The Maid's War

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Who are you?” he asked in a whisper. If he hadn’t witnessed the deconeus performing the rite, he would have suspected she was a water sprite in mortal form.

  “I am a maid,” she answered him simply, letting go of his arm. “The Fountain can work wonders from the lowliest of creatures. I have power because I believe in it. Maybe you will too someday.” She smiled at him, but her words cut him to his core. For years he had fostered doubts in the Fountain because he had never felt its power himself, despite his many efforts. Perhaps those tiny seeds of doubt had always stood in his way.

  It had grown late and they walked side by side back to the army encamped outside the fortress of Shynom. Soldiers had built small cookfires and were starting to prepare skewers of meat. A few were already drunk, their boisterous voices filling the air with commotion. Genette scowled as they passed, her eyes brooding and dark with anger. Inside the camp, all the grass had been crushed by dirty boots and filth. The air was filled with the buzzing of flies, the stamping of horses, and the braying of mules. There were tents everywhere—some small, some larger—their size representing the relative importance of their inhabitants. Chatriyon had summoned an army at last, but it was a rowdy group numbering only a few thousand. Some of the soldiers had been drawn to the miracles they had heard about. Some had only come because of the pay.

  “This is no army,” Genette muttered under her breath. “Tomorrow I will start them cleaning. We cannot live like this.”

  “It gets worse, you know,” he told her. “Wait until it rains. The smell . . .” He shook his head.

  Genette looked at him askance. “You are one of the leaders, yet you permit this disorder?”

  “This is the nature of men and war,” he answered with a shrug. “I may as well frown at a mountain and expect it to change.”

  “Men are not like stone,” she answered, staring into his eyes. “They are more like clay. There is a potter in my village. I loved watching him coax his clay into shapes. You are a potter of men, Alen. Do not let things shape you.”

  Genette knew none of the subtleties and social graces of court. But she was uncommonly wise for a peasant—even more so for one so young.

  They reached her small tent, marked by a white pennant hanging from the center pole. She usually worked on her needlework in the evenings. “How is your banner coming along?”

  “It’s not ready yet, but it will be finished in time for Lionn,” she answered. There was a boy of twelve at the door of the tent, her page assigned to her by the prince’s own household. He was a tawny-haired lad who brought her meals and helped run errands for her. His name was Brendin.

  “I will see you tomorrow,” Alensson said, nodding first to the boy and then to Genette. “I think I’m too tired to eat.” He started toward his tent, which had been pitched within sight of hers. He noticed a woman lurking in the shadows next to his tent. A suspicion began to form in his mind when he heard Genette’s voice calling him.

  “Gentle duke.”

  He stopped and looked back at her. She was staring at his tent, not at him, and a frown had stolen across her face. Motioning for the page to follow her, she walked fiercely toward Alensson’s tent.

  “What is it?” he asked, but she brushed past him. Hands on his hips, he stared at her in confusion.

  But Genette did not even pause—she walked right up to the woman loitering by the tent and seized her arm. He had never seen her before, but it was clear she was a camp follower.

  “Out! Get out of this camp! Be gone!” Genette shouted.

  The woman’s gaze blazed with hatred as she glared at Genette, struggling to remain in the shadows as she tried to back away from the tent. The commotion brought attention from all corners as the soldiers fixing their meals stopped mid-action and began to gawk.

  Alensson’s eyes bulged as the Maid unsheathed the sword Firebos. The woman began to cower and free herself from Genette’s firm grasp.

  There was fire in the Maid’s eyes. Suddenly, she swung the flat of the blade against the girl’s rump, causing her to yelp and squeal. “Out! All of you! Out! I will go tent to tent. If I find one of you here in the morning, I will thrash her in front of the rest of you! This is the Fountain’s army! It bids me purge it! Be gone! Seek your coin doing more honest work. Out!” She whacked the woman again as she scrambled to flee.

  It caused an uproar throughout the camp, for the Maid began searching tent after tent, fulfilling her promise. Within the hour, all of the camp followers had packed up and fled, much to the chagrin and consternation of most of the soldiers. But no one dared bring a girl back that night, not even the nobles.

  Word spread that the Fountain had spoken to the Maid again, whispering which tents the girls would be in, and no one wanted to be the one caught in the act of defying her, even if they didn’t believe she was sent from the Fountain.

  It was dark when Genette finally returned to her tent with Brendin, who carried the garments and articles left behind by the strumpets. Alensson, holding a bowl of camp stew, looked at her in admiration. She paused before going into her tent.

  “No one will take your wife’s place at your side,” she told him, glancing at him. “I will watch over you, Alen. Until she returns to you.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Maid's Fury

  A change came over the royal army that night. It was noticeable the next day as the soldiers rose from their sleeping mats and tents. There was normally a commotion of grumbling and jibes, but the camp was unusually quiet. It became even more so as the Maid turned her will toward her next mission: tackling the cursing in the camp. Whenever she passed a man who let out an oath or swore because of pain or pretense, she quickly rebuked him—even if the man in question was older than her father—and admonished him to cease profaning. And the men obeyed her—some grudgingly, some shamefully, but they still obeyed her.

  The soldiers drilled. They marched. They mended armor, fixed the nicks in their swords, battle axes, and spears. All the while, Genette the Maid, as they began to call her, sewed her banner with fleurs-de-lis, flowers shaped like decorated fountains.

  It had taken the prince several weeks after her miraculous demonstration in court to gather the army together in one place. One afternoon, a few days into the army’s transformation, Alensson inspected the supply wagons and consulted with the local captain about the food provisions they’d need, to relieve the siege at Lionn. The captain thought it would take another month, perhaps two, to break the will of the Ceredigion defenders. A two-month siege would require nearly double the rations they had, so Alensson went to the command pavilion of Earl Doone to seek the counsel of the lord. He was surprised to find Genette there, in her armor, dictating a letter.

  “Withdraw, or I will compel you to. I am the Maid and thus the Fountain bids me.”

  “What is this?” Alensson whispered to her young squire.

  The squire was gawking at his mistress, her hair freshly washed, her cheeks slightly flushed from her excited manner of speaking. In the days that had followed the incident at Alensson’s tent, her demeanor had shifted from peasant to nobility, as if she had commanded servants all her life.

  “Read it back to me,” she demanded of the scribe, Doone’s man, who looked at her as if she were some madwoman.

  “Do it,” Doone said, giving Alensson a nod that spoke of his bewilderment.

  The scribe cleared this throat and pushed his spectacles higher up his nose. “Ahem. ‘To the Duke of Deford. To Lord Scales and Lord Tenby. To Lord Ashe. Greetings to you, lords of Ceredigion. In the name of the Fountain and the true king of Occitania, I—Genette the Maid—order you to abandon the cities you unrighteously hold.’ ” He paused, tapping his cheek with the quill. “That is not a proper word . . .” he added sheepishly.

  “Keep reading!” Genette snapped.

  “Very well, ahem, ‘I implore you, on fear for your life and lands, on the lives and duties which you hold to your wives and your children, that you withdraw immed
iately from Lionn and all the towns up to the river Argent. If you do not, I will attack you and drive you out, and much blood will be shed. You have usurped the rights of Occitania, which displeases the Fountain. Withdraw, or I will compel you to. I am the Maid and thus the Fountain bids me.’ ”

  The scribe lowered his head, looking at her from above his spectacles. “Is that all?”

  “Send a herald to Lionn and have this delivered to the garrison captain, Lord Tenby.”

  Earl Doone stared at her agape. “You’re going to warn them we’re coming?”

  “Of course,” Genette said, full of confidence. “We must give them a chance to leave before we attack.”

  “But telling them defeats the advantage of surprise. No doubt their spies have watched our army growing. They know we’re going to attack, but they do not yet know where.” He looked at Alensson for support, gesturing for him to speak up.

  Alensson looked into Doone’s eyes. “I see no harm in her strategy.”

  “You too?” Doone’s tone was full of accusation. “After what you did at Vernay, I was expecting something more subtle!”

  Alensson raised his eyebrows. “Do you think they will believe we are coming to attack them when we say we are? Might they not consider it a ruse?”

  Genette stamped her foot. “I intend no trickery. Why are we debating this? We should be at Lionn already. Did I not tell you the power of the Fountain is with us?”

  “You did,” Doone said with a grimace. “But surely it expects us to use wisdom and judgment. We’re gathering supplies for the army. Men can’t eat promises, girl. They need to be paid. How much longer will the supply wagons take, Alensson?”

  “We almost have enough for the first month, but the captain of the supply wagons thinks the siege might take months, so—”

  “Enough of this!” Genette interrupted. “We must go. We must go at once. We will break the siege in days, my lords, not months.”

  Alensson stared at her in surprise. Had she seen this in the visions she’d told him about?

  She nodded vigorously and pounded her fist into her palm. “Believe in my mission, lords of Occitania. Believe I am what I declared myself to be, or believe me not at all. We must ride today. The people of Lionn have suffered this siege for too long. Lord Tenby will not surrender the city to us easily. He will fight. But we will win. Send this letter ahead of us. Send a copy to Deford himself in Pree. No matter how much they try to prepare, they will fail. They may as well try and stop a flood.” Her words had an ominous sound to them.

  Doone threw up his hands. “I’ll notify the prince that we are leaving now. We’ll see if he supports this risk.”

  Genette smiled triumphantly. She turned to her squire. “Fetch my banner at once.”

  Alensson had thought he’d have time to see Jianne before they departed for Lionn. The suddenness of their decampment prevented that, and he knew she’d worry about him, so he hastily wrote another letter to her to inform her of his departure and to seek her forgiveness for not coming, but he added that he hoped they would next meet in her liberated city. He rode astride a borrowed warhorse, next to Genette and her squire, down the dusty road toward the city of Lionn. There would be no disguising the army’s approach, and the letter had been sent ahead. Surely their enemies would await them.

  Despite Genette’s confidence, which he had pretended to share while in Doone’s tent, Alensson was wary and had dispatched scouts to warn them of any ambushes along the way. There were none. It took the army four days to reach the town of Blais, but their progress was halted there when word arrived that the prince had changed his mind and commanded the army to halt.

  The Maid was incensed by the sudden delay, but Doone refused to countermand the prince’s orders. The army camped outside the city, the men restless and eager to continue. Genette ordered them to continue drilling and training, but she chafed at the prince’s sudden change of heart, which she saw as a show of cowardice.

  “Why must we stop here?” she complained to Alensson. “Lionn is only two leagues away!”

  “The prince has ordered us to send scouts ahead to test the city’s loyalty. He fears we may be riding into a trap.” Alensson was equally impatient with the delay, but he understood the prince’s precaution. It was a sign of Genette’s utter conviction in the Fountain and her cause that she could not.

  She gripped the hilt of her blade and scowled at him. “There is no trap! The city is weak and disheartened. But they are faithful to His Grace!”

  Alensson put his hand on her armored shoulder. The sheen wasn’t as radiant after being buffeted by the dust of the journey, but it was still new. She was like a caged bear, full of pent-up fury. Looking into her eyes, he said, “You know that. I know that. The king is more cautious. We were defeated at Azinkeep. We were defeated at Vernay. The risk of another loss weighs heavily on him.”

  Genette took a deep steadying breath and slowly released it. “You speak wise counsel, Alen. I will try to be patient.”

  Her squire approached quickly. “My lady, Earl Doone requests that you both ride with his contingent and a small force to Lionn. Our scouts have returned. The city is loyal to us. The rest of the army will stay here until the prince approves.”

  “Progress, at last,” Genette muttered under her breath. The delay had been for several days already.

  Although they left the bulk of the army in Blais, they rode ahead with an escort of seventy knights—the primary nobles of the camp. No one wanted to miss the upcoming confrontation. As they crested the last wooded hill before reaching Lionn, Alensson pulled up his reins to gaze on it. He’d not been there for years, but it was a familiar and welcome sight.

  The fortress of Lionn bore similarities to the city of Pree in that a river cut through it. Also as in Pree, the city had expanded in ever growing circles around both sides of the river, creating layer upon layer of defenses as the city swelled. It made defeating cities like this very difficult because penetrating one series of walls required piercing further obstacles. The Maid had said it would take a matter of days to liberate Lionn. Though he understood Doone’s doubts—he did not understand how such a thing could be possible—Alensson had confidence in the girl after seeing so many demonstrations of her powers.

  Unlike Pree, where the two halves of the city were connected by many bridges, Lionn had only one bridge. The Ceredigic army had first successfully captured the smaller, western half—the part that lay before them—and it was manned by a garrison of enemy knights. Although smaller than the city on the other side of the river, it was very defensible, with a tower fortress butting up to the bridgehead. The wooden planks of the bridge had been dismantled by the city’s carpenters during the siege to prevent the soldiers from using it to cross. Only the stone arch supports were left. The river flowed swiftly, far too wide for an army to cross without boats. The rest of the Ceredigic army was encamped on the opposite side of the river, where they hacked away at the remaining defenses of the city. If they succeeded in taking Lionn, it would give them a huge stronghold from which to launch an attack on Shynom itself. The people of the city were hungry and frightened, but the progress of the siege had been slow. Alensson could see why. So many walls had yet to be claimed, allowing the inhabitants to hunker within them and ride out the storm. The Maid’s army would have the same trouble trying to drive the army of Ceredigion out of their portion of the city. There were fewer walls, but they were high, allowing the enemies an opportunity to shoot crossbows and rain stones down on those attempting to climb up. Alensson shook his head as he saw the smoke stains over the beleaguered city.

  “Have courage, Gentle Duke,” the Maid said as she rode past him.

  There were small camps of Ceredigic soldiers outside the walls of the conquered part of the city, but not nearly enough to threaten seventy knights, and they withdrew back behind the fortifications as the Occitanians approached.

  The inhabitants had made preparations for the arriving troops and several ferries
issued out from the besieged part of the city, upstream from them. Their horses were blindfolded and led to the ferries, and oarsmen steered them into the waters as the current brought them swiftly toward the unoccupied half of Lionn.

  “The towers there,” Alensson said to her as they gazed up at the fortifications, “they are called the Turrels. We can’t get too close or their archers will rain arrows down on us.”

  Genette frowned. “Will they try with boats? I’d welcome a fight.”

  He smiled at her enthusiasm. “The river is just as dangerous for them to cross as it is for us. See how our portion of Lionn is so much larger?” he said, pointing across the river. “They have a strong foothold in the city. But we hold the stronger part by far.”

  She nodded and then stumbled into him as the skiff shook on the water. The water was rough, but he somehow managed to keep them both upright. In short order, they reached the safe side of Lionn, where they were greeted on the dock by the mayor, the nobles, and a screaming crowd. Genette carried her banner with her, and the people went wild when they saw it. Her message had been delivered to the townspeople. Rumors of her had spread like fire, and here she was in flesh and armor, looking like a soldier and a woman and a true champion of the Fountain. She smiled at those assembled, waving her banner triumphantly, and Alensson felt a thrill as he watched her ride forward through the crowd that parted to make room. This, he knew, was a moment the world would remember.

  There was an equivalent set of towers on their side of the bridge, facing the Turrels. It was the most fortified portion of the city, and the Maid and her leaders were taken there through streets that were filled with well-wishers. When they arrived in the main gallery of the palace, they found Earl Doone had already arrived and was speaking to the garrison captain, a weather-beaten man in dented armor. He had fiery-red hair and a scar that split his lip by his nostril, giving him a fierce look. A huge sword was strapped to his back.