Queen Of Demons

by David Drake

  “What do they drink?” Sharina asked. In her wonder, she almost forgot whom she was talking to.

  “They've brought along trees that store water in their trunks,” the queen said. “I intended the migration to take place during fall when they could suck rainwater from their fur, but this is satisfactory.”

  The smile she gave Sharina could have frozen a bonfire. “They'll be thirsty enough to drink blood by the time they reach Valles,” she added. “That suits me quite well.”

  Occasionally a Hairy Man and a gull wheeling above the raft screeched insults at one another. Sharina and the queen remained invisible from the raft even though they themselves could see for miles in every direction.

  Sharina imagined the raft and its occupants landing on the shore of Ornifal. She'd seen the savagery with which the Hairy Men attacked and she knew what the results of those attacks would be on the stunned population of Valles. She'd buried the gnawed remains of Hanno's partner, after all.

  With that image in her mind, Sharina lunged for the queen's throat. Before the thought had even reached Sharina’s muscles, her body stiffened into stony rigidity. She was back in the marble room and the queen, with her usual faint smile, had her index finger on a game piece of carven tourmaline.

  “As you see,” the queen said in her smoothly pleasant voice, “I've made arrangements to deal with my physical enemies. There's another problem, though. The king's wizard looked for a servant and managed to summon a master. That master will not be easily put down.”

  She lifted her finger from the piece. Sharina could move again, but she rubbed her arms instead of attempting another vain attack. Her skin twitched and prickled as it had after lightning struck a nearby pine when she played in the woods as a child.

  The queen's smile widened like a cat's claw slipping from its sheath. “You're going to help me, Sharina,” she said. “You're going to lead me to the Throne of Malkar, which your ancestor concealed in a place only his blood can find.”

  “I'll die before I help you,” Sharina said quietly. Her fingers kneaded her forearm muscles.

  For an instant, something happened to the figure facing Sharina over the game board. The queen's perfect features became translucent. Beneath the flesh was another visage, this one snarlingly inhuman.

  The image was gone as suddenly as sun flashing from a gull's white wing. Everything was as it had been before, except for Sharina's doubtful memory of the moment.

  “I could make you beg me for death, Sharina,” the queen said in tones that flowed like honey. “I plan to take another course instead. But you will do as I require, of that you may be sure.”

  Sharina felt the chill pervade her body. The white room was receding; she stood frozen at the hub of the windowed chamber again, watching with detached interest as scenes evolved in the distance.

  The game board remained beyond the sixth window, but the room was otherwise empty. The queen's clawed smile still hung across Sharina's mind, though.

  “I've heard people say that the only difference between the regulars and the Blood Eagles,” Attaper said disdainfully to Garric as they rode up to the Naval Arsenal and their meeting with Admiral Milker's envoy, “is that we have better officers.”

  A hundred soldiers from Barker's Regiment of what had been the Ornifal standing army stood with their commander, Pior bor-Pirial. The adjacent quays, normally used by vessels bringing naval stores which for one reason or another couldn't be accommodated within the vast brick shed of the Arsenal, were empty now. All ships that could sail had done so when the riots started, and Nitker was blockading Valles from his base on the island of Eshkol close offshore.

  Attaper spit past the polished toe of his left boot. “That's crap,” he added flatly. “But I'll agree, having decent officers might help some.”

  A grinning figure at the back of Garric's mind murmured, “Officers and training will take you further than just recruiting will, lad. But recruiting on Haft or the northern counties of Ornifal, that'll take you a ways.”

  Garric and the eight Blood Eagles escorting him were mounted, but the horses were just transportation. Like Garric himself, the royal bodyguards were most comfortable on their own feet, Ornifal's military strength had always been in its heavy infantry. The nobility swanked it on horseback, but when it came to fighting the troops who covered the flanks of an Ornifal army were hirelings, either cavalry or light infantry who could break up a cavalry charge.

  The River Beltis was at its greatest width here; the far shore was barely visible through the haze sucked from the water's surface by the late-afternoon sun. The warship hanging a bowshot off the end of the quay was a trireme with nearly two hundred oars in three banks. A few dozen men stroked to keep its bronze ram pointing into the slow current.

  A skiff with seven men aboard put off from the trireme's stern. The rope ladder by which they'd descended dangled there; at the railing above, officers in red cloaks watched along with off-duty oarsmen.

  “Here they come,” Garric murmured. He gripped the saddle pommel and swung his right leg over the cantle, settling thankfully to the ground. Two Blood Eagles held the horses while Garric and the other six strode up the quay to meet the incoming skiff.

  Garric noticed to his amusement that his stride, that of the Haft phalanx of the Old Kingdom, put him a finger's breadth farther ahead of his escort at each double pace. Attaper gave a muffled curse, then growled, “Route march, Sister take you!” to his men.

  Garric had used Pior, still holding neutral in the Arsenal with his regular troops, to broker this meeting with the admiral's representatives. Pior would like to think of himself as holding the balance—perhaps even being a kingmaker.

  He was nothing of the sort. As Attaper said, the troops of the regular regiments were, if not a joke, at least no threat to Garric and his new government. Waldron could crush them or ignore them, pretty much as Garric chose.

  The six marines accompanying Milker's representative were much more impressive. They wore bronze helmets and cuirasses of stiffened linen that could turn a sword slash or even an arrow sent from a distance. Four of them rowed despite their, armor; the other pair held the squad's spears crossways on the thwarts, long boarding pikes rather than javelins designed for throwing.

  The Blood Eagles sized up their potential opponents as the skiff reached the end of the quay; and behind Garric's eyes, King Carus did the same. “I could always use more of that sort, lad,” the king's voice whispered. “They'll be planning to snatch you if they think they can get away with it...”

  “They can't,” Garric said.

  Attaper said, “What was that, sir?”

  Garric didn't realize that he'd spoken aloud. “Stand back for a moment,” he said instead of answering. He took two strides ahead of his escort and waited, arms akimbo, for Nitker's men to climb the stone steps from the landing stage to the top of the quay.

  The envoy was a balding, middle-aged man who looked as though he was more familiar with court robes than the cuirass of iron scales which he wore for this occasion. The fact he was in armor underscored Carus' warning. Attaper realized the same thing and said, “Sir, be careful!”

  Garric drew his long sword. The marines instantly formed a close rank, their pikes facing out in a lethal hedge. “What is this?” the envoy cried from behind his men. “This was to be a peaceful parlay!”

  Garric tossed his sword spinning into the air. The burnished steel caught the afternoon sun to flash like a deadly jewel. Garric glanced up, judged his moment, and raised his hand. The sword hilt slapped into his palm. Light trembled for a moment as the blade moaned softly back to silence.

  Garric shot the sword home into its sheath and grinned at the marines. “Don't even think about it,” he said to their officer in a lilting voice. The shadow of an ancient king laughed with gusto in his heart.

  The trick was Carus' own, though Garric and Cashel had practiced similar displays with quarterstaves as they chatted and watched their sheep in the borough.
A sword was shorter and lighter than a staff, but it spun faster and the edges added an element of danger to the embarrassment of a missed catch.

  Garric didn't intend to make a mistake, and the effect of such flashing skill did more than any number of threats to insure that the parlay would be peaceful.

  Raising his hands to shoulder height, palms out to demonstrate that they were empty, Garric said, “I was told to expect Matoes bor-Malliman. You're Lord Matoes?”

  The envoy snarled something in a low voice to his escort; the marines parted so that he could face Garric directly instead of peering over the armored shoulders of his men. “I'm Chancellor Matoes,” he said, giving himself the title Garric had withheld. “Duke Nitker sent me to receive your proposals of alliance, ah, Prince Garric.”

  One of the Blood Eagles muttered in disgust at Nitker's airs. Garric's mouth twitched in a smile. The admiral probably thought he was being moderate not to claim the throne of the Isles.

  “Admiral Nitker stepped into what he thought was a vacuum in Valles,” Garric said, speaking calmly and crossing his arms before him. “That was the action of a patriot, and neither I nor the king who adopted me could blame the admiral for what he did. But for the sake of the Isles, Matoes, Admiral Nitker has to make it clear immediately that he's a loyal subject of the government of King Valence. Otherwise he can only be considered a traitor.”

  Royhas had suggested that he or perhaps Waldron should represent the new government, since Nitker was sending an envoy instead of coming in person. For Prince Garric to attend the meeting would confer too much status on the admiral's minions.

  Garric wasn't interested in status. He alone of the new government really understood the danger that faced Ornifal and the whole Isles, so he was the one to treat with the envoy.

  As for the risk that Matoes and Nitker would think Garric was weak because he'd come to the meeting himself—Garric and the king within him laughed at the thought. Whatever tale the envoy and his bodyguards took back to Eshkol, it would not be that they'd met a foolish young lout just off the farm.

  Matoes bumped the man to either side as he stepped through the rank of marines. He wasn't allowing for the bulk of his unfamiliar armor. The marine officer frowned slightly, then spread his men with a hand gesture. He'd have liked to keep his charge behind the line of guards, but he didn't have the authority to order that.

  Matoes stopped a pace from Garric and fumbled absently at the side lacings of his cuirass, now unnecessary. The armor had been to protect him if he ordered his men to kidnap Garric; the government would gain nothing by grabbing an underling like the self-styled chancellor.

  Matoes was clearly not a stupid man. Instead of posturing with statements about Nitker's lineage and mandate from heaven to rule the Isles, he said, “Eshkol—the Duchy of Eshkol, shall we say?—could quite easily retain its independence, Prince Garric. There's no naval force in the Isles to match the Royal Fleet—”

  Garric smiled. The envoy grimaced when he realized he'd used the old term for the ships which Admiral Nitker commanded.

  “The fleet, that is,” Matoes resumed. “You may not believe that Duke Nitker could capture Ornifal from you, but you certainly can't invade Eshkol successfully with the forces at your disposal. The obvious solution is an alliance of equals. King Valence has wisely adopted a son. He might well—”

  Matoes held out a hand and appeared to examine his perfect manicure. Garric noticed that the envoy was watching from the corners of his eyes to see how his next statement was received.

  “—adopt another prince and co-successor.”

  “And sheep might well learn to fly, Lord Matoes,” Garric said pleasantly. “But not in Admiral Nitker's lifetime, or my own.”

  One of the marines stifled a snicker. The envoy spun in fury, but his escorts were all straight-faced by the time he met their eyes.

  “The reason that Admiral Nitker should return to his allegiance,” Garric said, “isn't that the kingdom will crush him if he doesn't—though assuredly the kingdom will crush him if one of our common enemies doesn't do it first.”

  Matoes opened his mouth to protest. Garric flicked his left hand up to cut off the objection. “The reason Nitker should rejoin the government is the same one that caused him to rebel, Lord Matoes: the Isles face enemies greater than at any time since the fall of the Old Kingdom. We decent men—men who oppose chaos—all have to join together or evil will destroy us severally.”

  Gulls wheeling over these waste-laden lower reaches of the Beltis called shrilly. On the quay, the only sound was creaking equipment as the men of both escorts moved slightly. Matoes stroked his left cheek with his index finger as he considered what next to say.

  “Admiral Nitker was adamant that he would accept nothing less than a co-regency,” the envoy said at last. “You need him and the fleet to enforce your rule.”

  “Lord Waldron was just as adamant that he should be king in Valence's place,” Garric said mildly. Noble courtiers like Waldron and Matoes had certainly known each other before the current troubles, so the envoy would understand what Garric was saying. “In the end he realized that the threat to the Isles was too great to ignore for the sake of personal ambition. Waldron became commander of the Royal Army, just as Admiral Nitker will remain as the honored commander of the Royal Fleet.”

  In the plaza two blocks away, the regiment which accompanied Garric and his immediate bodyguards at a distance was going through evolutions. One company at a time advanced, wheeled, and countermarched while the remaining troops stood ready in case the admiral's men attempted something.

  The supporting regiment was made up of household troops from a dozen of the northern landholders commanded by one of Waldron's noble friends. Attaper had provided each of the new regiments with drillmasters from the Blood Eagles.

  The nobles supplying—and paying—the troops had complained, some louder than others, but in the end they'd accepted Waldron's insistence that the mixture and joint training of troops from individual households was necessary. Garric had King Carus' memories of usurpers' undisciplined levies of breaking before the steady precision of his royal army.

  Waldron had something more vivid than that: the old warrior had been with King Valence at the Stone Wall on Sandrakkan. There, when the Ornifal militias panicked, only the Blood Eagles' steadfast courage and the atrocious ruthlessness of Pewle mercenaries who butchered women and children within the Sandrakkan camp had saved the throne for Valence. Waldron had no intention of allowing indiscipline in the forces he commanded.

  Matoes looked toward the drilling troops. At first Garric thought the envoy was simply staring into the distance while his mind worked, but Matoes' eyes were really focused.

  “I'll carry your message,” he said to Garric at last. “I don't know how the admiral will respond. He's quite rightly confident in the strength of his position... for the time being, that is.”

  “Lord Matoes,” Garric said, fixing the envoy with his eyes, “I'm not nearly as concerned about the time being as I am about the entire future of the Kingdom of the Isles. The future, or the lack of future.”

  He turned and pointed to the troops going through their exercises. “Tell the admiral,” he said, “that it isn't about rank, his or mine or anyone at all's. It's about the survival of civilization. And very shortly he'll realize that there aren't any neutrals.”

  Matoes nodded. “I'll tell him,” he said. “But I'm very much afraid—”

  He laughed without humor. “I believe you, Prince Garric,” he said, “though I can't imagine why I do. And I really can't hold out much hope that I'll be able to convince the admiral, but I'll do what I can.”

  Matoes turned and nodded to the commander of his escort. The envoy and four marines started briskly down the quay. The other two stood where they were long enough for the envoy to reach the steps to the skiff.

  “We all have to try,” Garric whispered. The setting sun painted the clouds piling up on the eastern horizon into a wall
of blood.

  “And this time,”said the king in Garric's mind, “we're going to succeed, lad.”

  The 3rd of Partridge (Later)

  “I'm sending an extra bank of oarsmen, seventy-eight instead of fifty-two, Master Cashel,” King Folquin said. He sounded both pleased with himself and defensive at the same time. “That way you'll be able to change half the crew every time the glass is turned and keep up full cruising speed all the way to Valles.”

  Cashel considered the trim warship and the men wearing only kilts or breeches who boarded her. There was surprisingly little confusion despite the crowding. He tried to imagine the sailors as sheep so that he could better judge their numbers, but men moved too quickly for that trick to work either.

  Fifty-two and seventy-eight were just words to Cashel. When he counted above five, he notched a tally stick or—for preference—dropped pebbles or dried peas into a pan. Garric and Sharina could count to any number, and Garric had even showed Cashel how he could measure the height of a tree by taking sights from the ground.

  “There won't be room enough to scratch your bum,” Zahag said, considering the bireme. As he spoke, he scratched his bum. “Well, I guess anything that gets us back on dry land quicker is a good choice.”

  He rotated his head to look at Cashel. “Of course, some of the dry land you've taken me to, chief, isn't much to brag about either. You're not going to do that again, are you?”

  “No,” Cashel said. “Well, I don't think so.”

  “It does look very squeezed,” said the Princess Aria, her eyes narrowing as she regarded the vessel. The ship's name was the Arbutus and Cashel was willing to believe the king when he said that she was the finest vessel in the squadron which kept pirates out of the waters surrounding Pandah. “Perhaps—”

  “Master Cashel is in great haste to rejoin his Sharina in Valles, my dear,” Folquin said. A tinge of desperation had entered his voice. “I'm sure that he'd prefer minor discomfort in order to reach Valles in a single stage. He'll be with his beloved before morning dawns.”