55
Liandra
For three days the pain triumphed. Trapped between life and death, the queen remained abed, wracked by grief and agony, but duty finally claimed her. Her shadowmen brought warning. “Majesty, the enemy approaches.”
The dire threat pierced the pain-wracked fog, proving more potent than any healer’s potion. For the sake of her kingdom, she rallied, burying her grief and bridling the hurt, but despite her royal will, her body still needed time to heal. Liandra lingered abed for as long as she dared, waiting till the enemy neared the gates. A delegation of red-cloaked heralds rode toward Pellanor, emissaries from the Flame come to parlay. Given the loss of Lingard, Liandra expected them to carry terms of surrender, but by all the gods they’d find no surrender in her kingdom.
When the heralds drew within four turns of the hourglass, the queen forced herself from bed. Liandra swayed, silently cursing the enemy’s timing. Her body still bled; wracked with stabbing pains from the loss of the child, but the heralds posed a problem only a monarch could counter. Clutching the back of a chair, she forced herself to stand straight, ordering her women to attend. Weakness was a state no monarch could afford, leastwise a queen.
Lady Sarah knelt. “Majesty, I beg you, stay abed and let your lords deal with this.”
The request was heartfelt but duty called. “The heralds bring more than just a message, they threaten the very will of our people. They shall not succeed.”
War brought so many disadvantages to Pellanor, the queen could ill afford to let fear claim her city. Ever mindful of image, Liandra had long planned for just such a threat. At the start of the war she’d commissioned a suit of armor, a masterwork of silver filigreed with gold, burnished to a bright glow. The breastplate and the helm were real enough, capable of stopping an arrow despite the shapely curves, but everything else was ornamental. Her fingers traced the gold filigree, the workmanship exquisite. Clad in armor, a warrior queen would ride out to meet the heralds, a show of defiance and courage, a message for the enemy as well as her own people.
Her women swarmed around, trying to make sense of the armor. Greaves and gorget, bracers and bucklers, she wondered how men fought in so much metal. “Make sure the straps are secure. It won’t do to have something fall off.” A wave of pain ambushed her. She bit her lip to stifle a moan. Her insides felt as if they’d been torn asunder, yet the enemy gave her no choice. “It’s hot in here. Open a window.” Liandra gripped the back of the chair, refusing to succumb.
Lady Sarah clucked her displeasure. “Majesty, it’s too soon. You should still be abed.”
“Yet the enemy is nearly at our gates. They’ll find no weakness in the queen.”
Healer Crandor hovered nearby, fretting like an old woman. “Majesty, you’ve lost too much blood. Remain abed till you regain your strength. Listen to the wisdom of your lady if not your healer.”
Liandra closed her eyes, rallying her strength. They did not understand the threat. They did not see the chessboard the way she did. “We’ll have no more argument.” She made her voice implacable. “This must be done.”
Lady Sarah struggled with one of the buckles. “Send one of your lords. Let them earn their keep.”
“There is only one queen.”
Master Raddock stepped from the shadows. “Where will you meet them? At the castle or the outer walls?”
“The Flame has already proved adept at treachery. We’ll not offer them a chance to enter Pellanor.”
“At the outer walls then. At least the northern gate is finished.”
One gate out of six finished, Liandra shook her head. “Then today will be full of ruses.” She glared at her deputy shadowmaster. “Ruses might work for heralds but not for the Flame Army. You best tell the men to work harder.” At her command, a second wall grew around her capital city. Cobbled together from buildings and stoppered alleyways, with ironshod gates erected at the major roadways, she hoped the new wall might offer a thin defense. Pellanor was a city long in love with luxury and commerce, a ripe plum for an enemy army, yet she swore to weave thorns into the walls, to find a way to protect her capital and her people.
“Will you wear the helm?” Lady Sarah lifted a silver helm crowned with a wreath of gold roses.
Liandra gazed into the mirror. A warrior queen stared back. Sculpted in silver, she looked magnificent, like something out of legend. Gleaming in the candlelight, the armor lent her an aura of strength; she began to understand the appeal. She turned sideways, studying the effect. Mirror-polished to reflect the sun, the armor was perfect, but her face was pale, too pale, like a ghost called from the grave. “More rouge and no helm. We want our people to know their queen and to be assured.”
“And the sword?”
The hilt was an heirloom, golden roses entwined to make a basket-weave hilt, but the blade was fresh-forged, a slender rapier, light enough for a queen to wield yet honed to a deadly edge. Liandra knew little about swords, yet she’d insisted on a real blade, lest she make a mockery of her men. She’d even practiced, brandishing it in the privacy of her solar. She felt ridiculous waving a sword through the air, but the demands of image knew no bounds, forcing herself to practice till the mirror told her she’d got it right. “Yes, the sword.”
“Majesty let me.” Master Raddock stepped from the shadows. Taking the sheathed sword from Lady Sarah, he knelt, his thick fingers fumbling with the belt. It should have been Robert girding the sword at her waist, but he was away, serving queen and kingdom in a risky gambit. Oh, Robert, may the gods keep you safe! She thought of the risks they both faced, of the dangers threatening her kingdom, and all the while her pug-faced shadowmaster fumbled the belt around her waist. He finished the buckle and stared up at her, his face rapt. “You’re a vision!”
If only the enemy were so easily conquered.
Her women swarmed around, making last minute adjustments. Adding an emerald cape embroidered with golden roses and a pair of jewel encrusted gauntlets to complete the effect. Liandra shimmered as she moved, casting reflected light around the chamber. “We are ready.”
The doors opened and the queen left her solar for the first time in days.
An honor guard snapped to attention. The men gasped to see their queen gird in armor. More than one stood with his mouth agape and his eyes agog. She drank in their admiration like a balm to her soul. “Come, we have an enemy to meet.” She set a swift pace, a show of strength, but she soon regretted it. Sweat built beneath the armor and she felt dizzy on the stairs. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to endure.
Guards leaped as she approached, opening the doors to the inner courtyard, admitting a welcome breath of cold. Trumpets blared and a hundred knights snapped to attention, arms and armor gleaming, horses snorting, emerald banners streaming. Liandra swayed on the steps, gathering her strength. Her squire held the bridle for her stallion, a massive eighteen-hand white warhorse named Delusion. Bred for battle, he looked fierce but in truth he was a sweetheart with a gentle mouth and a smooth gait, but on this day, still sore from the birthing bed, the horse looked impossibly tall, and the saddle a torture device. Sir Durnheart must have felt her trepidation, for he knelt, cupping his hands, offering to give her a leg up. With a gracious nod, she accepted. The tall knight nearly lifted her into the saddle. She threw her leg across, refusing to sit sidesaddle, needing to be seen as a monarch instead of a woman, but image had its price. Pain spiked through her. Gritting her teeth, she played with the reins, running her fingers through Delusion’s beribboned mane, gaining time to master the agony.
Sitting straight, Liandra nodded and the castle’s massive outer doors creaked open.
Her people lined the cobbled street, young and old, rich and poor, concern writ large across their faces. Their silence reflected their fears, like a millstone around her neck.
Liandra made the smallest of moves and Delusion answered, leading her knights into the street with a stately prance.
At first there was no respon
se, just the clops of hooves on cobbles, the jangle of armor and bridles, the snap of banners overhead. She felt the stares of her people, weighing her, judging her, then someone gave a shout. “The Queen will save us! Gloriana martial, the Queen of Light! Long live the Queen!”
Others took up the chant. “Gloriana martial!” The shout echoed through the street like thunder. Their acclaim washed across her like a healing balm. Gratitude and strength flowed through her. Sitting straight in the saddle, the queen supped on their cheers. More than any treasure or riches, this was the reason she ruled, for the love of her people, for the sake of her kingdom. In Liandra’s eyes, a sovereign’s worth was best measured by the people’s prosperity. Despite the war, despite all the dire threats, she felt rich by their acclaim and she swore by all the gods to keep her people safe.
Her people crowded both sides of the cobbled street. Women strewed dried flowers in the path of her stallion. Children raced alongside, smiling and laughing. Men doffed their hats and knelt as she rode by. And always there was the cheering, following her like a thundering entourage of approval. She hoped the enemy heard, hoped they trembled at the heart of her people.
All too soon, she reached the outer gates.
The crowd stilled to a hush and the soldiers snapped to attention.
Major Ranoth met her, holding the bridle of her stallion.
Gritting her teeth, Liandra swung down from the saddle. The first step was jarring, a jolt of pain. Sir Durnheart was there, offering an arm, but she waved him away; weakness was something she could leastwise afford.
She gave the troops a cursory inspection, and then she faced the stairs, a rickety affair clinging to the side of the building. Four flights to the top, her armor seemed to drag her down like an anchor, yet she refused to succumb. Biting her lip, she made it to the roof. The view was almost as demoralizing as the rickety stairs. Instead of a crenellated tower, she stood upon the flat roof of a squat stone building. Compared to mighty Lingard, the outer walls of Pellanor were a pitiful joke. The city’s outer defense was nothing more than toothy blocks of buildings connected by hastily built walls. The patchwork defense fooled no one. It might be enough to break a cavalry charge, but a determined infantry could scale the walls with short ladders and grapples. Liandra suppressed a shudder; more proof guile was her city’s best defense.
Major Ranoth intruded. “The heralds await.”
She nodded, approaching the edge of the roof.
The enemy waited on the road below, thirty mounted soldiers, their red tabards defiant in the afternoon light. One wore a mitered helm, she guessed him a bishop, a hateful cleric of the Flame, but her gaze stumbled when she saw the hilt of a blue steel sword. Even without seeing the details, she knew. My son’s sword! How many children must I lose? For a heartbeat her vision blurred, but then she took a deep breath, gathering her strength.
Cruel laughter echoed up from below. The mitered cleric rode forward, his deep voice pitched to carry. “So this is mighty Pellanor!” His words dripped with mocking. “A fitting fortress for a queen! But then women know so little of war.” Thumping his chest, he gave her a lewd grin. “When we sack your city, I’ll be the first to smash your portcullis.”
Her men bristled at the insult, more than a few reaching for their swords. From the corner of her eye, Liandra saw one of her archers nock an arrow. “No.” She pierced the young man with her stare. “The rules of parlay will be observed.”
Sheepish, he loosed the tension on his bow.
She turned her stare back to the bishop. “What brings you to our gates?”
“I bring word that your cause is hopeless. You fight for an empty throne. House Tandroth has no heirs.” His horse reared as he unsheathed the blue steel sword. Gasps of dismay echoed from her walls. The bishop leaned forward, driving the blue steel blade deep into the grass bordering the road. The sword quivered upright, proof of its mythic sharpness. The bishop turned his stallion in a tight circle, his voice loud and taunting. “Your crown prince is captured, his life forfeit, a prisoner of the Flame. His sword proves the truth of my words.” He reached into a saddlebag and withdrew a sealed scroll. “And the younger prince, Danly, is sworn to serve the Flame, even delivering Lingard into our hands.” Sneering, the bishop brandished the scroll aloft. “His own handwriting gives proof to my words.” He tossed the scroll before the city gates, a contemptuous gesture. “I bring you proof. I bring you truth. And now I bring you terms.” He stilled his stallion, staring up at her. “Surrender your city and your people will live. Surrender your throne and your royal son will be spared. Yield to the Flame or death will be your only legacy.” He grinned up at her. “What say you?”
She kept her voice firm. “We’ll see your proof first.”
He made a mocking bow.
The queen gestured and the word was passed. The newly built gates slowly creaked open. Major Ranoth emerged, resplendent in burnished armor and cloak of emerald green. Tall and dignified, he strode toward the blue steel sword. Pulling the sword from the grass, he stooped to gather the scroll. Without a word, he returned to the gates.
The ironbound gates clanged shut.
The enemy horses snorted and stamped, the white and red banners snapping overhead.
The queen waited statue-still, like a figure carved in silver. A breeze stirred her cloak, like emerald wings at her shoulders.
The major returned. “It is his blade.”
A sharp pain pierced her chest, but Liandra refused to believe it, fighting a mother’s pain with a queen’s logic. She took the sword, no mistaking the crossed roses on the hilt, the crown on the pommel. At least she had his sword back, a symbol of heroism to her people. “It is his sword.”
Beside her, the major’s voice quavered. “Is he dead?”
“No.”
“But the sword?”
“Exactly.” She filled her voice with conviction, knowing her words would be repeated. “His signet ring would be proof enough, a trifling compared to the value of the sword.”
The major’s eyes widened, a flush of hope on his face. “They don’t have his ring?”
She nodded.
“A sword can be dropped in battle…but the ring…”
She finished his thought, “…stays with the man.”
“And the scroll?”
“The scroll matters not. We have but one son.”
Below, the bishop grew impatient. “What say you? Will you surrender?”
Anger smoldered within her, yet she kept her voice to a mere whisper. “Give him our answer.” Her gaze flicked to the young archer. “One arrow only.”
Quick as summer lightning, the archer loosed a single shaft. The arrow struck true, the feathered shaft lodging deep in the bishop’s throat. The bishop clawed at the arrow, his horse rearing beneath him. He toppled backward, felled dead, his boot tangled in the stirrup. The red escort drew swords, staring up at the wall, their faces wary. One soldier dared to hail the queen, outrage in his voice. “You broke parlay! You killed the emissary!”
“For Lingard. The treachery of the Flame is repaid in kind.” For the sake of her own soldiers, she added. “It’s war not chess.”
“You’ll die! You’ll all die for this!”
She stepped away from the edge. “Give them a warning shot. If they persist, they’re yours.”
Her archers grinned. A single bow twanged and then she heard hoof beats galloping hard. The heralds were in retreat, bearing her answer north.
Liandra gasped in pain. Her task done, her strength bled out of her. She turned and left the wall, making her way back down the rickety stairs. The armor proved perilous. Halfway down she nearly fell, a sharp pain stabbing her abdomen. When she reached the ground, she was almost faint with agony, but she dared not show it.
Sir Durnheart lifted her into the saddle. She took the reins, leading her escort back through the city. Her people remained standing along the street, as if keeping vigil, but their cheers had grown silent, their faces fret wi
th worry.
Liandra had little to give them. She clung to the saddle, willing herself to remain erect, but when she reached the castle gates, she forced herself to make one last gesture. With a light touch of her knee, she turned her stallion to face her people. A thousand faces met her stare, like children desperate to be reassured. She raised her voice, pitched to carry. “Keep faith with your queen and Pellanor will not fall.” She drew the rapier while asking Delusion for a rear. The great warhorse reared, massive hooves striking the air, while she brandished her sword to the heavens. “By the Light, we shall be victorious!”
“The queen! The queen!” Her people rushed toward her like a tide returning to the sea.
Pain stabbed her, nearly loosing her hold on the pommel. She turned her warhorse, asking for a gallop, desperate for the sanctuary of the castle. The great horse must have felt her need, galloping through the gates, across the courtyard, and up the very steps of the castle. “Close the gates.” She issued one last order and then slid from the saddle, succumbing to darkness.
56
Stewart
Snow fell in flurries, big fat flakes muffling the clop of hooves, dusting the land with a cold blanket. Stewart hunched in the saddle, desperate for warmth, desperate to sever his bonds. Skarn kept them moving without a break, always on a westerly course. Stewart assumed the brigand leader sought some kind of bolt hole, a hideout of sorts. Once there the chances of escape would diminish. Stewart gripped the small stone, sawing back and forth, scraping the rope raw. The outer edge frayed but it was not enough, not nearly enough.
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 39
