by Duncan Lay
When they finally made it to the palace, even here was confusion. Leaving Wilsen and Jaret to rejoin the Royal Guard and discover what was required of them, he made his way to the throne room, where he expected to find Merren hard at work. Instead, it was Conal, as well as Sendric, Louise and Gia, furiously trying to compile what was going on across the country into some semblance of order.
‘Where is the Queen?’ Barrett demanded.
‘She has left on the dragon to visit the south. The Berellians have launched their attack and she wants to see what is happening,’ Louise replied.
‘And I suppose she has Martil with her?’ Barrett muttered. Once they would have needed his powers to move around the country like that. But now they had a dragon, he was no longer needed. Part of him knew he was being churlish, but he had expected at least a greeting, and thanks, for another job well done.
‘She has. And Karia,’ Sendric grunted. He was still angry about the postponed wedding, and having Merren fly all over the country with her Champion at her side was hardly improving his mood. The whole country knew what the sagas said about Queens and their Champions.
‘Is everything going to plan with the Derthals?’ Conal asked.
‘Ask Jaret or Wilsen if you want to know. I’m off to rest,’ Barrett snarled, then turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Gia sniffed.
‘He’ll be fine. But we need to find Tiera and get her to see him. She seems to be able to talk sense into the man,’ Louise said briskly.
‘Is that all she does?’ Conal asked archly.
Louise slapped him lightly on the arm. ‘You only have one thing on your mind!’
Conal held up the map he was working on. ‘If only that were the case!’ he grumbled.
The children they had rescued from the Berellians had said little on the flight, just hugged each other and cried. The woman had offered tearful thanks for saving her children but also asked why they had not arrived just a little earlier.
‘It was luck we arrived at all. Be thankful for what you have,’ Martil told her coldly, and she fell silent as they searched for Kesbury and his villagers.
But, watching her, Merren knew the strategy of sacrificing people, leaving those who had stayed behind to the mercies of the Berellians, was wrong. It made perfect sense but that did not make it any better. She knew they had to preserve the army if they were to ever take back Norstalos, but leaving people behind to die…she could not do it. The strategy would have to change—and Martil would not like it. But he would just have to deal with it.
‘There they are!’ Karia pointed.
‘Get us down there,’ Merren called, looking at a ragged group of people and wagons rumbling tiredly along a road. From the look of them, they had been in a battle. Merren shuddered to think what had happened.
Argurium dropped like a stone, making Karia scream with fearful delight, then pulled up with impossible delicacy at the side of the road—the villagers crying out with surprise and fear.
‘It’s Queen Merren! And Captain Martil!’ Kesbury roared, and the cries of fear died down.
‘Keep the wagons moving! Do not stop!’ Martil shouted down from the back of the dragon, as it walked beside them.
He, Merren and Karia stepped down from the dragon and hurried over to greet Kesbury.
‘My Queen.’ Kesbury bowed, and signalled for the rest of the villagers to join him.
‘Up! Up, all of you! And especially you, Father Kesbury,’ Merren instructed. ‘We have a family we have rescued from the Berellians who need to travel with you. They have suffered and lost.’
‘As have many of those here,’ Kesbury warned. ‘They are welcome to join us but we cannot guarantee their safety.’
Havell was helping the family down, and Merren waved for them to join the column of wagons.
‘Tell us what has happened,’ she invited Kesbury.
He explained how they had been attacked by a squadron of Berellian cavalry, how they had made a circle with the wagons and fought them off—but not without cost. More than 30 men and boys had died, including all but two of the Rallorans who had volunteered to help. Merren saw instantly there were things he was not saying, how desperate that fight must have been, what it had to have taken to hold off a squadron of cavalry.
‘A waste of fine men,’ Martil grated.
‘Not at all. They have saved most of a village. And, more than that, look at the way they are being treated. These people hated and feared the Rallorans, now they welcome them.’ Merren pointed to where the remaining Rallorans were riding with farmers.
‘That is true, my Queen,’ Kesbury agreed. ‘The journey is changing us all.’
‘Indeed! You have done well, Kesbury. I can see you are not just a soldier now. These are your people,’ she told him warmly. ‘But they are also my people, and I shall talk to them.’
She walked over to the wagons, taking Karia with her, speaking to men, women and children, while encouraging them to keep the wagons moving.
Martil glanced at his former sergeant.
‘It will be a race to see who reaches the bridge at Wells first,’ Martil warned him quietly.
‘I cannot leave them, sir,’ Kesbury said, without a hint of apology.
Martil glanced at where Merren was embracing a weeping mother. This was not good. He could lose every man he had trying to save these people…
‘Your best chance is to leave the wagons and ride for the bridge. We will be able to hold them for a while at Wells—give you enough of a lead to stay ahead of them,’ he said harshly.
‘But all the food, the clothes…’
‘No good if you are dead.’
Kesbury nodded.
‘We captured extra horses from the Berellians—we managed to destroy three companies that tried to sack Loft’s village. We’ll have them waiting for you at Wells, to help you travel faster after you are across the River Brack.’
Kesbury sighed. ‘How do I tell them to leave everything they can’t carry behind?’
‘You won’t have to—the Queen will.’ Martil gestured.
Merren had been delighted to find the people happy to see her. The fact she’d arrived on a dragon, bringing in a family she had rescued from the Berellians seemed to seal their pleasure at meeting the Queen. And this was a village that had been stubbornly sure it would be better off under Gello! Although, she reminded herself, they had seen only too well what Gello and his Berellian friends intended for them.
‘We shall return,’ she promised them. ‘We have the dragons on our side now, as well as the Dragon Sword! Once we are safe, we shall train an army big enough to throw the Berellians out and restore peace in Norstalos!’
They cheered then, and she let it continue for a while before stopping them.
‘But you need to move faster. The Berellians are coming—and they show no mercy, as you have already seen. Leave the wagons and ride to Wells as fast as you can. I shall send soldiers to help you—but Aroaril helps those who help themselves. You have a brave man in Father Kesbury. Trust him and he will lead you to safety!’
Martil cringed to hear those words but the people loved it, and were even happy enough to carry what food they could and leave the wagons. Because of all the men who had died, both villagers and Rallorans, they had sufficient horses, although every beast was carrying two, and sometimes three, if they were small children.
‘I shall see you all in Wells—but, if you are in danger, look to the skies, for I shall try to be there,’ Merren told them.
Martil, unseen, rolled his eyes at that.
‘Come on. Next we must go to Wells.’ Merren waved one last time to the villagers, then let them ride off.
‘We have to save them,’ she mused.
‘The Berellians will want to catch them, also,’ Martil warned. ‘We can’t use up all our men just to save one village. What will happen then to all the other villages and towns?’
‘This is now more
than just a village. They will be a symbol for unity. Saved by Rallorans and a Ralloran-born priest! That is the sort of tale the country needs to hear,’ she decided. ‘We shall help them, then we need to think about how we can slow the advance down, so we can get everyone away, not just the ones who have already left.’
‘Merren, we don’t have enough men! That is just falling into our enemy’s trap,’ Martil protested. ‘They want us to fight, they want us to fritter away our men trying to save a farm here, a village there. It is why they are raping and burning and killing. But we have to stay strong, we have to realise we cannot save everyone!’
‘But I cannot just let them die,’ Merren said simply. ‘These are my people. We have to do more to save those who were left behind. As the Dragon Sword wielder, you need to think like that. We don’t want you getting back to the way you were before Pilleth. You have to think of the people.’
Martil felt his insides twist at her words. It made his response louder and angrier than he had intended.
‘I’m thinking more of my men, whose lives will pay for this! Your bloody Norstalines hate us but are happy to have us die for their own stupidity…’
‘Enough!’ She cut him off, her voice cracking like a whip. ‘This is not the time or the place for a discussion. And they are not your men. They are sworn to my service, as are you. And if you feel you cannot obey my orders…’ She left the threat hanging, as she stared him down. He might have his men’s lives at heart but she would not brook any disobedience to her orders, no matter what she felt for him.
Martil glared at her, holding back angry words, while Karia waved and signalled at him from behind Merren’s back. She could see him getting angry and worried he was going to mess everything up again. He needed to be nice to Merren, not shout at her! She stepped in between them, grabbing Merren’s hand.
‘Merren, can I have a word?’ she asked.
Merren allowed herself to be pulled to one side. Perhaps Karia had some plan to bring him to his senses…
‘Merren, Dad’s been very upset lately. But I know how to make him happy again, make everything good,’ Karia said conspiratorially.
Merren smiled. ‘Go on.’
‘He really loves you. I think if you said you were going to marry him and make us all a family, then he’d be really happy…’
Merren did not hear any more. The blood pounded in her temples and she stormed back to Martil.
‘Is all this some ploy? Are you trying to trick me into marrying you? That is bad enough but getting Karia to do your dirty work…’
Martil’s anger burst into life.
‘What do you mean? I feel like this because I saved this bloody country and nearly got myself killed—time after time! And if you think I would try to use Karia against you…’
‘I don’t care! I don’t want to hear another word from you today unless it is to agree with me!’ Merren roared.
She stormed back to the dragon, knowing she had left one of them looking as though they would cry, the other as if they would explode.
5
Bishop Milly looked down the road at the huge column of refugees in wonder. The trail of people and animals vanished into the distance. All seemed to have the same look of resignation on their faces. These were the ones who had left days, or even more than a week ago and had been on the road ever since. They might have begun their trek with hope and even excitement but day after day of travel had taken its toll. And they were not even at the capital yet. To those who had left from the south, the far east or west, Sendric seemed to be a ridiculous distance away.
Every priest and priestess in the church was on the road with them, trying to help those who were hurt, tired or just ready to give up.
Milly was under no illusion as to how effective they were. She had spent the day helping reunite lost families, as well as providing news as best she could. Certainly the reports that the Berellians had invaded the south, and were burning and killing everything they could find was having a definite effect on the speed of those who were trudging along. But she did not want to inspire the people through fear—that was how the followers of Zorva operated. No, she preferred to tell them how the Rallorans had destroyed a Berellian raid and saved a village, bringing the people to safety at Wells, how the Queen had ridden down on a dragon and rescued a family from certain death.
The news that the dragons were on their side cheered people immensely—many, especially the children—spent time scanning the sky, hoping to see one.
Strangely, the stories about how the Rallorans had saved a village, destroying a Berellian attack, also seemed to strike a chord with the people. After all Milly had heard about the ‘Ralloran butchers’ and how no child was safe around them, it was strange to hear them being praised.
‘Thank Aroaril we have them on our side. There’s no-one else the Berellians are afraid of,’ went the common refrain.
It was ironic, but if it got them moving faster and feeling happier, Milly was willing to keep talking about it. Although doing so made her wonder what was going on down south…
She stepped away from the road for a moment and offered up a silent prayer for Kesbury. The thought he might already be dead was eating away at her. She decided to talk to Archbishop Nott. Something was telling her she was needed down south.
King Gello had had enough of waiting. The last straw came when the scouts returned with news they had discovered dozens of rotting corpses in the woods over the border, the remnants of a fight months before. Crows, ravens, foxes and the like had been at the bodies but the scouts discovered some of them had been wearing Gello’s surcoat, with the badge of his personal guard.
At another time, Gello might have been sad to finally learn of Chelten’s fate. But his bodyguard had failed and, in failing, had sowed the seeds of Gello’s defeat at Pilleth. He had little sympathy for that. Besides, there was a sense of relief in that Chelten was the only other person who knew the truth about Mother’s death. With him gone, there could be no doubt her death was an accident. He had told her that, many times…
‘Do you want us to bring in the bodies, bury them with honour, sire?’ Feld asked.
But Gello shook his head, and dropped the stained, torn surcoat on the ground. Chelten belonged to another life—a failed life. He was ready to carve a new chapter now.
‘Let them rot,’ he declared. ‘Get the men ready. We march!’
The camp was emptied in less than a turn of the hourglass, as the men were eager to begin. Behind them they left a small mound of bodies, twisted in death, with their hearts cut out. Terrified Tetrans, who had been hunted through the woods for the past few days, slowly crept back and began to search for their loved ones among the pile.
Gello rode up near the front, behind a screen of cavalry. He doubted there would be any opposition—his bitch of a cousin would have to marshal her entire forces to defeat him and he knew the Rallorans were down south, shadowing the Berellian advance.
‘Sire, the first village is empty—looks like the people have fled. All that is left is this one family,’ Feld reported.
‘I want to meet them!’ Gello commanded.
The man, his wife, three teenage children and older parents were brought into the village square, where they fell to their knees, ringed by men in armour.
‘Why is nobody here?’ Gello asked politely.
‘Queen’s men came, telling everyone to leave, sire,’ the man gasped.
‘Leave? Go where?’
‘Sendric, sire. They want everyone to travel north, say they will be safe there.’
Chuckles broke out from the assembled troopers, who all knew how far that was.
But Gello was not laughing. ‘And why do they think they’ll be safe there?’
‘The passes to the north. They think they can hold them until winter, sire.’
Gello stroked his chin thoughtfully. This was a development he had not expected. It required some careful thinking. The plan had been for the Berellians and Ten
ochs to storm across Norstalos with fire and sword, forcing Merren to commit her army to a hopeless battle in a vain attempt to stop the killing. But it seemed she, or her Ralloran dog, had come up with a way to defeat that strategy. He could imagine what Mother would say. Soft autumn sunshine was bathing them all today but, in a matter of weeks, a southerly wind would begin to blow and the rains would fall. Merren would just have to hold the passes for a few weeks and the three armies would have to pull back, probably to the capital, because there would be no way they could campaign through the winter—the wet and the cold would become their enemies and feeding such a horde would become impossible. As for the horses—they could die by the hundred without proper grazing. By spring, when fighting could begin again, Gello was under no illusions about what would come out of those passes. Thousands upon thousands of Norstalines, all furious and eager to take back their homes and country. Just the army he wanted to create—but this time it would be turned against him. He blinked away that vision. It would not happen! He would not let it happen. He would catch them on the road—his bitch of a cousin would not get away with this.
‘I am concerned with this plan of my cousin’s,’ he warned Prent.
‘I shall inform Brother Onzalez. But I shall need blood to do so. Perhaps one of those girls…’
‘Get away, priest! Feld’s riders can supply you with what you need. Those girls are mine!’
‘Sire?’ the farmer asked nervously.
Gello waved Prent away and focused again on the man and his family.
‘Why did you not leave?’ he demanded.
‘You are the rightful King, sire.’ The farmer bowed his head. ‘It ain’t right, having a queen. Not natural. And she wants to change things! Says women can tell us men what to do!’
‘It is appalling,’ Gello agreed softly. ‘So you would do anything for your rightful King?’
The farmer’s face betrayed his concern.
‘Sire?’ he asked worriedly.
‘Will you volunteer your son for my forces, and your daughters to entertain those forces?’
