"Did I pick a wrong moment, Your Grace?" Payton harrumphed, his face betraying his genuine concern. Masolon can learn one thing or two from the decent captain.
"Not at all, Captain." Clad in her silver armor, Rona beckoned Payton over. When the captain stood before her, she asked him, "Are the men ready to resume our march?"
"Lord Foubert has given the order already. In a few minutes, we will be moving right toward the Green Hills, which is the reason why I am here right now." Payton took a breath. "I told Lord Foubert my opinion, and I believe you should know of it as well, Your Grace. The route we are taking is straightforward and surely, shorter than turning around the woods, yet it could be treacherous. As an archer, I know how I can make a deadly ambush out of the Green Hills."
Rona could not disagree with Payton's logic, but taking the straightforward route by the Green Hills was actually her idea. She was getting impatient as she approached Paril, the capital of the Bermanian realm, the city that held within its walls the royal palace she had been raised up in. She could not even wait until her messenger reached Ramos to inform Lord Jonson that the way was clear to send the trebuchets at last. “Our scouts confirm that the way to Paril is clear. I see no need for wasting six precious days in the woods while we can reach our destination in two days.” Two long days though.
“Our men must have scouted the fields at the foot of the hills, but their tops? They need more time to inspect them for you.”
And she would be too anxious to wait for them. “Every day we waste gives Di Galio a chance to strengthen his defenses. He wouldn’t send a soldier from his meager force outside the walls of his last city.”
Payton allowed a wry smile. “He wouldn’t need his entire army to deter ours. With well-positioned archers atop the Green Hills, they could lay waste to our troops marching by their ambush.”
“The straightforward route is a risk. Wasting time is a risk as well. I’m picking one of the two risks, Captain. But of course, I appreciate your concern.” She gave him a fleeting smile. The young captain was one of the few men she valued their opinion, and she did not want to discourage him from voicing his thoughts.
Payton did not make further attempts to persuade her and took his leave. He knows when talking is useless, she thought as she shortly followed him outside. Her knights were mounting their horses and most of her footmen were ready to march. “About time, Your Grace?” Foubert grinned as he went past her on horseback. “Yavier! Why is the vanguard still here?” he bellowed at his firstborn. “The sun will fall in an hour!”
The main strength of her army resumed their march half an hour after the vanguard had set off. At the end of the red-orange horizon of sunset, she beheld the Green Hills looming ahead. A long string of memories flashed in her mind as she rode her horse. Memories of a long journey that had started from Kalensi, where she had been hiding under the protection of Gramus. Until last year, he had been her only advisor, commander, and soldier. Look at her now; leading a horde of ten thousand men toward the city she had fled twelve years ago. How far was she from the walls of Paril now? Fifteen miles? Surely, Wilander and Di Galio had not expected that the first time they heard about her. Even Rona herself; she had never imagined that her journey might end that soon. Don’t rush it, Rona. We’re still outside the walls of Paril, she reminded herself, keeping her focus on her next step: pass the Green Hills safely.
“No rest until we see the walls of Paril, milord.” Bearing in mind that they had already been resting less than an hour earlier, her order must have sounded absurd, at least to her veteran lord, but she felt better after saying it. Don't let the anxiety get into you now, Rona. You are past the hardest parts of this journey already.
It was not easy to resist the compulsion of looking up every few seconds, and all to blame was her young yet wise captain. As the sky turned dark, there was nothing to see atop these hills except that thick curtain of clouds. To Bermanian standards, the rain would be heavy tonight.
"You should have cut your hair." Flebe startled her when he nudged his horse next to hers.
"Why should I?" Rona did not exert any effort to feign a smile.
"Your hair makes it easier for a shooter to spot you among us."
Was Flebe talking to Payton recently? "My armor should be enough to do the trick." Her impassive tone should be enough to dismiss the young lord, but she doubted he was making any move on his own. Sticking to her was a strict order from his lord father, and he was not taking the task lightly at all. Perhaps it would not be wise to fend off the son of her new general commander, the duke of Karun and Lapond, at least for the time being. I even left the door open to the wrinkled Daval, she reminded herself.
"Tell me about the Mankols' activity at our eastern borders." It would be better to keep the conversation going on a topic more useful than cutting her hair.
Flebe's silence made Rona think he was clueless. That pretty, sweet lord. But she realized he was just grasping the sudden hop from one topic to another when he said, "They have been quiet for a whole year. The word is that their realm is on the brink of a devastating civil war. The sick Kaan Cunshez is unable to rein in his sons."
"Are his sons warring against each other?" For someone who had lost her family, the idea was never easy to swallow.
"Yes. The youngest two have allied against the eldest two. Now the four sons are summoning their loyal clans for one deadly clash."
"It wouldn't be a fair clash. Who would join the third and fourth-born sons?"
Flebe grinned. "Unlike what you may think, Your Grace. The Mankol clans are more likely to join Olago, the third-born son of Kan Cunshez. He is the epitome of the infamous Mankol barbarism. While the sick father and his elder sons might consider diplomacy as an option to settle conflicts, Olago knows nothing but the sword to deal with his enemies."
Rona was somehow surprised with the sweet lordling's awareness of the Mankol situation. "You seem interested in those barbarians."
"Barbarians or not; they reside by our eastern borders. We must be interested so that we can predict their coming moves."
So, Flebe might not be the dunderhead she had thought he was. "What about the Rusakians?"
"Nothing worth mentioning." Flebe shrugged. "Their biggest appearance was a band of ten horsemen riding five miles away from Karun. Since we couldn't catch them when they ran away, we never knew if they were scouts of the Rusakian army or just a bunch of deserters looking for a caravan to raid."
"Would you believe them if they denied being soldiers?"
"At the time we found them? Why not? The Rusakian king had a wedding to take care of rather than a fort to consider invading."
"A wedding? Is he that young?"
"Old Bechov? No! It's his son's wedding that I'm talking about." He stared at her when he added, "They claim that the Crown Prince's bride is the prettiest girl in Gorania."
Rona did not like the direction toward which Flebe was steering the conversation. "After we win the war, we must know if Karun is her dowry."
The rain was a good excuse to change the topic. Rona grasped the chance and asked Flebe how rainy the weather was in Karun, and if he had ever seen it snowing there. Shortly after, Payton joined in and, thankfully, interrupted this absurd chatter. "We are almost past the Green Hills, Your Grace. Shouldn't we rest soon?"
"I will give my permission to rest when we are close enough from Paril and far enough from the Green Hills."
"I shall wait then." Payton glanced at Flebe. "Better not to bother you until you grant us your permission."
"Me and Lord Flebe were not discussing any matter of import, so you may join us if you want, Captain."
Of course, Payton did not mind joining them, and Rona was glad he stayed to keep the lordling quiet for a while. While she always valued the Captain of Archers' inputs in her serious discussions with her vassals, she also found he was not bad at all in pointless banter. Did he notice how uncomfortable she was with Foubert's son?
The heavy sh
owers of rain turned the ground into a muddy field, slowing the march of Rona's army a little bit. But no one asked for a rest, except for the horses maybe. The dark horizon swallowed the hills behind her when the faint shadows of the towers of Paril loomed ahead. At last. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as the stone frames in the distance grew less hazy. Shortly, she would be joining her vanguard that must have been camping already outside the walls of Paril.
The sturdy Lord Yavier was in her reception when her horde joined his battalion. Bring me the trebuchets now. Rona could feel the smile on her face as she imagined the monstrous siege weapons hurling their fireballs at the walls of Paril to open the way for her cavalry to storm the city.
"Aren't we camping a bit far from the wall, milord?" she asked Yavier.
"This is the safest distance in the dark, Your Grace," Yavier justified.
"We are not in a hurry until the trebuchets arrive, Your Grace." Foubert joined the conversation to aid his son.
"Until the trebuchets arrive, I want to entertain the eyes of Wilander's soldiers with the sight of our army crouching by their door." Their morale would be broken by the time her soldiers set foot in Paril, she believed.
Foubert exchanged a quick look with his son, who seemed undecided. "That is a good idea indeed, Your Grace. May we give the order to the troops the next morning after they rest tonight? The trebuchets won't be here before six days."
Rona could barely wait until tomorrow, let alone six days. "Then Wilander's men shall tremble behind their walls the whole six days. We march at first light."
* * *
Having a good night's sleep was something hard these days, and this night was no exception. Her restless mind insisted on ignoring the needs of the exhausted body dying to get some rest. The chamomile she had brought with her helped her steal a few hours of sleep though. But once the dawn broke, she was unable to shut her eyelids.
"Scout!"
Rona hurried to the door of her pavilion when the cry rang in her camp. A dozen knights mounted their horses at once and galloped toward the direction of Paril. She would not wish for better timing for that scout to spy on her camp. Thanks to the hubbub he caused, she would not need much effort to wake her sleepy soldiers up.
Less than an hour later all of them were donning their armors, marching to the final destination of her journey. "Did you catch Wilander's scout?" she asked Foubert, the walls of Paril one mile away now.
Her general commander pressed his lips together. "Unfortunately, our men couldn't catch him before he reached the range of Paril's archers."
"Good."
Foubert peered at her, confused. "Your Grace?"
"I hope he has seen enough to scare Wilander and his men."
Now relieved, Foubert managed a smile. "Well then. We did a good job, I suppose."
Yavier at the vanguard halted his battalion lest they fell in the shooting range of their enemy. Before Rona complained of stopping far away, she beheld the catapults set up on the wooden stages erected behind the walls of Paril, towering over the heavily-guarded ramparts.
"Wilander and his Fox have been busy lately, it seems." Foubert nodded his chin toward the countless stumps around them. "They must have been flagging their men to urge them to chop all the trees here." He turned his gaze toward the huge ballistae placed over the wall. She counted fourteen so far. Those ugly wooden skeletons never existed before, she deduced. Though she had not seen Paril since she was a child, it was not hard to tell that those engines and their poorly-finished stages did not belong to the wall of Paril, the Jewel of the greatest kingdom in Gorania. Anyway, ballista towers and even catapults should not be a concern at all. Her trebuchets would outrange them by far.
"Very well." Rona filled her lungs with the Parilian morning breeze. "We camp here, Lord Foubert."
* * *
Every night she had the same dream: her sitting on the throne in the royal palace of Paril. There were little differences in the details of each dream. A couple of times the throne hall looked like the great hall of the Ramosi palace. Once she saw herself crowned in the ruins of Subrel. Her father joined her a few times alone and one time her mother and brother were there as well. Every time the hall was thronged, but she only remembered the faces of Masolon and Darrison, the gray-haired bastard who had betrayed her. She had been mad at him since the night he abandoned her, but only now did she realize that she wished he was still by her side.
The absence of Gramus in her dreams made her feel a bit guilty. How could she forget her loyal guardian after all he had done to her? Were it not for him, she could have been executed the night her family was cowardly killed, or in her best chances, locked up in a tower for the rest of her life. Rewarding him with lordship is barely enough for his sacrifices.
The night before the sixth day, the one she had been anticipating the most, she saw a trebuchet standing in the heart of her hall. While she was wondering how that monstrous engine was brought through the doors of her hall, her mind started to realize it was a dream, urging her to wake up.
Today it ends. She took her time as she patiently donned her silver armor on her own. The straps of her breastplate troubled her the most until she got them clasped without Sacura's help.
Foubert had told her yesterday to not expect the trebuchets until noon, so she thought of making good use of the sedating effect of chamomile, hoping it would help her refresh her exhausted head before today's great event. The idea of mixing the calming herb with wine crossed her mind, but the faint memories of one Herlogan tumultuous night made her change her mind.
Clad in her rattling armor, she tried to lie still on her back. It's my mind that I need to keep still. In an attempt to drag her attention away from today's battle, she let her memories take her twelve years back, to the last race she had had with her brother. What was now a bare land of stumps had been their race field. "To make it fair, I will let you start ahead," her brother teased her, an eighteen-year-old lad who had his father looks and height.
"No, you won't. What's the fun in that?" she protested.
"Well then, Sir Rona. Last rider to the Green Hills owes the winner his horse."
She was not a bad rider, but his brother was more skillful than her by far. "Father won't be happy at all when he knows that I have walked all the way from the Green Hills to here." Their mother would not be happy either, but she knew how the Crown Prince feared the King of Bermania.
"So, you know the result of the race already," her brother scoffed.
"Don't be so cruel! Let's race without any rewards or sanctions."
Her brother curled his lip, mocking her. "What's the fun in that?"
Before she scolded her brother for his ridiculousness, she noticed that silver-eyed knight approaching them. "A race, I heard?" He shot both Rona and her brother an inquiring look.
"Who are you, may I ask?" Rona peered at him.
"My new guard, Rona," her brother answered on the knight's behalf before he turned to him. "There is nothing to worry about, Sir Anvil. I can take care of my little sister in this short ride."
While her brother was justifying why he could safely ride with his sister on their own, the name of the knight echoed in her mind. Wait! I have seen that face before! In the dungeons of Subrel he had less hair and more scars, but she was quite certain it was him. "Guards! Arrest this man!" she yelled, but none of the guards were nearby. Suddenly, she found herself alone in the woods after her brother and that turncloak had vanished into thin air. "Where is everybody? Somebody arrest that murderer!"
"May I enter, Your Grace?" a faint voice came from behind her, but she saw nobody when she turned. I'm dreaming, she realized as she remembered that all her family was dead a long time ago. All of a sudden, her eyelids opened, revealing the interior of her pavilion. No, no, bring me back to the woods. Not only to spend more time with her late brother but also to catch that bastard that had fled from her on two occasions, one of them in the real world.
"Your Grace? You awa
ke now?" Payton stood at the door of her pavilion.
Unfortunately, she was. Her mind, however, was still busy digesting what she had just seen. Most of her brief encounter with Anvil was not a dream; it was a memory. "He was there from the beginning. He was there before it happened." Astounded, she gazed at Payton, wondering how she had not recognized Anvil's face the moment she had seen him behind the bars of his cell in Subrel. That bastard shall lead me to all the lords involved in my family's murder.
"Seems you had a nightmare, Your Grace." Payton's lips made a firm line. "Unfortunately, I have grave news that I must inform you of."
His statement was enough to rouse her from her memories and dreams. "What is it, Captain?" Rona pushed to her feet. "Is Lord Foubert alright?"
Payton heaved a deep sigh, gathering his courage to announce, "We lost all the trebuchets on the way, Your Grace. They were ambushed at the Green Hills."
7. MASOLON
Masolon was patient enough to follow his new Murasen advisor until he finished his meticulous inspection of the broken wall of Subrel. The knights who had escorted them from Ramos were surely bored, but no one would dare to complain. They would leave only by the order of the lord of Subrel.
"So?" Masolon hoped he could evoke a response from Ziyad before the clouds might grow thicker and shower them along their journey back to Ramos. The Murasen's silence urged Masolon to add, "How long will it take?"
"I'm not a wall expert." Ziyad did not reveal anything surprising. Being the only friend still sticking to Masolon was the sole reason why the new lord of Subrel was seeking his advice. "But it will take long."
Ziyad's answer was worse than his silly japes. "How long is long, Ziyad?"
The Murasen contemplated the wall, probably for the hundredth time. "I don't know. It depends on the number of the hands available for the task." Putting his hands on his waist, he turned to Masolon. "Do you know where you will bring the stone from? You need a whole mountain to repair that wall."
Throne of Ruins Page 5
