Queen of Rebels

by Karim Soliman

  "Don't drop me, bastard." She giggled.

  "It is not my first time to do this." He guffawed, carrying her to the bedchamber. "You are a bit heavier than Doly, though."

  "Doly who?" The name sounded familiar, but her clouded mind would not help her at the moment.

  "She was my bride once. She was in my arms on our first night." Masolon's brown eyes were fixed on Rona's face. "Just like you now."

  She chortled. "Don't even dream of it. I'm a queen, you understand? You can never have a bride like me, you rascal."

  He stopped for a while by the bed, still cradling Rona in his arms. His strange smile got wider, his fingers fumbling over her thigh. "Then why are you wearing a wedding dress in my bedchamber?"

  20. GRAMUS

  His first meeting with the lords and the commanders of his army in the hall of Subrel: an occasion that might have been worth celebrating if he had been leading the siege from the beginning, not just joining the troops passing through the iron gate of the castle. His glorious failure at the palisade walls of the great fort of Herlog must have become an entertaining song for his soldiers.

  After the dull meeting was called to end, Gramus felt he needed to fill his lungs with the cool air outside. The hall was vacant when he went to the balcony, the wind blowing against his cheeks. The dark-gray sky of the night was thick with clouds that would pour its rain at any moment—that might ruin the celebrations of the soldiers ranting in the courtyard. By his order, those who survived from his battalion would be isolated from the rest of the host by exempting all of them from any watch duty for tonight. If those defeated men had any honor, they would not be able to stand the sight of their laughing victorious mates. A wicked jape from one of the victors at those who had lost to a bunch of peasants might start a bloodbath in this very castle.

  Darrison, the beefy gray-haired lord and Rona's favorite vassal, joined Gramus in the balcony. "Are you feeling well, General?"

  Gramus pressed his lips together as he nodded, feigning a faint smile that lasted for only a fleeting second.

  The veteran lord stood by his side, leaning at the balustrade. "It's a great day, isn't it? We are getting closer to winning the throne for Queen Rona."

  "True." Gramus slowly nodded, pondering the events of the siege that had lasted for two days before Darrison gave the order to storm the fort. "I thought capturing Subrel would be a little harder, though."

  "That is because we attacked before the arrival of Di Galio's reinforcements," Darrison explained. "The garrison we faced here was not enough to man all the defensive posts of the fort."

  "Which makes me wonder, Lord Darrison." Gramus turned to the new Duke of Kalhom. "Why didn't Di Galio, the Fox, hurry with his army to protect his precious fort in Ramos? I have no doubt his eyes were informing him of our movements."

  Darrison stared at Gramus for a moment. "By his eyes, you mean his scouts?"

  "Scouts, spies; I'm quite sure he doesn't lack any of them."

  "What you infer is really grave, General." Darrison's face tightened. "Is there anybody in particular you accuse of treachery?"

  You. Edmond. Lanark. My guards. Everybody in this bloody castle. "Not yet, milord. Though I believe he will expose himself as we get closer to the city of Ramos."

  Darrison's chest heaved and a sigh escaped. "You need to get some rest, General. We all deserve it tonight. The war continues tomorrow."

  You deserve it, Gramus wanted to tell him. Not the man who lost to an army of peasants. "I will try to rest, milord, though my mind cannot help thinking of the reasons why Di Galio is postponing his strike."

  "Maybe he is hindered, not postponing anything," Darrison suggested. "Mustering an army of fifteen thousand men needs some time, especially when you are waiting for reinforcements from the East."

  "The Lapondians are late indeed." Gramus had expected that all the noble houses of Lapond would fly to Di Galio the moment they heard of the fall of Neldon to Queen Rona. No surprise they would choose Wilander over Charlwood's daughter. Perhaps they had been too cowardly to stand against Rona's father when he punished their greatest lord, the late infamous Lord Aurel of House Antram, but that did not mean they would not avenge their eastern brother and his great house. "Any news from Karun yet?"

  "Everything is quiet so far. Foubert may still have more black hair than I do, but he has always been the wisest in the court. He will only join the winning side."

  Foubert's power did not just stem from being the head of the strongest house in Karun. His cavalry was the largest and the finest in the whole kingdom. The renowned heavy Bermanian knights had been raised in the stables of his noble house for decades. "The man you admire for his wisdom has no loyalty, milord."

  Darrison frowned, his lips curled in disdain. "You think you can judge the loyalty of everybody here, General? With all my respect, I served Queen Rona's father while you were soiling your smallclothes. Take that as a fact, not an insult."

  Gramus, who had never seen that coming from the prudent lord, stood petrified for a while, even after Darrison took his leave. The gray-haired duke was renowned for his composure and honeyed tongue. Either he was so loyal that Gramus's words had hurt him too much, or the veteran lord was playing his role perfectly.

  Getting some rest tonight? The idea sounded absurd when you believed that the enemy was crouching nearby, waiting for the right moment to stun you. And no moment seemed so right like now: the lords were inattentive after the victory, their soldiers festive and undisciplined. Even Masolon and his peasants could capture the castle if they attacked it tonight.

  The general was already donning his armor when he decided to tour this newly captured fort. He started with the postern gate, where he expected the least level of discipline, and the watchmen there did not disappoint him. "I wasn't informed we had a wedding ceremony here," he bristled. "Who is the lucky bride? You? You? Maybe you!" Of course, no one dared to answer back, and Gramus went on rebuking them, his voice ringing in the whole castle. Let them all know I'm coming for them.

  The soldiers posted on the wall and the watchtowers needed less talking to remind them they were guarding this castle against an enemy they were at war with, not chosen to stand here and enjoy the beauty of the silent dark forest around them.

  When he reached the guards at the main gate he did not find them so much different. Maybe they were not trying out their croaking voices to entertain themselves with long-missed love songs, yet they were blathering about demons, which could be a topic worth flogging for depending on which demon in particular they were ranting about.

  The soldiers hushed when they saw their general coming, a couple of them attempting to straighten their backs. He froze them with his glare before he picked the one concealing his smile to make an example of him. "You. Any dubious movements in the last few hours?"

  "No, General." The guard straightened his back even more. "Nothing at all."

  "You sound so sure though you look the wrong way," Gramus spat. "Can you see with the eye in your arse?"

  The confidence in the guard's eyes evaporated into thin air, his lips moving without uttering comprehensible words.

  "You." Gramus nodded toward another soldier. "Any dubious movements in the last few hours?"

  "I was looking the wrong way, General." That soldier was smarter than his mate. "That shall never happen again."

  "Good." Gramus simpered, giving those soldiers one last look. "Now everybody back to his post, eyes open."

  Resuming his tour atop the bulwark, the general redistributed the gathered soldiers so as to make sure that the entire wall was covered. When he descended the stone steps, he found Edmond in the courtyard chattering with Lord Jonson and a young black-haired commander who had attended tonight's meeting but had not uttered a word.

  "General." Edmond's eyebrows rose in astonishment. "We thought you went to your chamber."

  Gramus ignored his deputy's remark and asked, "Did you send for Her Grace?"

  "I did." The blond
deputy nodded. "A messenger is carrying the news to Neldon."

  "And Di Galio's army?"

  "The Fox hasn't shown his face anywhere so far. Our men have been scouting the perimeter of the castle in a circle of two miles."

  "Whose men do the scouting?"

  Edmond was confused for a moment, Lord Jonson narrowing his blue eyes. "Why, our men, General?"

  "Of course." Gramus clenched his teeth. "I wonder which lord they serve."

  "We have regrouped the men by their weapons by your order, General," Edmond reminded him. "Someone in particular you want to ask about?"

  "No, Sir. I am asking about all of them. I need to know the lords they used to serve before the war." Gramus leaned forward to emphasize, "Everyone, Sir Edmond."

  Edmond nodded, which was the only thing Gramus tolerated him for —nod and obey. "As you will, General."

  "Since you mentioned regrouping our men," the bald, blue-eyed lord cleared his throat, gesturing toward the black-haired youth, "may I introduce to you Payton, our new Commander of Archers?"

  Payton was clad in a light armor. The look in his deep-set eyes might betray his confidence, but with his clean-shaven narrow face, he seemed too young to command the archers of the entire army in battle. "How old are you, Commander?"

  "Twenty-three, General." Payton allowed a calculated smile.

  Barely eighteen, I would say, Gramus thought. "You believe you are up to the task, Commander?" He glanced at Jonson when he asked Payton.

  "I will not fail you, General," Payton promised, his voice steady.

  "Payton is the most gifted man with a bow and arrow in Bermania," Jonson hurriedly said. "He cannot miss even if he wanted to."

  "Archery skills do not make a commander, Lord Jonson." Gramus peered at the young man. "Tell me, Commander: how long have you been fighting?"

  "I was sixteen when I first joined the garrison of Ramos, General." Payton's grin showed his perfect teeth.

  "Payton's prowess in wielding all sorts of weapons was exceptional for his age," Jonson added, "but it was his sublime archery skills as well as his leadership that made him the youngest commander in any Bermanian army ever known. After the death of our Commander of Archers during the storming of Subrel, we needed his deputy to take his place."

  Gramus looked from Jonson to Payton. "The way Lord Jonson vouches for you almost made me think you were one of his men, not Di Galio's." Yes, you must have a reason for betraying the lord who made you a soldier.

  "I was Lord Jonson's squire before I became a soldier in Ramos," Payton clarified. "Di Galio himself picked me after watching me win an archery contest."

  An archery contest? Gramus smacked his lips, "impressed" by the young commander's heroic accomplishments, which could only be rivaled by the achievement of keeping his pretty face so clean along his long years of fighting. Di Galio must have been weeping for losing you, kid.

  Bored and exhausted, Gramus concluded this futile conversation and headed back into the castle. Before he went to his chamber, he asked his squire if he had received any messages for the general, but nothing had come. The crouching Fox would remain hidden for another night.

  It was not too long before knocks on his door woke him up. Whoever was knocking, better be coming with urgent news worth disturbing him at such an hour, unless he was foolish enough to earn a smashed jaw or a broken rib. When Gramus found it was the daft Lanark standing by his door, he was strangely relieved. Little doubt the young lord would be foolish enough.

  "Isn't it a bit late, Lord Lanark?" Gramus asked dryly, his voice thick with sleep.

  "A bit early, General. It is almost Dawn," said Lanark nervously. "We just captured thirty of Di Galio's horsemen less than a mile away from our walls. Their captain was mumbling about capturing Queen Rona."

  Gramus was instantly wide awake. "What on earth is this farce?"

  "It sounds weird, I know." Lanark did not seem bothered by Gramus's manners. "But the captain said they had been tracking Her Grace until she was captured and taken to Herlog."

  That cursed village again? "I must talk to him myself. Where do you hold him?"

  "I just sent him to the dungeons."

  "Bring him to the small hall," Gramus demanded, as if ordering one of his soldiers. "Now, Lord Lanark."

  When Lanark went to see to his order, Gramus put on a woolen tunic over his dark-grey breeches and picked up his war axe to take with him as he headed to the small hall. She was captured and taken to Herlog? the words echoed in his mind, drowning out his hurried footsteps. No, that could not be true. Rona was safe behind the walls of Kalhom, among her men. Damn it! She must have been betrayed, but by whom? By Darrison's son or Jonsons's daughter? Or someone else he never even thought of?

  Gramus's mind did not stop fuming while he was waiting in the small hall for Lanark's arrival with the captured captain. "What is taking that bastard so long?" he muttered, his hand knocking on the table in the center of the hall. The guards opened the door at last, two of them holding the bald, broad-shouldered prisoner, each one by an arm. Lanark was the last to enter the chamber. He gestured to the two guards holding the shackled captain, and in return they shoved him toward their general.

  This is how a commander looks like. Gramus scrutinized the scarred face of the silver-eyed captain. That old Jonson must wake up and see for himself how Di Galio chose his men.

  Gramus laid the massive war axe on the table, the captured bald captain not showing any hint that he might have glimpsed the monstrous shiny blade. A brave man. Let's see how brave he is.

  "Name and title," Gramus demanded.

  "Anvil, Captain under the Ramosi banner." The captured captain nodded toward Gramus. "You?"

  "Me?" Inwardly, Gramus admired Anvil's courage. "I'm General Gramus, commander of all of Queen Rona's troops. That is your first and also your last question, understood?"

  Anvil did not show any reaction.

  "The Ramosi banner." Gramus put his hands on his waist. "You report to Di Galio, then."

  Anvil shrugged. "He is the Lord of Ramos, so yes."

  "You could have claimed you were a deserter when you were captured, Captain. Are you so eager to die?"

  "Victors, losers; all die one day."

  "True." Gramus picked up the war axe, and with the flat of its blade he brushed over Anvil's armored leg. "Some of them die faster than others, though."

  "What do you want, General?" Despite Anvil's steady eyes and voice, Gramus could sense that hint of uncertainty.

  "Answers." Gramus glared at him, Lanark advancing forward, his hands behind his back. "I was told you were caught near our walls, and I wonder why."

  "And what good do I get from answering your questions?" Anvil looked between Gramus and Lanark. "A swift death?"

  "There is no good for us in killing you, Captain," Lanark hurriedly offered. "As long as you provide us with valuable information."

  Why give him hope? Gramus wanted to rebuke Lanark for his interference. The young lord was ruining the impact Gramus was trying to make on his prisoner.

  "You seem like a man of reason, milord." Antram stared at Lanark.

  "I promise you," Gramus spat. "His reason will not do you any good if you just think of fooling us."

  "He seems smarter than that, General." Lanark flashed a smile, winking at Gramus. "He will cooperate, I'm certain." He turned to Anvil, wearing the same smile. "No need to lose limbs or fingers. Right, Captain?"

  Whatever the trick Lanark was trying to play, it would not work with their prisoner. Being nice would not persuade that scar-faced bastard to bear them enough respect to give them information of any import.

  "No need, for certain." The captured captain nodded. To Gramus's surprise, Lanark's ridiculous trick was working.

  Lanark exchanged a look with Gramus before he addressed Anvil, shrugging. "We are listening."

  The scowling captain was hesitant before he started, "My mission was to scout the northern region of Ramos when we saw your. . . queen'
s caravan. We mistook—"

  "Where exactly did you see her?" Gramus put in.

  "Somewhere between Verling and Herlog," Anvil replied. "Mistaking her caravan for what could be the vanguard of your reinforcements, we tracked her until that band of horsemen coming from Herlog ambushed her."

  "How do you know they were coming from Herlog?" Lanark asked.

  "I followed them on their way back with her. They slew most of her guards, and most probably, she was the only one whose life they spared."

  Why would Rona venture outside the walls of Kalhom in the first place? Gramus fumed as his restless mind was seeking answers to why she had broken her agreement with him. Queen or not, she was still the reckless girl he had watched grow up.

  Was that Anvil lying to them? Well, he would not be less trustworthy than Rona's vassals. "Scouting was your mission, you said?" Gramus asked.

  "Yes."

  "You were scouting with thirty men?"

  Anvil tilted his head. "I thought you might be interested in knowing where your queen was rather than our tactics in scouting enemy territories."

  "I'm interested to know why you might miss the chance of capturing my queen."

  "We were outnumbered, and so were your queen's men. My mission was to scout, not to risk my men's lives."

  Masolon and his peasants. From what Gramus had encountered at the walls of Herlog, that Masolon was not the only man in the village who knew how to swing a sword or draw a bowstring. But outnumbering thirty knights? Those Herlogans had quite an army.

  But what would they want from Rona?

  "You know what happens to you if I don't find Queen Rona in that cursed village?" Gramus gnashed his teeth, leaning forward toward Anvil.

  "I'm not going anywhere, General." Anvil shrugged his broad shoulders.

  The only thing I believe in your blabber, bastard. Gramus gestured to the guards to take Anvil out of the chamber. When the general and Lanark were alone, the young lord asked, "You believe that tale?"

  "It doesn't matter." Gramus hoped that Anvil was lying, not just for the sake of Rona's safety; it was the pleasure of granting the scarred-faced captain the slow death he deserved. "Wake the men and have them ready the catapults. We march at dawn to Herlog."