The Maid's War

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Noble king,” he heard Genette say, her voice quavering, “the Fountain’s will is done.” And then she started to weep. The tears rained down her cheeks as she looked up at the king with something like gratitude. It looked as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

  “Now I have the right?” Chatriyon asked her. “The right to move the pieces?”

  What could he mean? Alensson came nearer, trying to understand. The Earl of Doone was nearby, distracted by a conversation with one of his lieutenants.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Genette said. “Yes, it is true!”

  “Show it to me,” he said.

  Genette looked around furtively. She and the king were the center of all eyes. “Not here, my lord,” she said, glancing at Alensson. “Not in front of everyone.”

  “But only a Fountain-blessed can draw it out,” he told her. “You said that yourself. Draw it out of the water. You said it would be here!”

  The deconeus’s face turned the color of chalk, and his eyes widened with surprise. Once again, Alensson felt he was skating on the edge of something he did not understand. “What mean you to do, my lord?”

  Chatriyon gave him a cold look. “I didn’t just come here for the crown, Deconeus,” he said amidst the cacophony. The crowd outside the sanctuary had taken up the cheering.

  “What did you come for then?” the deconeus asked worriedly.

  Chatriyon gave him a measured, icy stare. “What’s been hidden here since my father went mad. Fetch it, Genette. I command you.”

  The Maid bowed her head sadly and then turned and marched back up the steps, the king watching her shrewdly as she made her way to the bubbling fountain. She circled around behind it so that she would not be seen by the others. Alensson felt a gnawing sensation inside him. He broke away from the throng and went to the steps, but the sextons stopped him before he could reach the top.

  “No farther, my lord,” they warned him.

  “My lord duke?” the king demanded in an icy tone.

  “She is vulnerable,” he said in a protective tone, edging closer to the sextons.

  The king frowned, then nodded in agreement, gesturing for him to follow.

  Alensson pushed past them. He saw her then, kneeling by the edge of the waters, her head bowed as if in prayer. She was listening to her voices. He watched her lift her head, a frown on her mouth, and then reach into the waters. The splashing of the fountain concealed her from everyone else but him. Alensson had taken part in a miracle himself when he had pulled her sword from the fountain of Firebos.

  Genette did not pull a blade from the waters.

  She pulled out a square brown chest with a handle on the top.

  Alensson saw her grave expression as she hefted the box. The sextons stared at her, their eyes bulging with disbelief and worry. It put him in mind of the deconeus’s pallor.

  He had the feeling that this was a secret they had hoped to keep hidden.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Stealing a Duke

  At some point in the night, Ankarette Tryneowy had decided she needed to kidnap the Duke of La Marche. Or liberate him, as the case may be. The poisoner she’d caught in the act of murdering him had tipped her thinking. She also could not deny that she was eager for him to finish his tale—a task that would take longer than they had.

  So she decided to escape and bring the Gentle Duke with her after all.

  “You’re coming with me when I leave,” Ankarette told him.

  He gave her an incredulous look. “I appreciate your offer to help me, lass,” he said with a defeated smile. “But there is no way I am leaving this palace alive. Chatriyon’s son is king, and they don’t call him the spider without reason. I’m tangled in his web. I can go nowhere.”

  Ankarette slipped her knife out of its sheath and angled it in front of his eyes. “Spiders are my specialty,” she said. “I’ve given this a little thought as you’ve told me your story, and I have a plan. Let’s be quick about it. Bring me the quilt on the bed.”

  “The quilt?”

  She nodded and gestured for it. The duke walked over to the bed, hefted the bulky covering, and dragged it over to her. Ankarette began to slice it into strips with the dagger.

  “Let’s talk while I work,” she said, beginning another slice. She was quick with her hands and saw in her mind the shapes she would need. “I have many questions for you that are unanswered. Tell me about the chest the Maid drew from the fountain. What was inside?”

  “It looked somewhat like a Wizr set. But the pieces were unique, not like the kind you’d buy from a Genevese tradesman fashioned out of alabaster or marble. It was more than just a Wizr set. There was some power within it. I don’t know for certain what it did. Chatriyon guarded it jealously. In fact, he changed after he got it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His personality altered. One could say it was the crowning. He was in the same position after being crowned—he was still poor, still dependent on others for coin and soldiers—but his mood began to alter. He started to consider the Maid a threat.”

  Ankarette continued to work on the quilt, grateful for the sharpness of her knife. As she listened to the story, she kept an ear facing the doorway to alert her of anyone coming up the steps.

  “So the chest is still a mystery. But you did notice a change in his personality. I’m curious. Where did he keep it after it was taken?”

  Alensson shook his head. “I saw it near him often. He kept the key that opened it around his neck.”

  “Surely you asked Genette about the chest?” she pressed.

  He nodded. “Of course. I was quite curious after seeing her draw it out of the fountain. She was very . . . evasive in her answers. She said it was the Fountain’s will for the king to receive the box for a season. Those were her words. She told me that it would serve a greater good. But I could tell that she was displeased by the changes it started in Chatriyon. She noticed them too.”

  “Give me an example.”

  He began pacing, his arms folded over his chest. “He started to act impatient with Genette. Distrusting and annoyed. Almost as if he couldn’t abide being in her presence. And a gloom of sorts settled on him. A melancholy. He began to chase after women in the court. He would be talking to someone, nodding and following the conversation, while his eyes fixed on some woman or other. Genette told him it was time to liberate the rest of his country. She asked him to send her and the army to conquer the capital, Pree. I was eager for that to be our next move. If Pree fell, think of it! Think of the spoils of war! Not only would Chatriyon gain enough treasure to be independent, but I could continue clearing my debts. Victory would mean ransoms as well, and I have to say, I intended to be paid for the privations I had suffered. I wanted Deford, the younger brother of the king who had ruined us at Azinkeep. The man who had been rewarded with my duchy. You must know how much I wanted to defeat him. But the king wouldn’t hear it. Genette had won every battle since Lionn. Why he started to distrust her at that moment, I don’t know. She implored him to send her. By this point, many of the towns and villages were joining our side. The balance was shifting. Duke Deford’s power was waning. He still commanded the royal army and was summoning reinforcements from his lands. He still held Pree and La Marche—Westmarch, as he called it—” This part was added with a decided snort. The duke cut himself off when he noticed Ankarette was tying the strips of cloth together.

  “We’re not going to climb out the window, are we?” he asked. “It’s a long way to the ground, especially without the scabbard to mend our broken bones.”

  “We’re not,” she said, hurrying to make more strips and tie them together. “I only want to make them think so. Go on with your tale. Genette tried to persuade Chatriyon to attack Pree. If I recall my history, she did attack. It failed.”

  He nodded sadly. “Maybe it was an impossible task. Think of it, Ankarette. This city”—he gestured with his arms—“has sizable defenses. Lionn was one thing.
But Pree is more secure, and it was full of enemy forces. Deford was no fool. I’m sure he wanted to ride out in battle against us, but he also knew the power of momentum in victory. After all, I’d given him that momentum years before. Deford, the cunning lion, sent a letter to Chatriyon requesting a halt to the violence. He promised to surrender the city of Pree in two weeks if they reached an agreement. Both Genette and I knew it was a trick, a stalling technique so he could fortify the city. Chatriyon was more inclined to consider it, even though it would slow our momentum. If he had listened to the Maid, if he had heeded her, it would have gone differently. Trust me, our army, although small, was courageous after such unlikely victories. They truly believed the Fountain was on our side. And they believed they could conquer Pree. So did Genette.”

  “What happened?” Ankarette said. “Did it go wrong because of the box?”

  Alensson was quiet for a moment before speaking. “I think so. It’s something I heard Genette say to the king, something she whispered urgently to him as she tried to convince him to reject Deford’s proposal. I was standing nearby, so I overheard it. She whispered to him that he would win the city because he held the chest,” he said. “Not because of some truce or negotiation with our enemies. I don’t know what that meant or what magic the box evoked. Chatriyon gave in to her . . . eventually. He told her that she would have a fortnight to conquer the city or he’d order her to withdraw.” He grimaced. “Most sieges last for months, Ankarette. But she was convinced she could do it in less than a fortnight. She did not see what I saw, even though he warned her. I don’t think he agreed out of any eagerness to conquer Pree. He intended to send her to her death. And if that failed, he could be sure it happened in his own way.”

  Ankarette finished the makeshift rope made out of bedding. “Would that I could hear the rest of it now, but we must make ready to leave. Here is my plan. People are quick to believe what they see—and even quicker to jump to the wrong conclusion.” She went to the brazier and grabbed an iron poker, then fastened the makeshift rope to it. He followed her into the garderobe.

  “We’re going down the toilet?” he asked, his cheek twitching with revulsion. “We’re going to jump into that cesspit?”

  “No, we’re going to make them think that you did.” She set the iron poker across the garderobe seat and then flung the heap of cloth down into the darkness. “They’ll arrive and find your bed in tatters. The windows will all be bolted. A quick search will reveal the false trail, and every guard in the palace will be ordered to start searching the perimeter.”

  “But we’ll still be in the room?” he asked quizzically.

  Ankarette nodded. “When the servants are ordered to clean up the mess we’re about to make, I will render them unconscious and we’ll take their clothes. Everyone knows who you are, Duke Alensson, but one thing I’ve learned is that people don’t give you a second glance if you look like someone of lower birth. A shave, a haircut, and a different walk will make everyone look right past you as we escape.”

  “And where are we going?” he asked her cautiously.

  “I need to get back to my king and warn him what we’re up against,” Ankarette said. “And you are coming with me. King Lewis has been acting with a great deal of overconfidence. Like he can’t lose this fight. I’m beginning to suspect I know why.” She gave him a cunning smile. “Now, before we hide in the rafters, tell me about this chest. I want you to describe it to me in perfect detail. What did it look like?”

  Alensson gave her a broad smile. “I like you, lass. And I am only too happy to leave this prison.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Defending Pree

  Alensson watched as the soldiers yanked the trebuchet lever. The massive timbers groaned, pivoted sharply, and then hurled a bucket of debris toward the towering walls of Pree, only for the boulders to be pulverized against it.

  “By the mast,” one of the soldiers said, shaking his head in disappointment. “It didn’t so much as soften her.”

  “And why should it?” said another soldier. “The walls of Pree are eighty feet thick. It’s siege ladders again, lads.”

  “Not for you,” Alensson said. “Load it again. Throw another and then another. It may crack the shell eventually.” It was only the first day of the siege. He hadn’t expected the walls to crumble on the first strike.

  “Aye, my lord,” the soldier said, his armor coated with chalky dust and grime. “You heard the man. Fetch more rubble from yonder.”

  Alensson remained to watch them obey his orders, then strode farther onto the battlefield, where the archers were sending volleys up against the walls.

  He planted one knee, shielding his eyes from the sun, and gazed at the walls. “How goes the work? Do you have enough arrows?”

  The archer had a gouge on his cheek and was missing some teeth. “It goes well enough, lord duke. I got a knight in the neck about an hour past and watched him tumble off the wall. That was a sight to see. How many do you reckon are defending Pree? A million?”

  Alensson chuckled. “Not so many. I wonder how many inside would actually like us to win, eh?”

  The archer grinned. “How far away is Deford’s army? Have you heard word, my lord?”

  Alensson nodded. “He’s at Tatton Hall,” he answered. “I’d love to take a thousand men and go give him trouble right now, but we need every man here. He’s coming with reinforcements from Kingfountain. Latest word is they are three days away.”

  The archer pursed his lips. “Cutting it awfully close this time,” he said. “If they join the city defenders before we break through . . .” He clucked his tongue. “But we’ve got the Maid with us. She’s worth ten thousand brutes of Kingfountain. I seen her banner up there against the walls. She’s got pluck, that lass. Fears nothing. I’m grateful the Fountain is on our side, my lord.”

  “So am I,” Alensson said, clapping the man’s shoulder. The last he’d heard, Genette was in the command tent talking to the king. It was unusual having the king amidst the army for once, taking an active role in the decisions, however far his tent was from actual danger. But when Alensson looked up, he saw her white banner near the front walls, just as the archer had said. She was rallying the soldiers to fill the moat with bales of wood to create makeshift bridges that would allow them to reach the fortifications with the ladders. The archers and crossbowmen from the city were brutally picking the soldiers off, one by one. The dead were left on the field, many with multiple arrows protruding from them. Some were writhing, their screams ghosting over the battlefield.

  “You look like you’ve a mind to join her,” the archer said with his gap-toothed smile.

  “I do indeed,” Alensson said, rising and swinging his shield around from the back strap.

  “Mind your head,” the archer grunted, then fitted another arrow, pulled, and sent it winging. Alensson watched as the arrow hit its mark and a soldier tumbled from the wall. “Got another one! You’re a bit of luck, my lord! I’ll see if I can clear the whole wall for you.”

  The men tittered and laughed and Alensson grinned at them before securing the shield to his forearm. Then he started walking forward, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he entered the vale of death. He passed men twitching and moaning, their bodies impaled by feathered shafts. He kept his gaze on that white flag.

  A horseman rode up to him from the camp. “Duke Alensson!”

  “What is it?” he asked, turning back.

  “The king wishes to see you. He’s ordering a retreat. Come back to the camp.”

  He frowned. “Darkness will give us some cover. Does he mean to wait until nightfall?”

  “No,” the herald said, shaking his head. “He means to pull back from Pree. Deford’s army is getting too close for comfort.”

  “But if we take Pree, Deford’s army will be on the run!” Alensson snapped, his anger flaring. How could Chatriyon expect them to overwhelm the defenses of a city like Pree in a single day? Yes, Deford’s army was coming.
But they were so close to victory!

  “Tell that to the king. He’ll not listen to me.”

  “Nor is he likely to listen to her,” he growled. “I’ll be right there. Let me be the one to tell the Maid.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the herald said. His relief was obvious as he turned his stallion and spurred it away.

  As he walked toward the walls and closer to the imminent violence, he thought on the last few days since the coronation at Ranz. They were at a crossroads of sorts—the future hung on the hinges of Chatriyon’s decisions. It was said that Duke Deford had brought the young lad, the King of Ceredigion, with him to also be crowned at Ranz. This was the pivotal moment, the time for action.

  An arrow struck the turf right ahead of Alensson, snapping his attention back to the matter at hand. The sycophants of Shynom were tired of war and bloodshed. A negotiated truce was more to their liking. Peace through bargaining. And they pleaded with Chatriyon to form an alliance with Brugia, their neighboring kingdom across the sea. With Brugia on their side, they could push Deford back on his heels with diplomacy rather than battle. Chatriyon’s only ally was Atabyrion, and it was a small, backwater kingdom that had lost many men during the wars.

  This was all totally against Alensson’s nature and character. Occitania had been sundered by blood. And it would be rebuilt the same way.

  Raising his shield before him as he walked, he made his way to the thickest part of the danger, for that was where the Maid had stationed herself. He heard her voice ringing out amidst the commotion of battle. She wasn’t urging the men onward. She was shouting to the defenders on the wall.

  “Surrender to us quickly, by the Fountain!” she yelled. “If you do not surrender before nightfall, we will come in there by force! Surrender! Or the Fountain will bring death upon you without mercy! These walls will not save you!”