by Duncan Lay
Besides, she could not help thinking, we are all going to die anyway, so why worry about what the people think? Why not enjoy ourselves, take what little joy is left in the world? Steal some pleasure and it will be a comfort at the end. It was dangerously tempting and she forced herself to think about lists of refugees and the shortage of shelters waiting in the north to stop herself from going to find him.
Still, the thought would not leave her and her feet dragged. She knew she should continue to her apartments and run that bath; soak herself and clear her mind before returning to work. Everything her father had drummed into her, every day of her training as a royal said that was the thing to do. But she did not want to. She wanted to run through the palace until she found Martil, throw her arms around him and tell him they would be together, for however much time they had left on this world. Tell him she was sorry for the time they had wasted—but there was a chance to make up for it all.
She had reached her apartments now and her hand reached out to the door’s handle—and stopped.
Merren stared at her hand and the polished brass door knob for what seemed like an age. Her life seemed poised on a knife’s edge. She could be a queen or she could be Merren. She could be proper and die with dignity, or she could have Martil and die happier. Almost unconsciously, she felt her hand draw back. It was exhilarating. She was actually going to do it!
She had begun to turn, had lifted one leg to put her foot down. When her boot touched the smooth floor, she knew she was going to hitch up her long robe and run down that corridor. Gia had been asking her to hold up her dresses, anyway. With fewer servants around, the floors were not being kept clean and the hems of her clothes were all getting dirty. Merren smiled to herself, imagining what Gia would say if she knew Merren was planning to hurl her dress to the floor.
Then footsteps on the marble floor made her spin around—to see Martil waving a piece of parchment at her, covered in what looked like a child’s drawings. But she ignored that as she gasped in a breath. Had he heard about Barrett? Had he thought, as she had, that nothing mattered any more, they could be together for the time that remained?
Would he sweep her in his arms; should she run to him—would they even be able to make it into her apartment? Would some servant find them here, on the cold marble floor?
‘Merren, I have it! The plan to beat them!’ he declared, triumph in his eyes.
All other thought fled from her.
‘Show me,’ she commanded.
9
The carriages had allowed the refugees to out-pace the Tenochs, to the extent where they could rest the horses, take it easy on the run to the capital. And the type of food they carried meant each night they ate well. Kettering had been surprised to see the rich Norstalines were even happy to let his men eat with them. Probably want our protection, he had thought sourly at first. Perhaps that was true, to an extent, but men like Fergus seemed genuinely grateful. He sat with Kettering, Hawke and Leigh now. They had eaten aged ham and vintage cheese, washed down with fine ale.
‘That’s the best meal I’ve had in weeks,’ Hawke announced, belching loudly.
Fergus chuckled. ‘If my house is still standing, or when we rebuild it, I’ll treat you boys to a dinner you’ll never forget!’
Hawke grinned, then felt in his belt pouch, producing the brass door-knocker he had taken from Fergus’s shattered door.
‘When you do, you should put this on your door,’ he said solemnly.
Fergus laughed at that. ‘Why’d you keep that piece of brass, when there was so much gold going around?’
Hawke shrugged. ‘I guess it was what my dad used to say to me: you can tell a man’s character by the house he owns. I always wanted a special door, a cedar door like the one you had. That would have said I was a real man. A successful man. Not scum.’
‘My granddad always said you could tell a man by the clothes he wore,’ Leigh offered.
‘And the carriage he drove.’ Fergus nodded. ‘My father always told me that. A man is defined by the clothes he wears, the carriage he drives and the house he lives in.’
‘I can’t believe you’re swallowing that stinking pile of dung!’ Kettering growled.
Hawke spat out the lump of cheese he was eating.
‘But—’ he began.
‘No, you fool, that belief about what makes a man!’ Kettering snarled.
They stared at him.
‘What do you mean, Killer?’ Leigh asked finally.
Kettering sighed. ‘I’ve learned there’s only two things that matter. What’s in here,’ he tapped his head, ‘and what’s in here,’ he thumped his chest. ‘Head and heart. That’s what counts, not cedar doors or fancy carriages or shiny clothes. Not even gold. When you take all that away, the true man is what’s left. Believing that clothes and carriages and gold and doors matter is what got this country into this mess. Maybe now we’ll realise that.’
Silence greeted his words.
‘You may be right,’ Fergus said slowly. ‘A few days ago I would have laughed at the thought. But what we’ve been through since then…all the gold in this country won’t stop those murdering savages from cutting us down like dogs. It’s time to see what we are really made of.’
The silence this time was warmer.
‘I’d still like a nice door though,’ Hawke mumbled.
Their laughter made people at other fires turn and look.
High Chief Sacrax was pleasantly surprised to see a dragon circle around his camp and land in the pass. He had been asking for Queen Merren to come up and talk about the unrest in the mountains, as well as the hostility of her people.
‘The Queen sees you as very important,’ Father Quiller had told him—but Sacrax had not really been convinced. Perhaps this visit would prove Quiller right.
‘Your majesty, I am pleased to see you here—’ he began.
‘High Chief, we bring important news,’ Merren interrupted. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk? This might take some time.’
The way Milly had saved Kesbury at Wells—in fact the way she had saved them all—had been told and re-told up and down the columns of refugees. Using their Berellian horses, Kesbury and his villagers had begun to catch up, even overtake those who had set out earlier. The tale of how Kesbury had come back to save the village and Milly had come back to save Kesbury had people flocking to the huge Ralloran and the slim Norstaline, wanting to be blessed by one or both of them.
Each night, around the campfires, they were asked to hold children, to reassure adults, to promise that all would reach safety—and to deny, time and again, there was a horde of goblins waiting to devour their children in the north.
Always behind them, they could see smoke as the Berellians pressed forwards—although they never got too close, because the Rallorans would not let them.
But that night all could see what was waiting for them ahead.
‘Is it coming our way?’ Kesbury asked, as they watched the lightning flash in the distance, turning night into day every few heartbeats.
‘No. It is coming no closer,’ Milly confirmed. ‘It seems to be contained to the north. It is unlike any storm I have ever seen before…’
‘The work of our enemies. And it does not need to come any closer,’ Kesbury sighed, digging his boot heel into the hard earth of the road, deeply rutted by the hundreds of wagons that had used it in the past few days, to say nothing of what the herds of animals had done to it. ‘Even horses won’t be able to wade through mud, past thousands of people trapped.’
Milly nodded silently. There was no need to say any more. They knew of Nott’s desperate idea, of Martil’s plan to win over the Derthals using the Dragon Sword; knew too well what the people thought of the Derthals and how hard it would be to defeat a real Fearpriest. The wind, which had turned around in the day and now blew cold and harsh from the south, made them both shiver suddenly. In the darkness, his hand found hers, and she squeezed his fingers in return.
The gates
of the capital had been thrown open and as many people as possible encouraged to get under cover. But lightning cracked roof tiles, wind brought down trees, while rain lashed streets and flooded the lower levels of even rich houses. In the poor quarter, floods raged through tight streets and a score of people were swept and battered down the cobblestones. People took refuge on the top floors as the water drummed down. The churches were all full, as sopping wet, desperate people prayed for mercy, for help, for an end to the howling wind and driving rain.
Out on the roads, it was even worse. Everything that had four legs tried to run, to get away from the incessant barrage. Lightning crashed to the ground everywhere, while thunder cracked loud every few moments, driving fear into hearts and driving the wits from many. People sheltered under wagons, in any abandoned village hut they could find or just huddled together for warmth as the rain pelted down.
Thoughts of escape, of making it north, even tales of the goblins that everyone said were waiting for them vanished under the driving force of that storm. The temperature plunged, and people shivered, trying to keep warm when no fires would burn and all clothing was soaked through.
Survival became the only thought and death almost a welcome relief.
In the far north, the rain was heavy but without the sheer force—and without the thunder or lightning that terrorised the capital and a swathe of countryside north of it.
‘So your people can’t reach safety,’ Sacrax said.
‘No. We have no choice but to fight. We will fight them ourselves, if we must, but we cannot win. Our only chance is with your warriors,’ Merren stated. ‘And if we die, then you know what will happen to you and your people.’
‘I thought you had strong wizards to protect you. You said this would be easy. Protect the passes and then live in peace. That not happening,’ Sacrax pointed out.
‘I know. We did not expect this. But just because the hunt does not go well, is that a reason to give up, walk away and come home to watch your children die of hunger?’ Merren countered.
Sacrax smiled, a little. ‘Big numbers on their side. Small numbers on ours. How we win? Maybe I just take my warriors home. Safer for us. Your people not want us, anyway. And my enemies raid my camp for winter food. I should return before one of my children or wives is hurt…’
Merren locked eyes with him.
‘You could take your warriors home, either to protect your families or because some of my people are foolish, and have offended you. And you will live safely in your mountains, perhaps for a few years. But our enemies will come for you. Remember, you refused their offer and agreed to fight with us. They will not forget. And one day their armies will march into the far north and there will be nowhere for you to run. They will hunt you down and they will not stop until the last Derthal is dead, sacrificed to their foul God.’
She watched with no pleasure as her words hit home. Sacrax’s face twisted in anger as he realised the position he was in. Before he could say or do something they would all regret, she pressed on.
‘We never lied to you. Believe me, we wish this had never happened. But your people and mine will have to fight our enemies. We can either fight apart, and die apart, or we can join our forces, fight together—and have a chance to win.’
Sacrax stared at her for a long moment before, finally, acknowledging her words with a nod.
‘I have never fought the Friny. But I heard from my father and his father, who had been told by his father; I know you have bows that send sharp arrows across long distance. You have horses, that cannot be stopped by spears alone. And you carry shields, wear metal clothing to protect you. Every time Derthals fought Friny warriors, we lost.’
Merren remembered what ‘Friny’ meant.
‘But this time we are not your enemies, this time we will fight beside you, as friends.’
Sacrax looked at her, then a slight smile creased his face. ‘You are not Friny any more,’ he agreed.
‘You will be fighting with Captain Martil. He has defeated Berellians, Avish and Norstalines. He never lost a battle where he was the commander.’
Sacrax turned to Martil, who laid the Dragon Sword on the table and tried not to think about another battle.
‘I have seen you fight. You win even when you should lose. I like that,’ Sacrax admitted. ‘But how we win this time?’
Merren glanced at Martil. They had talked this over before leaving the capital. Lurking behind their conversation had been their arguments. But neither wanted to bring it up, while she had also tried to forget she had only just been thinking about finding him and throwing herself at him. Instead they pretended everything was normal as they discussed how to win an almost-impossible victory.
It all depended on two things.
‘We cannot fight in the normal way. The Derthals do not have shields, don’t have the discipline and we don’t have the time to teach them to fight like that. Their spears are too short for them to stand in the second line, so we can’t even use them like that. And we don’t want to get into that sort of battle anyway, because the Fearpriests outnumber us. They’ll just wrap around and kill us,’ he had explained. ‘If we fight in the normal way, we die. So we must do what they will never expect. We attack them.’ Martil pointed at the drawings on the paper.
‘At first we advance towards them, the Derthals leading the way. They will think us fools, and prepare to slaughter the Derthals on their shield wall. But, instead, the Derthals will split into two, run around each side of their formation, like the horns of a stag. Then our archers and infantry will strike at their shield wall, lock them in battle and hold them while the horns hook around the side and back and slice in, ripping them apart. The Derthals will not be fighting against shields, they will be striking the flanks and rear of our enemies, where their weakest fighters will stand.’
Merren had grasped the idea—but it was still a huge risk. So many lives depended on the strategy, as well as on the Derthals, who spoke only a few words of human, if any, and who had never fought like this before. Who knew how they would react in the middle of a battle?
Still, there was no other option. If they tried to hold the walls of the capital, they might succeed—for a day or two. But it was the same problem they had faced at Sendric. Too much wall and too many attackers. The Berellians could strike at one spot, the Tenochs at the other. One could be stopped, the other would break in. And that was the real worry. Another Bellic-style massacre. At least if they fought in the open and lost, there was a chance Gello would allow most, if not all, of the people to live. It was a small comfort to her.
Martil opened his parchment and explained his strategy carefully to Sacrax.
‘They will never expect this,’ he finished.
Sacrax patted the parchment. ‘Battles easy to win on here,’ he said. ‘Not same when spears are flying.’
‘It all depends on your warriors. Can they do what I ask?’
‘We can do this,’ Sacrax declared. ‘But will my chiefs want to? I risked my throne bringing them here. Many of my warriors might think they should protect their families, instead. Your people give us no reason to fight.’
‘My people will accept yours, after this,’ Merren promised, hoping she was right.
‘Take us to your chiefs and I will persuade them,’ Martil stated, laying his hand on the Dragon Sword’s hilt and hoping that was right.
Dawn brought some relief. But only some.
The combined efforts of every priest and wizard saw the worst of the storm pass as the sky lightened. But the sun was invisible behind thick grey cloud and the rain, while positively gentle compared with the downpour of last night, was unrelenting.
‘We have to get as many people back to the city as possible,’ Nott announced.
‘Back to the city? But they need to get north!’ Louise protested.
They were in the throne room, but had been forced to drag tables and chairs across to the far wall. The sheer violence of the storm had sent a tree branch thro
ugh one of the windows, and the floor was covered in puddles of water, as well as shards of glass. They had started a fire but its fitful warmth was not enough to counteract the bitter wind that whistled through the missing glass panes. Yet the palace had escaped lightly compared to the rest of the city. The water had subsided somewhat now the rain had eased but the streets were at least ankledeep in water. Thatch had been blown off, homes flooded, trees brought down onto houses and shops alike and the sewers were backing up.
‘They will not be able to make it. Most of the wagons out there are impossibly bogged. Food has been ruined, animals have run away. The streams and rivers are flooding, making it harder to move around and, worse, they are unsafe to drink, so people do not even have fresh water. Then there is the cold. The people are soaked. Soon they will fall sick and we shall see scores of young and old perish,’ Nott warned.
‘But if they come here, the Berellians and Tenochs will slaughter them! Surely they are better off with a little wet and cold!’ Conal gasped.
‘And the city has been devastated by the storm,’ Louise pointed out.
‘They will die, either here or on the roads north, if we cannot defeat the Fearpriests,’ Nott said simply. ‘As for the city, the more hands we have, the quicker the damage will be repaired. Meanwhile, we must trust in the Queen and Martil—and the Derthals.’
‘This is ridiculous!’ Sendric thundered. ‘Risking our lives on a pack of goblins! I cannot sit here and listen to this any longer!’
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Conal sighed.
‘Let’s get working. We’ll send out every man and horse we have, to bring the people back.’
