“Rufina,” Killian answered. “We’re stockpiling clean water, and more can be retrieved north and south of the city during the daylight hours. Whereas the Derin army will be here”—he looked at the map, considering the math—“in three, possibly four, days.”
“And Serrick’s abandoned us,” High Lord Cavinbern shouted, slamming his fist down on the table. “The Seventh take him, doesn’t he realize half the ruling houses of Mudamora are stuck in this cursed city?”
“He’s not stupid,” Hacken interjected. “He knows we’ll get out before the siege begins.”
All eyes went to the hastily scrawled message in Serrick’s own hand, the ink smeared from where the paper had been rolled before it had dried. Then all eyes went to Killian.
This is what you do, he reminded himself. Not politics and lies and manipulation, but war. He cleared his throat. “High Lord Rowenes likely doesn’t believe the Royal Army will be able to catch the Derin army before it reaches Alder’s Ford, and in that he’s probably correct. What Rufina will do once she passes the river Tarn is split her army into three. Part to hold the ford, part to sack Mudaire, and part to go south to the coast to take Abenharrow. So what High Lord Rowenes is going to do instead is march the Royal Army hard south and east, cross the Tarn here”—he pointed at the map—“and intercept the Derin army before they can reach Abenharrow, where the Royal Army will make its stand.”
The whole room erupted in outrage, and from behind Malahi, Killian heard Sonia snarl something in Gamdeshian that he was fairly certain translated as Craven yellow-haired worm. In truth, Serrick’s decision was strategically sound. Mudaire itself was lost. The wells were poisoned and there was no reliable source of food. What were a hundred thousand lives compared to the millions living in the southern part of the kingdom who’d be at risk if the Royal Army wasn’t able to intercept the enemy?
But just because something was strategically valid didn’t mean it was right.
“What is our strategy, then?” Malahi asked.
“I’ll take all the soldiers at our disposal and try to cut Rufina’s army off. Buy some time.”
The door opened then. A Gamdeshian soldier in a lieutenant’s uniform entered, the man bowing low. His clothing was both singed and salt stained, a still-bleeding cut marring one of his russet-brown cheeks. “Your Majesty. Your Graces.”
Malahi rose. “You have a count, then? How many ships are sailable?”
“Yes, my lady. Four ships.”
She blanched and Killian felt his own stomach flip. He’d known it was bad, but …
“Four ships?” Malahi repeated. “Out of one hundred?”
“Yes, my lady. Four sailable ships.” The Gamdeshian lieutenant’s face was grim, the muscles beneath his skin flexing periodically as though he was struggling to maintain his composure.
“And your number of soldiers?”
“Five hundred, give or take.”
“Of?”
“Two thousand, my—” The man’s voice cracked, his head bowing.
“Gods.” Malahi pressed a hand to her mouth. “I am so sorry. May the Six take and comfort their souls.”
The lieutenant took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “This is not a war against Mudamora, Your Majesty. It is a war against humanity. Against the Six themselves. If there was any doubt in the minds of my soldiers as to why we are here, last night vanquished it.”
“Good.” Killian straightened. “Then they’ll be ready to march by midmorning. I assume you will be in command of the Gamdeshian force?”
The man’s gaze shifted past Killian to the guardswomen standing behind Malahi. Killian lifted one eyebrow. “Or am I to presume that Sonia will resume her role as captain, then?”
The guardswoman snorted. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Killian asked. “I trust you. They trust you. Seems a splendid idea. What say you, Lieutenant?”
Ignoring Killian, the man saluted Sonia. “I’ll ready our soldiers to march on your order, Captain.”
“This is madness, Killian.” Hacken threw up his hands. “You can’t really mean to strip Mudaire of every soldier it has?”
“I mean to strip the city of every person in it who is willing to fight,” Killian answered, forcing himself to meet his brother’s gaze. “The city isn’t defendable. We have less than a thousand trained soldiers, and it would take three times that number to defend a wall of this size against a force as large as Rufina’s. And that’s if the wall was whole and strong, but we know the blight has undermined the foundation. It won’t be long until sections in the western quarter begin to collapse.”
“But—”
“There are no buts, Hacken. Rufina’s army will be here in three days. You have only four ships to evacuate a hundred thousand people to Abenharrow where they can caravan south to safety. At best you can expect two round trips per day, which means you’ll have evacuated fewer than five thousand people by the time the battle begins.”
No one in the room spoke.
“Our only option is to try to stop them from reaching the city in order to buy you more time.” Smoothing the map, he pressed a finger down on a spot west of Mudaire. “The only place suitable for an army to cross the river Tarn is here at Alder’s Ford. It’s narrow and steep, and we’ll have the high ground. We should be able to hold them back for a couple of days before we’re overrun. Which should give you five days, at least, to evacuate.”
Not nearly enough time, and everyone knew it.
“I’ve drafted a document detailing that we’ve voted to put Malahi on the throne.” Hacken’s voice cut through the noise. “We’ll sign it and have it dispatched immediately to the Royal Army.” Picking up a pen, he signed his name, passing the document on to Cavinbern, who signed it as well. The document circled the table, finally landing in front of Helene Torrington, who sat silent and red-eyed at the far end of the table. The vote they needed for a majority. The vote Malahi needed to remain queen.
Slowly, she lifted her face. “You want me to support the girl who caused all of this? Whose meddling and scheming got my father killed? Resulted in the sacking of the royal palace and the burning of an entire fleet?” She laughed, the sound piercing and shrill. “And for what? To save those Mudamora is better off without at the risk of the good and hardworking souls of the South who depend on our army to keep them safe?”
Killian shook his head, having known this was coming. But he still twitched as Helene rose in a flurry of motion, her eyes full of fury. “You want me vote for the girl who intends to marry him?”
“Helene, enough,” Malahi said. “You’ve made your point.”
“Shut up, Malahi. You no longer have the privilege of telling me what to do.” Helene leaned her hands on the table. “And neither do the rest of you. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go retrieve my things, and then I’m going to go board one of those ships.” Without another word, she stormed out of the room.
Hacken turned a dark glare on Killian, tempting him to point out that his conflict with Helene wouldn’t matter if Hacken and Malahi hadn’t forced this bloody betrothal down his throat without asking. Not that it was looking likely that he’d live long enough to attend his pending nuptials.
“We need to get word to Serrick!” One of the High Lords banged his fist on the table. “Advise him that we have forces on the way to hold the ford.”
“I’ve sent word to Abenharrow already,” Killian answered. “They’ll send riders to meet the Royal Army, but by the time they reach them it’s likely going to be too late. And anyone we send will have to find their way through the Derin army and its scouts. We must plan for the reality that we are on our—”
“Where are my boys?”
At the sound of the familiar female voice, Killian broke off, his head whipping to the doors right as they swung open and his mother strode in, a grey-haired giant at her heels.
Everyone, including Malahi, rose at the sight of Lady Calorian, who surveyed them all
with a glower. “Well, haven’t you all managed to botch things right up.”
No one answered. No one, Killian was quite certain, dared.
His mother circled the table until she stood in front of him. Reaching up, she took hold of his chin and pulled him down to her level, brow furrowing as she inspected his swollen eye. “This the worst of it?”
“I’m fine, Mother.”
She huffed out an exasperated breath. “You could be run through and bleeding everywhere and you’d still say the same thing.”
Not waiting for an answer, she continued in her progress around the table until she reached Hacken. “Well?”
He blinked at her.
“Move, Hacken. I’ve just walked all the way up from the harbor and my feet hurt.”
Color rising to his cheeks, Hacken rose from the Calorian seat and pushed it under their mother while she smoothed her black skirts. “I’ve brought five vessels with me, all full of horses, weapons, and supplies, which my crews are in the process of unloading. I will, of course, be taking full control of the evacuation. It’s a matter that requires organization, which makes me best suited.”
“Mother—” Hacken said even as Malahi blurted out, “Lady Calorian, surely—”
“I believe you have other matters requiring your attention, Your Highness,” Lady Calorian interrupted. “And Hacken, you couldn’t organize a closet without somehow making it political.”
Killian cleared his throat. “Mother, it would be safer for you to leave with the first round of evacuees.”
Silence. Then her eyebrow slowly arched. “Safer?”
“The palace is destroyed. There are bodies everywhere and the Six know what will happen once the sun goes down again.”
His mother leaned back in her chair. “Killian, I stayed with your father through the sack of Serlania during the Giant Wars. Do you honestly believe I’m going to turn tail when faced with hungry civilians?”
“It’s worse than that.”
She made a noise that told him to shut up while he was still ahead. “How many days do we have?”
“If we can beat them to the ford, five.”
“And nine ships in total.” Pulling a sheet of paper in front of her, she picked up a pen, gesturing to the giant. “Ivan here is a summoner. He’ll turn the winds in the favor of our ships. Draw in some rain so those who wait have something to drink that isn’t full of poison.”
The giant spoke. “Eoten Isle stands against the Seventh. So today, that means we stand with Mudamora.” He lifted a huge shoulder in a shrug, his face splitting with a grin. “You are our favorite to cross swords with, and we would not care to see you fall to another foe when we have long wished for you to fall to us.”
“It’s good to have aspirations,” Killian said, and the giant filled the room with his thundering laugh.
Lady Calorian finished her calculations, lifting her head and tapping the pen against her chin.
“Well?” Killian asked her. “Can you find enough seats at the table?”
His mother set down the pen, giving him a look that would’ve sent him running if he were still a child. “If you can give me six days, I can do it.”
57
LYDIA
Lydia sat on her bed in the barracks, staring blankly at the worn wooden floor while she picked blood and grime out from under her fingernails.
The house was silent. Empty. Little more than a day had passed since it had been abandoned, the well contaminated by blight, but already it felt lifeless. As soon the whole city would be.
Coming back here had been a mistake. Or at the very least, lingering had been.
Too many memories.
Too many reminders of what, briefly, she’d had. And what she had lost.
Exhaling a ragged breath, she stood and undressed, her uniform stiff with dried blood and sweat. She left the ruined garments on the floor and retrieved her one dress, the wool smelling like soap, though it wouldn’t for long given how filthy she was. But a bath was out of the question; the bucket of water she’d drawn up from the well was grey and smelled of rot. Her mark might keep her from being poisoned, but she’d rather not tempt fate.
Pulling her hair up into a messy twist, she buckled her sword belt over her dress, put her meager belongings into her satchel, and started downstairs, intent on walking to the harbor and washing up in the ocean. Reaching for the handle, she pulled the door open.
To find a startled Killian standing on the doorstep.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted out even as she took in the pieces of armor and chain mail he wore. His black war-horse stood on the empty street, his saddlebags bulging. “You’re leaving?”
He nodded. “I’ll lead our forces and try to hold back Rufina’s army long enough to evacuate the city.”
“What about the Royal Army?”
“Moving south to protect the rest of the kingdom.”
“Oh,” she said, the realization of what that meant hitting her like a battering ram to the stomach. “I see.”
It wasn’t a march to victory. It was a march to die so that the people of Mudaire might have a chance to live.
A tremor shook her hands, hundreds of words rising to her lips. A thousand words. All of them designed to keep him from going. To keep him alive, no matter the cost.
She said none of them.
He cleared his throat, eyes shifting up the street before moving back to her. “My mother, of all people, is organizing the evacuation. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to get on one of those ships, but if anyone gives you trouble, you find her and give her this.” He handed her a letter. “They are going to be unloading the ships at Abenharrow, and from there people will travel to Serlania on foot. But you should be able to hire passage from another vessel in one of the port towns and get there sooner.”
She nodded, her eyes burning.
“Once you’re in Serlania, you need to get in touch with my brother Seldrid. Use my name, if you need to. Then give him this.” He handed her another letter. “Tell him about Teriana, her crew, the Empire. All of it. He’ll get you in contact with Maarin crews and make certain you have everything else you need. He’s a good man—you can trust him.”
Her jaw was trembling. Speech was impossible, so she only nodded again.
“You get back home, all right?” His hands caught her elbows, holding her steady. “You unseat that bastard Cassius. You get Teriana and the rest of the Maarin free. And if Hegeria is still with you, use your mark to heal your father.”
“I will.” A hot tear rolled down her cheek.
“And you go with Teriana.” His voice was hoarse. “Stay with the Maarin or sail with them until you find somewhere you love. Then make a good life for yourself. Don’t let those Cel bastards keep you.”
His grip on her arms was tight, and Lydia stepped forward, only inches separating them. “I could come back.”
Wind whistled down the street, an empty straw basket tumbling along with it. The war-horse pawed the ground, pinning his ears before trying to kick the basket. But Killian didn’t answer.
Then his hand slid down her arm to grip her hand. “In another life, I’d get down on my knees and beg you to come back. Might beg you not to go in the first place.”
Her heart was beating so very quickly, a promise sitting on her tongue, waiting to be spoken.
Only to be silenced as Killian shook his head. “Don’t come back to Mudamora, Lydia. There is nothing here for you but pain.” He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “Good luck. May the Six guide and protect your steps back to Teriana’s side.”
Turning, he strode toward the enormous horse and swung into the saddle, heeling the animal into a swift canter up the street.
He didn’t look back.
Lydia didn’t know how long she stood there unmoving. A minute. A lifetime.
There is nothing here for you. Not in Mudaire. Not on a Maarin ship. Not in Celendor. Was there something for her anywhere? Was t
here anywhere that she belonged?
Silencing the thoughts, she shoved the letters into her satchel and closed the door, heading up the street in the opposite direction toward the harbor.
A scuffle of sound caught her attention, and she peered into the blurry shadows. Wary of those who might attack her to take the few possessions she had, Lydia extracted her knife, moving to the center of the street and stopping in her tracks as Gwen stepped out from an alley.
“Been looking for you,” the other girl said. “You disappeared.”
“I was fired, remember?”
“Still could’ve said good-bye.”
Gwen was right. She should’ve. These girls had been her friends for the past month. Had held her hand when she’d cried. Guarded her back. Made her laugh when she believed laughter impossible. Good-bye was the least of what she owed them. “I’m sorry.”
Gwen started toward her, hands in the pockets of her coat. “Come back to the palace with me. Do things right before you hightail it south.”
The skin on the back of Lydia’s neck prickled, and she turned to see two of the other guardswomen walking up the street behind her, Lena following reluctantly in their wake. What was going on?
“Seems like I can say my good-byes right here.” The palm of her hand holding the knife was slick with sweat.
“Better if you come with us.”
They were approaching her on all sides. None of them had weapons in hand, but neither did they need them. All of them knew how to use their fists. “What’s going on?”
Gwen’s face was grim, and she gave a weary shake of her head. “I told you not to get involved with him. Told you it would be the worst sort of trouble. But you didn’t listen.”
“It’s not like that.” Lydia’s free hand balled into a fist of frustration. If only she could tell them the truth: About her being a healer. About Killian hiring her because she could see the corrupted. About how he was helping her get back home. That he’d been teaching her to fight so she could protect herself.
But was that the whole truth? Or was the person she was lying to herself?
Dark Skies Page 38
