Risen Queen

by Duncan Lay

  He looked around the table and saw, with satisfaction, that his argument had struck a chord with many of the others. It made sense, he told himself. That his plan put off seeing Father Nott again and ensured he would get more time with Karia was purely coincidental.

  ‘A show of hands. For rescuing the Archbishop?’ Merren looked around the table.

  Quiller and Barrett were the only ones who raised their hands.

  ‘I take it the rest of you are for Martil’s plan?’ she inquired and, when nobody disagreed, she stood.

  ‘There is much to think about here. We shall meet again tomorrow morning and I shall make my decision. In the meanwhile, I would invite you all to join me for dinner this night. With both Gerrin and Berry in our hands, it seems the good townsfolk have kindly sent us a few barrels of wine, in exchange for the swords and armour we sent to them.’

  ‘Well, I’ll drink to that deal!’ Conal said loudly, as he knew he was expected to.

  The meeting relaxed then. Martil used the confusion to slip out with Karia.

  ‘Let’s go and play some catch,’ he suggested.

  ‘Of course!’

  Warnock stayed on his straw pallet until the brutish Ralloran sergeant had bolted the door and left. It took a while for his heart to stop pounding. When that damned priest had tried to help him, he had been terrified. The man could have ruined everything, revealed the full truth. But he had managed to escape the priest’s aid, a fact he put down to divine protection. Once he had control of himself again, he looked around. Down here there were no other prisoners, for which he was particularly grateful. The cells were solid stone, with thick wooden doors. The air was foul, a combination of human waste, mould and stale food. But he ignored that. By the standards of most dungeons, it was almost palatial. A large bucket in the corner, a jug of water and a bowl and a straw bed. He got up from his pallet and went around the cell’s corners, gathered as many cobwebs as he could and placed them in a small ball on the bed. He listened at the door. Once he was sure he was alone, he drank his small, shallow bowl of water and used his teeth to rip off a small strip of his tunic. Carefully, grunting a little with pain from his broken fingers, he worked open a seam in the tunic and, with great difficulty, he eased out a small, sharp blade. Putting it aside, he placed the empty bowl on the bed and used the blade to make a nick in a vein on his wrist. Holding his arm over the bowl, he hissed with discomfort as blood dripped into it. He did not hinder the flow until the base was covered, then stuffed the little bundle of cobwebs into the cut and used the strip of tunic to tie a crude bandage over the wound. Turning back to the bowl, he whispered the secret name of Brother Onzalez.

  The blood whirled into motion, resolving itself into the hooded face of the Fearpriest.

  ‘They will take the bait,’ Warnock stated. ‘The trap is too tempting for them to avoid. But they are also thinking of trying to free their Archbishop.’

  Onzalez was silent for a few heartbeats. ‘You have done fine work. Your bravery and sacrifice will be rewarded. We shall try to free you but you must say nothing more. If they come for you…’

  ‘Then I have my blade—and I shall see you in Zorva’s blessed realm.’ Warnock bowed.

  ‘Until then, my son.’

  When Warnock raised his head, the blood in the bowl was gone, as was the image of Onzalez. The bard lay back on the bed, unable to keep the smile of triumph from his face. His tormentors would suffer—and the greater glory of Zorva would be brought closer.

  7

  Merren found Martil and Karia playing in a quiet corner of the keep’s courtyard. Karia was hurling a leather ball at Martil, who was tossing it gently back; she was laughing uproariously every time she managed to throw it far enough away that he could not catch it.

  ‘Mind if I join in?’ Merren called.

  ‘Catch!’ Karia did not hesitate and hurled the leather ball, about half the size of her head, at the Queen. Merren had not had much time for playing catch as a child—her father had been more insistent she work on economics and law. She reached out instinctively—and the ball flew past her fingers to bounce off her forehead. Her head snapped back and she reeled away, her forehead stinging.

  ‘Merren! Are you all right?’ Martil sprinted to her side and prised her fingers away to see a red mark the size of his fist on her head, just below the hairline. He looked over to where Karia stood, shuffling her feet. ‘You need to say sorry.’

  ‘But it was an accident!’ Karia protested. ‘She asked me to throw it!’

  Martil shook his head. With a sinking feeling, he recognised the expression on Karia’s face. He did not want a fight with her, but he had never backed down from a fight before and he wasn’t about to start.

  He was saved by Merren, who picked up the ball.

  ‘I’m fine. Really I am. It was just an accident,’ she said, bouncing the ball.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Martil asked anxiously.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Merren insisted. ‘Here—you catch!’ Merren tossed the ball at Karia, except it soared high over her head.

  ‘Bad throw! Bad throw!’ Karia sang out.

  ‘Well, I don’t play catch very much,’ Merren admitted, feeling a touch of irritation nevertheless. But as she had a serious motive for joining their game, she swallowed any angry words.

  ‘You’ll have to get Martil to teach you. He’s very good at it—nearly as good as me, although because I’m younger, when I get older, I’ll be better than him,’ Karia explained, fetching the ball.

  ‘Then you’d better show me,’ Merren said with a laugh.

  Martil had not had a chance to be alone with Merren since the battle of Sendric—Barrett had been hanging around like a bad smell, and he always seemed to be inventing ways to get Martil sent out of the town.

  ‘It’s pretty easy,’ Martil said. ‘Throw me the ball first.’

  Karia tossed him the ball and he caught it with one hand, unable to resist showing off a little.

  ‘Hold your hands out in front, waist height, then move your hands to the ball as it comes to you,’ he instructed Merren, throwing the ball gently to her.

  Merren moved her hands automatically as the ball lobbed in her direction, and they closed around the ball, just before it landed in her stomach.

  ‘Yay! Good catch!’ Karia applauded. ‘Sorry about my throw earlier.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Merren smiled. ‘So how do I throw better?’

  ‘Practice. And always point your hand where you want the ball to go,’ Martil suggested.

  Merren tried but the ball fell short, and to the left.

  ‘Bad throw! Bad throw! Have another go!’ Karia sang. ‘Martil, you have to show her like you showed me!’

  Merren raised an eyebrow, and tried not to flinch at the pain from her forehead. ‘You must!’

  Martil collected the ball, then handed it to Merren.

  ‘Hold it in your right hand, like this,’ he said, standing behind her.

  ‘Closer, Captain, I want to get this right,’ Merren insisted.

  Martil stepped close behind her and could not help but inhale the light lemon scent of her hair. A lock of it was curling over her ear and he had to force himself to concentrate on the task in hand, rather than brushing it back for her. He took her hand in his, drawing back her arm to make the throw to Karia, who was jumping from foot to foot with impatience.

  ‘Is my stance correct?’ Merren asked innocently.

  ‘Feet at about shoulder width, well balanced,’ Martil found himself saying.

  Merren shifted her right foot across a little, so her hip was now brushing against his.

  ‘Like this?’

  Martil’s brain, even in its fevered state, could not help but think that she was playing some game—and it had nothing to do with catch. She had to have some idea of the effect she was having on him. But Karia was over there, bouncing around, waiting for her throw.

  ‘Very good. Now draw back the arm, release the ball at the bott
om of the swing, not too high, and finish with your hand pointing towards the target…’

  Martil found himself gabbling the instructions, then watching as Merren, with him guiding her hand, completed a perfect throw to Karia.

  ‘Good throw!’ Karia applauded. ‘See? He’s a really good teacher!’

  ‘So, do you feel comfortable about trying it by yourself now?’ Martil found himself reluctant to let go of Merren’s hand, which would mean breaking contact with her.

  Merren smiled at him. ‘I think so. But I’ll let you know if I need some more instruction.’ She eased carefully away from him. It was all too obvious that something was going on with Martil. She needed to know what was the matter with him, and if she could solve it. She’d ensured Father Quiller was keeping Barrett occupied in order to see Martil without other distractions. Despite all the talk of rescuing archbishops and recruiting regiments of rangers, she felt the Dragon Sword was still the key to eventual victory. She had been able to help him before, in the caves, and again after the battle of Sendric. Perhaps a little flirting and charming could help him again. Men were essentially simple creatures, she thought, although Martil appeared to be one of the more complex ones. But his interest in her—she was not keen to acknowledge it as anything more than a fascination just yet—and his obvious love for Karia seemed a constant. Reminding him of that was her best move, she decided.

  Throwing and catching a ball with them was surprisingly relaxing. She had to concentrate—the slowly receding pain in her forehead reminded her of that—but Karia’s laugh, as well as her habit of occasionally using magic to try and trick Martil into dropping the ball, made it impossible not to enjoy. Her worries melted away and she wondered why she did not try to spend more time with Karia. It was the ideal counterpoint to the stress of ruling and running a rebellion. Karia’s ability to find pleasure in simple things was infectious. Merren had to force herself to remember why she was doing this.

  ‘I need a break!’ she declared, after making a particularly difficult catch. ‘Karia, how about you run down to the kitchens and ask them to bring us something to eat and drink?’

  Karia, always eager for the opportunity to eat something, was off in a flash.

  ‘Here you are, Captain, catch this.’ Merren laughed as she threw the ball as hard as she could at him.

  Martil caught it deftly, as he had caught all but the most magically bewitched throws to him, and walked over towards her.

  ‘Is there something you want to ask me, Merren?’ he said quietly.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ she replied innocently.

  ‘Well, you’re too busy to do anything but work usually—and you have to make a final decision that could make or break this rebellion—so instead you want to learn how to catch. That could mean that learning to catch has been your secret ambition all these months—or that you are worried about me.’ He shrugged.

  Merren smiled. ‘Then you would be right. Whatever we might plan up there in that room, unless you can unlock the Dragon Sword’s magic, we are doomed to spend the next fifteen years fighting a bitter civil war from which Norstalos may never recover. And, long before then, you will be dead. I watched that Sword kill my father—I don’t want to lose my Champion.’

  ‘True—where would you find another?’

  Merren sighed. ‘I don’t want another. And I don’t want to see you die. So tell me, what is ripping you up inside? Is it being the last Butcher of Bellic? I know you have always felt responsible but to be the last one, to be the sole survivor, the focus of Gello’s campaign…’

  Martil walked away, unable to talk about it. What would she think of him if he told her the full truth?

  Merren followed him. She had had success with him through physical contact; it broke down the barriers he was putting up. The strong, powerful war captain, immune to pain and indefatigable. She knew that was just the shell and he needed someone to talk to, he was just unable to say it. How like a man. She grabbed him by the upper arm and made him turn around, then stepped close, so their bodies were almost touching. She could not help but reflect that this was the sort of thing her tutors had never offered lessons in. Her father would never have dreamed of trying to deal with his advisers like this. But then look what happened to him. She reached up to touch Martil’s face.

  ‘Talk to me. That is a Royal Command,’ she said softly.

  Martil’s face seemed to crumple at her touch.

  ‘Bellic,’ he said simply.

  ‘But surely you don’t listen to the lies that bard and his ilk are peddling? Everyone here knows the truth of what happened—the rest of the country will soon understand as well.’

  Martil shook his head. ‘It’s not that simple. The dreams—every night I dream of Bellic.’ He took a deep, shuddering breath. How much could he say? Would she still be interested in him? He could not take the risk. He would tell her a little, but no more. ‘The people at Gerrin brought it back. Since then, I have been tormented by dreams. I thought—I hoped—that being with Karia would help them stop. She stopped them before. Although they weren’t as bad then…’

  Merren felt frustrated. He was holding something back, she could feel it.

  ‘What can we do to help you?’ she asked, to give herself time to think. How far could she go to get through to him?

  Martil shrugged. ‘I hope being with Karia will help me. But one thing is to give me the chance to go after the Lord of Bellic. He’s the man who sent troops over the border to murder innocent Ralloran villagers. He’s the one who refused to surrender the killers, who forced his people to fight on for so long that when they finally wanted to give up, it was too late. If I can take him, it will be like lifting a weight from my shoulders. He was the one really responsible for all those deaths. I cannot believe he managed to escape from us. I thought nobody had survived…’

  ‘So the rangers aren’t really the prize for you, the prize is killing this Berellian?’ Merren moved fractionally away from him, not thinking about his feelings now but more about the decision that waited for her.

  ‘The rangers are the prize,’ Martil argued, ‘the Berellian is just the cream on top of the cake.’

  Merren looked at him sceptically. ‘And you are sure of that? Capturing this Berellian will help end those dreams and put you back on the path to becoming a man good enough to truly use all the Sword’s power?’

  Martil looked into her eyes and remembered his pledge to serve her truthfully at all times. Then he thought about the dreams waiting to haunt his sleep that night.

  ‘I think so, yes,’ he said. ‘So will you let me go after the rangers before the Archbishop?’

  Merren thought frantically. There was truth here—but was it all the truth? And was it enough to risk going deep into the south?

  She was saved from answering by Karia returning at a run.

  ‘Come on! They’re baking cakes down in the kitchen, if we hurry, we can have them warm out of the oven—and there’s fresh milk as well!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘In a little while.’ Martil tried to slow her down, but she simply grabbed his hand and dragged him along.

  ‘You too, Merren! It’ll be a picnic for the three of us!’

  Merren followed. She was not sure what she had achieved—certainly not as much as she hoped. There was a problem there, something deep within Martil that was still unresolved. She had got the information about the Lord of Bellic but was unsure if it would alter her thinking—after all, going after the rangers still seemed the better option.

  Martil looked longingly at Merren’s back. When she had stepped in close to him, he had wanted to take her in his arms, tell her everything. But fear had held him back. It was ironic, really. He could face battle without flinching but, when it came to telling a woman how he really felt, he would rather lie. But the risk of her rejecting him was too great. Fighting was easier. After all, there were worse things than death.

  Nerrin peered down at the scores of soldiers working on the plains belo
w the line of hills. The size of the camp they were marking out seemed enormous. He had not seen something that big for years. At a rough guess, there were going to be tent lines, fire pits and latrines for more than ten thousand men.

  ‘You’re right,’ he told Sergeant Dunner, an old comrade from Macord’s division and a friend of Kesbury’s. ‘It looks like they’re bringing up every man they have. Even if we concentrated at one pass, they’d still be able to break through. We’ll have to get word to the captain. Keep watching them; I want to know which regiments are coming in, and in what order.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Dunner looked again at the massive camp. ‘Will we take them on, sir?’

  Nerrin smiled. ‘Nothing to worry about, Sergeant. We’ve still got the captain! After all, remember Mount Shadar!’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Dunner waited until Nerrin had hurried away before adding under his breath, ‘And I remember the casualty list from his regiment afterwards.’

  ‘It’s too nice to stay inside—why don’t we go out?’ Karia suggested. ‘You can give me a piggy back!’

  So Martil found himself carrying her out on his back.

  ‘Not too tight,’ he grunted, as her arms tightened around his neck.

  ‘I just want to hug you,’ she declared, snuggling into his back. ‘I love you, Daddy.’

  Martil found he could not reply. His throat was tight, and it had nothing to do with the grip she had around him.

  He walked slowly through the keep’s corridors, with Karia excitedly waving to anyone she saw.

  ‘Come on, faster!’ she urged.

  ‘But we have to be careful,’ he protested.

  ‘Faster! We’ll be fine! You’re invincible!’ she told him with utter certainty. Nothing could happen to her when he was around.