by Alec Hutson
“You want to get inside?” Telion asked, eyeing her with concern.
“Not yet,” she said, then coughed discreetly into her glove. Telion had turned away from her, gazing down again at the river below them, and so she stole a quick glance at her palm. Good, no blood this time. Maybe whatever sickness had settled in her lungs during the march had run its course.
“Do you think they’ll keep the bridge up until we return?”
Willa stepped forward to the edge of the knoll they’d climbed after crossing the Serpent. Below them, a hundred boats bobbed in the swift-rushing waters of the river, lashed together to form a chain stretching from one frozen bank to the other. Planks had been laid down, making a wooden road that the last of the supply wagons were now trundling across.
Willa shrugged. “I do not think so. Already I think the bonds holding together the bridge are fraying. Or at least I don’t remember the boats shifting so much when we crossed. I imagine they’ll haul them in and keep them here for when we return.”
If we return.
She swayed, suddenly unsteady as a tingling numbness swept through her, her head growing light. Before she could fall, though, Telion was beside her, his strong hands holding her up.
“Lady Numil, we should find a fire.”
“Very well,” she said with a sigh. “A cup of hot soup would be welcome.”
Together they began to descend the grassy hillock, her cane thumping on the frozen ground. Telion kept his hand on her arm, and for once she did not pretend she didn’t need his support. Below them, the Dymorians had begun to set up camp, tents and the glimmer of kindling fires appearing in the sere gray field. Brooding over everything were the Bones, vast unknowable presences like squatting gods. Deep pools of shadow had spread across their upper reaches as the sun sank towards the horizon. Soon the mountains would merge seamlessly with the night, visible only by the absence of stars.
“You feel the change in the air?” Telion asked, then exhaled hard, as if he could see something in the curling plume of his breath.
“A change?” Willa asked, forcing a faintly mocking edge into her words. “It’s the same air here as across the river.”
Telion sniffed, the sound he made when he disagreed with her. “Don’t seem like it. Feels colder.”
“We are farther north by the width of one very large river.”
“It’s something else.”
“Are you scared?” she asked, keeping her voice light and mocking, though she was worried how he would answer. Telion had never admitted fear to her before.
“I suppose I am. Haven’t felt like this in a long time.”
“Since before you entered my service?”
They had reached the base of the small hill, and the clangor of the unfolding camp swirled around them. Grim-faced soldiers hunched beside the fires, sharpening swords or stirring the contents of iron cookpots. Others pounded stakes into the hard ground or worked at digging out latrines. A Scarlet Guardsman, his red cloak stained and muddied from the river crossing, led his snorting mount through the confusion. Rising above the tents was a great red pavilion, sinuous golden dragons coiling down its sides.
“A long time ago,” Telion finally replied, his voice distant. “My family lived on the western side of the Spine. We were Myrasani, I suppose, though we didn’t think of ourselves as anything but hill-people. We’d been there for generations, in this rambling old hovel. It was huge – maybe it had been built by some earlier folk. There was this one room that my cousins and I always kept out of. My grandfather had been stabbed to death there by his brother years ago, some foolish blood feud. Holding grudges – that’s about the only thing my people did well.” Telion guided her around where a handful of soldiers were hard at work hacking a trench out of the earth. “This room . . . you could feel something when you went inside. Not a spirit, though. It was like the evil that had been done there had seeped into the very stones.” A small shiver went through Telion, and it passed to her from where he still held onto her arm. “I haven’t felt that since I left the hills.” He squinted up at the Bones. “I feel it again now. Like the land itself carries a great sorrow.”
Willa kept her silence as they continued through the camp. She also felt this creeping unease, here on the fringes of the Frostlands, but she had learned long ago that a leader must always show a strong facade, or those that followed would falter.
“Perhaps it’s just me,” Telion admitted grudgingly. “The Dymorians seem untroubled by this place.”
“Many of them must have been here before,” Willa reminded him. Five years ago, not long after the coronation of Cein d’Kara, the new queen had led her army across the Serpent to confront the Skein king who had raided Dymoria for years while her father lay dying. The crushing defeat of the northern barbarians had solidified her hold on the dragon throne, and served notice in all the other courts of Araen that the bastard daughter of the old king was not to be dismissed. Since then, she had gone from triumph to triumph, transforming her northern kingdom into the greatest power in the west. And it was an open secret that she had ushered in a new era of sorcery, which had been suppressed since the days of the ancient cataclysms – the very disasters that had cursed the Frostlands and the lost holdfasts of Min-Ceruth.
“Lady Numil! Lady Numil!”
A young man in the livery of House d’Kara was making his way through the chaos of the camp, waving to get her attention.
Willa shook herself free of Telion’s grip and drew herself up when the boy finally reached them. “Yes?”
The servant bowed deeply, breathing heavily, then straightened and held out a slim ivory message case. “My lady, the queen has requested that you join her in the royal tent immediately. Also, a rider from Herath arrived not long ago bearing a letter meant for you.”
Willa plucked the case from the boy’s hands, turning it over to inspect the red wax seals. They appeared intact, but as a spymaster herself she knew the ease with which a broken seal could be repaired.
“Tell Queen Cein I will join her shortly,” she said to the boy, then dismissed him with a flick of her wrist. He sketched another bow and dashed away, weaving among the soldiers as he hurried in the direction of the great red pavilion.
With a last look around to make sure there were no wandering eyes watching her, Willa broke the seal and withdrew the rolled bit of vellum within. She quickly scanned the contents of the letter.
Dearest Auntie,
I hope you are enjoying your sabbatical in Dymoria, and that you are finding the northern air as agreeable as you’d expected. We miss you, but of course you must do what’s best for your health. The family has begun to squabble without you here to settle them down, I’m afraid. Uncle has become particularly unruly, and several of the cousins agree with his point of view. You will be happy to know that your hound that had fallen sick has made a good recovery. She and the rest of us eagerly await your return.
With great affection,
Lessian
When she looked up, she found Telion watching her anxiously.
“What news?” he asked.
Willa slipped the message into her pocket, wondering if she could take the risk of consigning the paper to one of the campfires. She didn’t want to linger long enough to make sure that every scrap had been burned to ash.
“The archons are in disarray. Ghalan has his faction riled up, it seems, and they disagree with my decision to pledge Lyr’s strength behind the queen’s actions. But he lacks the support to throw a formal challenge. Lessian will keep him tied up for a few months, and by then I’ll have returned and can deal with the archon council directly.”
“And anything about her?”
Willa tried to draw out the moment, but couldn’t hold back her smile. “She will live. Lessian even noted that her recovery was going well.”
Telion let out a long, slow breath. He
removed the ridiculous fur hat he’d acquired in Herath and ran a hand over his bald head. “Good news, that.”
Willa nodded, noticing that Telion’s fingers lingered on the scars pockmarking his cheek. “Philias is strong. I knew she would survive.” The light inside the woman who had once been a nun of Ama made her as hard to kill as a true paladin. But still, the wounds inflicted by the demon’s claws had been severe. Willa pushed away the memory of strips of flesh hanging from Philias’s face, bone shining beneath a mask of blood.
“Any word on reinforcements?”
“Lessian makes no mention. We are on our own, it seems.” They had ridden north with only a fifty-strong honor guard, but Willa could not really blame herself for taking too few soldiers; even in her wildest imaginings she never thought they’d march into the Frostlands with the Dymorian army.
Telion slipped on his bristly fur hat again. It really did look like there was a weasel curled atop his head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, anyway. Our fight with the Skein would be long over by the time they reached us.”
Willa sighed. “Still, it would have been a useful show of support from the council. I have no doubt the queen will notice that we’ve been abandoned.”
Telion stopped as a column of horsemen clopped past, the silver barding of their mounts gleaming in the fading light of day. They had nearly arrived at the center of the camp, the great pavilion rising above the swirling chaos. “At least the Lyrishmen likely won’t be needed. No ragged barbarian horde is going to stand against this army, I’d bet my last copper on it.”
“The Dymorians triumphed once before,” Willa admitted, navigating carefully the churned earth the cavalry had left in their wake. “But that was a different time. The tribes have changed, I’ve heard. Harsher men from farther north have usurped the Skein who used to squat in the old holdfasts.” And they have dangerous allies, Willa thought. The demons she had glimpsed in the Oracle’s vision, the ones that had lurked in the ruins of Menekar beneath a sundered sky.
“Perhaps,” Telion said as they arrived at the entrance to the pavilion. “But I trust in this Crimson Queen.” A dozen warriors wearing scarlet cloaks were arrayed around the tent flap, their hands on the hilts of their longswords. One of the guards stepped forward as they approached, then bowed stiffly.
“Lady Numil. Please enter. The queen is expecting you. And if your manservant will accompany you inside he must—”
“I know what I must do, lad,” Telion said, shrugging off the sheathed swords strapped across his back. As the Scarlet Guardsman accepted the swords, Willa noticed his gaze lingering on the twining silver serpents that had been artfully fashioned into hilts. In Lyr, these blades would have been recognized at once, but she wasn’t sure if the same stories had made their way to Dymoria. Perhaps they had, considering the almost reverential manner in which the Dymorian soldier handed the swords to a waiting servant.
The guardsman gave a curt command and the flaps to the great pavilion were drawn aside. Despite the impressive size of the queen’s tent the interior did not seem suitable for royalty. There were wooden screens erected to keep the sleeping compartment and personal quarters hidden away, but what furniture Willa could see was more utilitarian than decadent. No divans mounded with cushions or ornate crystal decorations – just a table of gleaming ebonwood surrounded by chairs that would not have been out of place in a respectable tavern, a simple writing desk recessed in the corner, benches of unadorned wood, and a few low side-tables laden with silver decanters and platters heaped with fruit. It looked more like the command tent of a general who had risen from obscurity and still clung to the old habits forged when he was merely a common soldier.
Most of the chairs were filled, and their occupants turned to regard Willa as she entered. The youthful magister that seemed to have the queen’s ear flashed her a friendly grin, his fingers curled around the stem of a wine glass. The two older magisters on his right and left – a thin woman with dark red hair threaded with gray, and a fat man wearing several golden chains beneath his nested chins – watched her with more guarded expressions. There was also the Shan captain of the Scarlet Guard, Kwan Lo-Ren, his arm still in a sling from when it had been injured during the attack by the shadowblades on Saltstone. He offered Willa a curt nod in greeting. Across from him was a lanky Dymorian clad in the simple gray garb of the rangers, his cloak clasped by a brooch fashioned into a golden dragon biting its own tail. Several other soldiers were present as well, and Willa recognized Lord d’Chorn, the canny old field marshal of the Dymorian legions, and Lord d’Fershing, his rival and the commander of the cavalry. D’Chorn wore a scarred, ancient cuirass that appeared identical to the armor of the foot soldiers outside, his only affectation the plume of bright red horsehair that tumbled from the top of the helmet he had placed on the table in front of him, while d’Fershing glittered like a fresh-made sword, every plate of his elaborate armor polished to a mirror sheen.
Cein d’Kara rose from her seat at the head of the table, and with a scraping of chairs all the others hurried to join her. The Crimson Queen of Dymoria had altered her appearance while on the march – no longer did she paint her skin white, nor did she adorn herself with jewels and gold. Her long red hair had been bound back into a plaited braid, and over a simple red tunic and skirt she was armored in a corset of white leather. She also wore matching pauldrons and bracers, all finely tooled with the sinuous dragon that was the emblem of House d’Kara, and a large fire opal flashed on the hilt of the sword at her waist. Cein looked very much like a warrior queen from one of the old stories.
“Lady Numil,” she said, gesturing towards the only empty chair at the table. “Join us, please.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Willa replied. After the queen was seated once more, Telion helped Willa to her seat and then retreated to the benches pushed against the walls of the pavilion, which were occupied by several lower-ranked magisters and soldiers trying their best not to draw undue attention to themselves.
A servant hurried up to her bearing a tray of drinks, but Willa waved him away. She wanted a clear head when dealing with the queen.
“Let us continue,” the queen said, steepling her hands on the table. “Lord d’Chorn, you were about to describe your battle plan?”
“Aye, my queen,” the old soldier replied, his voice as rough as his pockmarked armor. He crooked his finger towards the benches, and an adjunct in much finer garb than his commander leaped up, a large roll of parchment cradled in his arms. With quick, jerky movements that betrayed his nervousness, the young soldier spread the paper upon the table, revealing a map. Forests and hills and rivers were rendered in exquisite detail, with numbers scattered about to denote various degrees of elevation.
“This is where we should make our stand,” d’Chorn said, sweeping out his arm to indicate the map. “Three days’ march from here, just on the other side of the Gulgetha Pass. Our scouts say that the Skein will march out from Nes Vaneth soon, but it will be nearly a week before they can get that far south. We’ll have plenty of time to prepare the ground and set our fortifications.”
“And why did you choose here?” the queen asked, leaning forward to study the map.
The old soldier stabbed a finger at a wide empty space between two small hills. “This is easily defensible, and our archers can take the high ground. The slopes are covered in scree and difficult to climb – if the Skein try to dislodge our bowmen they’ll be met with volleys of arrows as they struggle up. We can array our pike-men here” – d’Chorn indicated the field again – “with the cavalry held in reserve to meet any attempts to flank our position.”
D’Fershing cleared his throat, eliciting a scowl from the old general.
“My queen,” the commander of the cavalry interjected before d’Chorn could continue. “Our heavy horse is our greatest advantage against the barbarians. Their stunted little ponies will be swept away in a charge. Why hold
our cavalry back? Let us scatter them first and then bring forward our pike to mop up the remnants.”
“I agree with the esteemed lord,” d’Chorn said through gritted teeth, “that the Skein have no answer for our cavalry. We saw that five years ago. But we should hold them in reserve until we need to strike the decisive blow.”
“The gods favor the bold, not the cautious,” retorted d’Fershing with a sneer.
The old general flushed, but he ignored his rival to address the queen directly. “We know they will attack us, Your Highness. We must use their impetuousness against them, and let them bleed against our entrenchments.”
“How do we know they will attack us?” interrupted the young magister, the one with the streak of silver in his hair.
D’Chorn turned to him with raised eyebrows, as if surprised that the young sorcerer would challenge him in matters of war. “The Skein are proud savages. They fight with little discipline or tactics, and they will be incensed that we’ve dared sully the sacred earth of their homeland.”
“Five years past, that was what happened,” the queen began slowly. “But surely they will have drawn their own lessons from that defeat.”
The old general tugged on his drooping gray mustache. “The Skein have been the same for a thousand years. Their entire culture is obsessed with finding glory on the battlefield, and we can use this to our advantage once again.” D’Chorn glanced smugly at the cavalry commander, who had folded his arms tightly across his chest in disagreement. “So long as we do not try and fight in their manner.”
The queen’s gaze drifted between her two commanders for a long moment. Then to Willa’s surprise she turned to her.
“Lady Numil. What is your advice?”
All eyes in the pavilion settled on her. For almost anyone else, such attention would prove unnerving, but Willa had spent decades dealing with the archons of Lyr, and more than once she had stood before the Council of Black and White to defend her actions. She laced her fingers in front of her and offered up her most conciliating smile.
