Risen Queen

by Duncan Lay

  Ezok summoned Onzalez and tried not to look too deeply into where the Fearpriest’s face should be.

  ‘What news?’ Onzalez hissed.

  ‘It is all going to plan. These Norstalines love the new saga. And Gello is delighted with me. The fool even let me sit in on one of his council meetings!’

  ‘But?’

  ‘There is a danger. He is creating a huge army. With our help, the people are becoming loyal to him. He may get to the point where he feels he can turn on us.’

  Onzalez considered this for a moment. ‘I have sent for help from my homeland. But try to encourage him to move before he is ready. As we know, Rallorans do not die easily. It would be ideal for us if he were to suffer some setbacks. See what you can arrange.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Ezok said.

  ‘And see what you can do to get close to the new Archbishop. From what you have said, he may be a valuable ally to us—and could help us turn Gello to Zorva.’

  As principal servant to Count Sendric, Gratt had been a respected man in the town. Respected among the servant classes, that is. The richer merchants and business owners regarded him as little more than chattel. Many was the time he had stood in the Count’s audience chamber and been regarded as nothing more than a piece of furniture. So now, as he stood in that same audience chamber as the head of the newly elected town council, it was a strange sensation. It was not a warm room, nor an inviting room, but it had a certain presence. He knew it so well, although his place had always been either behind the Count’s chair, or at the wall. Sitting at the table, with not just the Count but the Queen—it was a completely different feeling. Helping free the town, helping fight to protect it, nobody could have dreamed a servant would be head of the town council before. He walked around the audience chamber, looking anew at the tapestries on the wall, seeing again the beautifully carved chairs around the huge wooden table.

  ‘Taking the job seriously, my friend?’ Conal called, as Gratt ran his hand over the table.

  ‘Just thinking how different it will be, sitting around this table, not waiting on it,’ Gratt admitted.

  ‘Well, we may be scum, but I can give you a tip about the other people who used to be here,’ Conal said conspiratorially. ‘They were just like you and me—except the people want us to be here.’

  Gratt smiled. ‘I thought you were going to say that old line about how they fart like the rest of us.’

  Conal shook his head with a grin. ‘No one can fart like me!’

  Martil left his men settling back into their camp outside Sendric and brought Nerrin and Kesbury with him into the town. The townspeople were pointing and talking, and he knew they would be wondering what was going on—the Rallorans were not supposed to be back yet. And, when they did return, it was supposed to be with a horde of new recruits. The three Rallorans rode swiftly to the keep, where the Queen would be waiting. He needed to speak to her but, more than this, he needed to see Karia.

  On the one night they had camped during the ride back from Gerrin, he had been tortured by dreams again. Previously his dreams of Bellic had taken the form of him wandering streets packed with corpses of townsfolk, their dead faces accusing him. But these new dreams, these were even more disturbing. The woman and her son he had killed in Bellic, they were there. They stalked him through the streets of the slain, the knife and the spear dripping blood and thirsting for his flesh. Whatever he did, wherever he turned, they were there. He reached the gates of Bellic, tried to break out, but they were impervious to his efforts. He was trapped. He turned to see the woman and boy stalking him, laughing and jeering. He was about to launch one final, desperate attack when something grabbed him around the legs. Glancing down, he looked into the bitter face of the murdered woman from the Ralloran village. The stumps of her arms wept blood as she grabbed him around the leg, her murdered baby lying beside her.

  ‘Your fault. All your fault!’ she hissed.

  Martil opened his mouth to scream his innocence—only to see the spear and the knife reaching for him. He was tensing himself for the pain of the blows and opening his mouth to cry for—mercy? forgiveness?—when he’d woken.

  He sat up, sweating, his heart racing, and almost called for wine, then remembered he had ordered no alcohol be brought—it was causing many of his men problems. He had tried to go back to sleep but was too afraid. The only thing that calmed him was thinking of Karia. She had made the dreams stop once before. She could do so again. With her he could just be himself, not have to worry about being a war captain or a Butcher of Bellic. That all vanished around her. It was a gift beyond price and it was why he wanted to be around her.

  So when he clattered into the Count’s old audience chamber he gave Merren but the briefest of bows before hurrying over to Karia and hauling her up in his arms, hugging her close.

  Karia was delighted to be hugged. She felt safe again. No longer was she the small, annoying child that was being told to be quiet, go to her room, and leave the adults alone. She was the most important person in that room. She hugged him back fiercely.

  But the others were not so enthusiastic about Martil’s priorities.

  Barrett gave a loud snort of disgust and, just in case anyone had missed that, sighed, rolled his eyes and ostentatiously poured himself a goblet of water. ‘Anyone?’ he offered. ‘It seems the news our captain returns with is not so momentous after all!’

  Merren ignored Barrett but did try to attract Martil’s attention, first with a cough, then finally by calling his name. She had hurriedly summoned the town council, as well as Rocus, Wime, Tarik, Count Sendric, Conal and the town’s senior priest, Father Quiller. Quiller had actually been voted on to the new town council by the people but had declined, saying the church should not be involved in politics. Merren had taken to inviting Quiller to every meeting anyway, for the benefit of his advice.

  Now she had assembled this council for Martil’s arrival—only to have him just want to cuddle Karia.

  ‘Captain Martil!’ she barked, her concern coming out as anger. ‘What is the meaning of this? Why have you returned so early and without the men of Gerrin and Berry? What has happened?’

  Martil was reluctant to put down Karia so he made sure he sat her on his lap, when he took his seat. Barrett had sat himself next to Karia, and had to move his chair across and back to accommodate the large warrior.

  Naturally, he did this with as much scraping of chair legs, huffing, sniffing and sighing as he could get away with, to leave everyone in no doubt that Martil was creating all sorts of problems for him. Well, he was not going to be fooled by the man’s play for sympathy. He’s just trying to impress Merren, he thought bitterly.

  ‘Merren, we have a real problem. When we arrived at Gerrin, it was to find the entire town on the walls, ready to fight against us,’ Martil said, ignoring Barrett’s theatrics.

  The entire council exploded with shock, fear, anger, concern and surprise at that sentence and Merren was forced to thump her fist on the table to quieten them down again.

  ‘Do you want to explain?’ she said finally.

  Martil cleared his throat. ‘I’d like a goblet of that water you were offering, Barrett,’ he said huskily.

  Barrett just stared at him. Did the muscle-bound oaf really think he, Barrett, was going to pour water for him like a servant? Let him get his own water!

  ‘Barrett, if you would please hurry—we need to hear this news,’ Merren said impatiently.

  Barrett could not believe his ears. If anyone else had asked that, he would have howled at the injustice of it. But as it was Merren, he forced a smile onto his face and poured out a goblet of water for Martil, keeping the glitter of anger off his face as he presented it to him.

  Martil nodded his thanks, swallowed half the water in one gulp and then turned to Merren.

  ‘Merren, Gello has sent a bard north to tell everyone that you have hired a thousand murdering barbarians, the Butchers of Bellic, to steal back your throne. They’ve got the towns
so scared of us, the people have actually joined forces with Gello’s thugs to oppose us.’

  Martil could see his news went through Merren like a knife. Even Barrett forgot his anger as the import of Martil’s words sank in.

  ‘Are you sure? Perhaps it was some sort of trick…’ he began.

  ‘It was no trick. We could see the walls were crowded with men and women, waving every sort of weapon they had to hand, screaming hatred at us. That was not faked. People being forced to do something cannot summon that much fear and anger. And then we talked to some of the town council, as well as the militia commander…’

  ‘Lieutenant Forde. He’s a good man, your majesty,’ Wime interjected. ‘He served with us here for a few years before getting his promotion to Gerrin.’

  ‘What did this good man say?’ Merren demanded.

  Martil closed his eyes for a moment.

  ‘He said we killed the village! He said we murdered our own people to give us the excuse to go and do the same to Bellic!’ Kesbury cried, and everyone turned to him.

  Abashed, the big Ralloran sketched a quick bow in Merren’s direction. ‘Your majesty, I’m sorry, but he said we did that! How could they believe that we would do those things…’ Kesbury’s voice trailed off and Martil instinctively tightened his arm around Karia.

  ‘He told us that the bard said we had destroyed Sendric, and that we had crushed an army of Gello’s men that had tried to save the town,’ Martil said thickly.

  Those around the table erupted in disgust and anger; many of them bore scars from the brutal battle fought in the streets outside. It took Merren a moment to calm them down.

  ‘We told him that we would go, to show we meant no harm, and that you would return to prove to him that Sendric was not destroyed. He did not believe us. He said we were Butchers of Bellic and could not be trusted.’ Martil cuddled Karia, much as a drowning man would clutch at a rope thrown to him.

  Merren gasped, horrified. ‘Is that right? That they believe you have been brought here by me to terrify my own country into submission, that I would do that to win back my throne?’ She felt sick. Part of her recognised that the Rallorans were devastated to be tarnished with the shame of Bellic once again. This had been their redemption, their chance to begin again—and now their nightmare was being repeated. But a greater part of her was thinking of what was being said about her in towns and villages across the land. That she was so power-hungry she was hiring murdering barbarians to seize back her throne. To think that her own people believed she was capable of such a thing…It was a blow. She had grown used to the adulation here at Sendric. The people loved her. She had begun to dream about the time this would be repeated up and down the country. Now to discover they were terrified of her and thought her some monster, a fiend at the head of a blood-soaked army of occupation: that hurt deeply.

  ‘For centuries, the role of the bard has been sacrosanct. The people believe what they hear from a bard because the profession has been a noble and honourable one for so long,’ Quiller sighed. ‘Then there is the people’s general obsession with sagas.’

  ‘Come now, Father—I agree with you completely about Gello’s use of bards to spread lies, but surely the sagas are not to blame here—they are just a harmless diversion,’ Barrett protested.

  Quiller shook his head. ‘For years I have been saying that sagas give people an unrealistic view of the world. Their concepts of good and evil, while admirable in their simplicity, do not present a picture of real life. Take our situation here. Because we are using men dubbed the Butchers of Bellic, we are automatically seen as the side of evil. No matter that these men desperately want to atone. No matter that the dark deed they are responsible for is swamped by the evil emanating from Gello and his backers. Add to this the people’s trust in bards and we have a serious problem.’

  ‘Forget good and evil. We have to find these bards, shut them up and then pay our own to start spreading the word about Gello,’ Conal snorted.

  ‘My friend, that will not be easy. We do not even control all of the north, let alone the rest of the country. And even if we manage to secure the north, we can do nothing about the areas under Gello’s control. We are all agreed that we are not able to challenge him yet,’ Sendric countered.

  ‘Well, we don’t have to defeat him in battle. My magic can take us around the country and allow us to speak to people in every town and village, if need be. Every time a bard tries to spread lies, we can appear there the next day and tell the people the truth,’ Barrett announced. He, too, was incensed at the thought people could believe such falsehoods about Merren. Secretly, he was also a little pleased that the Rallorans had gone from being the rebellion’s saviours to their biggest problem. Perhaps he and his powers would now become more important. As the rest of the council continued to argue about what should be done, he daydreamed about taking Merren on a long tour of the country—just the two of them. Naturally working together so carefully and so long in the campaign to convince the country of her honesty and integrity, they would grow closer…He was ripped from his fantasy when Nerrin declared he wanted to lead a mission into the heart of Norstalos City to take Gello’s head.

  ‘They can’t spread any more lies about us if their leader can’t talk,’ he stated. ‘Let the wizard’s magic be used for that!’

  Barrett pointed out that they had already thought about going after Gello—and rejected the idea because it would not work.

  ‘If anything, it is an even worse idea than before. Not only will he be better guarded but killing him will reinforce the people’s fear of the Queen and the Rallorans,’ Barrett pointed out, then turned to Merren. ‘My Queen, we showed you the pointlessness of this idea weeks ago, back in the forest. Even Captain Martil was against it. Nothing has changed since then.’

  ‘Perhaps we need to call on Captain Martil now,’ Nerrin bristled.

  ‘Yes. Captain Martil—what do you think?’ Merren asked.

  Martil looked up. He had heard little of the debate, instead allowing it to wash over him. But now he saw everyone was looking at him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted finally.

  The council was more shocked by his words than by many of the things they had heard that afternoon. They had seen Martil angry, they had seen him happy, they had seen him determined, but they had never seen him at a loss before. He had always been sure of the next step in their campaign and, inevitably, it had been the right one.

  Merren thought carefully. She could sense the unease around the room. The rebellion had been going so well; now their spirits had been dashed by a combination of the setback at Gerrin and the seemingly intractable problem of the bards and the lies they were spreading. Worse, their talismanic captain, the man who had led them to victory after victory, seemed unable to help. A mood not unlike fear seemed to be permeating the council. But she was not about to give up.

  ‘Right,’ she said crisply, jerking their attention back to her. One thing she had learned from the way Martil commanded men was to give them confidence; pretend you knew what you were doing, even if you were not sure yourself. Men are simple creatures, she told herself. Give them direction and they will follow it. Give them nothing and they will confuse themselves.

  ‘We are going to do two things. Firstly, I want Captain Martil and his Ralloran division to march south and take the three passes that give access to the northeast. We need to seal this area off from any other bards or agents of Gello who intend to do mischief up here. Our latest reports are that each pass is held by a full company of troops. Lieutenant Nerrin, how long do you think it will take to have those passes back in our hands?’

  Nerrin straightened. ‘We can march down there easily enough. We will have the element of surprise and will be able to apply overwhelming force to each pass in turn. It should take no more than a week to have all three passes in our hands, your majesty.’

  ‘Excellent. I want you to prepare to garrison those passes once you have taken them. Let nothing of G
ello’s get past. So you will need to be supplied. Captain Martil, will that be a problem?’

  Martil sat up, as if awakening from a long sleep. ‘The garrisons on each pass will have supplies there. We should be able to capture those. And even with two companies on each pass and roving patrols through the hills, we will have sufficient men to forage—and pay—for supplies from surrounding farms.’

  ‘Excellent. I want you prepared to leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, your majesty,’ Martil said, although Karia let out a snort of disappointment. He had only just got back and Merren was sending him away again! She wanted more time with him, not less!

  But Merren was not finished.

  ‘The second thing is, we must return to Gerrin, as Martil said we would, as well as visit Berry. Rocus, Wime, Tarik, how many men have we got who are ready to march swiftly? Bear in mind that if our Rallorans are holding the passes, we will not need to keep such a strong garrison to protect Sendric.’

  Rocus and Wime exchanged glances.

  ‘I think we could have two companies of men, as well as Tarik’s archers, and that’s leaving a guard on the town,’ Rocus said confidently.

  ‘Excellent. Rocus, you will lead this expedition. Conal, you will look after the town in my absence, as we will need Wime, Tarik, Count Sendric, myself and Barrett to take these companies out and show the people of Gerrin and Berry that we are not the monsters they think we are. You and the council, led by Gratt, will protect the town. In a week’s time, we should have both the passes and the northern towns under our control—and then we can think about confronting Gello’s lies in his own den. Any questions?’

  ‘I just want to thank you, your majesty,’ Conal announced, unable to keep the smile from his face. ‘Putting an ex-bandit in charge of a town like this…’