by David Estes
Aunt Zelda was there to see them off. She said, “Bring our knights home.” She spoke around a thick sour roll she was chewing.
Annise nodded. “In my absence, I hereby grant you, Lady Zelda Gäric, all the powers, authority and determination of law that I hold as Queen of the North.”
Zelda took another bite of her roll, and then said, “The Dread King of the North is rolling over in his grave.”
Annise couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. After all, if she couldn’t laugh under the gravest of circumstances, what was the point of any of this?
She turned to Sir Metz. She had one more order of business before they left. “Sir Metz,” she said.
“Your Highness?” He stood a little straighter, his armor gleaming in the rare northern sunlight.
“You will not accompany us north.”
He stared at her, and though he controlled his expression, she could see the disappointment flashing in his eyes. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” she said quickly. That was the last thing she wanted him to think, but she needed to make this very clear, or else the knight would figure out a way to interpret her response in such a way that he could follow them. “I trust your honor above all others, even my own. I need you to continue the soldier training program started by Sir Dietrich. I can think of no other who would better serve in this regard. You will remain in Castle Hill, continuing to recruit soldiers and train them to the highest standards. You will take further commands from Lady Zelda.”
His disappointment morphed to pride. “I will do this thing.”
“You will not follow us into the Hinterlands. That is a command. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he said.
A twinge of regret spiked inside Annise, surprising her. She would miss having this loyal man. Not only was he a firstclass swordsman, but she now considered him a friend, though he might not think the same.
May we meet again, she thought, turning away from two people she cared for greatly. She aimed her face to the north, to the ice-sheathed surface of Frozen Lake and the rolling snowdunes of the Hinterlands beyond.
The first winter storm of the season hit before the sun reached its peak.
Sixteen
The Northern Kingdom, Darrin
Tarin Sheary
The blade-like towers of the castle seemed poised to fall, slashing Darrin, and those who remained in the city, to ribbons.
The torn flesh covering Tarin’s knuckles continued to weep blood, dripping in the snow, which was packed down hard and alive with prints from horses’ hooves.
Tarin raised his eyes to the sky, squinting at the brightness of the thin white clouds. What now? he thought.
Fay said, “The horses are gone.”
It was as Tarin feared—the lord of the castle, Lord Darrin, had fled the city, abandoning it to the east. Any hope of mustering a force large enough to defend the city had left with him.
Tarin turned when he heard footsteps approaching from behind. The soldiers from the barracks, now all fully dressed and in somewhat rumpled uniforms, stopped in a ragged line, Captain Morris at their head. “You’re leaving us, too, aren’t you?” he said. His round cheeks were ruddy from the cold.
“Aye,” Tarin said. “I’m leaving you.” He walked past them without looking back.
Fay caught up to him just as he passed the barracks on the way out of the city.
“Coward,” she muttered.
He didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. “How do you figure?” he said as he lengthened his strides. “Lord Darrin is a coward. Captain Morris and his so-called soldiers are cowards. I am merely being realistic. This city is forfeit, along with what’s left of its defenses.”
“Excuses,” Fay said, stopping.
Tarin whirled around. “Just because we’re old acquaintances doesn’t mean that you know me,” he said. “So stop pretending like you do.”
“Fair enough,” Fay said. “You best be on your way. It’s a long march to the next city, which I’m certain will be more hospitable than Darrin. I’m certain you will find plenty of walls to crush your fists against there.”
He stared at her. “What will you do?”
“Stay here. Stand against the east.”
“That’s suicide. Morris and the others are planning to surrender.”
“Then I shall fight alone.”
“You’re not even a soldier,” Tarin said, though he immediately regretted the words. Annise hadn’t been a soldier either, and yet she was a warrior all the same, as formidable in battle as a hundred Captain Morrises. Nay, a thousand.
“The Dread King didn’t allow women in his army, remember? Though clearly he favored fools based on present company.”
I deserve that, Tarin thought. “You can fight?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. You think someone with no experience in combat can design and forge the weaponry I do?”
Tarin took a guess. “Your father taught you to fight?”
Fay blew out a disgusted breath. “Men of the north are so narrowminded. My father left my mother and I before I could walk. My mother taught me. She was once a she-knight, one of less than a dozen in the last two centuries.”
Tarin couldn’t hide his surprise. Nor his shame. He was narrowminded, though he didn’t mean to be. He just wasn’t used to seeing women in battle. And he’d never seen a she-knight in his life, though he’d heard of them. Supposedly there was one in Blackstone, but she’d likely died in the assault on Knight’s End.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You never asked.” When he opened his mouth to respond, she held up a hand to stop him. “I know. I get it. When I first met you, you were still figuring out who you were. There wasn’t exactly time to get to know me or Bart. But now you know. I can fight. I can forge weapons for the men here. I can try to convince them not to surrender.”
“Then you will die,” Tarin said.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I will die defending this kingdom, as Annise and her aunt are doing. If the men won’t protect these lands, the women will.”
Tarin closed his eyes. One way or another, he had to do something. He couldn’t stop moving, not for one minute longer. To stop was to think, to dwell, to remember. Action was the only way to silence the voice, to blur the memories. Whatever path he chose, he would throw himself into it with the entirety of his being—it was the only way he knew how to live inside his own skin.
“I’ll stay. I’ll help you,” he said.
As Fay’s lips curled into a broad grin, he wondered whether he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Grudgingly, Captain Morris and his men had scoured the city, locating all remaining soldiers—most of whom were still drunk from the night before—and gathering them in the castle courtyard. Though their training and abilities remained in doubt, Tarin was pleased to find more than two hundred men still occupied the city.
The leftovers, he reminded himself. Still, leftovers could satisfy if heated and salted and stirred. Several of the men began arguing, shoving each other and uttering curses about mothers. Maybe not these leftovers, Tarin thought.
Captain Morris approached. “That’s as many as we could find. There might be another dozen or so hiding, but they’ll poke their heads out of the snow eventually.”
“Good. Thank you,” Tarin said, scanning the men for Fay’s familiar slender form. He spotted her as she emerged from a dark-stoned building with iron bars over the windows. He frowned. Why was she in the prison? Realization set in when he saw four men appear behind her, their arms and legs shackled together.
Fay grinned and waved.
Tarin pinched the skin between his eyes, where a headache had begun to throb. Criminals and castaways, he thought. He released the skin, which continued to ache. Doesn’t matter. Keep moving, keep doing. That’s all I have left.
Fay brought the shackled men past the soldiers, many of whom jeered and shouted insults at
them. “Four more recruits,” she said when she reached Tarin.
Tarin eyed them each in turn. Two stared at their feet. One stared at the sky, like he hadn’t seen it in a long time. And the fourth met Tarin’s eyes with a steel gaze, nodding once in his direction.
“Do you want to know their crimes?” Fay asked.
“No,” Tarin said. “We have all done things we regret, but today is a new beginning.”
The two who’d been staring at their feet looked up through tendrils of long, dirty hair. The one staring at the sky continued to stare. And the fourth blinked, as if surprised.
Tarin accepted a key from Fay and unshackled them one at a time. Three of them, rubbing their ankles and wrists, melted into the crowd, which parted in the middle. Not to accept them, but to avoid them, or so it seemed.
The fourth, the man with the steel eyes, didn’t move, didn’t massage his raw skin. He wasn’t young, but not old either, and his expression didn’t contain the same defeat nor brokenness that most prisoners, in Tarin’s experience, had.
“Do you not remember me?” he asked.
Tarin frowned. He’d spent many years at Darrin, but this man didn’t strike him as someone he knew. His jet-black hair hung in long ringlets to his shoulders, his smudged face partially obscured by a patchy beard…
It hit him. Behind the changes prison had wrought on him was a man Tarin should’ve recognized immediately.
“Sir Jonathan?”
“In the flesh,” the man said. And then he punched Tarin in the chest as hard as he could.
A dull clang rang out, silencing the murmur of conversation amongst the soldiers. Sir Jonathan’s hand snapped back and he sucked on his knuckles, which were already starting to bruise from punching Tarin’s armor. He laughed, pulling in a sharp breath at the pain. “That’s for being a brutish bastard,” the knight said. Is he still a knight? Tarin wondered. Depending on the severity of his crimes, Lord Darrin may have stripped him of his knighthood.
“Good to see you, too,” Tarin said.
“We’ll catch up later,” Jonathan promised, finally stepping away and into the mob of soldiers.
Tarin shook his head. Darrin was full of surprises, and he was glad one of them had finally been positive. Sir Jonathan was a mighty warrior, one he’d known for all five of the years he’d spent in Darrin. I will promote him first to a leadership position. Captain Morris will gladly be replaced.
What am I talking about? Tarin had never been a commander before, always refusing offered promotions, content to keep his head down, follow orders, march wherever he was told to march, fight whomever he was told to fight…
But if not me, then who? Captain Morris? The thought almost made him laugh—gallows humor and all that. If he didn’t lead, the city was doomed. Well, more doomed than it already was. No, Fay was right; she might not have said it, but this was his penance, his way to protect the north. And by protecting the north, he was protecting Annise in the only way he knew how.
Tarin turned to face the crowd, not certain of exactly what he would say. “As most of you know, the east has rallied six battalions to take this city.”
“Only six?” someone in the crowd japed. Pockets of laughter.
“Aye, and we should consider ourselves fortunate. I was here when the full might of the east—half a hundred battalions—assaulted the Razor, when the cliffs ran red with the blood of my comrades and enemies alike, when pain was but a reminder that we weren’t dead, when corpses were piled to—”
“Tarin,” Fay hissed. He glanced at her. The barest shake of her head.
He took a deep breath. Right. Scaring these men was no way to convince them to fight for him. No, he needed to inspire them. How had his previous leaders convinced him to fight? They hadn’t needed to, was the obvious answer. But these men were not him, and the next words he chose could make all the difference.
“The past is the past,” he said, changing tact, waving it away with one of his monstrous hands. “All we have is the present and the future. The great city of Darrin is being threatened. I plan to defend it.”
“Who are you again?” someone shouted.
“The Armored Knight, you dolt,” another voice cried in response.
Tarin realized none of these men had ever seen his face, the truth of who—what—he was. All they knew was his armor, which had become a symbol of him as a warrior, a stalwart soldier responsible for the deaths of hundreds of enemies.
I am not that man anymore, not if I want to truly help my queen. I have to be more. I cannot hide from myself any longer.
It was a risk, but at this point he had little to lose.
He reached up with both hands, gripping the iron base of the helmet Fay had forged all those years ago, when he was just a scared little boy in a monster’s body.
And he removed his helmet.
Muttering curses and whispering words like demon, sorcery, and witchcraft, half the men left. Maybe more. Tarin hadn’t exactly had time to conduct a rollcall.
Half of nothing is still nothing, Tarin thought. Dammit, I must stop thinking like that or I might as well leave with them. Half of them had stayed, even after seeing the true face of the man who planned to lead them into battle. Fay nodded at him encouragingly.
“I am a man just like the rest of you,” he said. He remembered how Annise had given her victory speech atop the wall at Castle Hill, how she’d met each soldier’s eyes individually. He tried to do the same, scanning the crowd. Truth, that was all he had left. “I almost died as a boy. The act that saved my life changed me. That is a truth I cannot deny, cannot change, even if I wanted to.
“You all have the same choice as the men who left. Stay or go. When the Dread King ruled, you did not have that choice. To desert meant you’d be hunted down and executed. Now his daughter rules, as your queen, and she is just as strong, but fair too. You can go where you will go, be with your families, find a place to hide…” He let the idea float for a moment, before continuing. “Or…you can stand and you can fight. You can reject the notion that the north can be conquered. You can shout at the top of your lungs that the north, even in its weakest state, is the shield that can be cracked but never broken. You can laugh in the face of six battalions and remember that this is our territory and the snow and ice and storms of winter are when we are at our strongest. We are the rock that cannot be moved, the stream that cannot be dammed, the sword that cannot be parried.” Tarin’s fists were clenched at his sides, his chin jutted out, his dark eyes gleaming with fire and determination. He felt…good, right, powerful, almost like he was rising off the ground. “What say you?” he bellowed.
Silence. Shuffling feet. Shifting eyes, most refusing to meet his.
And then: “Do we get breakfast?”
Tarin gaped at the man who’d spoken, none other than the old geezer from the barracks, the one with the infernal cough.
“Aye,” another man said. “If there’s hot food involved, count me in.”
A chorus of agreement rippled through the group of men who remained. Food, Tarin thought, like it was a magical word. I’ll have to remember that. “Yes,” he said. “There will be food. We just have to find it first.”
The men cheered and slapped each other’s backs.
As it turned out, finding food wasn’t a major challenge, at least not in the short term. In Lord Darrin’s haste to flee the city, he’d left much of the castle’s enormous store of provisions behind. There were lumpy sacks of oats, flour, and beans. There were baskets of potatoes growing fresh green shoots. There was a larder hanging with salted meats—antelope and deer and even several sides of mamoothen rump.
And there was ale—frozen hell, Tarin thought, there’s enough ale to keep the soldiers inebriated for the entire winter.
His first order as Lord Commander—the men had unanimously agreed on the position being his—was to command Sir Jonathan to guard the mead. His next order was for every man to take a bath before breakfast; he could barely breath
e because of the stale stink in the air.
The men dove into the task with remarkable energy, almost as if they’d been starved for something to do, but Tarin knew they were just starving for breakfast. In any case, they gathered large tin tubs, filled them with armfuls of snow, and then built fires beneath them to melt the snow. Some of them were so keen to get to breakfast that they didn’t even wait for the water to heat, screaming as they scrubbed themselves in the icy water.
The entire scene might’ve been amusing if Tarin wasn’t so busy thinking about what to do after breakfast. While Tarin was considering his plans, Fay snagged several of the first soldiers out of the tubs and conscripted them to organize the castle storerooms and prepare food. At first they’d balked at her barked command—“Don’t take no orders from a woman!”—but when Tarin shot a glare in their direction they hopped right to it.
Once a vat of porridge was well on its way to being ready to eat, Fay plopped down next to where Tarin sat on his helmet. “You did good,” she said.
Tarin laughed, thinking he hadn’t done anything so far, but then said, “You too.”
She echoed his laughter, and he wondered whether she felt the same way he did: that this was all some strange dream, the kind you get after eating something that had gone off.
“You know,” she said, “we need to do something about your armor.”
This was one of his least favorite topics of conversation, and yet he knew she was right. “Aye, it’s snug around my hips and teats,” he japed.
“More like everywhere,” she said. “How does a man as large as you manage to grow even larger?”
He was tempted to speak openly to her, but the words stuck in his throat. Jokes were easier. “By eating enough for three men every chance I get.” In truth, Tarin probably ate less than most of the skinny soldiers who were putting away two or three bowls of porridge and still going back for more.
No, he thought. The violence feeds me, the bloodlust, the screams of those who fall beneath my Morningstar…
