"Of course, my friend." Ziyad smiled. "That's the bail you're going to deliver to Lord Sanislav for sure."
Viktor buried the pouch beneath his heavy fur coat, a smile lasting for a second on his face. "Old drunken Darov. He was a man you would enjoy his company. Didn't stop prattling about whatever crossed his mind." He sighed. "But the fool drank too much the night before the most important day in his life. The mess he made next morning was too much to handle."
Mess: an understatement for the explosion that had grilled the Lord Marshal's firstborn.
"It was an accident. He didn't mean to hurt anybody," said Ziyad, though he believed that Darov was lucky Larovic had not severed his head on the spot.
"I'm afraid I might not be able to help you with your prisoner, son," said Viktor in an apologetic tone.
Ziyad had saved another clinking pouch in case Viktor might get greedy, and the steward did not disappoint him. "But you know someone who might be able to. Am I right?"
"You don't understand. In a gesture of mercy on the occasion of his daughter's betrothal, Lord Sanislav granted your prisoner his freedom two months ago."
Ziyad was not sure whether that was good or bad news. "He must have returned where his family resides."
"We know nothing of Darov having a family." Viktor shrugged. "But if I remember right, we sent a letter to Pyotsberg the first time Lord Larovic summoned him."
* * *
On his way to the tavern, Ziyad must have cursed Masolon and his alleged demon a hundred times. I will not wander this frozen kingdom in the winter because of some stupid nightmare, he thought. It was about time for Masolon to understand that his delusions were not taking him anywhere. Ziyad would be surprised if Queen Rona did not strip his friend of his recently-granted title for his foolish act.
Dusk was almost there when Ziyad made it to the tavern. Hope they have vacant bedchambers here, he thought as he pushed the door open. For the time being, he was not ready for another ride in this freezing weather. We should pass again by Blanich, and let's hope his pretty wife has a sister or even a cousin half as beautiful as her. Ziyad would never mind ceding the honorable company of Lord Masolon if he found that "lucky" girl.
Obviously, the new lord of Subrel had made good use of his time while waiting for Ziyad. On his table rested three empty platters and two flagons, one of them half-full still. "Brother! You are back!" Masolon welcomed him with open arms.
Doesn't he notice that I'm back alone? Ziyad found Masolon's calmness unexplainable.
"I have bad news." Ziyad sat opposite to Masolon.
"They did not give you our man, did they?" Masolon took a gulp of his drink.
"Did your demon tell you or what?"
"I sense disgruntlement in your tone, brother."
"Forgive me, brother." Smirking, Ziyad grabbed the full flagon and entertained himself. "I forgot I was not allowed to question your sacred vision."
"Now I sense mockery."
Ziyad slammed the flagon on the table, spilling wine over the tip of his sleeve. "You have a damned idea how your foolishness has blinded you? The fates smile upon you and put you in a decent place, and yet you do everything you can to lose that place."
Masolon tilted his head, leaning back in his seat. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the queen who broke all the norms and made a lord out of you. You think that abandoning her in the middle of the war will go without consequences? If she lets you get away with your absurd journey this time, her vassals will spare no effort to turn her against you."
"Her vassals' efforts will be futile when I come back with the weapon that will decide the fate of the war."
"You are right, milord," Ziyad sneered. "If you come back with that cursed weapon."
Masolon's response this time was nothing but a wide smile.
"That Darov could be anywhere in Rusakia," Ziyad went on. "And you know what? You can't let your queen wait for your return longer than that, because of the reasons I just mentioned."
"I cannot agree more, brother." Masolon's smile started to provoke Ziyad. "She will not wait for my return longer than that."
Now Ziyad figured out what Masolon was up to. "No, no, no. This is not going to happen. I didn't join you to leave me here, wandering Rusakia in the winter, looking for an old man I don't know how he—"
"That is my seat, young man," came out a firm voice from behind Ziyad. When he looked over his shoulder, he gaped at the slender man clad in a woolen coat, his hair and beard grey and heavy. "What is the matter with you?" He turned to Masolon. "Can you not guard my place while I take a piss?"
Guessing the reason behind Masolon's awkward smile was no more a mystery. "Please tell me your name is Darov," said Ziyad to the old man.
"You must be Ziyad." The old man extended his arm, his tone no longer firm. "I would understand if you did not feel enthusiastic about shaking hands at this very moment, but trust me, I am an expert in all kinds of ranged weapons." He winked at Ziyad. "I never miss a target."
12. RONA
"They are waiting for you, Your Grace," Payton announced after she granted him her permission to enter her pavilion.
"I'm ready," Rona gruffly said as she went outside her tent alongside the archers' commander, who would become her future Captain of the Royal Guard after conquering Paril.
It was not hard for her to guess the topic of the meeting Lord Foubert had requested on behalf of all other lords and commanders. For the last four weeks, she had been asked to lift the siege and retreat to Ramos, but she had insisted on staying here, with the walls of Paril in sight, until Foubert and the other vassals found a way to bring engineers into the camp. She still could not believe she was unable to bring one damned engineer here.
Around the round table in the center of the meeting pavilion stood Gramus, Edmond, Norwell, Foubert, and Yavier. "Please," Rona urged them to sit as she picked a seat between Gramus and Norwell, a large map of Bermania spread over the whole table. "Any news about your engineers, Duke Foubert?" she started, hoping that was the reason why he had called for this meeting.
"No," Foubert curtly said. Four weeks were not enough for him to get over his tragic loss. Sometimes she sensed from the looks he shot her that he blamed her for Flebe's noble death. Well, in a way or another, she could be blamed for every soul reaped in her war to claim her family's throne.
"Does anybody in this pavilion have a brilliant idea how we get a bloody engineer here?" She forced through clenched teeth. Gramus lowered his head when she added, "Safe and sound?"
Yavier exchanged a look with his father, as if hesitant to speak.
"Lord Yavier, if you have something to say, please share it with us." She glared at him. "I'm tired of whispers and silent looks."
"The men we sent to bring the engineers were ambushed more than once and in different places."
"Perhaps we are not sending enough men for the task," Rona put in.
"Your Grace," Yavier sighed, "even if we send the entire army, it will be of no use. Everybody in Bermania now knows what happened to our soldiers. If there are engineers still alive in our fiefs, they will never show up to avoid the fate of their fellows."
Before Rona might lose her temper, she reminded herself that she was the one who asked her vassal to share his insightful thoughts. "I presume you have an alternative to storming the walls of Paril without trebuchets."
"We saw for ourselves what might happen to our troops when we attack without trebuchets," Foubert spoke on behalf of his son. "No need to make another failed attempt."
"We will make another attempt," Rona insisted. "And you all will tell me how it is going to work this time."
But nobody told her anything.
"What is wrong with you? Did you call for a meeting so that I could hear your silence?" Rona snapped.
"Your Grace, our scouts at the coast have spotted boats headed to Paril," Norwell said. "Wilander is probably getting supplies to his city from Skandivia."
&
nbsp; "If that is true, starving the city won't be possible," Gramus muttered.
"Even we kept besieging it the whole year," Yavier added.
"I see now." Rona contemplated the faces of her vassals. "You all have already reached a conclusion." And to her surprise, Gramus seemed to be in agreement with them.
"We must retreat to Ramos, Your Grace," Foubert stated. "We have more than one reason to do that."
"I have one damn reason to not retreat, milords. And I tell you what, it is more than enough for me."
"Every day we spend here takes you away from the throne, Your Grace. For your very damn reason, we need to go back to Ramos to replenish our forces and restore order in our terrorized fiefs. They must know we are still in charge, or else, they will supply who they believe he is."
How dare he? Rona found herself clenching her fist. While she was weighing her next words, Norwell said, "We will find the engineers, and we will return to Paril with the whole army guarding our siege weapons. But we are in bad need of coin, Your Grace, and our trade in Ramos is barely recovering. Merchants must believe we still can protect their caravans so that they don't shy away."
She was cornered. Even Gramus was not backing her up in her current stance.
"You told me you could bring me Paril," she reminded Foubert.
"I did, but our enemy was more prepared than I thought. I will bring you Paril, but to do that, we should be more prepared than he thinks."
Was that it? Did her vassals think they could force her to retreat because they all agreed on that? She was the Queen. If assaulting the walls of Paril was what she wanted, all she had to do was give the order.
I gave the order before and it didn't work, she reminded herself. Perhaps there was some sense in her vassals' argument, but even if they were totally right, the idea of walking away from Paril after she got this close was hard for her to stomach. There must be a way, but we cannot see it. Our defeat has blinded us all.
Rona slammed her palm against the table. "I'm not giving a command of retreat until I hear how we can be prepared more than our enemy thinks."
Everybody glanced at Foubert. He was the one who dug that hole for himself.
"That is something we must think about on our way back, Your Grace," Foubert said after a moment.
"That is something you must think about it here." Rona gnashed her teeth. "Nobody is going to leave this tent until you tell me how we are going to stun our enemy."
Foubert allowed a nervous smile. "Your Grace, we have been unable to figure out an alternative for a whole month. How long do you expect us to stay here?"
"As long as it takes. I would spend a year here rather than retreat now." She glanced at Norwell and Yavier. "With all my respect to your opinion of Skandivian naval supplies, I believe they will never be enough to help Paril survive. And if those supplies are enough for any reason, we can rest assured that Wilander will owe the Skandivians a lot. One day, be it next week or next year, Wilander will run out of coin."
"Paril is the wealthiest city, not only in Bermania, but in all Gorania," Yavier pointed out. "Only the Lord of Sky and Earth knows how many years we need to starve it."
"I have been patient for twelve years." Rona simpered. "I won't mind a few more."
"We can't keep our soldiers idle all that long," Foubert protested.
"Then keep them busy, milord," Rona suggested. "The Green Hills can be a good start."
"You want us to storm the hills?"
"We have a good reason to do that, don't we?"
"We won't need to do that if we are going to stay here that long," said Norwell. "Sooner or later the forces guarding the hills will need to replenish their. . ."
Norwell paused when Payton hurried into the pavilion, striding toward Rona. Bad news, she guessed.
"Your Grace," he whispered in her ear. "Lord Masolon is here and insists on having a word in private with you."
Masolon is back? Rona almost exclaimed. The way the bastard had abandoned her was an insult, and his return was a silly joke. Where had he been when she had asked for his presence? He made me wait a whole month. An hour won't harm him. "Tell him I will listen to him after the meeting," she said, her voice low. If truth be told, she could hardly wait to see him. Not because she missed him. Well, she might have missed him a bit, but her fury outweighed her yearning for him.
"He wants to talk to you now, Your Grace." When Rona peered at Payton, he retorted, "I mean he wishes to."
I must punish that rascal if he is messing with me again. She rose to her feet. "You may continue this meeting, milords. I hope I hear ideas from you when I come back."
"Something wrong, Your Grace?" Gramus asked, his brow furrowed.
"That I will know." Rona gestured to him to stay in his place. "Help them find a way, Gramus. I must capture that city."
There was an apologetic look on her guardian's face when he pressed his lips together. Yes, you should feel guilty. You are not doing what you are supposed to do.
Rona strode after Payton outside the meeting tent where Masolon was waiting for her, a wide smile on his face. "Good to see you again, Your Grace," said the returning lord of Subrel.
"Why are you here?" She would slap him were it not for Payton and the soldiers around them.
"I will answer all your questions, Your Grace. Can we have a little walk in the camp?"
Something in his smile provoked her. He has no damned idea what he has done to me. "I should put you in chains for insulting me."
"I really understand your fury. But if you just—"
"No, you don't!" she cut him off. "You embarrassed me when you disobeyed a direct order from me and decided to leave on your own without my consent. Thanks to you, I'm a fool in my men's eyes because I'm the guileless girl who made an imprudent commoner a lord."
Masolon's annoying smile faded away. "Would you please let me explain everything?"
Rona heaved a deep breath. "I will be fine with Lord Masolon, Captain," she said to Payton.
"I will mind my distance." The captain tilted his head.
I know you would. Rona turned to Masolon. "Let's have a little walk, Lord Masolon."
He gave her a wry smile before they ambled side by side through the camp. "You did not miss me a bit, did you?" he asked.
Her soldiers pretended to be looking elsewhere as she and Masolon passed by them. Everybody is gossiping about Queen Rona who has a liking to the new lord of Subrel, Gramus's words still echoed in her mind. "You had better have something to say worth interrupting my war council," she curtly said. "I have critical decisions to take today, and you are. . . distracting me."
"I talked to Payton before I sent him to you. He told me that you were not able to go past the well-defended walls of Paril."
"True." The bastard dared to remind her of the very dark moment he had not been there for her. "We were battered while you were wandering on your own."
"I was not wandering, Rona. It sounds strange, I know, but the truth is that I had to leave without waiting for your permission to save you."
Masolon was back to his nonsense. "Really? How did your absence save me?" She could not help mocking him.
"I saw it all, Rona. I saw many of your men die at the walls of Paril." Masolon gazed at her. "I saw you. You were there on the battlefield."
"You saw me?"
"My grandfather used to see beyond time and distance." He shrugged. "It seems that I have inherited his gift."
Now she hoped he was just messing with her. "How did you see me?"
Masolon exhaled heavily. "I really do not want to recall that sight. Anyhow, it was bad enough to urge me to go and seek a way to prevent it from happening."
"And you found a way?"
"Well." A smile slipped over his face. "We are about to see for ourselves."
They were already past the western perimeter of her camp when she found Ziyad and a gray-haired man she did not recognize, both sleeping between a cart full of round "stones" and a two-wheeled cylin
drical. . . thing. "What is this?"
"According to him, it is a cannon." Masolon nudged the sleeping old man with his boot. "I prefer to call it: The Thundermaker."
Alarmed, the gray-haired man woke up. "Oh, I dozed for a while, didn't I?"
Masolon gave the old man a hand and brought him to his feet. "Queen Rona, this is Darov, a brilliant chemist from Rusakia."
"Oh dear! Where are my manners?" The old Rusakian sketched a funny bow. "Your Grace, a great honor to stand before you."
A Rusakian in her camp? That would be an interesting topic indeed. But she was more interested to know what this cannon was supposed to do.
"Did you load the cannon before you both fell asleep?" Masolon asked Darov.
"It will not take long," the Rusakian promised. "Just wake your friend to give us a hand."
Masolon went to rouse Ziyad, but the Murasen only responded after the tenth nudge. "He seems very tired," she muttered, Ziyad grunting as Masolon pulled him up to his feet. The Murasen hurriedly greeted her before he went to aid the Rusakian old man with the round stones.
"We had a long night yesterday," Masolon explained while Ziyad and Darov were carrying a round stone together from the cart to that thundermaker. "After disembarking at the northern Bermanian coast, we waited until the darkness fell to start our slow, quiet ride past the Green Hills."
"Disembarking?" Why the sea? He said he was traveling to Rusakia in his letter. "Where were you coming from?"
"Long story." Masolon allowed a light chuckle. "First Durberg to find Darov. Then Pyotsberg to get parts and material from Darov's abandoned house. And then we got ourselves a boat that took us around the Skandivian coast until we made it here in Bermania."
Only a fool would go for a journey like Masolon's in winter. "You are all lucky you are still alive."
"I cannot disagree." Masolon shook his head. "They do not exaggerate when they say that Rusakian winter is only for Rusakians."
Throne of Ruins Page 10
