by AJ Cooper
A shrill, panicked scream resounded through the air: a woman’s scream.
Darklings don’t sound like that.
He followed the scream to its source and found a woman—a rich woman, judging by her scarlet-dyed satin dress and jeweled golden necklaces. A large white stallion nickered nervously a few feet away.
A darkling crouched before the woman, fangs bared and claws extended. It had no right arm; only a frozen stump remained. Kai quietly circled the darkling, not wanting to scare it into attacking the woman. But he needed to shoot from a less dangerous angle.
At last, he pulled back his bow and released the bowstring. In an instant the arrow was through the darkling’s head, and the monster fell to the ground.
The woman seemed more shocked at the explosion than grateful to Kai. Still, Kai made his way over to her. He trod slowly, making sure not to frighten her further.
“Milady?” Kai said in as gentlemanly a tone as he could muster.
“I heard the rumors about Andarr’s Port, that it is a ghost town,” the woman said, her brown eyes looking away from Kai as if he wasn’t there. “I didn’t think the darklings came out by day.”
“Their power has grown, milady,” Kai said. “Perhaps you should head east for safety.”
“I am looking for my son,” the woman said. “He has turned into one of them, but I know that if he looks into his mother’s eyes, he will change back to normal.”
“I advise against that, milady,” Kai said. “The darklings cannot change back. Not even a mother’s love can change them back.”
“Do not call me a fool!” the woman snapped. “What is your station, boy?”
“I am highborn,” Kai answered. “I am a Riverhall.”
“Harald Riverhall is dead, and his wife Alysse has been exiled, never to return,” the woman said. “The Line of Riverhall is vanquished. Only my son—the one I must reclaim—is a Riverhall. He is the last male Riverhall alive, but I, Kenna, will make him a proper Wildsaber.”
Impossible. Kai looked at her closely. Her eyes seemed truthful. “What is a proper lady doing without a full guard?”
“They were eaten—” Kenna stopped whatever she was about to say. “I do not need to speak to you, Riverhall. I must find my son”
“Your son is gone, milady. He is not coming back.”
“You don’t know that,” Kenna hissed. “My poor Stenn will come back to me. And I will find him.”
“Suit yourself,” Kai said, then turned and headed back toward the center of the forest—the First Ward, where Woodhome lay—to tell Scoutmaster Frey of the demise of Lord Harald and Lady Alysse.
CHAPTER TWO:
Alysse Riverhall
Things had not changed much in the kingdom of Zarubain. That was Alysse’s first impression as she stepped off the riverboat and entered her father’s land, the duchy of Voraigne. The boughs of the hemlocks and firs dripped with recent rain. Despite the wetness, warmth permeated the air. Alysse was warmer than she’d been in decades and for a brief second she wondered whether she might never return to Badelgard, but she cast that thought aside immediately. Her desire to set things right by far outweighed her desire for comfort.
Her father, Ergould Vis Voraigne, lived in a vast manor on a quiet lake. Vast compared to Riverhall Castle; not ‘vast’ compared to the manors of other dukes. It was not built specifically for comfort like Riverhall Castle; Voraigne Manor had tall stone walls, battlements, a moat, and a drawbridge. War between the kings’ subjects was common in Zarubain, more common than it was in Badelgard; at least, more common than it currently was in Badelgard. Gods knew the earls used to fight with equal ferocity until the Oster dynasty came into control.
Jays, river thrushes and robins flitted through the moist evergreen forest, singing their beautiful songs. In Zarubain, Alysse had been taught that invisible fairies lived under the ponds and in the weeds and on the boughs of the trees, but she never believed it. Her father’s fairy-priestess never impressed Alysse with her intelligence, even though Madame Flourelle had been taught at the Lady’s Cathedral in Zarubad.
The manor appeared in view, a towering castle of dark gray against the almost-blinding greenness of the forest. It felt so strange to come back after so many years. What awaited her here? What had happened to her father, the honorable duke Ergould? Most importantly, what had happened to the House Vis Voraigne?
She crossed the distance to the castle. Mallards swam in the family lake. Paddling through the lily-covered water on a rowboat was her father. Age had turned his hair gray and his skin wrinkled. He still wore nice clothing: a fine purple tunic and woolen breeches, so very unlike the thick kirtles of Badelgard. Gold rings gleamed on his fingers and a glittering diamond brooch held his cloak together.
“Father!” Alysse cried, dropping her luggage.
Her father looked up at her. “My dear,” he said, and began paddling toward her. Eventually he reached the shore and hauled himself onto the moist forest floor, each step obviously painful. “My dear Alysse… I was sure that I would never see you again.”
“Father,” she said, “it is so good to see you.”
They embraced. “Alysse vis Voraigne,” he said.
“Alysse Riverhall,” she corrected him. “I will never change my name. I love Harald so, even though he is dead.”
“Surely not!” Ergould cried. “He is too young to die. Was it illness?”
“He died in war, father,” Alysse said. “The king of Badelgard murdered him. Then I was exiled.”
Ergould gasped. “Those smelly, barbaric northmen! How dare they treat a woman of Vis Voraigne stock like that? It is criminal, I tell you… criminal! But now you can come back; live with me, and when your younger brother inherits the duchy you will live the rest of your life in comfort. It is not so bad.”
“Father,” Alysse said, “I have lived away from home too long. I have lived under Harald’s protection too long. I am a daughter of Badelgard now…”
“Nonsense,” said Ergould. “Our fortunes are increased. We own twice the land than when you left. Besides… once you have Zarube cuisine tonight, you won’t be able to leave.”
The fried snails, the sour crab roasts, the cheese-stuffed duckling and the fermented cow tongues brought memories back to Alysse, but that was all they did. Too long had Alysse feasted on the mead, the roast pork and the crispy potatoes of Badelgard. She no longer preferred the high cuisine of the Zarube king’s court. In fact, it tasted strange to her, though she’d never tell her father that; insulting the king’s culinary preferences was social suicide.
Her father devoured the fermented cow tongues, one after another. He had grown slightly plumper since Alysse had last seen him; nothing to worry about, but it was easy to see that he had chosen the relaxed life in his old age.
“Where is my brother?” Alysse said, glancing at a plate of butter-fried lamb eyes in distaste.
“Your brother Lourges is at war,” said Ergould. “He has taken an army south into a petty count’s lands and will be back by week’s end. The duchy is expanding at a lynx’s pace… and one day, even the Golden Lion of the king will not be able to stand against the Red Hawk.”
For some reason, Alysse doubted that the king’s standard would ever fall to the Vis Voraignes. “My dear father—one who gave me life—I must be honest with you. I need knights. I need soldiers. I need an army to take back Badelgard.”
“Why does a woman need an army?” Ergould said.
“Not even in Zarubain—not even in the bloody southlands—can I escape woman-hatred!” Alysse glared at her father.
“I apologize, my dear,” Ergould said. “I should not speak like one of the northmen. I simply do not understand why you won’t stay here.”
“I desire to return to my adopted home,” Alysse said. “It has become a part of me, like an arm or a leg.”
“Then we must c
ut it off,” Ergould said. “The living in Zarubain is good. Wealth is plentiful, save for the dirty peasants. And the food—”
“I hate the food!” Alysse snapped. She had finally gathered the gumption. “I am sick of lamb’s eyes, and boiled snail, and fermented cabbage. Don’t you understand, father? I want an army more than anything. I need it.”
“You cannot just come here, ask for an army, and leave!” Ergould said. “Think of your father! Think of your old, sickly father who has been so worried about his daughter. You have never written to me, Alysse. And now you show up in my twilight years and ask for an army.”
“Father, I love you; and that’s why you must do this,” Alysse said.
Her statement contained a grain of truth. In some ways, she did love her father. In others she did not. He had sent her off at the age of fourteen to be married to a blasted northman. He hadn’t listened to her tears as she begged him to let her stay home. He had told her, “You must do this for the sake of our line!” and “Have some respect for your family!” and finally, “I don’t care about what you want!” That was why she hadn’t written to him. Because Alysse held grudges. She held one of the biggest against her father because—even though Harald had turned out to be a good man and not much older than her—Ergould hadn’t cared about what she wanted.
She did love her distant, uncaring father in some ways, because it was every daughter’s duty to love her father if he did not abuse her. And Ergould hadn’t abused her in any obvious way; only ignored her feelings, wants, and desires. Only ignored her. Only used her as a political tool.
“My daughter, you look angry,” Ergould said. “I am sorry if I have offended you.”
“No, you haven’t,” Alysse said. She reached out and touched his wrinkled old hand. “And if I was, I wasn’t for long. I just wish you’d understand… I need to go back to Badelgard. A woman has slighted me… killed my husband… killed my dear friend and musician. Surely you can understand my wrath.”
Ergould’s expression softened. “I can,” he said.
The rain picked up again in the evening. It was a cooling, misty rain. Alysse sat in her old bed with its feather-stuffed mattress and its purple drapes and looked outside the window into the yard, into the forest of firs and hemlocks. It was the ducal wood, set aside for the Master of the House Vis Voraigne. Just a mile away, the peasants’ farms began.
The lowborn did not fare well in Badelgard, but in Zarubain they fared even worse. How many times, as a girl, had Alysse seen their wretchedness: their filthy hovels; their backbreaking work; their mangy, thin forms? And how much had Alysse taken for granted her high and lofty position, her life of comfort and plentiful food? It was not the duty of a noble to have pity on the poor, but Alysse felt for them anyway. They were pitiful and wretched, but they were people too; only people that had no luck.
She looked out the forest once again—a brilliantly green scene of moss-draped evergreens. She wondered if her brother would ever come back for war.
He did come back one stormy night, a week later. Outside, lightning flashed and thunder rolled through the ducal wood. At first, when there was a loud knocking on the door, Alysse thought it was just a series of harsh lightning-bolts. But her father got up from the table—they were having an unfortunate dinner of bread and duck-liver pate—and Alysse followed.
The door swung open before they reached it. A shadowy figure stood in the open doorway, dressed in a knee-length hauberk. He was pale and looked deathly tired. Alysse had never seen him as an adult, only as a child; when Alysse left at age fourteen, Lourges was only seven.
And what a tall, handsome man he had become, despite the effects of his obvious fatigue. His eyes were green like Alysse; he had an even face, a prominent jaw, and a button nose; and topping it all was a thick set of blond hair, held up by a headband.
“My brother!” Alysse cried.
“My sister,” Lourges said, somewhat less emphatically. “I have not seen you for an age. If only you could see me in victory, and not in defeat.”
“What do you mean?” Ergould said in an accusatory tone.
“The count of Garrone has routed our troops. He is a brilliant general, my father. I have disappointed you and brought shame to our noble house.”
“How many men?” Ergould growled.
“Pardon?” Lourges said.
“How many men?” Ergould hissed.
“Two hundred common footmen have been killed. Sir Arcibaud, Sir Jierreau and Sir Jacouie have died and gone to see the gods, but fifty proper knights remain,” Lourges said. “In all, it was not a bad loss; but any loss is a shame.”
“It is a crime against nature for the House Vis Voraigne to lose against anyone!” Ergould shouted.
“I am sorry, father,” Lourges said.
“Who commanded the retreat?” Ergould said. “If you still had some seven thousand footmen left, why did you not keep fighting?”
Indeed, Alysse thought. Only a coward would retreat with those numbers.
“Well,” Lourges said, obviously not wanting to tell the truth. “The army was large, and Sir Jourmande—”
“Sir Jourmande is not the commanding field-marshal,” Ergould said. “You are the leader of my army.”
“They will not listen to me… they only listen to Sir Jourmande.”
Then you are an even greater coward than I believed, Alysse thought.
“You are a wretch,” Ergould said. “Now come and have some duck-liver pate. Actually, forget it; you may only eat bread as punishment.”
Lourges’ embarrassment was great, but the conversation eventually turned to gentler topics. He asked if Alysse was with child.
“I am. My husband has died,” Alysse said, and then, knowing she had to lie about the proper paternity, added, “But Harald has left me with a gift. A child is inside me, waiting to be born.”
Lourges smiled weakly, despite the obvious shame written on his features. “If only he is half as strong as you… and as beautiful. Perhaps he will be.”
“I am neither strong, nor am I particularly beautiful,” Alysse said. “But thank you, brother.” She forced down a bite of pate-smeared bread and washed it down with wine—a drink she only rarely enjoyed in Badelgard. She hesitated a second, wondering it was the proper time, and then finally spoke her mind. “These petty wars are not worth the army Vis Voraigne.”
“How do you mean, sister?” said Lourges.
“The land of Badelgard is there for the taking,” Alysse continued, carefully measuring the expression on Lourges’ face and adjusting her tone properly. “With my help—as a Riverhall who is a legitimate contender to the throne by marriage—you could annex the land, and Badelgard could belong to our noble house.”
Lourges laughed. “The northmen are smelly, dirty, and poor… barbarians at their cores. What interest would I have in them?”
“There is plentiful wealth there,” Alysse said. “Iron mines, copper mines… furs, antlers, and endless timber… men and women fit—nay, happy—at the prospect of servitude.” Alysse hated lying, but it was necessary. No Badelgard lowborn would happily enter into Zarube-style servitude.
“Pray tell, sister,” Lourges said, “why you are here and not in Andarr’s Port with your family?”
“The family is dead. Harald is dead. My skald is dead. A she-wolf, Lady Kenna, has slain them all.” Alysse’s cheeks grew flushed with anger. “Tell me, brother, how many men are under your command?”
“My dear sister,” Lourges said, his voice dripping with derision, “I cannot agree to come with you and fight under the Riverhall banner. Your request is foolish, and borders on childlike. Have I not mentioned our house is in peril?”
Alysse’s anger diverted from Lady Kenna and focused on her brother. “It is only in peril because you are a cowa—” She caught herself. “—because your friend made a command to ret
reat.”
“Do not talk to me in such a manner, sister,” Lourges said. “You have asked for an answer and I have given it: a firm, resounding ‘No.’ If you intend to go back to Badelgard, you came here for naught. Your husband has died, and now you must return to our home—under your father’s care, under my care.”
“I will not be resigned to a prison,” Alysse said. “I am free to make my own decisions and you have no say in them.”
“Suit yourself,” Lourges said, and a dark smile crept over his features. “But you won’t be getting an army.”
Alysse would see about that. Her brother lacked the courage and manhood to command his own troops; and Alysse was not discouraged easily.
The first five chapters of UNCONQUERED SON, set in a nation far south of Badelgard, follows.
UNCONQUERED SON
PROLOGUE:
The Dark-Eyed Twins
Lucento-Valens Adamantus, Legate
The dark coach careened toward the legionaries. Hungry silver ghosts flew out the windows and around the wheels. The rebels had taken the heavily-fortified city of Dubaquis, proclaiming that Yblis—lord of the underworld—viewed all people as equal, in death.
Lucento—the bloody leader of the Seventh Anthanian Legion, veteran of a hundred wars—shook in his boots. The black coach and its hungry ghosts rode toward the last remaining legionaries. Out of an original five thousand, Lucento could only make out a few dozen still alive.
Dark storm-clouds had formed over Dubaquis, yet no rain came down. The rebels had shattered the aqueducts a week ago, and the parched citizens had let them in. Like demons or dark undead, it seemed they only entered a place with an invitation.
The dark coach rammed into the front lines. The hungry ghosts came with it. The soldiers’ faces melted like wax. Screams rang out. The front lines turned and trampled each other. Yet the loudest noise, to Lucento, was the beating of his own heart.
