman who should be filling this role was currently fighting for her life, lung pierced by the knife of a traitorous little bitch.

  Emma swallowed hard, feeling her own tears building up for her lady and friend, for herself. Escamilla’s expectations, and her own fears, were a rising lake threatening to drown her. The still-howling creatures were mocking her submerged body.

  She was a serving girl. A cripple. An oddity. She was not meant for responsibility, not meant for leadership, certainly not in a crisis.

  You are strong, stronger than you believe, Emma. Escamilla’s voice rang in her ears like that of a spectre. Emma took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly, exhaling the water, her fears, her inhibitions. She spoke to the captains, surprised that her voice was firm. That it did not waver.

  “We must fight off this enemy. There is no other option. Rally the men, expand the perimeter, and beat off this attack. As soon as it is safe, we make a fighting retreat. We do not wait until first light. We leave immediately.”

  Opine simply nodded and left the tent with her words. Braston, though, shook his head as if clearing it of a fog, meeting Emma’s eyes for what felt like hours. But, she did not blink, did not look away. Then, as if he’d found something that he’d been looking for, Braston gave a firm nod.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Chapter 39

  The creaking supply wagons were already heading east along the road with a guard of a few hundred exhausted men, Meri among them. That lovely Emma had offered to find Merigold a tent so that she could stay near the officers, but Meri had declined. She didn’t trust Escamilla, who clearly wanted to use her for her powers, use her like those greenies from Ferl’s Company. Those men… they had decimated the front lines of the Rostanians. Cut through flesh as easily as a spoon cuts through a thick stew, leaving the dead heaped up in piles and causing chaos among the terrified Rostanians.

&n
bsp; Was that what she’d done to the men back in Hunesa?

  She would not be used in that way. If she were to kill men, it would be as Yetra’s hand on earth, dealing death to those who deserved it—like the monsters who’d stolen her father, destroyed her village. Not to mete out wholesale destruction to soldiers and conscripts who were just following orders from powerful, pompous men and women. People just like this Lady Escamilla, who would rather expend thousands of lives than be ruled by another. Why? To save a few yets, money that the woman could obviously afford to lose?

  Merigold wanted as much distance between herself and that greedy woman as possible. It also helped that, the further she was away, the better her chances were to escape this apparent prison. Though she would be penniless and friendless, have no idea where she would go, and have no way to ever find Ragen.

  At some point in this night, after seeing the horrors of the battlefield, the terrors of this magic, she’d begun to truly mourn Ragen as lost, finally accepting that he was gone. She’d cried far into the night, finally releasing all the heartache that she had been pushing down so deeply inside. She would honor him, however she could, by teaching his grandson or granddaughter everything that Ragen had taught her. She touched her stomach—was it just beginning to swell? Was she truly going to be a mother?

  Meri had spent the night reminiscing about her father, with both quiet laughter and quiet tears, as well as wondering what it would be like being a mother. All this in a covered wagon amidst cooking supplies.

  Which was how Merigold had found herself awake when the creatures first attacked.

  The howls had begun far in the distance, and Meri had initially thought they were wolves. Starving, fierce, and feral wolves, but still just something that you might expect to hear while traveling.