Queen of Rebels

by Karim Soliman

  How did they fall into another ambush? Was Zaak's wife raving about the rebels' army attacking Herlog?

  "Your Grace." Rikaard gnashed his teeth.

  "I'm not leaving you behind again."

  "I'm dying anyway. Please go," he said, his eyes fixed on the three men standing by the open gate. They donned the armor of Bermanian cavalry, the lion sigil decorating their breastplates, unlike the sentries atop the wall and the watchtowers who wore everyday outfits.

  "Welcome to Herlog, Your Grace. Sir." The black-haired knight on the right grinned, the red-haired soldier on the left nodding. The brown-haired man in the middle concerned her with his cold face.

  "Do you mind identifying yourselves?" Rikaard summoned all the strength he got to sound firm.

  "I'm Bergum, and those are Frankil and Danis. We are from the Ramosi cavalry."

  "None of you look familiar. Where is General Gramus or Captain Edmond?"

  "They asked not to be disturbed at the moment." That Bergum kept his annoying smile, an eerie silence following his statement. These are not my men, Rona realized as she saw the anticipation in the eyes of Bergum and his mates. They were up to something, and she wondered what it was. The sentries had all the time in the world to shoot her and Rikaard dead. And if capturing her was the point, then why had they tried to kill her in that ambush on the road?

  To her surprise, Rikaard spurred his horse onward, hauling his longsword. The grievously wounded captain was charging ferociously, as if he was an incarnation of the lion on his breastplate. Three dismounted knights would not be enough to stop him if he were in his usual condition—the condition she had seen three days earlier. And if it were not for that arrow that struck him in the neck. . .

  Rona did not think twice. Roaring, she drew her sword as she kicked the flanks of her horse, but her charger barely moved when another arrow caught it in its trunk. The agonized horse swayed, forcing her to jump off. She stumbled the moment her feet touched the ground, but she swiftly restored her balance, clutching her sword still in her hand. Stepping back, she held her blade straight at the three footmen.

  "There is no escape, Your Grace." The man with the southern accent held his bow, his sleeveless tunic revealing his bandaged, muscular arm. "Drop your weapon before you get yourself hurt."

  "I had better die before I surrender to Wilander's dogs," Rona spat, raising her blade, as if she might block more of his arrows.

  "We are not anybody's dogs." The brown-haired knight in the middle frowned.

  "Let us not take this personal, Captain." The muscular man lowered his bow as he turned to her. "What if I tell you that we are not Wilander's men? Would that make it easier for you to surrender, Your Grace?"

  They are toying with me. Rona did not stop moving backward, the three knights warily approaching her. "I surrender to nobody." In a heartbeat, the muscular man shot an arrow right before her feet.

  "Drop your sword," the muscular man atop the wall insisted. "Or the next arrow will not miss you."

  He could have killed her right from the start if he had wanted to, she thought. The three knights were just keeping their distance without any hint of offensive intention. "You will have to kill me first before you take my sword," Rona countered, holding the point of her blade at the three knights while stepping back.

  "Very well." The muscular man disappeared. Shortly after, he emerged from the open gate jogging toward her, the three knights making way for him. The broad-shouldered, black-haired southerner was taller than he seemed from his post atop the wall. His bow and quiver were gone now, but instead he held a bastard sword and a steel shield.

  And he did not slow down.

  Rona did not wait for him to attack first. She ran to give her strike some momentum and slashed, her blade rattling against the steel shield. She stabbed at his legs, then swung up, but both times his shield was at the right place at the right time. She forced him to retreat, though. Roaring, she slashed twice from different directions, but still he was hiding behind his shield. I can defeat him, she believed. If only I can find an opening. . .

  "Are you so afraid that you don't dare to face a woman in a fair fight?" she teased him.

  "Is this about my shield?" A smile played at the corner of his lip. "It is for your safety, not mine."

  While Rona was figuring out what he meant, the southerner slammed her sword with the edge of his steel shield, toppling her weapon from her hand. It was too late to draw her hidden dagger now; his blade was already pointed at her neck.

  "You fight better than your general, I must say," he taunted.

  "You wouldn't be standing before me if you had faced him." Rona dared to tease him despite the blade that almost touched her skin.

  "When was the last time you saw him? He almost lost an eye."

  Those rebels have been attacking Herlog for two days with thousands of soldiers. Zaak's wife had no idea. "If you don't serve Wilander as you claim, what do you want from me then?"

  "A guarantee for my people's safety. Now move." He motioned her with his sword toward the gate.

  "I will kill myself before I go into this cage with all these men."

  "No one shall harm you, you have my word."

  "Your word?" she scoffed. "That is really reassuring."

  He pulled her closer to him, glowering at her. "We are not the lowly creatures your men are. Now come with me without too much fuss, or I will throw you on my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I doubt a queen like you would be happy with such an entrance."

  14. MASOLON

  The news of capturing the queen of the rebels spread faster than he imagined. Men, women, and children were hurrying to the gate as Masolon ushered Rona into the village. "Don't touch me," Rona protested when Masolon grabbed her hand to urge her to move.

  "You are not cooperating." Masolon lowered his voice. "Should I shackle you by a chain and drag you?"

  "Of course." She smirked. "What else should I expect from someone like you?"

  For a prisoner, her arrogance was irritating. "You should be grateful that you have been captured by someone like me. Do you have any idea what happens to girls even half as beautiful as you when captured?" Girls of one-tenth of her beauty even, he would say. The dirt on her hands and feet could not deny the fact that Rona was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen. Her loose, golden hair reached below her shoulders, her eyes round, bright and emerald. Though her head leveled with his chin, she was considerably tall for a woman.

  "You said I wouldn't be harmed in your custody," she reminded him, not so arrogantly this time.

  "Then help me keep my word." Masolon gestured to the Herlogans standing in his way to move away. His brothers came to help, shielding him and Rona from both sides.

  "Good hunting, brother." Flanking his right side, Ziyad scanned the captured queen from hair to toe. "Where are you taking her?"

  Masolon was thinking of a place away from the bustle of the village. "The abandoned mill, where we keep the reserve arrows." He noticed the disapproving look on her face. "I am sorry, but I do not have a castle that befits a queen like you."

  "You will all pay for this," she muttered without looking neither at him nor Ziyad.

  "You should blame your men who started all of this." Masolon found himself tightening his grip on her wrist. She glared at him, and before she said anything he loosened his hand.

  They reached the yard where he used to train the Brave Lads, the abandoned mill standing there at the end of it. Masolon glanced over his shoulder at the throng following him and the captured queen of the rebels. "I do not want a crowd here," Masolon told Frankil and Antram. "Ben, gather the lads at the door of the mill."

  While Frankil and the rest of the brothers were holding the Herlogans from swarming into the training yard, Masolon strode toward the mill, forcing Rona to hurry as he was still holding her by the wrist. She shoved his hand and snapped, "No need to drag me like this. Obviously, there is nowhere else for me to go."

  "Now you co
mplain?" He chuckled. "You have been dragged all the way from the woods."

  Frowning, she mumbled some incomprehensible words as she walked by his side. Would he blame her if she was insulting him?

  The door of the mill squeaked as Masolon pushed it open. As it was no longer used for food storage, nobody had cleaned this place for years. The only window at the end of the narrow corridor was curtained by heaps of dust that barely allowed the faint sunlight of dusk. Next to the chamber he used for the storage of all the remaining weapons was a narrow, vacant windowless room. "Your cell, Your Grace." Masolon stood by the open door, motioning her to enter.

  Rona froze for a moment, gazing at her "cell" from outside. Probably, she was still coming to terms with her current shocking situation. Masolon had tested that feeling once in the frosty dungeons of Durberg, so he could imagine the bitterness of losing her freedom.

  Masolon waited until she reluctantly dragged her bare feet past the doorstep. "Why did you kill him?" she suddenly asked.

  "Kill who?"

  "Rikaard was his name." She glowered at him. "You killed him with an arrow in the neck."

  "I killed many others of your men." Masolon shrugged, not sure why he was provoking her. "Why would you be concerned about him in particular?"

  "You dare to boast of killing my men!" She bared her teeth. "I swear I will make you regret it when I have the chance!"

  "I boast of nothing," he curtly said. "But the last thing I remember of your Rikaard was him charging at my brothers. The same applies to all your men whom I killed; they were not rushing to our walls with flower garlands."

  Masolon slammed the door shut, and took the lock of the storage room housing the arrows to use it for the queen's cell.

  The Brave Lads were waiting outside when he came out of the mill. Masolon handed Ben the key. "Do not lose this for any reason. Find another lock for the arrows’ chamber, which I doubt anybody would think of breaking into." He turned to the other lads gathered around him. "From now on, I want at least a pair of open eyes watching over this mill. We want to keep her alive, so make sure she is fed and watered. But do not let her out for any reason."

  Masolon left the lads to manage their watch turns on their own. Frankil and the brothers were still fending the crowd off at the road leading to the training yard. "The show is over for today, folks!" Masolon hollered, clapping his hands to dismiss the crowd. "Everybody back to their work or posts."

  Exchanging hollow looks with each other, the humming throng seemed reluctant to leave.

  "What on earth are you waiting for? Begone!" Masolon was more convincing when he blustered. The good people of Herlog turned around and dragged their feet back to their miserable daily life. With his brothers blocking the way to the training yard, Masolon stayed until the street was vacant save for one gray-haired man standing a few feet away from him.

  "May I have a word with you, Masolon?" Smit asked, glancing at Frankil and his armored brothers.

  "For certain, good man." When Masolon approached Smit, the old man ambled away from the training yard, as if he did not want the fellows at the end of the street to overhear him.

  "Listen. I know this might not be the best timing to discuss such a topic, especially after you captured that usurper. You must be preoccupied with—"

  "What is it, Smit?" Masolon would not waste his time listening to more of the old man’s wisdom, especially if it was about the great importance of peace.

  "Nell came to me this morning and told me about you and Doly." The old man sighed. "I'm really sorry to hear about that, son. You have a good heart, I know, despite your apparent harshness. And Doly. She is just a sweet girl. I can't imagine how she could take such a decision so soon." He leaned toward Masolon. "Do you think you can still make your marriage work?"

  The recent grave events following Masolon's last quarrel with Doly did not allow him enough time to think about her and their marriage. While he was not too certain about what she called undoing their marriage, he did not think she was serious about it. Actually, he was expecting her to return to their house after she came to her senses. . .

  But why would he discuss that matter with Smit?

  "What is going on here, Smit?" Masolon curtly asked.

  "You don't know?" Smit's eyebrows rose in astonishment. "Doly wants to undo your marriage as soon as possible. Nell was suggesting tomorrow morning."

  So, it was happening after all. What surprised Masolon was not Doly's decision; it was how he felt about the matter, and he felt nothing. If truth be told, he should feel guilty for hurting that innocent girl with his lies.

  "You are the one who will undo our marriage as well," Masolon mused.

  "The marriages I did were way more than those I undid," said Smit. "Still, it's a task I loathe."

  "Not too much fuss this time, I presume."

  "Well," the way Smit's lip twisted did not make Masolon feel comfortable, "like in the wedding, there should be an audience to announce that each one of you can take another partner."

  "An audience?" Masolon did not feel it would be a good idea to stand before his "soldiers" in such a situation. Not now at least. Not until he was done with the rebels who would most likely come again for this village. "Will Doly be there?"

  "She must. No marriage can be undone without the presence of both partners."

  That would be worse than Masolon imagined. "Tomorrow morning is too soon, good man. Tell Nell I will do whatever he and his daughter want from me after we are finished with that queen and her furious general."

  "Of course, of course." Smit nodded. "That would be much better. No rush for anything. And who knows? Mayhap she changes her mind."

  Masolon was not at all enthusiastic about it. "Who knows indeed?"

  The old man walked away from Masolon, heading back to the heart of the village. Mayhap she changes her mind. Masolon found himself uncomfortable with the possibility. Doly was a sweet girl indeed, but he never loved her, and he never would. Now on his own, he felt much better.

  Ziyad's whistle interrupted Masolon's thoughts.

  "Bad news, brother?" the Murasen asked when Masolon turned to him and the brothers.

  "Just news." Masolon sighed as he approached his men. "Not good, to say the least."

  "Well," Ziyad glanced at Frankil and Antram by his side, "the news we have here might not be good either."

  Masolon looked between Frankil and Antram. "What is the matter?"

  "You tell us, Masolon," said Frankil, his face stern. "While the rebels are marching away from this helpless village, leaving you and your village in peace, you insist on keeping the bloody fight going on." Putting his hands on his waist, he glanced at Antram and Ziyad. "We were talking today about resuming our journey at first sunlight. After all, our caravan has a destination it must reach. And we wanted you with us. But after you captured that usurper. . ." He exhaled. "Blast, Masolon! Why did you do that? Why didn't you just let her go?"

  "She came to us, Frankil," Masolon reminded him. "Do you not think we might need some leverage for the coming encounter with General Gramus and his troops?"

  "Leverage?" Frankil scoffed. "You believe you might sit with those rebels at a negotiation table?"

  Masolon did not grasp what the disapproval in Frankil's tone was for. "This is the only way to save the helpless peasants here. Or let us pray that Wilander defeats her army and ends that rebellion."

  "You have involved those helpless peasants and yourself in a very dangerous game, Masolon." The rebuke in Frankil's voice reminded Masolon of old Smit the night they had impaled that rapist. "Listen. I cannot keep the men here any longer, but still I also cannot leave you here on your own in this mess."

  Masolon could not ask his brothers for more. If it had not been not for them, if it had not been for Ziyad's oiled tar, the battle against General Gramus himself could have taken a very different course.

  "You do not need to keep your men any longer, Captain," Masolon reassured him. "You go with your caravan w
hile I settle this matter for good with that queen and her army."

  "We won't leave you behind, brother." Ziyad winked at him.

  "You will not indeed." Masolon allowed a smile. "After I am done with the rebels' queen, I will join you on your way back to Kalensi. There is nothing left for me here to stay for."

  15. RONA

  For two days in her dark chamber, those lads had been bringing her stale bread, sometimes stained with the worst cheese she had ever tasted. More than once she felt like throwing up because of the dusty air that filled her lungs. Having neither any blanket nor even a rag of cloth, it was hard for her to sleep on that cold stone floor.

  Darkness was the worst thing in her "cell" though. That scum, Masolon, had locked her up in a windowless room. She only knew it was morning from the flickers of light seeping in through the narrow space under the door and above the sill and the floor. Not even a torch was there to light the place at night.

  Rona never talked with the lads assigned to guard her, but she heard them call each other during duty switches. Ben and Maat were the two names she recalled. Last night she had banged on the door and yelled in an attempt to summon any of those lads to fill her water bucket. She had cried the name of Ben, hoping that might pique her guard's interest, but he had only come when she called out loud at Maat. From his smell, she was sure he had been drinking wine on duty.

  Herlog. A place she had never considered as a possible obstacle in her war to retrieve her father's throne. She had other posts worth her concern, the most of which the castle of Subrel. But a village? Among all the possibilities of victory and defeat, ending up imprisoned in some lowly dark chamber of an abandoned mill was not a fate she had expected.

  Rona spent most of her slow day thinking about the fight that had happened between her troops led by Gramus and that southerner ruling this village. While it was surprising to her that her general did not stick to the plan—marching directly to Subrel—her limited imagination would not help her find an explanation for her troops' defeat at the palisade walls of a village. The two charred battering rams she had seen at the gate of Herlog told her a little part of the story. But how? she almost screamed. Save for that Masolon and his armored friends, who claimed they were not Wilander's dogs, the garrison of this joke of a "fort" was all peasants. They were armed though. But on any day, whatever the circumstances were, those Herlogans could never stand a chance against her army. Because if it was true that her capable general was unable to capture a village, then how would he fare against a real fort like Subrel, or real soldiers like Wilander's? The lords have concerns about choosing General Gramus for that post, she recalled Raynald's words. Perhaps her veteran vassals were right after all. Or maybe they failed him on purpose to prove me wrong. If that was true, then they were all untrustworthy, and her general was also incompetent.