Queen of Rebels

by Karim Soliman

  "What should I say?" She tilted her head. "You are renowned as one of the most dangerous men in Bermania. You should be flattered."

  "So, you do not trust me anymore?"

  "My men do not. Maybe I had better listen to them."

  "Is that so? Why then did you summon the most dangerous man in Bermania to your meeting chamber?"

  Rona stepped back as she nodded toward the window. "Have a look."

  Masolon advanced and leaned forward, squinting at the horde occupying the horizon beyond the walls of Subrel. "You are besieged, I see."

  "We are being assaulted—you see nothing from this window. An assault by an army eighteen thousand man-strong. After their five trebuchets are done with our walls, that army will descend upon my men." She sighed. "I don't know which is worse: being captured alive, or killed by your enemy’s men."

  Her silence made him feel obliged to say something in return. She was in serious trouble, he reflected, but there was nothing he could do for her nevertheless. "I wish I could help you, Rona. But I told you, I—"

  "There is something you can help me with," she cut him off.

  "You know what I think of your war with Wilander."

  "I'm not asking you to fight for me. Would that make you feel better?"

  Now he was even more perplexed. "That depends on what you require me to do."

  A hint of a smile played at the corner of her mouth though she did not receive his consent yet. "There is a traitor in my camp, a lord, my general believes. I mean to find that traitor before he stabs me in the back in the heat of the battle."

  "You should indeed." Truly, he could not disagree about the urgent need to catch the oathbreaker. But why did she insist on seeking his help and for what reason? "What do you want me to do?"

  "Remember Anvil, Di Galio's captain, the one you refused to surrender me to? I presume he can lead me to that traitor, so I need your help in interrogating him." She stared at him in anticipation. "Do you want me to remind you why I need your help?"

  "Because you are short of men you can trust at the moment," Masolon scoffed, peering at his chained wrists.

  Rona allowed a faint sigh of relief. "So, you are with me then?" Her grin grew wider as she hurriedly went on, "Don't worry about your cuffs." She called out to the Skandivians guards standing outside the chamber. Two muscular men flung the door open, gripping their war axes. "Easy, warriors. I am safe. I just want the keys to Commander Masolon's cuffs."

  The guards looked from their queen to Masolon and back to her, as if making sure she was not in any danger or under any threat. They nodded and left the chamber with much less fuss than at their entrance.

  "Your guards are really alert," Masolon remarked. "Tense, I would say."

  "Better than being inattentive, right?" Rona tilted her head, her emerald eyes fixed on him. She did the right thing when she cuffed my wrists, Masolon reflected as he imagined what he might have done if his hands were free.

  When those hazy memories of that night in Herlog crossed his mind, Masolon tried to steer his thoughts away by asking: "You say you want me to help you interrogate him. What do you exactly expect me to do? Torture him?"

  Rona shrugged. "I really have no idea, Masolon. I killed the only man I interrogated without getting any useful information out of him. I hope you have learned something of help during your tenure with the Murasens. Or something from your clan." She peered at him, as if testing the impact of her words on him. "Is it true you still have clans where you come from?"

  There was subtle disdain in her tone. "Those clans you despise are not any more barbarian than most of the Goranian factions I came to know."

  "Goranian?" Rona arched an eyebrow. "Really, Masolon: aren't you a Mankol?"

  Another curious one trying to guess my origins. Since he managed to reach Gorania, he had never gotten bored of the question. Especially when it came from curious gorgeous girls. "What makes you think I am a Mankol?" he asked in amusement.

  "Beside the fact you did mention your clan twice? Your looks. Not saying you look like them. I never saw them." The way she stared at him made him swallow. "Yet I always hear they have your black, silky hair." She cleared her throat when three horrendous thuds pulled her into the reality of her situation and made it clear to her that now might not be the right time to flirt.

  "No, I am not a Mankol." There would be no harm if he told her, he believed. "I am not from anywhere in Gorania."

  Rona's eyes widened as she gaped at him. "You are from the cursed realm of Koya?" Her voice was suddenly faint. "They are renowned for harnessing magic, the darkest kinds, I heard." She looked him up and down. "No one told, sang or wrote anything about their fighting skills."

  Masolon might have heard the name of that cursed realm once or twice in the last couple of years. "Have you heard or read anything about the Outsiders?" Masolon remembered what Bumar had called him the first time they met.

  "Not so many believe in their existence." She studied his face as she elaborated. "No word of them is mentioned in the Tales of Gorania."

  The book written by drunken clerics. It seemed that only Ramel knew the truth. "You are among the majority then."

  "I don't follow a certain group or denomination. I'm myself." Rona turned to the window, as if she just remembered that her castle was under siege. "It just doesn't make sense. Because if you think about it, where could they have come from, them Outsiders? From the Frozen Forest? The Endless Sea? The Boiling Eyes? Or the Great Desert?"

  "Why not the Great Desert? Because it is inhabited by demons?"

  "Because it is too hot for men to live in. Demons only exist in the bards' songs to entertain the tavern drunkards, or the elders' tales to frighten their children."

  Or in Masolon's mind to torture him.

  Rona turned to him. "What is all this distraction for? Is knowing your homeland a big deal?"

  "I am not distracting you. I just gave you the answer."

  Rona folded her arms, leaning her back against the wall. "An Outsider?" She allowed herself a wry chuckle. "I really wonder why you would say that after all I said. Were you even listening?"

  She was not the first one to refuse the plain truth when it was given to her. "You believe in the Last Day, Rona?" Rather than wasting their time in a futile discussion about his origins, Masolon was more interested in hearing more about the notions his lordly visitor had raised.

  "I don't tend to preoccupy my mind with such matters. Maybe the Signs and the Last Day are true, maybe they are not, but why should that make any difference to us? It's up to the Lord of Sky and Earth to decide after all."

  There was an uncomfortable noise coming from behind the door of the chamber. Men were roaring, others screaming. Amid all that commotion, Masolon could swear he heard the whizzing of arrows.

  "Do you have a weapon?" Masolon asked hurriedly, his eyes on the locked door.

  "Only this." She produced her dagger as she sneaked toward the door and stood right next to it.

  "What about me?" He raised his cuffed hand.

  Assuming a ready-to-stab position, she gestured to him to stay where he was. She is using me as a bait, he realized.

  Steel outside the chamber clashed a few times. After hearing one last cry and a dull thud of a falling body, the corridor outside fell silent. Masolon had high hopes on Rona's Skandivian guards, but his expectations were, sadly, much lower. Putting all pieces together—the titanic army besieging the castle, the traitor Rona was talking about, and the key for his chain that did not and would never arrive—Masolon could picture what was going to come through this door.

  He advanced to the nearest edge of the table to the door. When the swordsmen stormed the room, he gripped a chair with both hands in a desperate attempt to toss it at the intruders. But before he made any move, Rona already plunged her dagger into the trunk of one swordsman with one hand and snatched his weapons from his sheath with the other. She bent as she fluidly lunged forward, evading a deadly swing from a second sw
ordsman, and rose, slicing his abdomen with the sword she just obtained.

  Masolon would tell afterward how he enjoyed those three seconds. But first, he tossed his wooden weapon at the door. It barely hurt the two incoming soldiers because of his poor throw, but it obstructed their entrance for a second or two, which were enough for Rona to kick a fallen sword—the one that belonged to the swordsman she just gutted—to Masolon, and stab one of the two new intruders. She retreated with one wide step back, letting the other intruder tear the air with his blade, giving Masolon the time to pick up the sword she had just passed him from the ground. Now, forced to wield that light sword two-handedly, Masolon charged at the remaining attacker, slashing his chest with one lethal blow. A fifth footman surged forward, roaring, but Rona's blade was waiting to receive him, carving a hole in his belly. When Masolon slew a sixth swordsman, she yelled, "Step back!" Needless to wonder about the reason, he responded without hesitation, Rona slamming the door shut before another wave of intruders rushed in. They roared as they pushed from outside, but Rona barred the door with a sword inserted through door handles.

  Masolon enjoyed a breath of air, staring at the door the intruders were ramming. "You fight better than the first time I saw you." He was not sarcastic at all.

  Busy plundering the slain soldiers' weapons, Rona did not heed his remark. "What do we do now?"

  If he did not watch her fight, he would not ask her, "Cut me loose." Masolon spread his hands apart as much as he could, which was not much by any means.

  "Sure you want me to do this?" Rona tilted her head.

  "I trust you." He glanced at the barred door, the intruders ramming it harder now. "We do not have much time."

  Rona held her sword with both hands. She seemed hesitant, but in a heartbeat, she struck the chain between his wrists. Stunned for a moment, Masolon stared at his arms to make sure they were still there, intact.

  "The cuffs bothering your wrists? Pray you live long enough to worry about them."

  Masolon, who liked her spirit, gave her a lopsided-smile as he picked up a shield and strapped it to his back. "If we keep the fight at the door, we have a slight chance to survive this." He grabbed another sword and sucked in a deep breath of air, stretching his neck and back. "Ready for another wave, Your Grace?"

  Rona glanced at the barred door before she gave him a warning look. "You are not going to open that door, are you?"

  The idea had already flashed across his mind for a moment. "Of course not," he lied. "Only a fool would do that."

  33. GRAMUS

  The wall was going to collapse; Gramus knew it was only a matter of time. Since the arrival of Di Galio's main army, the five trebuchets had been striking the four vulnerable parts of the wall. The Fox was eager to send his men inside the fort, it seemed.

  According to Gramus's arrangements with Payton, a few scattered archers remained atop the bulwark—Payton himself among them—to serve as watchmen near the four vulnerable points. The rest were lined up at the frontline of Gramus's army to readily hurry to the wall and assume their shooting positions when the time was right. As for the army itself, Gramus had found himself obliged to split them up into four large battalions to defend the probable breach points. He kept the Skandivians warriors to himself, not because he was not willing to share the finest footmen in his army with anybody else (which could be a reason to be honest); but because none among those Bermanian lordly pretenders would be a fitting leader for true warriors like his Skandivians. Anyway, it would be a chance for the Bermanian finest spearmen and swordsmen to prove their worth on the other fronts.

  Mounting their armored warhorses, the heads of all noble houses who had joined Rona distributed themselves over the three Bermanian battalions. Even the grey-bearded Darrison and the bald Jonson, the two most senior lords in Rona's host, were not hiding in their chambers in the castle. Which of you will betray me when the clash of steel starts? Gramus kept his question for himself. Soon he would know anyway.

  The crack ahead of Gramus was getting bigger every time a flying projectile slammed it with an ominous thud, stone bricks falling from the wall like the dry leaves of a tree in autumn. This is where it is going to start, Gramus figured out as he gazed at the collapsing wall at Darrison's front, the rightmost vulnerable point of the wall. The veteran lord had his spearmen lined ahead of the swordsmen, probably to meet Di Galio's heavy cavalry in case the Fox decided to deploy them first. Looking over his shoulder, Gramus saw Jonson's nephew, Lord Norwell, ahead of their entire cavalry, which was positioned at the rearguard to interfere whenever aid was required by any of the four battalions. Gramus hoped he would reserve as much cavalry as possible for the upcoming open field battles. If there would be any, of course.

  Gramus was relieved when the cracked wall collapsed at Darrison's front, a colossal cloud of dust rising to the sky. Keeping his idle soldiers waiting in the courtyard while the trebuchets were hurling their massive fireballs at the wall was not helping at all. The longer the wait for the assault, the more uneasy his men grew; especially with the accidental casualties they had because of misaimed flying fireballs. The battle had not started, and yet Gramus had lost more than twenty men.

  The cloud of dust dissipated, revealing a huge hole that would allow five men abreast to come through the wall. Gramus waited for Payton or any of his archers atop the ramparts to cry the warning he had been eager to hear, but none of the archers, or the watchmen, said anything.

  "Payton!" Gramus spread his arms, giving the Commander of Archers an inquisitive look.

  "Stay where you are!" Payton gestured to him. "They are not advancing yet!"

  Maybe Gramus was asking too soon. Surely, Di Galio would make his move. Unless. . .

  The fireballs shaking the wall at both Edmond and Jonson's fronts—both on Gramus's left—confirmed his doubts. Obviously, Di Galio planned to launch a full-scale attack on the castle after carving four breach points in the wall. He is making the most of his monstrous siege weapons. This battle would end sooner than Gramus had thought.

  The firestones kept striking the three remaining vulnerable points, a few even falling into the courtyard. While one fireball landed peacefully by some miracle, two others created havoc as they plummeted into Jonson's battalion and Norwell's cavalry. How many were dead this time? Gramus did not even want to know. Hold your ground, you cravens, Gramus would have yelled at the panicking soldiers if they were close enough to hear him.

  He doubted the wall at his front would stand another fireball. And he was right. The cracked wall exploded when one last projectile struck it, stone bricks flying and falling everywhere. Gramus and his men were far enough from the wall to avoid those bricks, but the unfortunate archers ahead of him were not. It did not kill them, though. Maybe some minor injuries and that was all.

  The cloud of dust at Gramus's front faded away, revealing a gap even bigger than that at Darrison's flank. The general looked for Payton atop the wall, and the Commander of Archers was still there, gazing at the horde besieging their fort. Gramus was not surprised that Payton did not make any announcements. Not until Di Galio is done with the two remaining breach points.

  Gramus slowly drew the war axe strapped to his back, feeling the weight of his hefty weapon on his arms. The closest Skandivians to him did the same with their axes, and shortly, the whole battalion unsheathed their weapons, the steel scraping against leather straps was music to his ears.

  A few archers in front of him gazed at the magnificent blade he wielded, their eyes betraying their awe. Those Bermanians were not used to the sight of real weapons in their battles, he thought. "Bermanians fence and dance. We crush skulls and chop necks, boy," his giant of a father had told him in one of their early sparring sessions. If he had not married his Bermanian mother, he and his father could have been leading their clan in Ralgens in their war. Or who knew? They could have been brought here with those mercenaries to fight in this very war, in this very castle. Destiny could not be fooled, the Bermania
ns believed. But could Rona wage her war against Wilander if it were not for Gramus? Could she even survive after her family's murder? Gramus could not imagine the plans of destiny to save Rona without involving his father's oath to protect her bloodline.

  In two consecutive minutes, two more parts of the wall collapsed, the curtain of dust covering the entire left flank of the wall. An eerie silence fell over the place until Payton waved to his archers in the courtyard. "To your posts! They are marching to the four fronts! Cavalry here!" He waved toward Darrison's front. The old lord was finally getting what he was waiting for.

  "So, it begins, warriors!" He hauled his war axe upward, the warriors behind him roaring, knocking their shields with their axes and swords. "And so it ends for them!"

  He marched to the gap, the howling mercenaries following him. Through the broken wall he could see Di Galio's advancing troops, thousands of men obscuring the horizon with their numbers. I'm coming, Father, Gramus wished his father could hear his thoughts. I swear I did all I could to honor my oath.

  Payton and his archers were assuming their positions atop the wall when Gramus and the Skandivians reached the gap. "On my order!" he bellowed at the warriors, whose reputation for discipline was far less than their ferocity. "Nobody charges until I give the order!"

  Up the wall, the archers nocked the arrows onto their bows; Gramus could hear Payton yell at them. We need an endless torrent of arrows to stop that army. The general contemplated the titanic horde closing in on the castle of Subrel. "Aim!" Payton's order rang above Gramus and his warriors, the distance between them and the attackers getting shorter. It was a battalion of heavily armored swordsmen, Gramus realized.

  "Loose!"

  Payton's archers unleashed their whizzing arrows, the attackers sprinting now as they entered the shooting range. They were falling, but those who would make it to Gramus and his battalion were more than those who fell. "Warriors! Be ready!" Gramus lifted his axe up, waiting for the right moment to charge at the incoming swordsmen with his men as one unit. Unlike the standard Bermanian tactic that relied on absorbing the attackers' charge with shields, the Skandivians' usual drill was a counter charge to defend. It never mattered to them whether they were going on offensive or defensive; charging at their enemies was what they knew best in either situation.