Rachel shivered and clutched Zdeno’s hand.
“Miter sees that you are all on the brink of annihilation,” declared the little Gorgishman, sneaking a glance at Cairn to make sure she was watching him. “He knows you fear that he will do nothing but laugh if you beg him to come to your rescue, but he has had a change of heart. He has decided to save you after all.”
“Oh?” said Azriel, looking over at him. “And how, exactly, does he plan to do that?”
“He plans to lead you into the Valley of Gorg,” replied Miter.
At these words, Azriel’s gaze dropped back down to the map and Persephone could tell by the sudden fire in his eyes that this was the answer they’d been looking for.
Ignoring the exclamations of surprise and disbelief of the other Councillors, Persephone placed her clasped hands on the table before her and said, “That is a very generous offer, Miter, but I thought you told us to stay away from the valley unless we longed for hideous deaths. I thought you pledged your eternal enmity if we took our war anywhere near your beloved valley.”
“Yes, well, things change,” replied Miter with a gooey smile at Cairn.
Persephone looked at Rachel in utter bafflement.
“Cairn personally attended him when he fell ill last week,” explained Rachel in confidential tones. “He’d have died if it wasn’t for her.”
At these words, Miter fluttered his lash-less eyelids at Cairn and pressed his yellow pygmy hand to his heart. She responded to these displays of slavish devotion with a faint but remarkably tolerant smile.
“Of course,” continued Miter, his gaze sliding back to fix on Persephone. “In return for his unprecedented act of generosity”—here, the little Gorgishman paused for dramatic effect—“Miter expects that the pregnant female will return the Mines of Torodania to his people.”
“Done,” said Persephone, who’d ever intended to return the horrid mines to their rightful lords. “The very instant those enslaved within have been released, the mines are all yours.”
Instead of looking grateful or even pleased, Miter looked outraged, as though Persephone had somehow cheated him by agreeing to his terms so readily.
Before he could even think about trying to drive a harder bargain, however, Azriel jabbed his finger at the map and said, “The canyon that leads into the valley is barely half a day’s march away. We should be able to reach it ahead of Mordecai’s army if we hurry, and as it is only wide enough for a dozen horsemen to ride abreast through it, we ought to be able to defend our position there for a while, anyway. What say you, Your Majesty?”
Instead of answering him, Persephone looked at the map for a long moment before looking away. She knew she should be grateful for this chance—should be grateful for this hope—but suddenly, she was tired of being satisfied with hope. She didn’t want to avoid defeat for a while. She wanted victory. She owed her kingdom victory.
She owed Finn victory.
She owed her unborn son victory.
As she stared at the ground beside the table, feeling the desire for victory swell inside of her, Persephone absently watched several dozen ants chase a fat beetle between two discarded sweetmeats.
“Persephone?” murmured Azriel.
Unable to tear her gaze away from the battle unfolding in the dirt beside her, Persephone held up her hand to silence him. And when the battle was finally won, she turned to him with shining eyes and said, “I have an idea.”
All agreed that the plan was clever and daring, and some even believed that it had a chance of succeeding. Within the hour, those too sick or weak to fight had been given horses and a small guard and had been sent galloping to Parthania, while the rest of the royal army had set off for the valley with all the weapons and the few remaining horses. Though they arrived at the canyon that led into the Valley of Gorg without incident, according to the scout’s breathless report, the New Man army was mere hours behind them.
Come what may, tomorrow the two armies would face each other at last.
After commanding Robert and his men to take up their positions and issuing a final warning to them to judge their moment well, Azriel followed Persephone and the others through the canyon and into the field of flowers and butterflies.
Much later that night—after the sun had set and the troops, horses and dogs had been fed, settled and calmed— Persephone and Azriel settled down in front of their own little campfire. It wasn’t until then, as Persephone sat leaning against Azriel’s warm chest and feeling the strength of his arms around her, that he quietly told her of the role he intended to play in the coming battle.
“You … you intend to be in the vanguard?” she exclaimed in horror, twisting in his arms so that she could look up to him.
“No, Persephone,” said Azriel gently. “I intend to lead the vanguard.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
ON THE OTHER SIDE of the canyon, Mordecai stood outside his camp tent staring at the flickering light of the campfires that dotted the field of flowers and butterflies. He knew that sitting by one of those fires was the woman who’d stolen everything from him—her ripe young body, his chance to be king, his dream of someday being well and whole.
Well, upon the morrow he would steal at least two of those things back.
And then, at his leisure, he’d destroy one of them— piece by bloody piece.
At the sound of the noble bag of bones he called a wife moaning and coughing wetly from inside his tent, Mordecai scowled darkly. He was already exhausted and aching from the gruelling march. The last thing he needed right now was to have to listen to—
“Your Grace?” came Murdock’s voice from so nearby that Mordecai started, causing a fresh wave of pain to course through his body.
Casting a malevolent glance at his ever-creeping general, Mordecai muttered, “What?”
“I’ve given thought to the challenge posed by the narrow canyon,” said Murdock. “And I respectfully suggest that when the sun is at its zenith, we send the foot soldiers through the canyon a hundred at a time. The first waves will be slaughtered by the enemy soldiers on the far side, of course, but as the bodies pile up, it will give those who come behind an advantage, for they will be able to climb onto the pile of their dead comrades and fight from a position of strength. And since the queen’s army lacks the discipline of our own troops, when they see that we will never stop coming for them and that they are doomed, they will throw down their pitchforks and beg for mercy.”
“And will we give it to them, Murdock?” breathed Mordecai, turning his attention back to the firelight on the far side of the canyon.
“No, Your Grace,” said Murdock placidly. “We will not.”
Murdock woke the men at the crack of dawn the next morning so that he could give them their orders and remind them to behave like the trained professionals they were when the order to attack finally came.
Curious to see how those in the first waves were going to react when they realized that their job was to die, Mordecai had just pushed aside the flap of his tent when a hoarse battle cry sounded on the far side of the canyon. As it echoed through the valley, there came the sound of horses thundering through the canyon toward them.
And just like that, the battle for control of the kingdom had begun.
Telling himself that he was more startled than afraid, Mordecai hurriedly slouched over to the relative safety of his mount. As he laboriously hauled himself up onto the miserable creature’s back, he heard Murdock calmly calling for the men to take up arms and fall into formation. Licking his lips, Mordecai yanked his horse around so that he could watch the methodical annihilation of the fatally reckless enemy horsemen.
Then he saw who was leading the charge and he almost stopped breathing. It was the cockroach—the despicable wretch who’d lied to him about having clues that would lead him to the healing pool. The one who’d ever flaunted his broad shoulders and long, lean legs, the one who’d made himself beloved by the people even though he was nothing but a Gypsy.
Mordecai felt a surge of hatred the likes of which he’d never known. Even as he did, he saw the cockroach take in the sight of the vast New Man army. Like the coward he was, he faltered and reined in his horse, forcing the men behind him to do the same.
There was a long moment of silence in which nobody moved.
Then, in a voice thick with fear, the cockroach wheeled his horse around and bellowed, “RETREAT!”
Heart hammering with sudden, uncontrollable excitement, Mordecai stood up in his stirrups and shouted, “After him!”
As one, the New Men uncertainly looked over their shoulders at him.
“Your Grace—” began Murdock in alarm.
“AFTER HIM, YOU BASTARDS!” screamed Mordecai, frantically waving the New Men toward the canyon. “CHARGE!”
FIFTY-NINE
“THEY’RE ON THEIR WAY BACK, Your Majesty!” shouted Rachel, looking almost as terrified as Persephone felt. With the hand that wasn’t clasped tightly in Persephone’s, she pointed toward the canyon. “And by the looks of it, they have the entire New Man army at their heels!”
Looking past the Khan bodyguards who’d been ordered not to leave her side under any circumstances, Persephone went cold when she saw that Rachel was right. And though it was precisely what Azriel had hoped would happen, it was harrowing to see him at the rear of the retreat, just a step ahead of hundreds of sword-wielding, screaming New Men.
Persephone held her breath as he, Zdeno and the other horsemen who’d been used as bait burst out of the canyon and ducked. The instant they’d done so, Fayla and her waiting archers loosed their arrows. The New Men at the front of the attack were hit to a man. As they staggered backward, Fayla and her archers readied their bows for a second volley, and the Khan and the rest of the fighting force swarmed the mouth of the canyon. Those in the front stabbed, chopped, bashed and kicked bodies aside; those behind cleared the bodies and cut down the few who managed to escape. Persephone could see panic on the faces of the nearest New Men—both at the unexpected ferocity of the attack they were facing and also at the fact that they were being packed in more and more tightly together as the New Men at the other end of the canyon continued to rush forward, unaware that their comrades’ escape from the canyon was blocked.
Distant shouts of surprise and alarm from the heart of the New Man camp informed Persephone that Robert and his men had begun dropping out of the trees in which they’d been crouched all night. Though she was unable to see them, she could easily picture them rushing forward to close off the far side of the canyon so that the New Men could not retreat.
Sandwiched between two fighting forces, they were doomed.
Persephone felt no remorse whatsoever. She’d made it known throughout the kingdom that she’d spare any New Man who deserted before the final battle. Any who’d chosen not to do so were not only her enemy but the enemy of her realm, and for that they deserved to die.
It wasn’t long before the carrion birds began to gather overhead. As the intensity of the battle gradually began to abate, the Khan Ghengor grinned over his shoulder at her and said, “Easier than shooting fish in a barrel, eh, Your Majesty?”
Cur—who, since the start of the melee, had been sitting at Persephone’s side with his hackles raised and his teeth bared—snarled wetly at these words. Persephone said nothing. The gods had cursed her once before for her hubris—she’d not tempt them to do so again by giving voice to her rising confidence that victory was within her grasp and that those she loved best in the world would all survive to enjoy it.
Unfortunately for Persephone, the gods must have been able to hear her thoughts as easily as her words, because each of the New Men who’d heretofore been desperately attempting to fight his own way clear from one end of the canyon or the other, suddenly began surging forward en masse. As they did so, the fact that they were packed shoulder to shoulder became an advantage, for it gave them the power of a united front.
One hand clasped tight in Rachel’s and one hand pressed against her rock-hard belly, Persephone breathlessly watched Azriel, Zdeno, Barka and the others fall back a step, and then two. A break appeared in the line, and a New Man tried to dart through. He was cut down, but the space he left when he fell gave the man behind him a chance to fully swing his sword. Zdeno, who was fighting beside Azriel, leapt out of range in the nick of time, but as he did so, he stumbled over a body and went down himself.
As the sword-wielding New Man raised his blade, the spear-toting soldier behind him stumbled through the gap and Rachel screamed.
Wrenching her hand free of Rachel’s, Persephone planted both hands on Ghengor’s back, shoved hard and shouted, “GO HELP!”
Ghengor and the other Khan needed no further prompting than this. Hefting their battle-axes into the air, they ran screaming into the fray with Cur hot on their heels.
It was then that the Fates, who’d ever been so fond of playing tricks on Persephone, played their cruellest one yet.
For as she stood there believing that she was about to see the love of Rachel’s life cut to pieces, Azriel, in a desperate attempt to save Zdeno, lunged and lost his footing. He managed to twist in mid-air as he fell on top of Zdeno, but that only made the situation worse for him. Because it meant that while Zdeno was now entirely shielded from harm, the well-muscled abdomen that Persephone had, on more than one occasion, threatened to slit bow to stern, was left utterly exposed to the cold steel of the New Man’s raised blade.
SIXTY
EVER AFTERWARD, whenever Persephone thought about the three seconds that changed her life forever, they replayed in slow motion.
The grin on the face of the gore-splattered New Man as he prepared to plunge the bloody blade of his sword into Azriel’s exposed belly.
The sound of her own scream being cut short as her first labour pain slammed into her with the force of a sledgehammer, sucking the air out of her lungs and driving her to her knees.
The sense—rather than the sight—of the spear hurtling toward her.
The fleeting thought that she was too paralyzed by the excruciating pain to move out of the way and that she’d never thought it would end this way.
And then …
And then …
SIXTY-ONE
“YOUR GRACE, we must retreat at once,” insisted Murdock.
“Retreat?” Mordecai laughed hollowly. “We cannot retreat, Murdock, you fool!” he snarled. “My entire army is trapped in that godforsaken canyon!”
“I was not suggesting that the men should retreat, Your Grace, for they are not only trapped but doomed,” said Murdock, his protuberant eyes flicking toward the canyon from which the screams of his wounded and dying soldiers rose up like a chorus of the damned. “I was speaking of you and me alone.”
“Alone? Without my wife?” asked Mordecai, spitting out the word wife like it was a bad taste in his mouth.
“She is sick, body and soul, Your Grace,” said Murdock. “I fear she would slow us down to the point of capture.”
“Aurelia is the only woman in camp,” said Mordecai. “To leave her behind would almost certainly see her ravished to death when the savages from the queen’s army come looking for the spoils of war.”
“Yes, it would,” agreed Murdock.
Mordecai did not say anything more on the subject of his miserable wife and her fate, choosing instead to return to staring in numb disbelief at the sight of his ambitions being utterly destroyed. Even when he’d lost his power over the dead king, the queen had slipped through his fingers, and his alliance with Bartok had come to naught, Mordecai had always been able to comfort himself with the knowledge that he yet had his great army of New Men and that if all else failed, he could crush—or at least inflict severe damage upon—his enemies.
Now he did not even have that.
And since he lacked the position and means to tempt, coerce o
r conscript new men into a fighting force loyal to none but him, he would never have that again.
Unbelievably, he was back to where he’d started out so many years before—a crippled nobody in possession of nothing.
He wondered if he was going to vomit.
“Your Grace,” pressed Murdock. “By setting fire to our tents and taking certain other measures, I’ve managed to buy us some time but if we do not leave now, while the bandits on this side of the canyon are occupied slaughtering the men, they will turn their attentions upon us.”
Still, Mordecai just sat upon his horse staring at the end of his dreams.
“It will never be over until you are dead or captured, Your Grace,” said Murdock sharply. “As long as there is breath, there is hope, and you may trust me to do everything in my power to keep you breathing. But you must come with me now!”
Hearing Murdock speak in such an uncharacteristic fashion helped to bring Mordecai back to his senses almost as much as did the sight of one of the bandits whirling around and fixing his hate-filled eyes upon Mordecai. The wretch immediately received a sword thrust in the back for his troubles but Mordecai did not need to be told that he might not be so lucky next time—and that if the man’s comrades were all to turn their hate-filled eyes upon him, the end he would suffer at their hands would be a bloody one indeed.
And so, without another word to Murdock or another thought to his bride, Mordecai wheeled his mount around and was about to begin galloping away when he heard the queen scream—and then stop screaming with chilling abruptness.
His cold heart hammering hard, Mordecai wheeled his horse back around, stood up in his stirrups and strained to catch a glimpse of her.
But the only thing he could see at the end of the narrow canyon was a large pile of black-clad bodies and a tiny but beautiful patch of the pink-tinged early morning mists that hung above the distant jungle.
Tomorrow's Kingdom Page 29
