by Rex Sumner
“Not least because we’ve broken their armies, they won’t have the men to send a big army like this for many a year.”
The king nodded in thought. “What about those who broke through? Any sign?”
The Bear used his greater height to scan the field, shaking his head. “Can’t see anything. We’ll hear soon enough, I reckon.” He eased off the armour from his shoulder, where a massive dent dug into his flesh, cursing as he gave it to the boy who ran up to collect it. The king followed his example, relying on the instincts of these old soldiers. His squire unlaced his breastplate and stripped off the various parts, wrapping them in greased leather in the forlorn hope he would have less work to do in cleaning the rust.
Retaining his sword, the king strode towards a little knoll, from where the Spakka commander had viewed the field. The king began to limp as his foot pained him. He and his guard took five minutes to reach the top, picking their way through the corpses while the soldiers finished off the wounded. The king inspected the corpses before settling above a large man with a shattered head and better clothing. After a moment of silent contemplation over the body of his foe, he walked to the crest from where the view stretched to the forests on either side of the plain.
To the north, dead Spakka speckled the plain, the rooks and crows already alighting. The city gates of Hardenwall were wide, and the populace boiled out, away to loot the dead and finish off the wounded. The Lancers scattered over the plain, walking now though most appeared missing, and a good few horses scattered the plain, indicating it had not been one way killing. He guessed the majority, including his wretched, bloodthirsty daughter, were harrying the retreating Spakka to their ships. He wondered if they would finally capture some.
In the south the situation was less clear. Long lines of corpses marked the spot where the shield wall had stood, with priests and healers going over the bodies, helping a good number back to the base camps. Harrhein soldiers streamed away, apparently unaware the battle was won. King Richard grunted in amusement, thinking that Count Rotherstone would be one of them. The Pathfinder and the Guards regiments stood out, still arrayed in squares bristling with axe and spear, plus the new combination, the pole-axe. The squares moved at a snail’s pace towards the north. The Heavy Horse spilled out around the plain, with a band heading straight for the knoll.
As the leader sped up towards him, he pulled back his helmet to reveal the grinning face of Lord Sol.
“Tally ho! Excellent sport. We gave them what for, a complete right-about. Your young general did an excellent job. Lanes for us to charge down, just like being in the lists.” Lord Sol clasped a broken lance and blood dripped from his left gauntlet which still gripped the reins. “But what happened up here? You broke the buggers? How the devil did you kill so many?” He stared out at the plain in amazement, the bodies strewn everywhere, while the townspeople worked over them.
“We’re getting old, Jackie. I tell you I didn’t kill a soul today, and my damn daughter rushed off after checking up on me, as if I was the child, saying she had only killed four and wanted more. The kids did that, they’re the bloody future.”
Lord Sol stared for a moment, before climbing slowly down from his charger, stretching his back briefly and rummaging in his saddle bag. He produced a black bottle with a grin of triumph and knocked the top off with his sword.
“Get some of that down you, and tell me all about it. Kids? What kids?”
The king accepted the bottle and took a hearty swig before passing it back.
“Did you know we had some Fearaigh boys here? No? Neither did I. Tell you the truth, we’re not quite sure what happened. General Roberts didn’t mention any of this to me.”
The Duke of Fearaigh had arrived, and helped himself to the brandy before adding some information.
“Top lads. They saved the battle, no question. We couldn’t hold, were falling back, when barely fifty kids on ponies, itsy-bitsy bloody ponies, came charging out of the woods and hit the end of the Spakka line, smack on the side. Whole Spakka wall fell apart, as they shoved people into each other, like dominoes. We took advantage and pushed back, but it was only for a moment. The kids charged up and down the back of the line, spearing the Spakka slaves and they had to form a double wall, one at the back as well. They didn’t like that.”
He reached for the brandy again, eyes far away while more gathered to hear his words.
“Spakka king sent part of his reserve to sort them, and the boys just went round them before going down the line and out of sight.” He swigged heavily. “A whole mass more of them came out of the trees, yes with your daughter right at the front. Didn’t they move fast, by Jove. Twice the speed of a Heavy Horse charge. Straight at the Spakka king. Too much for the wall. They started to break as we pushed at them. I didn’t, I was watching the horse. They didn’t hit the wall guarding the Spakka king, they split, going across the front of the wall, confused the hell out of the Spakka.”
He grabbed back the brandy which the king had retrieved and his swallow filled the silence.
“The Spakka king was on top of this hill, looking down at the ponies, and all of a sudden his head tore apart like a melon hit with an axe. It was those first fifty kids, they’d only circled round and cut up the hill like a spear, the leader must have been travelling when he took the king. Young rascal tried to cut off the king’s head, but there wasn’t much left of it so he had to be content with the crown. Last I saw of him he was standing on his bloody horse and careering down the back of the Spakka line with his mates trying to catch him while he whirled the crown over his head.”
“Yes,” said the king, “we saw him. The Spakka broke when they heard his words and saw the crown.”
“Sire,” said the Bear. “General Roberts approaching.”
Indeed, the general cantered up the hill, dismounting in front of the king, his quick glance assuring the health of the leading nobles.
“Hello Bobby, I suppose you are going to claim that this was all according to plan?”
“Wish I could, Dicky. Lord Sol did his job to perfection as I knew he would, but what happened here? How did the Spakka wall disintegrate? Who killed them all? Surely not the Lancers?”
“Is that what you call them? Yes, those blasted boys. Fearaigh, tell him what happened again.”
“Sire,” said one of the twins. “The boy who killed the king, that’s him over there, with his friends.”
“What? Where? So it is. Here you, whatever your name is, ride over there and get him, this instant. I want to talk to him.”
“Captain Rogers, sire, equerry to General Roberts.” The rider spurred his horse into a standing gallop while the Duke of Sarl repeated his story for the general. As he finished, the boy cantered up to the bottom of the knoll, where he deposited the blonde girl from his saddle, leaving two of his riders to protect her. The king noticed several of the riders had collected girls, presumably part of the civilians streaming out of Hardenwall.
The boy persuaded his lathered, exhausted horse to canter up the hill without spurring him, as the king noted with approval. He reined to a halt ten paces from the king, gathered his legs underneath him and stood up in the saddle with a graceful movement, burying his lance in the ground beside the horse and tying the reins to it with a swift motion. He somersaulted from the back of the horse, clean over its head to land on bent legs in front of the king, from where he went down on one knee.
“Sire,” he said in a clear, well-spoken voice, “may I present you with the war crown of the Spakka?” He held up the thin band of gold, distinctly bent and bloodstained.
“Thank you, lad. Now, what’s your name and how the devil did you manage that trick?”
“Sire, I am Jeremy, brother to Colonel Sir Lionel Summoner, commander of the Royal Lancers.”
“Are you his second?”
“Not likely, sire. I am his champion. I lead the charge
s, first through the breach and make it myself. Death or glory, sire.” Jeremy grinned, a grin full of devilment and mischief.
The king threw back his head and laughed.
“Damn rascal,” he said, cuffing him. “So you boys spent the night in the hills ready to come out at need this morning.” Jeremy nodded. “And my daughter spent the night up there with you. If you touched her, boy, no stay down, damn you, I am not finished.”
The king dragged his sword out of its scabbard causing Jeremy to tense. The king whacked the sword down hard on his right shoulder before moving it to the left.
“Now you can get up, Sir Jeremy, damn good job you did today. Yes, I know it isn’t the proper bloody ceremony, Jackie, but is all we need on the battlefield. This lad won’t swear a church oath, if I am any judge. No, stay here, I want to talk with you some more and I expect Bobby will want to debrief you.” The king bent forward and whispered in a hoarse voice. “Make it good and you’ll get a good rank out of it.”
Jeremy looked back down the hill to where his blonde waited, no longer watching him but flirting with the other riders.
“Never mind her and never mind loot,” said the king, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “You’ll find enough women waiting for you tonight, wide choice too. And there is no loot on Spakka. Not that you need any, as your earned yourself some land today.” The king glanced at Lord Sol with a straight face. “Few empty Baronetcies in Galicia, I think.”
Lord Sol bridled.
Dancing
Studying with the great Maelbelenus proved somewhat different to Susan’s imagination in her first days. His brilliance as a healer was unquestionable, but the lack of any trace of magic annoyed her almost as much as his philosophies on life. She ground the root in her mortar steadily, adding leaves as she did so, mentally cataloguing the right moment to add the resin. She found herself far more interested in herbs and potions for general living than the cures for battlefield injuries which fascinated his other students, mostly male and Elvish, to whom she was not introduced.
“Have you got any spare pine resin?” She raised her head and found the most beautiful boy in the class raising an eyebrow at her. Her heart missed a beat as she drank in his green eyes, and the full generous mouth, which now quirked a trifle.
“Oh, of course,” she blushed as she realised she was staring and not replying, hiding her head behind her hair, forgetting it was barely an inch long. She fussed amongst her herb basket, pulling out a package. “Here you go, help yourself.”
“I think that is spruce, rather than pine.” Was he laughing at her? She dared a glance and there was a definite twinkle in his eye and that kissable mouth was quirking for sure.
“Oh, I am sorry,” she said, quickly replacing the package and checking the recognition knots on the replacement to make sure it was the right one. She shoved it at him, desperately thinking of something to say which wouldn’t make her seem a total idiot.
He opened the package and inspected the resin, frowning. “You don’t have a lot, do you? I had better ask somebody else.”
Susan felt bereft, all of a sudden it was important that they shared her resin. “There is enough for two potions,” she said, taking the resin and slicing it in half before handing it to him. Her hand trembled as she touched his, she was sure a spark rushed up her arm.
“This is your reserve in case you make a mistake,” he said, now with an expressionless face. “I can’t take this.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t make a mistake,” she gabbled, before blushing in anger at her presumption, a small voice at the back indignant at the lack of her usual poise.
“Really? I have already wasted both mine and half the sinjunswort leaves. I must bring my mortar over and watch how you do it, learn from you.”
To her horror, he did just that and she found herself the object of his intense scrutiny as she pounded her pestle into the mortar. With mortification, she wondered how far into the blending she progressed before the interruption, and she put the handsome boy out of her mind.
“I’m Laoire,” he said, nestling a little closer and pushing all thoughts of the potion to the back of her mind.
“Nice to meet you, Lowry,” she said, with a nervous nod.
“It’s pronounced Lay-reh, actually. What is your name?”
Oh shoot, she thought, how did I forget. “Susan, Susan Taylor.”
“Su-zan,” he said, testing the unfamiliar word. “I have never spoken to a human girl before. I am sorry I do not speak your language. I thought you had already put in the roots?”
“Oh, yes, of course, how silly.” I must concentrate, she thought, ignore him, put him to one side, no matter how gorgeous he is.
“When do you know the right time to put in the resin?”
“By the feel of the grind, it changes as you work the lumps out.” Without thinking she leant over and pressed his pestle into his mixture. “You still have lumps in, so a way to go.” She picked up her mortar and rested it on her thighs, tilting it so he could see and the contents tipped to one side. This gave her a larger area to grind the mix against the side with her pestle, which she proceeded to do.
“There, perfect. Now I put in the resin and grind that as well. It will get sticky now.” It did, and her arm muscles bulged as she worked the pestle slowly in and out of the mortar. Laoire laughed and she looked at him with a quizzical expression.
“Is this an invitation?” He asked with a broad smile, the most open expression on his face to date. She didn’t understand, before following his gaze to the mortar between her thighs and the pestle going in and out, slowly. Comprehension swept through her, followed by blood as she coloured to the roots of her hair, jumping to her feet with the mortar going flying. Cat-like reflexes enabled Laoire to catch it.
“No! Please, that was not my intention, I am a good girl. It is just the best way to grind.”
“It’s okay, calm down. What do you mean, a good girl? I don’t understand how you humans think. Good, as in good at sex?” Laoire found himself puzzled by this strange if attractive girl. Pretty face, no spectacular face, especially with the hair making her look like paintings of Aine the Fairy Goddess, a slender body beginning to ripen and mixed signals. Her skin kept changing colour, red to white, her breathing varied in intensity and her pupils, a bottomless black in that azure blue, kept changing size. He wondered what it all meant, especially as his interpretation of the grinding seemed wrong. A shame.
Susan closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. You are not a simpering virgin, she told herself, you are – were – the most powerful woman in the Kingdom. The Mistress of the King, and you’ve slept with Elves, every girls dream. This is just another one, even if he is pretty. She opened her eyes and found him watching her in puzzlement. She took another deep breath and counted to ten before replying.
“I am sorry for the misunderstanding. How is your potion coming? Is it ready for the resin yet?” She stood, taking her mortar from him and placing it on the table while retrieving her pestle. She ignored him while testing her mixture.
“I’m not sure, can you check it for me?”
She took his mortar and placed it on the table before checking it. “That’s fine. Put the resin in slowly.”
“Thank you for your help. Are you going to the dance tomorrow night?”
“A dance? I don’t know anything about it. I have no clothes suitable for a dance.”
“I’ll get the girls to find you something. You must come, meet all the fun people. You can teach me the human dances.”
He took his mortar and departed for his work area, smiling and she watched his bottom as he left, emitting a small sigh as she fought to control her emotions. Vaguely, she remembered hearing about people being elf-struck. She began to understand that now; they were all so damn pretty. She added water to her potion and left it in a tall bowl to brew, making
her way back to her room.
Her room was so cool. Tiny, but hewn out of the living wood of a tree, invisible from twenty paces. The small window boasted trailing moss for curtains, which served to keep out the rain while lighting the inside in cool green, while a trickle of water running down the outside of the tree trunk kept filled a small reservoir from which she could release water into a basin for washing and ablutions. She loved this luxury, not having used a pump for over a year.
She stripped and washed herself, luxuriating in the cleanliness she learnt from Harry the Pathfinder, what seemed so long ago, but was barely a year. She debated with herself on where to eat. After paying Maelbelenus, she had expected to be short of money, but was pleased to find his charges low, and the room she rented came at a cost low by Praesidium standards. Food came with the room, if she wished to join the family further up the tree, but she was free to come and go as she pleased and didn’t need to tell them in advance. Presumably because so many Elves of all ages came and went. She did not know if they were other students, family members, employees, guards or visitors. She would learn and she was in no hurry. Tonight she felt the urge to explore, see if she could find the Elvish equivalent of a market or an inn. Her clothes felt unsuitable for a student, and with her new short haircut, she felt them too forward and revealing, desiring more utilitarian clothing. She wished to be unobtrusive, it was time to be out of the limelight, just a normal person for once.
She pulled on a light green work shift and proceeded to clean up the slight amount of mess in her room, when a call came from the door.
“Hello, anyone home?” The unlocked door pushed open and one girl walked in, followed by three more, cramping the room. To Susan they were all tall, blonde and ethereal, pretty with high cheekbones and slanting eyes, long hair flowing down their backs.
“You must be Soo Zann,” said the leader with a wide smile. “I’m Fainche, Laoire told us about you. This is Riofach, Orlaith and Fionuir.” The three other girls smiled, waved and made greetings while Susan returned uncertain smiles and wondered where she could get a lock for her door.
