by Gary Meehan
“How about books?” said Sener. “Priests like writing things down. There must be some treatise somewhere with instructions.”
“Possibly,” said Damon, “but by the time we’ve educated ourselves in post-mortem investigation your dad’s going to be a bit . . . squishy. Look”—he plucked Sener’s goblet out of his hand and went to refill it, pouring himself one at the same time—“even if you do find out something was a bit dodgy with the general’s . . . you know . . . what can you do about it?”
“Kill the bitch.”
Not jumping to any conclusions then? “And what’ll happen then? You’ll be cut down faster than you can say, ‘Argh!’”
“I’m not without support.”
“You will be once they dismember you.”
“My men . . .”
“. . . might or might not volunteer to get hacked down in sympathy. You never know how these things are going to turn out.”
Sener downed his wine and stared into the fire. “We shouldn’t have come here.”
“New Statham’s hell this time of year. You’d think a city this rich’d pave its streets. I heard the cobblers’ guild kept blocking the proposals.”
“We should never have crossed the Savage Ocean. We should have stayed in the empire. What did we come to Werlavia for? A mad woman’s fantasy, and to avenge crimes few of us can even remember.”
“It’s not too late,” said Damon. “You could always go back.”
“No. We’ve started the war; we must end it. I must march north and claim the ‘Savior.’”
Damon grimaced, thoughts going to places he’d prefer they’d leave well abandoned. “I’d pack warm if I were you,” he said with a flippancy he didn’t feel.
“She won’t surrender the child without a fight, will she?”
“No . . .”
“I’ll have to kill her,” said Sener.
“Good luck with that.”
“You don’t care?”
“Many people have tried to kill Megan. No one’s managed it.” Damon grimaced. He could have said that about Eleanor.
eleven
Over the next few days, the first of the refugees trickled into Hil. Fordel tried to monopolize the organization of how they were settled and Megan had to stop herself from letting him. She couldn’t afford to be seen as some vassal of the Hilites and made a point of being involved in every decision. Unfortunately Fordel took this rather too literally and flooded her with paperwork covering the entire minutiae of life in the city. Megan retreated to her room—the best to keep an eye on Cate—and spread the scrolls and parchments and sheaves of paper all over her bed to wade through them there, with only Father Galan and Ími, Hil’s official mathematician and Fordel’s boyfriend, to stop her drowning.
Megan grabbed a parchment at random and held it up to Ími. “What’s this one about?”
Ími leaned forward and squinted. He was a wiry man of about thirty with jet-black hair and beard cropped so short they looked painted on. “Latrines,” he translated.
“Latrines?” said Megan. “Fordel thinks worrying about latrines is the best use of my time?”
Father Galan grimaced and poured himself some more wine. “Feeding all these extra people is going to lead to . . . certain results.”
“No shit.”
“That would be the ideal solution if you could arrange it,” said Ími.
Afreyda hovered by the door. “May I speak with you, Your Majesty?”
“Your Majesty?” said Megan. “Afreyda, it’s me.”
“You are queen. You must be addressed correctly.”
“I guess . . .” Megan looked to Ími and Father Galan. “Gentlemen, if you could . . . ?”
The two men took their leave, Father Galan taking the wine’s leave too. Afreyda went over to the cot and stroked the cheek of the sleeping Cate. The monotonous droning of the bureaucrats, which had made Megan’s eyelids heavy, had had a wonderful effect on her daughter. She’d slept solidly for hours.
“I have been thinking,” said Afreyda. “I should move back here.”
Megan’s heart started to race. “If . . . if you think that’s best.”
“It would be best for Cate.”
“Cate, yes, sure.” Megan shuffled papers to distract herself.
“If you disagree, I will stay in the barracks.”
“No, no, you should come back. She’s missed you.”
“How can you tell?” said Afreyda. “She is a baby.”
“A mother knows these things.”
“You are making it up.”
“Maybe.” Megan grinned. She’d take Afreyda’s return no matter the excuse. “We’d better go get your stuff.”
“There is no stuff to get. My bag has gone.”
“Gone?” said Megan. “Why would . . . ?” She remembered whose the bag had been originally, who had been so desperate to retrieve it. “Aldred.”
“I do not understand.”
Given everything that had happened, Megan had forgotten to fill Afreyda in on a mere murder attempt. “He was frantic to find it. We had an . . . altercation.” She felt his hands on her throat again, a phantom strangulation. There had been no sign of Aldred since the coup attempt. He must have holed up somewhere then lost himself among the refugees, settling in one of the other Snow Cities, maybe, or slipping through the Kartik tunnels back into the Realm. “He blames me for what happened to Eleanor.”
“He should not.”
“Shouldn’t he?” said Megan. “Because no matter how much I claim to have been manipulated and forced by events, I still had a choice in everything. I could have forced Eleanor to come with us, we didn’t have to march on Ainsworth with the army, and as much as I love her”—she nodded at Cate’s cot—“I didn’t have to let a boy who I never really liked talk me into . . . you know . . .”
Afreyda sat next to Megan and took her hand. “Gwyneth would have made sure you got pregnant one way or another. If you had not come to Eastport, I would still be in her service. And Eleanor did what any mother would be glad to do. Aldred is trying to find someone to blame, someone to seek vengeance from.”
“Still doesn’t explain what he wants with an old laundry bag,” said Megan. “Maybe he has a sentimental attachment to his dirty underpants.”
“Maybe he has an attachment to my dirty underpants,” said Afreyda.
They looked at each, shuddered, then collapsed into giggles. Megan rested her head on Afreyda’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of her body, the steady pulse of her blood. It felt so natural to be here like this, like she’d found the place where she fitted. She looked up and caught Afreyda looking down at her, her eyes a rich brown like varnished mahogany. Desire made her heart pound. She started to lean in, close the narrow gap that existed between them.
There was a cough at the door. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” said Father Galan. “We thought you’d finished.” Behind him, Ími gave an apologetic shrug. “We do have work to be getting on with.”
Megan hurriedly broke away from Afreyda. “Yes, of course.” She started to pace the room, work off the nervous energy. “I’ve been thinking. Father Galan, could you draw up a captain’s commission for me?”
“Who are you commissioning?” asked the priest. His eyes were drawn to Afreyda. “Her?”
“Me?”
“Interesting,” said Ími.
“We have hundreds of soldiers and no one to command them,” said Megan. “Afreyda had six years at the Diannon Officers’ Academy. Our own men were lucky to get two weeks of basic shouting.”
“But I am a woman,” said Afreyda. “I am not of the Faith.” Concern etched itself on to her face. “You do not expect me to convert, do you? I cannot betray—”
Megan shook her head. “The men need someone to lead them, someone brave and loyal, who will never put her own needs above those of the greater good.”
“They will not accept me. I killed three of them.”
“They’ll know not to mess with you,
won’t they?” Megan took Afreyda’s hand and squeezed it. “I need you to do this for me. There is no one else.”
“Do you really think I can?”
“I wouldn’t ask otherwise,” said Megan.
“Then I will,” said Afreyda. “By the time I have finished, your soldiers will be the fiercest fighting force this side of the Savage Ocean, or they will be dead.” She considered a moment. “Dead is more likely.”
Rekka ostentatiously hobbled into the meeting room, supporting herself with an ornate walking stick. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “Just the latest victim of religious intolerance.” She made a show of staring at Megan, looking for sympathy or an apology. Megan made a show of offering neither.
She took the seat to Vegar’s right, opposite Fordel. From the head of the long table, Vegar continued to glower at Megan. He’d been in a bad mood since peace had been restored to the city. Megan wasn’t sure what irked him most: the fact she’d brought it about or his being deprived of things to hit as a result.
“Are we all here?” asked Fordel.
“Not quite,” said Megan. She had the other end of the table, flanked by Afreyda and Father Galan. In between the two ends were the ambassadors from the other Snow Cities: three burly men who thought the council was a beer-and-beard party, and a middle-aged woman with a full figure and ash-blonde hair who watched proceedings with sharp eyes. None had said much to Megan, treating her like a child they’d unwittingly been left to attend while her mother ran an errand.
There was a gasp as the last attendee arrived: Father Broose. Rekka flushed. Vegar hauled a mace on to his hefty shoulders. Even Fordel raised a surprised eyebrow.
“And he’s here because . . . ?”
To annoy you. “The spirit of reconciliation,” said Megan. “Plus he’s one of the few of us who can remember fighting the witches the first time around.”
Vegar stalked around to Father Broose. He held out his hand. Father Broose gave it a suspicious look before he took it. Vegar yanked him close and drove his forehead into the priest’s face. Father Broose staggered back, clasping his nose. Blood dribbled through his fingers. Vegar spat some words of Hilite at him and swaggered back to his seat.
“This your idea of reconciliation?” Father Broose asked Megan, his voice reedy.
“He could have killed you.”
“You think I fear death?”
No. It was a trait he shared with the witches. It made him dangerous, but Megan needed his support, however grudging, as a bulwark against Fordel. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
“There are chairs at the back, Brother Broose,” added Father Galan.
“Brother?”
“I’d roll with it if I was you,” said Megan.
Fordel stood and beckoned to Ími. He scurried forward and unrolled a map of Werlavia. Vegar slammed his mace on one end, weighing it down, and cast a challenging look down at Megan. She flicked out a couple of knives and pinned her end of the map to the table.
“Thank you, Ími,” said Fordel. He took a box of tin soldiers—tiny models of fearsome warriors, a disturbing number of which brandished the decapitated heads of their enemies—and spread them out on the map. “The witches are marching.”
“Not away, I assume,” said Rekka.
“How many?” asked Megan.
“A thousand men, maybe two,” said Fordel. Megan grimaced. The witches had taken Eastport with less.
Fordel pushed some soldiers up the map, skirting the western shore of Lake Pullar and the edge of the Smallwood Marshes, and then up to the Kartiks. “They’re looking to hit us fast and hard.” His gaze flicked to Megan. “I think we all know why. We have a few weeks at most.”
“How do we know they will not send their fleet around and attack us from the sea?” asked Afreyda.
Everyone looked at her as if she was a child who had asked why you couldn’t see air. “The small matter of rocks one side of Werlavia, and ice on the other,” said Fordel. “But apart from that, it’d be a strategic masterstroke on their part.”
“I was just asking,” muttered Afreyda.
“When will the Kartik Mountains become impassable?” asked Megan.
“Not for a few weeks at least.”
“Can we hold them at the pass?” asked Father Galan.
“That’s the interesting question,” said Fordel. “No one’s ever fought against guns in this situation.” He looked to Afreyda. “Have they, captain?”
“We never got that far,” said Afreyda.
Megan wondered what it was like, that short desperate rebellion of Afreyda’s family. If they hadn’t lost, then Afreyda wouldn’t have ended up here in Werlavia with Megan. But then there’d be no Emperor to arm the witches and they might never have had the strength to return. Megan might still have her home, her grandfather, her sister.
“Didn’t you plan for it?” said Fordel. “The Diannon capital is surrounded by mountains. You must have thought about retreating there.”
Afreyda thought for a moment, then repositioned a handful of soldiers. “Spread the men out,” she said. “Hide them high in the rocks. The witches will have nothing to target. They will have to push forward. Come in range of our archers. They will be faster, more accurate than the guns.”
“Pretty much what we agreed on, wasn’t it, Ími?” said Fordel. He pointed at one of the repositioned pieces. “And you just moved a navy across land.”
“That is a soldier.”
“Tóki smashed all his toy boats,” said Rekka. “His teacher said he had ‘issues,’ whatever that means.”
“Did your commanders ever calculate the chances of this strategy succeeding?” asked Ími. Afreyda nodded. “And . . . ?”
“One chance in twenty.”
Megan would have hated for the situation to be completely hopeless.
twelve
Gunfire echoed around the mountains, the constant pounding slamming into Megan’s brain like a migraine. The stench of sulfur floated up on the air, along with other odors: the metallic tang of blood, the ammoniac stink of fear. Smoke mixed with dust, billowing up from the ground in great clouds, making it impossible to see what was going on. Megan had climbed to this archery emplacement high up in the Kartiks to try to make sense of what was going on, but she was reduced to guessing, looking to the flash of firing weapons, listening for where the screams where loudest. What was going on? Was anyone winning, was anyone losing? Who was dead, who was alive? Would the battle ever end or were they condemned to fight forever?
The rocks under her feet shook as a projectile smacked into the mountainside closer to her than she would have liked. As a trio of Hilite archers rose and fired, she ducked behind a wall protecting the emplacement. Arrow after arrow arced into the sky then dived, disappearing into the fog of war. They seemed so inconsequential compared to the brute power inherent in the witches’ guns.
The archers prepared to fire a fourth volley. The mountains trembled again, causing them to fall against each other. An arrow spiraled from a bowstring, bouncing off Megan’s arm before clattering by her feet. That shot was closer. A lot closer.
Two of the archers disappeared into the access tunnel, ducking into the narrow opening one after the other. The second grabbed Megan and bundled her after them.
“Dák!”
No need for a translation: retreat. Or, more accurately, get the hell out of here. She scrambled down the tunnel, having to scurry on hands and knees and grope her way in the cramped blackness. There was a low rumble. Grit and stones rained down. Megan heard a scream behind her. Fighting instinct, she squeezed round in the narrow space and crawled back up.
“I’m coming!” she cried into the darkness.
Leather fingers brushed her face. She snatched the hand, squeezed it. “What is it?”
Hilite jabbering answered her, the fear and pain clear in any language.
“We’ll get you out of here,” she said. “It’s not far.” She pulled. The Hilite refused to shift. “Come on, a
little cooperation here.”
Megan heaved again. She flew backward with nothing more of the archer than his glove. The world whirled as she slammed into the floor. Specks of light swam in her vision but refused to illuminate the way.
Megan forced down nausea and made her way back to the archer. She ran her hands over him, looking to grab him under the arms. That was when she hit rock. She felt around, praying her suspicions were wrong. No, that was the archer’s waist. Beyond that, solid stone. The ceiling had collapsed on him.
Another roar. More stones rained on her, larger ones this time. She covered her head, trying to quell the panic rising inside her that the mountain would trap her forever.
“Dák!”
“I’m not—” Chunks of the ceiling dropped, unprovoked by gunfire this time. An ominous crack echoed around the tunnel. “I’m sorry!”
Megan scrabbled backward. There was a crash then a cloud of dust enveloped her, almost thick enough to suffocate her. Nothing more solid though. She whispered a prayer, twisted around and fled down the tunnel fast as its confines would let her.
She tumbled into the main passageway and was immediately pulled out of the way of a stretcher party bearing rather less of a soldier than should have been there. She turned away, only to find herself staring into the questioning eyes of one of the archers she had been with. Megan shook her head. He nodded grimly and beckoned to his comrade. They moved on, heading for the next emplacement, to fire at the witches until the witches fired back. Who knew if either would make it out of that one.
She needed to get to Willas, find out what was happening. Megan hurried along, continually making way for men stampeding back and forth carrying orders, fresh arrows, the injured and the dead. She reached the gates, two slabs of stone-covered wood that opened up into a hidden passage on the south side of the Kartiks. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and grease and the metallic tang of congealing blood.
Willas was conducting operations, barking orders at the men who bustled around him, volume substituting for coherence. “What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted at Megan. “You should be back at the wall!”
