The Radiant Child

by Duncan Lay

  Looming over all of them like a shadow was the smoke on the horizon, particularly in the south. Soldiers, mostly either rangers or Rallorans, seemed to be riding back to the city with ever-increasing regularity. Hundreds of people were now making their way up onto the battlement and towers of the capital, so they could see what was going on—and spoke fearfully about what would happen.

  There was plenty for them to see.

  Every morning the dragon would fly off, something that every child looked forward to. She would return once, perhaps twice, sometimes even flying low over the walls so the people could see the Queen on her back, waving to them.

  From the south, frightened refugees bringing stories of Berellians killing and raping and burning, as well as stories of being saved by Rallorans, poured through the gates. With them came a priest and a female Bishop, walking hand-in-hand, their robes marked and stained by their travel over waterlogged roads and grass. A pair, people told each other, who had defeated a Fearpriest. Proof that Aroaril was both stronger than the Dark One, and on their side! One event that excited plenty of comment was the arrival of dozens of carriages—albeit splattered with mud and drawn by exhausted horses—laden with women and children. Behind them, walking over the grass so as not to weigh down the carriages, came several hundred soldiers in the blue—and dirt—of the Queen.

  Kettering, as well as the others, was startled to hear applause and cheering from the walls as they dragged themselves into the capital, filthy and sweating. Astonished former criminals found themselves embraced by children, kissed by women and had their hands shaken by grinning men. Even Kettering found it hard to maintain a scowl when Leigh almost disappeared in the embrace of a laughing, plump woman, his head almost getting stuck between her large breasts.

  But there were many people still trying desperately to get to the capital, and not enough soldiers to protect them.

  Hutter and the people he had rescued from Worick, as well as those he had picked up on the way, had to be snatched away from the teeth of the Tenoch pursuit by magic, Barrett and Fernal opening gateways for them to escape.

  Martil, at Merren’s request, had gathered a motley group of Norstalines and Rallorans and was sweeping around the capital, finding tired people, pockets of exhausted refugees and lost children to bring back to safety. He strongly suspected Merren had chosen him for this role so she would not have to speak to him.

  ‘Help us!’

  Father Quiller was heartily sick of the saddle. And mud, come to think of it. He would also have been happy to see the back of the rain. And as for the salted meat and hard bread that seemed to be the only food available…but his musings were put aside when a handful of children ran out from behind a bogged wagon. He had become used to people hiding in their wagons, or cowering in half-empty villages as the Derthal horde marched by. Having people run out to talk to him was something different.

  ‘What is it?’ He spurred his tired horse over the heavy ground to where the children, the youngest barely able to walk, the oldest just in his teens, waved at him.

  ‘Father! We need help!’ the teenager called, a fair-haired boy wearing a filthy tunic and mud-encrusted trousers.

  ‘Where are your parents?’ Quiller asked.

  ‘Dead. We live with our grandparents, but they’re dying. We were going to hide from the goblins but then we saw you.’

  ‘Take me to them,’ Quiller commanded.

  They led him over to the wagon, sunk up to its axles in mud, but a quick glance told Quiller he had come too late. The elderly man was already dead and his wife was moments away. The cold and wet had obviously taken its toll—even the thin blankets covering the couple were soaked.

  He stroked the woman’s head and was rewarded with a final gasp as she slipped away.

  Carefully he covered them, before turning to the children.

  ‘Have you any food?’ Quiller asked.

  ‘Not today,’ the boy admitted.

  Quiller gripped the young man by his shoulders. ‘I am afraid your grandparents are dead. I shall leave you food and I would advise you to get yourself to a village and find some shelter before you all get sick.’

  ‘What about the others?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Others?’ Quiller looked down at the other four children, who stared solemnly back at him.

  ‘There’s nigh on two score of us,’ the boy declared. ‘They’d have come out but they were scared the goblins would eat ‘em.’

  ‘Bring them here,’ Quiller ordered.

  Soon a motley group of filthy, ragged children emerged from the scatter of wagons. Even more slowly, their story emerged. It seemed a village had decided to hedge its bets—many of the parents would wait and see if the returned King Gello would leave them alone—but they had sent their children away with a handful of guardians. Some of those had gone for help, some had said they were going for help but had probably just left—and the last two now lay dead under a mouldy blanket.

  ‘What going on?’ Sacrax wandered over as his Derthals marched past.

  ‘Are you going to eat me, goblin?’ a little girl with wide green eyes asked fearfully.

  Sacrax roared with laughter. ‘Wouldn’t eat you! Not enough meat!’ He winked.

  None of the children laughed. They just stared at him, some in wonder, some in shock, some in fear.

  ‘High Chief, we have a problem. These children have been abandoned. We need to leave them food, so they can last here until someone comes for them.’

  ‘Who will come for them?’ Sacrax demanded.

  Quiller shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But someone will. We have seen people struggling past on the road. We passed a dozen of them today. And we cannot waste more time here. We are needed at the capital.’

  Sacrax stared down at the children. Two were babies, being carried by girls no older than ten.

  ‘No,’ the Derthal said softly.

  ‘No?’ Quiller bristled. ‘We cannot leave them here to starve!’

  ‘I know. We take them with us. Your people have been walking past them for days and leaving them here. I cannot. They come with us. I will not leave young ones behind to die,’ the High Chief said firmly.

  ‘But the schedule…’

  ‘I cannot fight with them on my mind,’ Sacrax declared, then shouted something in Derthal.

  Burly Derthals hurried over as their High Chief went down on one knee, so he was at the children’s level.

  ‘You call us goblins. But we are not monsters. We cannot leave young ones behind. I am the High Chief. These warriors are sworn to serve me to death and beyond. They will carry you and keep you safe until their hearts give out and the breath leaves their bodies. Agreed?’

  Quiller thought the teenage boy, their self-appointed leader, might look at him for confirmation first—but the boy just nodded.

  ‘I trust you,’ he said. ‘We have seen many people walk past and ignore us. You are the first to talk to us, even though you look funny.’

  Sacrax chuckled. ‘For that, I think you can walk with me!’

  Quiller could not help but smile at the sight of the muscular Derthal warriors carrying small children in their arms or on their shoulders. But he also worried. This needed to be a fast march. Saving the children was admirable—yet they would slow the Derthals down.

  Merren soared high over Norstalos on the back of the dragon Argurium and closed her eyes for just a moment. How could Martil be so clever and yet so stupid at the same time? Were they fated just to be at each other’s throats? He was the one person she needed; someone to talk to, to ease her fears but she could not have him around without an argument adding to her worries. And those were endless. Everywhere she looked, she saw armies advancing through her land, her people fleeing before them, heading for what they hoped would be the safety of the capital. And that was not safe at all. From up here she could view events with the proper detachment, see the small dots desperately fleeing as marks on a map, rather than people with hopes and dreams.

&nb
sp; At times like these, she remembered an old saying one of her tutors had been excessively fond of repeating. Be careful what you wish for, it just might come true.

  At the time she had no idea what the man had been going on about. She had wanted a new doll for her birthday. What was wrong with wishing for it and getting it, rather than some set of law books? But now it held greater significance. She had wanted with all her heart to get another chance at being Queen. Well, she had her chance but sometimes she regretted it. The pressure, the demands, the duties, the responsibility—if she thought about it too much, it became crushing.

  It was like riding a wild horse. She could not get off; she had to hang on and hope it became exhausted before she did—and pray that it did not throw her and kill her.

  The only consolation was the way the country was finally beginning to wake up and help each other. The palace was now full of farmers and their families, while people all over the city had thrown open their doors to take in the refugees. Every wagon or cart that rumbled through the city gates, every family that stumbled out of an oak tree in the park, was being taken care of now.

  It did give her hope.

  ‘Dad will bring everyone back safely, he always does,’ Karia said confidently, intruding on her thoughts.

  The little girl was sitting in front of her, so Merren reached out and patted her on the back.

  Karia decided this was her chance, and twisted around in the harness.

  ‘Why are you and Dad fighting?’ she asked. ‘You seemed to like each other but now you don’t.’

  Merren glared at her. ‘Did Martil ask you to say that?’

  Karia laughed. ‘No! He wouldn’t answer me when I asked him, so I thought I’d ask you.’ She glanced back at Merren. ‘Don’t you like us any more? Don’t you want us to live together?’

  Her heart was beating faster. Her efforts up until now to create the family she wanted had failed and Martil had told her not to ask Merren questions. She had spent so little time with him lately, she did not want to fight with him when they were together. Time with Father Nott wasn’t quite the same. Every time Martil had gone, she had cried. The only thing that kept her going was his promise to come back to her, not to leave her alone. He had never broken his word, and that was a comfort when she got lonely and upset.

  Merren clenched her fist around the harness. If only it were that simple! But as her head had warned, and the surveys had proved, there were bigger issues than just being happy.

  ‘These are grown-up matters, that a child like you cannot understand,’ she said.

  But Karia had no intention of leaving it there. Why couldn’t things go back to the way they had been in the forest outside Sendric? She had never had a dad, now she had one—and she wanted a mother as well. ‘Why don’t you marry Martil and adopt me? What’s wrong with us?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Merren cried, her promise to Martil to look after Karia a lead weight inside her. ‘But I’m not just a person, I’m a queen…’

  ‘But if you love us, it will all work out, just like it does in the sagas,’ Karia said brightly. Making the adult feel guilty always seemed to work on Martil, so why not Merren? ‘Don’t we all deserve to be happy?’

  Merren had had enough. ‘I am not going to talk to you about this. If you want to come on the dragon again, you will say nothing more!’

  Karia, who had been about to keep arguing, stopped at this most terrible of threats.

  ‘Maybe it would be better if Dad doesn’t marry a big meanie,’ she mumbled, to herself.

  But Merren heard it, although she pretended she did not.

  11

  ‘Thank you for your time. I know you must all be busy.’ Sendric smiled.

  The men around the table nodded politely. They might have been the heads of every major guild and trade and major village and town councils from one end of the country to the other but he was still a noble—the last noble left in Norstalos.

  ‘I am preparing a report for the Queen on the disruption to our economy this invasion is causing,’ Sendric announced. ‘Obviously the almost complete evacuation of the country, as well as the destruction of many villages and towns is going to significantly affect business.’

  ‘You could say that!’ someone snorted, then fell silent as everyone looked at him.

  ‘I need to find out what it is going to cost, the effect it will have on lives and how long it will take to get our various industries back up and working again. And I need a brutally honest picture, gentlemen. If you want crown assistance on taxes and grants, you are going to have to state the full effect of this invasion on your towns, cities and guilds. Do I make myself clear?’

  He could see he had their full attention.

  ‘As soon as possible,’ he told them.

  ‘Where are the Derthals?’

  Nobody could answer Merren’s question.

  ‘For that matter, where is Sendric?’

  Again, nobody knew.

  ‘Well, I don’t have time to worry about him. I need to know about the Derthals. There are armies just a day or two away from our walls and they are nowhere in sight!’ Merren said. ‘Where is Archbishop Nott?’

  ‘Here I am, your majesty.’ Nott smiled, as he walked into the throne room with Karia in tow. ‘My apologies for my lateness. I was contacting Father Quiller.’

  Merren threw up her hands. ‘Good! Where are they?’

  Nott sat down. ‘They are on their way but I fear it will be something of a race between them and the armies of Gello and Fearpriests. It seems they found a pack of abandoned children and the Derthals decided to bring them along.’

  ‘In Aroaril’s name, why? They knew the huge distance they had to cover!’ Merren exclaimed.

  Nott shrugged. ‘Quiller wanted to leave them food but High Chief Sacrax insisted that he could not leave young behind to die. But, obviously, their pace has slowed and they will take longer to reach here.’

  Merren resisted the temptation to bury her head in her hands only with great difficulty. She could appreciate the gesture but could nobody else in this country realise the importance of what was going on? For the sake of a few children a whole country could die! Then she stopped herself—this was almost the argument she had with Martil…she wished he was here. To everyone here she was the Queen, the woman they all looked to for reassurance, for guidance. Only with Martil could she put that persona aside and just be herself. And how she longed to forget all about being Queen, just for a turn or two of the hourglass…

  ‘When you think about it, it will impress the people—how the Derthals rescued these children when our own people abandoned them,’ Nott continued.

  ‘Not if the Derthals arrive too late and the Berellians have destroyed us all,’ Merren could not stop herself from saying.

  ‘If they can find someone to look after the children, they will hand them over,’ Nott offered.

  ‘Well, that is a great comfort to me,’ Merren said, then held up her hand. ‘I know, Archbishop. Once we have everyone safely behind these walls I shall feel a little better. Surely even Fearpriests would not try to kill half a country!’

  Nott looked grim. ‘I would not put anything past a Fearpriest,’ was all he said.

  ‘Speaking of the refugees—how are we coping with food and shelter?’

  ‘Every home in the capital has opened its doors. Some are crowded but all are undercover. As for food, we have plenty. And the wizards have offered to use their powers to grow more in the parklands if necessary,’ Louise reported.

  She was disturbed by Count Sendric hurrying in.

  ‘My apologies, your majesty—there are so many people in the palace now, I found it hard to make my way here without speaking to them.’ He offered her a short bow.

  ‘Well, take a seat, Sendric. What of our soldiers? Who are we still waiting on?’

  ‘The rearguards of rangers and Rallorans are expected in today, as is Martil’s company,’ Conal announced. ‘But all will have to fight on foot—every
horse we have is utterly spent. They will need weeks, if not months, before they are ready to be used. We have barracked most of the men in Gello’s old home. It was big enough and was the only place still deserted.’

  ‘I thought we would not put anyone in there, in case of reprisals?’ Sendric said sharply.

  Conal shrugged. ‘If Gello rides into the city, it will be because those men are already dead—so I suppose it will matter little to them.’

  That silenced everyone.

  ‘Aroaril speed the Derthals,’ Nott said softly.

  Martil just wanted this ride to be over. There was hardly any food, sleeping on cold, wet ground was highly over-rated, and he and the other men were exhausted, both by the pace they had been forced to set and because of the refugees they had found. As much as he wanted to get back to the capital, as much as he wanted to bring these men safely in, he could not leave behind crying women and children. They had collected dozens of them—men, women and children who had become lost or overcome with exhaustion. It meant the men had to take it in turns to slog alongside the horses, fight their way through the mud.

  Not only was that hard but it gave Martil ample time to reflect on how badly he had handled Merren. In fact he could not imagine what else he could have done to persuade her to marry Sendric instead. About the only other thing he could have done to offend her would have been to turn up to a council meeting with Lahra, he reflected bitterly. He resolved to apologise to her when they returned to the capital. And that could not happen soon enough. He was trying to encourage the men, but a retreat was always harder than an advance. Heads were low and he worried that they would not be ready to take on the Tenochs and Berellians in a day or two. Even the sight of the capital failed to cheer them.

  ‘Not far now, lads!’ he encouraged them. ‘There’ll be baths, bed, food and women for all! Just don’t get them mixed up!’