It was even colder on the north face of the Fire Mountains. Even with her heavy coat and cloak, Nitya shivered uncontrollably. This land is so much more inhospitable when winter truly bites, she thought, recalling her previous ride through this country with Caitlin and Greghar. She also thought of what a stark contrast it was to the balmy warmth of her childhood home in Daksin. She recited the chant of power over and over. It calmed her mind and seemed to make her warmer, for she ceased shivering.
The day after they crossed the border, they saw two Zon airboats flying in close formation. They made straight for their party and landed, blowing up a whirlwind of snow. It subsided as their engines whined down. The ramp of the lead airboat hissed down, and a Zon seignora emerged. She approached Lothar and Bradar at the head of the column, walking easily through the melted pathway created by her temperature shield.
“At the orders of Resident Rita Cristina, I am here to pick up King Lothar of Utrea and his body servants,” she announced. “I am to convey you to Nordberg immediately. Resident Rita wishes to present Utrea’s new king to the Utrean people as soon as possible.”
She surveyed the column critically.
“I accept your hospitality,” Lothar responded. “How many of my people can you take?”
“I have armed huntresses aboard both airboats. I can take no more than ten.”
Lothar looked around.
“Bradar and Greghar, you will accompany me,” said Lothar decisively. “Bradar, select a captain and six bodyguards.”
“Your Majesty,” said Greghar before Bradar could respond. “I beg you will allow my ward, Nitya, to take one of these coveted spots in my stead. She is young and tender and ill-equipped to deal with this harsh winter ride. She is not one to complain, so you will never hear this from her, but she has already suffered mightily.”
There was a stirring in the ranks, and many men-at-arms called “Hear him, hear him” in agreement with Greghar. Bradar himself nodded his assent.
“No, Greghar,” said Nitya, speaking so quickly that her Utrish words ran into each other. “I will go or stay with you. Please don’t send me away from you.”
“Oh, all right!” said Lothar in a long-suffering tone. “You may both accompany me. Bradar, select the others and let us board.”
He swung down from his saddle, and Greghar and Nitya did the same. She patted her mare’s face, whispering to her, “I will see you soon, in Nordberg!”
“Your Majesty,” said the seignora as Lothar approached her. “Resident Rita would speak with you.”
She tapped her wrist bracer and opened a comm channel. Almost immediately a hologram of the tall Resident appeared in the snow. Rita stood by a large viewport in the Utrean Residency. Her position was strategically chosen to show a panoramic view of Nordberg Castle, the blackened ruin of the High Tower plainly visible in the middle. Rita was attired immaculately, but her dusky bronze coloring caused Lothar to do a double take. He had never seen a Zon with such dark skin.
“I salute you, Your Majesty,” she said with the slight bow demanded by protocol. “We look forward to welcoming you to your capital. My airboats will bring your party to the Residency, where your formal vestments await you. We will fly you to the High Terrace of Nordberg Castle, and Arch Baron Karstein Tenus and White Khalif Animus will receive you there. They will escort you into the throne room, where the formal coronation ceremony will take place.”
“I look forward to meeting you in person, Resident Rita,” Lothar replied gruffly. “We will have our work cut out for us to rekindle the faith of the Utrean people in the Zon alliance that is the enduring legacy of my brother.”
“You will find me a very willing partner, sire,” Rita said. “The Queen Empress speaks of you in the highest terms, as a living embodiment of the virtues of your venerated brother.”
“I will do my best, Resident Rita,” said Lothar shortly.
ARTOR HILSON STOOD on the battlements of Dreslin Center, a worried look on his face. Baron da Coel stood by his side, his jaw compressed. They both watched as thousands of troops, infantry and cavalry, marched away from the camp outside the city walls.
“Did you speak directly with Baron Ulthro of Chenak?” asked Artor. “What reasons did he give for this cowardly retreat?”
“I managed to get an audience with the turncoat, sire,” said da Coel. “He mumbled something about being a cousin to the traitor va Haxos. But I am sure it has more to do with the two Zon airships.” He gestured toward the Residency, above which the Thetis and Hydromeda rode at sky anchors, their running lights growing brighter in the gathering dusk. Several airboats shuttled between the airships and the Residency, and several more were monitoring the progress of the departing troops.
“So he has suddenly discovered his kinship to va Haxos,” said Artor. “How many men is he taking with him?”
“About fifty thousand, sire,” said da Coel. “And we have just received a message from Baron Marnus Matalus. He is returning with his thirty thousand men to Firsk.”
Artor cursed.
“The craven dog! The Zon must have offered him gold. He would sell his own daughter into a brothel if the price was right.”
The duty captain in the duke’s personal guard approached them nervously.
“Your Majesty, we have just received a messenger from Baron Wargus Fruskus. He has just received news that his wife is ailing. He begs you will excuse him and his men. They are breaking camp and returning home immediately.”
Artor struck his forehead.
“This is ridiculous! What is he, a small boy asking leave to miss school?” He turned to da Coel. “I have a good mind to refuse him leave! Let’s see what his men do then.”
“I beg you not to do that,” said da Coel. “If he flouts your order with impunity, even the most loyal barons are likely to desert your standard. And if we use our strength to detain him, the internecine fighting will weaken us and strengthen no one but the Zon.”
Artor stamped off the battlements and returned to his personal chambers, where he sat down to a quick dinner with Talia. He was in a black mood, and she did not intrude on his thoughts with conversation. They were just finishing when his duty captain entered again, followed by a tall Life Guard officer.
“Sire, we have received a missive from Lady Selene, the Zon Resident,” he said tensely. “She asks for a meeting by the Pontoon Bridge under a flag of truce.”
“Does she say what she wants to discuss?” he asked.
“No, sire,” said his duty captain. Artor waved his hand, dismissing him.
“You have nothing to lose by hearing what she has to say,” said Talia, treading carefully. “The Zon have never abused the flag of truce.”
“True,” he said. “I will promise her a fight, if I have to do it all alone. I will not allow her to overawe me!”
“I will come with you, Father,” said Talia. “She will see that at least the Hilsons are united.”
Artor was angry, but he was not stupid. He switched gears now and spoke kindly and thoughtfully to his elder daughter.
“No, my dear. With Chenak, Fruskus, Matalus, and the others that have deserted me, I have less then seventy thousand men left. Even if these men stay true, that is not near enough to take Atlantic City. I fear that it may be too few to even resist the two airships that the Zon have now deployed at the Residency. So I am bargaining from a position of weakness. And Esme has mysteriously reappeared. I am suspicious of her renewed professions of daughterly affection. I don’t know where her true loyalties lie, for she seems more Shelsor than Hilson. But you are true to my blood. You must leave immediately and rejoin your husband in the House of Matalus. You must raise your children as Hilsons, in secret if necessary. If things go badly for me here, you must bide your time and wait for your opportunity. You and your children must carry on the struggle.”
Talia stood and came around to her father’s end of the long table. She hugged him and kissed both his cheeks.
“Father, how ca
n I abandon you?” she asked.
“We are Hilsons,” he said. “We do not whine about the hand dealt us by fate. We will live on through your line. We will endure.”
With a heavy heart, Talia left him, returned to her suite, and directed her maid to pack quickly. Her entourage from Firsk was assembled, and she entered her carriage with her infant son just as her father’s embassy was forming in Castle Square. She waved to him as she entered her carriage. The two parties moved off together, Artor southward to the Residency Gate, and Talia northward to the Karsk Gate.
Baron da Coel rode at Artor’s right hand. At his king’s command, he ordered the escort of Life Guards and Royal Blacks to walk their mounts at a snail’s pace to give Talia’s party time to get on their way. They continued this leisurely pace all the way to the Pontoon Bridge. By the time they arrived at the banks of the Amu-Shan, the Zon had already set up a luxurious tent.
Lady Selene was waiting, sitting sidesaddle on a tall white horse. She wore formal robes, the Allerand tiara, and a short, jeweled ceremonial sword. The scabbard hung on a silver chain that encircled her narrow waist. Her dark hair was piled on her head, with the vivid white streak highlighted rather than concealed. She was flanked by Megara and Jena, with a squad of Guardians behind her and an airboat overhead, its heavy ’grator extended in plain sight. Her gray eyes were cold and steely, and in spite of his resolution, Artor grew apprehensive.
Artor dismounted first, saying, “I will hear what you have to offer, Lady Selene, but I promise nothing.” Da Coel followed his master.
In response, Megara dismounted and helped Lady Selene slide off her mount gracefully. The Resident motioned to the tent without speaking. The interior of the tent was prepared, complete with a sideboard laden with wine and edible delicacies and heated by wide-angle temperature shields. Artor and da Coel preceded her into the tent, immediately amazed by the warmth within. They dropped their cloaks by the entrance and undid their heavy coats. Handmaidens offered them stems of clove wine and plates of hors d’oeuvres. They took what they offered them and sat down at a small table set at the center of the tent.
Lady Selene sat facing them with Megara at her back. She waved away the food and drink and waited while they ate and sipped their wine. Artor was aware that he had allowed Lady Selene to become mistress of the situation and hastily swallowed the mouthful he had allowed himself to take. He gulped the fine clove wine to wash the food down, oblivious to its fine taste. A few drops went down the wrong pipe and he coughed, drawing tears that ran down his cheeks.
He looked around at the Zon who all appraised him in silence. Feeling that he had been taken advantage of, he grew indignant. Then Jena entered bearing a transparent globe. Within it was Kantus’s head, well preserved and only slightly singed from his roasting. His final agonies were clearly written on his dead face.
Both men gasped involuntarily at the grisly sight. It took Artor a few moments to compose himself before he could trust himself to speak.
“I am King of Briga; I will not parlay with anyone less than the Queen Empress,” he said stridently. The soreness in his throat drove his voice up an octave, undercutting the grand effect he was hoping for.
“You are in no position to make demands,” snapped Lady Selene. “Your army at Aurora has been routed, and you see the head of its commander. Your capital, Karsk, is in the hands of our Utrean allies. Your wife and her ladies are captives aboard the Thetis, one of the airships at anchor above the Residency. We both know that your barons are deserting your standard, and your strength grows weaker by the day. I have not come to bargain with you but to offer you an ultimatum. If you surrender to us unconditionally, we will spare Dreslin and allow your barons to return to their homes with their men. If you refuse this offer, we will annihilate your army and sack the city.”
Artor had expected tough terms, but this was far worse than he had anticipated. His shock showed on his face.
“This is ridiculous,” he blustered. “You cannot seriously expect me to turn myself in to you. I am King of Briga—”
“You are no king,” Lady Selene said. “You are a usurper, a gambler whose bluff has been called.” She did not deign to acknowledge da Coel’s presence.
“If I accede to your terms, I demand—” began Artor.
“Unconditional surrender,” said Lady Selene, cutting him off.
“As Duke of the Northern Marches, I am liege lord to dozens of barons,” said Artor, trying another tack. “You would do well to consider the consequences of treating me in this manner.”
“The Duke of the Northern Marches serves at the pleasure of the Queen Empress,” said Lady Selene, unmoved. “I am afraid she is rather displeased with you at the moment. The House of Hilson is unlikely to retain its duchy. Several of your barons have already allied themselves with the Sisterhood.”
Artor stood and said, “If it’s a battle you want, a battle you will get! I have seventy thousand men-at-arms, and we will storm the Residency. I may lose in the end, but I will delight in taking you with me, you bitch.”
Da Coel stood and backed Artor, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Megara and Jena drew their laser pistols and thumbed off their safeties.
“Be grateful that we Zon are too civilized to violate the flag of truce,” said Lady Selene. “But for its protection, you and your escort would be dead men. Now go! If we do not see white flags flying from the standards at the Residency Gate by dusk today, we will begin annihilating your army and will sack the city on the morrow.”
Artor turned, strode to the tent opening, and picked up his cloak.
“You will have your answer by dusk today,” he barked over his shoulder before departing with da Coel at his heels.
THE PATROLLING ZON airboats had much to report for the rest of the afternoon. In spite of Artor’s best efforts, the details of his meeting with Lady Selene spread like wildfire. More and more barons struck camp, formed up their men, and marched away from Dreslin Center. The huge army began to melt away. Even some of the Hilson clan quietly folded their tents and stole away, heading for their homes in the Northern Marches.
Artor stumped across the High Square in Dreslin Center, oblivious to the beautiful view of the Amu-Shan Valley and the white walls of the Residency through the falling snow. He approached the great doors of the royal audience hall. The two huge Life Guards on duty there silently opened the doors. He walked up the main aisle of the cavernous audience chamber and looked around at the tiers of empty seats. The vacant aerie seemed to beckon him. He mounted the steps and seated himself on it.
He sat back on the throne and surveyed the empty, dark chamber.
“My people!” he said spontaneously. “I would have led you to greatness and freedom from alien yoke. I am your savior—without me you are nothing but slaves. Slaves! If we stood united, nothing could resist us. But cowards, traitors, and deserters have undone me. Thousands of years will pass before you see my like again!”
Artor could not believe his ears when he heard a response to his speech, the sound of slow clapping from a single person seated in the highest tier. Artor looked up sharply and saw Esme seated primly, her legs crossed.
“Bravo, Father,” she called from her high seat. “I only wish the people could hear your passion.”
“What are you doing here?” he shouted. “Come on down at once and speak to me!”
She rose and came down a set of steep steps carefully. She still wore the Zon ensemble put together by Lady Selene’s handmaiden. She walked up the main aisle and stood at the bottom of the steps below the throne. She curtsied to him deeply and elaborately saying, “I salute you, O King of Briga.”
“I don’t know what you have done, Esme,” he said. “But you have been plotting against me; I can see it in your eyes. Why have you betrayed me?”
“Father, I am hurt,” she said in an aggrieved tone. “If you suspect your own daughter, who will you trust?”
“Spare me the playacting,” he responded grimly. “You
must know of Lady Selene’s ultimatum, as everyone does. Speaking as an adversary, what is your advice?”
“The Zon do not want bloodshed,” she said, dropping all pretenses. “Your army is rapidly dissolving, and you are no longer a threat. Put up the white flags at the Residency Gate. Have someone of your height and build don your attire and take up residence in the Great Stony Keep. Dress as a common soldier and escape among the thousands of departing troops.”
“This is your counsel? It is lily-livered spinelessness! Where is the honor in it?”
“I am your daughter. I wish you to live, not perish in a painful and pointless death. If the Zon capture you, they will roast you as they roasted Kantus.”
“And as they roasted my brother and your gallant father-in-law,” Artor continued bitterly. He moodily drummed his fingers on the eagle’s head armrest of the throne. Then he gestured around the audience hall. “As daughter of the king, you could have had everything by birthright, instead of marriage. Why did you betray me?”
“I told you, Father, that I would always do my duty as a Shelsor.”
“Then perhaps you will die a Shelsor!” he roared. He leapt to his feet, drew his sword, and advanced on her down the throne steps.
She shrank back. Her hand went to her bosom, but there was no dagger in Lady Selene’s elegant bodice. He raised the sword and swung. But he stayed his stroke at the last minute, the sharp blade right in her face. With a deft move, he cut off a curl of her hair before letting the blade fall to his side. He stooped to pick up the curl. He looked up at her, his face a mask of melancholy.
The Empire of the Zon Page 65
