by Duncan Lay
Merren was still on the field, determined to be there when the last man or Derthal was found.
The dead were being buried together—the hundreds of prisoners taken had been forced to dig a massive trench before being allowed back out to help their wounded comrades. Merren had decreed that all would lie together—Norstaline, Ralloran and Derthal. They had fought together, now they would lie together for eternity.
The huge number of people helping saved lives, she was sure of that. Unlike Pilleth, where the only men available were the ones who had fought so hard to win the battle, thousands of women had rushed out to help, as well as dozens of priests. A grief-stricken Milly had worked to save all she could, healing the most grievously wounded men and Derthals, while those with minor wounds at least had their hurts bandaged and stitched.
‘I think that is the last of them now, my Queen.’ Hutter saluted as he escorted a dozen horses laden with dead Derthals back to the mass grave.
‘Do we know how many?’ Merren asked numbly.
‘We won’t know until the morning. We don’t know how many went with Captain Nerrin to pursue Gello, your majesty,’ Hutter apologised. ‘But I’d say we lost about five hundred Norstalines and Rallorans and perhaps the same of Derthals. There are many more wounded, although most will eventually recover.’
Merren nodded. As numbers on parchment, it was not many. Not compared to the ten thousand or more Tenochs, Berellians and Gello’s Norstalines who had been killed or wounded on the field, and the same number who were still dying as they tried to flee on foot or by horse. But they were still men and Derthals who had been walking, talking and smiling in the morning and who now lay in a grave together this night.
‘Let the prisoners do what they can for their wounded. I cannot feel sympathy for those who would have killed us all. But those that they save—see if Archbishop Milly—I mean, Archbishop Sadlier, can help them. And get some rest.’
Hutter smiled. ‘Strangely, I do not feel much like sleep. There are too many I know who are in an endless sleep.’
Merren nodded understandingly. ‘Thank you for your report. Whatever you need, when you need it, ask it of me.’
She climbed wearily onto Tomon to ride back to the palace. She needed to see Martil, wanted to know how Karia was. But she could not do so when men who had died for her were still out there. As well as supervising the search for the wounded and the collection of the dead, she had made sure she spent time talking to High Chief Sacrax, emphasising how much Norstalos valued their help, their sacrifice—and how it would not only be remembered but the debt the Norstalines owed the Derthals would ensure his tribes’ lives would be forever changed for the better.
She had expected the city to be almost silent when she rode back, escorted only by Jaret and Wilsen. After all, it was past midnight and the day just gone had probably been the most dramatic in the country’s history, following from a night where most had not slept.
But the streets were still packed. It was a mirror image of the night before. But where that night’s revelry had been marked by desperation and tinged with despair, this one was genuinely joyful. There was grief, too, there had to be grief when so many had died. But the overwhelming feeling was relief. People were embracing each other, talking, eating and drinking the previously hoarded stores—and as soon as she rode by, they stopped what they were doing to cheer and clap. And not just people. Derthals were also eating and drinking, especially with men in her surcoats. They did not speak each other’s language but that did not seem to matter. Sign language, and the odd Derthal who spoke a few words of human seemed to suffice.
Even as she marvelled at the celebrations, people and Derthals rushed over, holding out their hands for her to touch; others held out children. Wounded men, even those unable to stand, still managed to salute.
‘The Queen! The Queen!’
The chant began at the gate and followed her right through the city. Merren had to fight to hold back her emotions. They had trusted her, and she had managed to save them. Now they could actually have a normal life, a safe life, in a peaceful country. Everything would be right, now. Seeing them like this lifted her in a way that even the victory had not. She knew what she wanted to do and, although the reaction to the day’s events, to the events of the past few weeks, was sweeping through her, she forced herself to keep going until she was standing outside Martil’s rooms.
‘You can leave me here,’ she told the ever-present Wilsen and Jaret. ‘Have a drink, have some fun, get some sleep. Whatever you want, you have earned it!’
The pair of them saluted, grinning, and hurried off.
This suite had lain empty for fifty years, as had Karia’s rooms, next to it. These were part of the royal wing. There were suites for a dozen princes and princesses, although many had not been used for centuries. The old Royal Bedroom, the one she had used in her first reign, was still sealed off, after Gello and his troopers had fouled it following their defeat at Pilleth. She had moved back into her childhood room this time, which was much further down the hall. But after all that had happened, she did not want to lie in bed alone. Her head was telling her this was a bad idea but, after what she had seen that day, she was in no mood to listen.
She reached out and knocked lightly. She was beginning to think he had fallen asleep when the door opened.
Martil had washed and changed, and had his wounds stitched and bandaged. He looked tired but he smiled as soon as he saw her.
‘How is she?’ Merren asked.
‘Sleeping now. Do you want to come in?’
Merren reflected that, a couple of days ago, such a question would have been loaded with meaning and she would have had to weigh its political ramifications before agreeing. Now she could just smile and step inside. As with all the royal suites, this had a sitting room, with a bedroom and bathroom leading off it. Through the open doorway of the bedroom, she could see a small shape curled up in the large bed.
Martil shut the main door carefully, tip-toed across the room to draw the bedroom door shut, then strode back and enfolded her in his arms, stifling a groan as she pressed against one of several wounds.
‘I can barely believe it! We won! We were ready to give up, ready to die—and we won!’ Merren clutched him tighter.
Martil gently shifted her left arm higher up his chest, to avoid the cut he had taken from a Tenoch spear, and held her back.
‘They had no leadership and the three parts of their army would not work together. Each wanted to preserve themselves. Gello had at least three opportunities to win the battle—and took none of them. You saw your opening, took it and defeated him,’ he explained in a whisper.
‘I know what happened, I just wanted to share what I am feeling,’ she told him, with a touch of asperity.
‘There’re plenty of people out there you could talk to, your majesty,’ he offered, with a smile.
‘But only one of them I love.’
He kissed her then, feeling the tension inside him begin to fade away. ‘I cannot believe it, either. We should be overjoyed but I feel almost empty inside. So many dead, so many I knew—and then Nott’s death, right at the end.’
‘So you do know how I feel.’
‘Just because I do not say the words, does not mean I do not feel,’ he grunted. ‘And I especially feel when your arm is right on the biggest cut I took today.’
She adjusted her arm around him but was not ready to let him go.
‘After the way you squealed when I tugged on your chest hairs, it’s probably too small to see,’ she teased him gently.
‘Nine stitches! And those were all hard won, to gain you your most famous victory!’
‘It was not just my victory!’ she protested quietly.
‘That’s not what the people and Derthals out there are singing—I was told Romon was composing the Saga of Merren. It’s already eighteen verses, with a catchy chorus!’
‘Then I shall order at least two verses to be about you,’ she said, hidin
g her smile in his tunic.
‘Two verses!’ He looked down to see her grinning and could not help but smile back.
‘So what do you want to do now? We can order some wine, if you like. Find Romon and get him to sing to you…’
‘Or we could just lie down on the couch over there,’ she suggested.
Martil glanced over his shoulder. The couch was wide, well-padded and with a number of decorative cushions. ‘Just lie down?’ he asked.
‘Just. Lie. Down,’ she emphasised. ‘I do not want to have you complaining every time I put my hand on your stitches—and I need to sleep.’ She looked up at him and came to a sudden decision. What she had seen in the city had fired her blood, left her feeling inspired. Everything was going to work out now. They had been through their trial of blood and fire. ‘Besides, there is no rush. We have the rest of our lives together.’
Martil stopped trying to hide his disappointment that they would only be sleeping and looked at her. ‘Is that a jest?’
She hit him on the chest, then kissed him when he winced because her blow landed on a bandaged wound. ‘That is no jest.’ She laughed, sure she was making the right choice. ‘You should see what is going on out in the city tonight! Rallorans, Norstalines, Derthals—all drinking, laughing and celebrating together. Rich merchants and poor farmers, westerners and easterners, goat herders and heads of guilds—they are all together. I think one thing this has taught us is that it does not matter where a person is born, or who their parents were. Their true worth is inside.’
‘And that has convinced you it is safe to marry me?’ Martil demanded.
‘I always wanted to. But it was never about that. I had to put the country first, think about what the people wanted. I will feel guilty about being happy when so many are in mourning, but from what I saw tonight, I think the people will let me have a little happiness. So the only question is whether you want the marriage before or after you fly off to Dragonara Isle to open the Dragon Egg.’
‘Aroaril! I’d forgotten about that!’ Martil exclaimed. Then he stroked her hair back. ‘Before, obviously. How does tomorrow sound?’
She laughed loudly until he silenced her with a kiss.
‘Don’t wake Karia!’ he hissed.
‘Sorry.’ She yawned and walked over to the wide couch, where she sank down with relief. ‘How will Karia be about this?’
Martil joined her on the couch. ‘She needs a family—she has been going on about how she never had one. After losing Father Nott, this is the best thing for her.’
‘A normal life—it’s something we all need,’ she said with feeling.
‘Aye. Surely nothing else can happen now!’
But she was already asleep.
Count Sendric rode back into the capital feeling both elated and frustrated. Against all the odds, they had won! The goblins had fought better than he had imagined and had helped turn the day. Now they could rebuild Norstalos, turn it into a country everyone could be proud of. But, once again, Gello had escaped. It was a hot coal in his gut. His daughter’s spirit cried out for revenge. Despite his sore shoulder, which had never really healed properly since the battle of Sendric, he had ridden down a score of Berellians and Tenochs, killing the evil bastards who had invaded his country. But he would have exchanged all of them for one chance at Gello. Killing the man was the only thing he wanted for himself. He still had ambitions for his country, of course. As Prince Consort, he wanted to help rebuild, and remake Norstalos. This was a unique opportunity to wipe out many of the mistakes made in the previous centuries. The spirit of the people, tested like never before, had shone through. The next few years would be hard but the results would be worth it, he was sure. Under Merren’s rule, with his help, Norstalos would flourish. And not only flourish, but take its rightful place on the world stage. No more would countries watch on as others invaded. Sendric dreamed of a continent where the countries could work together, sorting out their disagreements amicably. A continent where the naked aggression of the Berellians would not be tolerated and rogue countries would be faced by nations united in peace.
The capital was still partying when he rode through the gate, and he smiled indulgently at the way the goblins—no, he corrected himself, the Derthals, were laughing and dancing with Rallorans and Norstalines alike. He had been wrong about them. He could admit that—he would admit that! In the morning, he planned to say as much to Martil. It had been the Ralloran warrior’s plans—the use of the Derthals and the bowmen taking up the pikes—that had won the battle. That made three times Martil had won the day and he intended to make sure everyone knew what a debt the country owed Martil.
As for Merren, there were no accolades high enough for her. The way she had held the country together through sheer force of will—she deserved her place in history. Complimenting Martil could wait until the morning but he had to speak to Merren tonight. With all that needed doing, he was sure she would still be awake.
But he could not find her in the throne room, nor in her bedroom suite. He tried a few smaller offices then, because he was also hungry and thirsty, went into the kitchens. There was quite a party going on in there—dozens of servants eating, drinking and dancing on the tables used to prepare the food. On another night he would have bellowed at them, ordered them to stop this outrageous display. But he could not begrudge it, not on this night. He was about to turn away, to find somewhere quiet, when he spotted Jaret and Wilsen dancing on a table with a pair of serving girls. He knew the Queen never went anywhere without them, so he hurried over.
‘Count Sendric!’ Wilsen put down a giggling serving girl and snapped to attention. ‘What can we do for you?’
Sendric gave them a smile. ‘Don’t let me spoil your fun. But I was looking for the Queen. Do you know where she is?’
Wilsen and Jaret exchanged a nervous look, then the big guardsman dropped to one knee, and lowered his voice.
‘We escorted her to Captain Martil’s rooms, sir. Then she dismissed us from duty.’
Sendric was able to control himself only because of his years of practise. ‘Quite right, too. Enjoy yourselves,’ he said stiffly, before turning and walking out.
Once the kitchen doors were shut behind him, he allowed himself the indulgence of swearing loudly and fluently.
How could they? Here he was, trying to think about the future of the country—and all they could think about was each other. It would not do! It simply would not do! He would not have his honour trampled and the country made a laughing stock because she could not control herself around that brutish Ralloran! He told himself it was not just his pride that was at risk, either. The country had suffered more than at any time in its history. The trials of King Riel were as nothing to what they had just gone through. Healing Norstalos would be an enormous effort. The people were going to face the hardest winter in history. And the thousands of people already unsure about having a Queen must also accept both thousands of goblins living within their borders and a female Archbishop. Adding a base-born Ralloran Prince Consort and a half-breed Ralloran Crown Prince could tear the country apart!
‘I must put a stop to this,’ he said aloud.
The more he thought about it, the more sure he was. There was no point in saving the country if Merren was going to throw it all away like this. He had to protect her from herself. It was probably tiredness that had affected her judgment, he decided. When she realised how she was risking the country, she would thank him for what he was about to do.
He had once thought of Merren as almost a surrogate daughter. Since she had become Queen that had been hard to sustain but he recognised he still felt that fatherly protectiveness towards her. Martil was not good enough for her. It was as simple as that. He was not her father, he could not forbid such a marriage. But he could still stop it.
Nodding to himself, Sendric hurried out into the night. There were many people he needed to see, and much he needed to organise.
Merren woke suddenly. Her eyes were gritty
, she needed a drink of water and she could sense her hair was a tangled mess. But she felt happy, relaxed, for the first time in she did not know when. There would be many problems to be dealt with today. But, for the first time in weeks, she did not have to think about armies carving paths of destruction through the country. She was lying on her side and Martil’s arm was across her shoulders. While he had obviously washed after the battle, she could smell that it had only been a quick wash. And she could see that his cuts had only been stitched quickly—probably because there had been a hundred other men to see to. One on his upper arm had opened again in the night and not only stained the bandage but dripped onto her clothes. Clothes that smelled like she had worn them for more than a day, and were stained by dirt, and worse. But none of those things bothered her. Not today.
Martil was still asleep so she turned her head to see what had woken her—and saw Karia’s face almost right at hers.
‘Hello, Merren. What are you doing here?’ she asked.
Merren took the child’s hand. ‘I wanted to see how you were. I was worried about you,’ she said gently.
Karia’s face seemed to dissolve into tears and Merren reached out to her, drawing her in.
‘I miss him,’ Karia sobbed softly.
Martil came awake then, lifting Karia up with a grunt and depositing her in the middle of them both.
‘I know you miss Father Nott. It’s good to miss someone like that,’ he told her.
‘Good?’
‘Aye. So they know how much they meant to you. But you have us both now to look after you.’ He hugged her close.
‘When you’re not too busy,’ Karia added.
‘I won’t be busy nearly as much now. We will be able to spend more time together. Even play some dolls again!’ Merren told her, also hugging her.
