Of the two others, one was now on Greghar’s right, and the other was behind him. He wheeled his mount to face the one to his right and slid down on his mount so low that his head was on a level with his horse’s chest. His opponent lost sight of him momentarily, and Greghar ran his sword through the chest of his enemy’s mount. The dying horse screamed and fell heavily, trapping his rider beneath him.
He wheeled his mount again, but it was too late. The fourth trooper was upon him with raised sword. Greghar knew that he would not be able to bring his sword to bear in time, and he had no shield. So this is how it ends, he thought.
Then, before his unbelieving eyes, the trooper’s upper body was enveloped in a blue flame. His mouth opened, and he emitted a thin scream, macabre and horrible in its intensity. He dropped his sword and tried to beat at the flames, but they only burned brighter. His body began to shrivel and then, almost at once, the flame went out. His horse trotted away from the scene of the action with the charred remains of the trooper still bouncing on its back.
Nitya stood on the river’s edge, loose-limbed and swaying, seemingly in a trance. Even as Greghar watched, she fell forward onto her hands and knees, sinking to her chin in the snow. Greghar spurred his mount toward her and leaped from the saddle. He picked her up in his arms and held her tightly to him.
“So cold…so very cold…” she said, her teeth chattering. “Punishment for…a sinner. Forgive me, Lord Moksha…I have sinned…”
“Hush, hush,” crooned Greghar. “I will make a fire, and you will soon be warm and well.”
“Well, well, well, how touching,” came a grating, sardonic voice. “I would never have believed that barbarians could nurture such tender emotions. And I must say that the little one’s trick with flame throwing is quite clever. You must show me how you do it.”
Durga Bodina looked down at them from her tall, coal-black stallion, her grim expression accentuated by her facial tattoo. She held a laser pistol casually in her hand. A squad of Maidens was ranged behind her. With studied carelessness, Durga shot both the troopers Greghar had grievously injured.
“What have you done with Lady Caitlin, savage?” she asked harshly, her Utrean accent a strange mixture of Zon singsong and the dialect from the Northern Marches. “We know you came over the mountain without horses, yet we find you mounted, wearing a helmet of the Skull Watch and carrying Lady Caitlin’s sword. Did you sell her to the Utreans?”
“She was captured by the Skull Watch,” said Greghar, realizing as he spoke that his story would sound far-fetched to the tall First Maiden. He was painfully aware that Caitlin’s laser pistol was in his pack. “We were trying to rescue her. You see these dead troopers from the Skull Watch.”
“Yet Lady Caitlin is not here,” said Durga skeptically. “I ask myself, how could three individuals on foot, with dense forest cover at hand, be discovered by a mounted troop of the Skull Watch, unless they wished to be seen? I think that Lady Caitlin came with you over the mountain, trusting that you were her friend. As soon as you saw the troop of the Skull Watch, you realized what a prize you had and turned on her. Then, as you barbarians often do, you fought over the price. Obviously, you came off the loser.”
Nitya continued to shiver, even as Greghar continued to hug her, enveloped in his cloak. She tried to speak to Durga, but she could not make her tongue obey her.
“Lady Caitlin was captured in Grenhall…” began Greghar.
Durga was in no mood to listen.
“Bind the savage,” she snapped to her Maidens. “And round up a horse for the little barbarian girl. We must watch her carefully, lest she turn on us with her flame-throwing trick.”
The Maidens were quick to obey Durga. Greghar offered no resistance and let them disarm him. They searched and confiscated all his possessions. As he expected, they found Caitlin’s laser pistol. Durga turned it over in her hands, running her fingers over the silver Palace Guardian insignia embossed on the butt. Her look was sufficient for him to realize that in her eyes, his guilt was confirmed. But when they roughly took Nitya from his arms, causing her to cry out in pain, he struggled loose, crying out, “Treat the child gently, you harridans!”
Nitya’s sex elevated her in Durga’s eyes, and to Greghar’s surprise, she supported his call.
“Take it easy on the child,” she said gruffly. “Give her to me. She can ride behind me for a while till she is warm.”
They handed Nitya up to Durga, and when the girl put her arms around her, she widened her temperature shield to envelope her. As the warmth suffused her, Nitya’s teeth stopped chattering, and though she was still a bit dizzy, she felt much better.
“They rode up the trail toward Ostracis,” she whispered in Durga’s ear.
“We wanted to go there anyway,” said Durga over her shoulder.
As they began riding up the trail, past the Ice Bridge, Nitya began to feel stronger and resumed her meditative chant of power. She wondered how she could convince Durga of the truth.
SHOBAR SAT ON the Masthead Throne, carved from ancient spars of Utrean war galleys. The mast in his chair back rose nearly twentyfive meters to touch the high ceiling of the throne room of Nordberg Castle. First Minister Katog sat on a lower and less ornate chair on the king’s right, while Baron Karstein Tenus of Grigholm sat on a plain chair on his left. Half a dozen soldiers guarded the high vaulted entrance to the throne room. All the tiered rows of seats facing the throne were empty, for this was a private audience.
Two corporals of the Skull Watch stood before the throne in travel-stained leathers. Shobar leaned forward in his eagerness to hear their report.
“We have ridden hard, Your Majesty,” said one of them. “Cheval Nestar Crogus bid us to make haste, and we have obeyed his orders to the letter. Apart from one night in a small village on the way, we have ridden nonstop. We have killed four horses in our haste to get here and made the week’s journey in less than five days. And we bring Your Majesty great tidings! Your arms have triumphed! The Ostracis Citadel is yours. Cheval Nestar Crogus has placed the head of the Zon commandant on a spike.”
Shobar clapped his hands in almost childish glee. He turned from Katog to Baron Tenus, beaming.
“You see, my plan has worked!” he cried. “The first Zon defeat in history. And the first of many!”
He turned to Nestar Crogus’s men.
“You and your men, rest for a few hours,” he continued. “Then take fresh mounts and return to Ostracis with my warrant elevating Cheval Nestar Crogus to Baron of Steefen. I am sure he will reward his men appropriately from the proceeds of his new barony! Collect the warrant from the office of First Minister Katog before you return. Dismissed.”
The corporals bowed low and left the chamber. The soldiers by the door looked stolidly forward, but Shabor knew that as soon as they went off shift, the news would spread like wildfire through Nordberg and then all of Utrea. He rubbed his hands.
“Baron Tenus, none of this would have been possible without the bravery you and your men displayed in the attack on the Nordberg Residency,” said Shabor. “In recognition of your sacrifice, I am elevating you to Marshal of Nordberg Castle. You will hold the castle with your men, while First Minister Katog and I travel with the main body of troops to our workings in the Great Ice Range. As planned, we will lure the Zon to commit forces to battle us there.”
“What about Ostracis, sire?” asked Tenus, his thin face wearing its usual worried expression. “Will not the Zon attack to retake it? And without the inspired leadership of Your Majesty, will Nordberg Castle not present a tempting target for the great Zon airship anchored over the Residency, just across the river?”
“Baron, you worry too much,” replied Shabor jovially. “My plans are working to perfection. The Zon know as well as any military man that destroying the enemy army is the objective of battle, not occupying castles and territory. When they see our forces on the move, they will follow, knowing that without the armies, the castles and cities are merely ripe
fruit for plucking.”
Baron Tenus nodded but did not look convinced.
“Do your part, and you will be rewarded,” said Shabor, impatient with this dourness in his moment of triumph. “Katog, see to the warrant for Crogus, and then we will join the armies marching northward from the banks of the Lofgren.”
SEVENTEEN
ESME SAT IN her boudoir as her personal maid Lupa brushed her curls, bringing out the fine sheen that caught the candlelight. She was thinking furiously. She had desperately hoped for all of Briga to rise against the Zon. But now that it was beginning to happen, she was not at all happy with the outcome. She now realized that in the back of her mind, she had always thought that she would eventually convince Harald to go along with her, and that any victory would be theirs to share.
While Harald had been an everyday part of her life, she had grown impatient with what she saw as his weakness and spinelessness. But now that he had been taken from her, she suddenly realized how much he meant to her. All his little ways, his delight in her vivacious talk and laughter, his patience with her as she learned the protocol of the court, his pleasure in indulging her every whim: she recalled all of these and felt a deep sadness settling over her. Then she thought of him in the Dripping Dungeon—a chamber carved out beneath an underground spring that seeped in ever so gradually, creating a constant drip. The sound of the incessant dripping was said to drive the occupant mad. She thought of this, and a lump formed in her throat. She felt her eyes misting over and was afraid that she was going to cry in front of Lupa.
“Leave me,” she said to her sharply.
When she was alone, she drew the dagger from her bodice and held the sharp blade to the lamplight. She realized she had truly meant it when she had told Alumus that she would kill anyone that harmed her beloved Harald.
She reached a decision and rose. Her father was a thorough and canny man. Everyone loyal to Harald would have been arrested, and Baron da Coel would have happily provided all the necessary details. So there was no one she could trust in Dreslin Center. She must act on her own.
She was still dressed in the formal gown she had worn to the state dinner and the Privy Council meeting. She unfastened the ties and undid the gown, fumbling with the complex sets of hooks and bows. As the daughter of a duke and then as queen, she had never dressed or undressed herself, and she was bewildered by how difficult it was to take off a formal gown. Eventually, it was done, and she was down to her undergarments. She selected a traveling shift and found that it was thankfully far less complicated to put on. Finally she put on stout walking boots and enveloped herself in a large, dark cloak.
She went to Axel’s nursery and woke the nursemaid, saying she wanted him in her bed for the night. The nursemaid looked surprised at this uncharacteristic order, but curtsied and made no protest. When Esme asked her to swaddle the boy in blankets, she kept her eyes down and did as she was told.
It was late, but the gates to the Great Stony Keep were open till midnight. She knew the Keep extremely well and followed littlefrequented back passages to make her way to the main gate, enveloping Axel in her voluminous cloak. She knew all the Royal Black guard captains as well as all the Life Guard officers, so she threw back her hood and nodded imperiously as she passed by. The officer and all the troopers on guard bowed deeply. She did not look back as she walked out under the raised portcullis and over the drawbridge.
She had never walked any distance in the city and was surprised by its size and how long it took her to get to the Residency Gate. By the time she got there, it was almost midnight. The captain of the gate had his men in formation, and they were about to begin raising the drawbridge and lowering the outer portcullis before closing the gate. Esme hurried forward and bowed deeply to the captain.
“Oh sir, oh sir, you must let me out, you must!” she cried, keeping her head modestly covered by her capacious hood with her face in shadow. She spoke in the rough country accent of the Northern Marches. “My brother has come down with the great duke, and I would see him tonight.”
“Be off with you, wench,” said the captain roughly. “If you was a respectable woman, you would have thought of your brother earlier, when the proper folk was coming and going.”
“Oh sir, I am but a simple serving woman, who was kept at the great banquet and then made to clean in the kitchen. I have come as soon as the matron gave me leave.”
The captain saw Esme’s fair cheek and reached under her cloak to put an arm around her slim waist. He felt the small boy on her hip.
“Well, you are a comely one,” he said lasciviously. “And a young mother to boot! Give me a feel, and I’ll think about letting you see your ‘brother.’ Or is it the boy’s father?”
“Anything you say, sir,” said Esme in a very small voice.
She turned her face away and allowed him to open her cloak. He took his time, feeling her small, curvaceous breasts under the traveling shift and then giving each firm, shapely buttock a leisurely squeeze. By the time he released her, he was breathing hard.
“You are a hot one,” he said. “What is your name?”
“Lupa,” said Esme, using the name of her maid, the first one that came to her head.
“Lupa, the serving wench,” said the captain. “How would you like to be a captain’s woman?”
“That is far more than I could ever aspire to, sir,” said Esme, keeping her head down and trying to sound demure while maintaining her broad Northern country accent.
“You come by the barracks in the Great Stony Keep tomorrow, Lupa,” promised the captain. “You keep me warm tomorrow night and keep your brat out of my way. You do that, and you will be the woman of Captain Valder Mitrell of the Royal Blacks!”
He turned to his men.
“Let her through, and then raise the drawbridge!” he cried.
Once again, Esme did not look back, but half ran through the gate and out over the drawbridge. Almost as soon as she stepped off it, she heard the first creaks of the chains as the guards began turning the capstans. She walked past the huge camp of her father’s army, where the fires were now dying down and sentries patrolled the edges. She kept to the highway, where the snow was packed down and easier to traverse. Again she was surprised by how far it was to the Pontoon Bridge. She kept walking and stopped briefly at the middle of the bridge to look down into dark, swirling waters of the Amu-Shan.
Once across the Pontoon Bridge, she walked directly up the approach road to the Residency, soon coming into the zone illuminated by the powerful Zon floodlights. She had seen the floodlights in the distance, but had never been this close to see just how bright they were. It was as bright as day! Lighted up in the dark night, the white of the Residency walls was even more intense. She knew she was in plain sight to every huntress patrolling the battlements.
The approach road had been plowed and was completely clear of snow. It was still a very long walk from the range of the floodlights to the Residency moat. By this time it was almost four in the morning, and she was very tired and growing increasingly cold.
Looking up at the forbidding Residency, she had no idea what to do next. In her haughtiest voice, she called out, “Open the gates!”
A few moments later, the seignora of the watch appeared on the battlements.
“Who goes there?” she called.
“I am Queen Esme of Briga,” she replied, throwing back her hood and looking up so her face was in the light. “I am here to see Lady Selene.”
There was a moment of shocked silence. Within a minute, the centuria of the Residency huntresses appeared at the seignora’s shoulder. Obviously, her approach had already stirred up a great deal of activity in the Residency.
The centuria said, “Wait there” and disappeared. She was left to stare up at the seignora, who looked down at her impassively. The fifteen minutes that passed seemed like the longest in Esme’s life. She grew colder by the minute and began to shiver uncontrollably. She clung to Axel, hoping to give whatever little body
heat she had to her son.
Finally, to her relief, she heard the whine of winches, and the drawbridge began to descend. As she stumbled onto the smooth wooden surface—such a contrast to the rough planking at Dreslin Center—she was met by two squads of hard-eyed huntresses, ’grators at the ready. No sooner had she stepped off the drawbridge into the gatehouse than the drawbridge began to rise again and the portcullis rattled down. Within minutes, the gate had clanged shut behind her.
The huntresses conducted her forward into the outer ward of the Residency, where they fanned out into a wider formation on her left and right. Lady Selene stood in front of her staff, fully dressed in formal robes, the Allerand tiara on her brow. She motioned with the long, slim fingers of her right hand, saying, “Come.”
Esme was too cold to stand on formality and obeyed meekly. How can Lady Selene stand there in such a light, revealing gown in this bitter cold? she thought. Standing in front of the tall Resident, she had to crane her neck upward to meet her eyes.
“What brings you here at this late hour in such an unusual manner, Queen Esme?” asked Lady Selene. Her tone was formal, but—was there a hint of amusement in her eyes?
Esme tried to answer, but her teeth chattered, and she could not speak coherently.
“I am very cold” was all she could manage.
Lady Selene, who knew the value of pauses, made Esme freeze a full minute longer before giving the seignora of the watch a significant look. The huntress immediately moved to Esme’s side and widened her temperature shield to cover her. The sudden cocoon of warmth was so foreign to Esme that she shrank back, afraid. No fire had ever felt this warm. Was she going to be roasted alive in the traditional Zon treatment of barbarians? These were the stories she had been told since she was a little girl.
Then she got ahold of herself, squared her shoulders, and looked up at Lady Selene defiantly.
“I do not fear you,” she said, her voice firm. “You may roast me alive and I will die, but I will not beg for mercy. My royal son is too young to fear, and he will die with me.”
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