by Duncan Lay
Markuz gestured to the map. ‘Show me, my friend.’
Gello moved the carved wooden tokens representing his cavalry regiments and solitary infantry regiment around the map, until they were poised in Tetril.
‘If we all attack from the south, they will keep retreating, trying to wear us down and leave our men hungry and tired. They have used such tactics against me, and against you as well, during the Ralloran Wars,’ Gello reminded those around the table.
‘That is true,’ Markuz agreed.
‘If we all attack from the same direction, we will be unable to forage, we will compete with each other for space and they can retreat to wherever they want. But if you attack from the south, and we drive in from the east, they will be forced to split their forces and we can bring them to battle at the capital. The land around there is flat—perfect for cavalry—and there are no hills or passes for them to use. They will be caught in the open, with no escape.’ Gello manoeuvred the counters into position, until he had his cousin’s forces surrounded and outnumbered.
Everyone looked at the map.
‘How do we know they will not try to defeat you first, then us?’ Itlan asked.
‘If you advance through southern Norstalos as you advanced through Rallora, you will be able to keep their focus on you.’
Several Berellian officers grinned at that.
‘You understand what you are saying? That you have no objection to us driving out the people with fire and sword, and sacrificing our captives to Zorva?’ Onzalez said sharply.
Gello kept his smile fixed. ‘They are just peasants. It is their fault for not siding with me when they had the chance. It will be a good lesson for the rest of the country to learn. Obey me or pay the price.’
Yertlaan pointed to the map.
‘It is a good plan—but we can make it better. King Gello advances from the east, King Markuz from the south and we land our men on the west coast. We all meet at the capital.’
‘The west is the area most loyal to me,’ Gello said mildly, struggling to keep his emotions hidden.
‘It is our land!’ Earl Worrick declared hotly.
‘Then we shall not destroy it. If the people welcome us with open arms, as you suggest, then we shall march on. If they try to stop us…’
‘But if they see an invading army, they will react…’ Cessor, now perspiring heavily, said nervously.
‘Then you shall accompany us. Flying your recognised banners, the people will know we are there to set them free from the Witch Queen and the foul Aroaril,’ Yertlaan stated.
‘Brilliant, noble one!’ Markuz exulted. ‘They will not know where to go, which threat to counter. And wherever they try to run, we will already be there. We can trap them, hold them and destroy them!’
Gello caught the eye of Worrick and Cessor and, with a look, told them not to argue. This was a time to seem supine. Once Merren was destroyed, then they could wrest back control.
‘And what of the north? Should we not try to attack from there as well?’ Yertlaan added.
Gello chuckled. ‘There is nothing up there—just mountains and a race of primitive men. We call them goblins. Once they lived in Norstalos’s northern forests but now they cling to caves and valleys in the colder north, too stupid to know their time has ended and they should just die out.’
‘Who do they worship?’ Onzalez asked sharply.
‘Not Aroaril. They have their own, false, gods,’ Prent added helpfully.
‘It might be amusing to offer them our help. To set them loose in the north, to take back what is theirs.’
‘The north is traitorous and must be utterly destroyed,’ Gello agreed. ‘But it is also the source of almost all our gold and silver mines.’
‘I did not say they could keep the north, just that they could sweep it clean. Then we can destroy them once we have finished with the Witch Queen,’ Onzalez suggested. ‘If they do not believe in Zorva, they do not deserve to live anyway.’
Gello grinned. At last, an idea he agreed with! ‘It would be symbolic.’ He smiled. ‘The men fighting for my cousin all come from the north—I want them to face us on the battlefield, knowing their deaths are but moments away—and knowing that their families and homes have been destroyed already. It will make my revenge all the sweeter.’
‘Will these goblins listen to an emissary from you?’ Onzalez asked.
Gello smiled apologetically. ‘Unfortunately there is little trust between Norstalines and goblins—or Derthals, as they call themselves. We need someone who can trick them, fool them into thinking we are there to help. Someone like Ambassador Ezok, perhaps?’
All eyes swung to Ezok, who had gone white at the thought.
Markuz looked from Gello to Ezok, then glanced at Onzalez, who nodded abruptly.
‘Then we shall send Ezok,’ Markuz announced. ‘But, in recognition of the service he has done us, I will send Cezar along, to keep him safe. And to get them there, we shall send Khiraz, the Royal Magician. It will be a difficult task, but no doubt these primitives will be easily impressed by magic. And, if they succeed, you will be richly rewarded.’
Ezok looked to Onzalez in mute appeal, but the Fearpriest was facing away from him. Nothing for it but to agree. Besides, with Cezar and Khiraz by his side, surely he would return?
‘You had best go prepare, Ezok.’ Markuz dismissed him.
With a deep bow, Ezok left the room. Gello watched him go with satisfaction.
‘If we succeed in taking back Norstalos, you will all be richly rewarded for your help,’ Gello added, knowing it had to be said but hating it nonetheless.
‘For Berellia, we shall discuss anew our southern border. For the men of Tenoch…’
‘Sacrifices. We have all the gold we need,’ Itlan announced.
‘Then so shall it be.’ Gello inclined his head. ‘One for every man who lives through the battle. And for Brother Onzalez, the pleasure and privilege of working with our own Archbishop Prent to convert the country to Zorva.’
He had no intention of keeping those promises, just as he knew they would have no intention of restricting themselves to just those rewards. But the gesture had to be made.
Markuz nodded in pleasure. ‘How soon do we march?’
‘My men will need at least two weeks to recover from the long voyage. They will then be ready to fight,’ Itlan said immediately.
‘I would not want to wait any longer,’ Gello said. ‘But I will need time to obtain permission from Tetril to move my men through their borders.’
‘Then it shall be so,’ Onzalez agreed. ‘And we will have some duties before then. King Gello and his men will all need to convert to Zorva, if we are to ensure success.’
Gello inclined his head, although he could sense Cessor shifting nervously behind him. There was no choice, as far as he was concerned. He would do whatever it took to win back his throne. His legacy was at stake here—and Ezok had been right about one thing: Aroaril had done nothing for him. Zorva could only be better.
‘Of course. And I would like to suggest an auspicious sacrifice,’ he said loudly.
‘Please, tell us,’ Onzalez invited.
‘I have a whore who looks just like Queen Merren. Seeing her sacrificed would surely be an omen of success?’ Gello had the sense that, could Onzalez’s face be seen, he would be smiling.
‘It would be a fine omen. And excellent practice!’
‘Then let us drink to that!’ Markuz roared.
21
Martil was playing catch with Karia when the summons came.
The Queen’s grand tour of the country had taken them to the country’s east and they were staying at Darry’s Inn on the border, where he had met Nerrin what seemed like a lifetime ago—before he had even taken up the Dragon Sword. Darry had been a proud host and they had spoken to not just the villagers but many of the surrounding farmers, who had walked or ridden to the village to hear what the Queen had to say. It had gone reasonably well, although these people we
re just happy with the knowledge that the bandit Danir wasn’t terrorising them any more. The next day they would move further west, visiting other villages and eventually the town of Wollin. Already riders had gone ahead, to tell the people of the Queen’s imminent arrival.
The few weeks had been rather mixed. The joy at surviving, and winning, the battle had been tempered with the knowledge of how many of his men had died that day. If it had not been for the work of Nott, Milly, Quiller and the other priests, even more would have died. Even so, those who had lost hands, arms or legs would not be able to fight again. But, despite their sacrifices, the people still feared them. The first questions at these meetings were always: ‘Where are the Rallorans? What are they doing? Will they be sent to punish us if we do not obey?’
In private, Martil shook his head at it. Merren told him it would change, and they were all working towards that. Her surveys showed the country was slowly warming to the Rallorans. But acceptance was still a long way away.
Of course, he had Karia to cheer him up. What they had gone through had brought them much closer together. Sometimes he had to force himself to think hard to remember the name of her real father, Edil. As far as he was concerned, if she never remembered those days, it would be best for her. Every morning they had breakfast together, then he took her to whichever room, or house, or tavern Barrett was staying in, so she could have her magic lessons. That was also the time he usually joined Merren to speak to the people of the particular town or village they were visiting. Then he would collect Karia, they would eat lunch together and he would help her with her reading and writing, as well as playing catch, or chase, or tops, or dice or—if he could not escape—dolls. They would all eat dinner together, then it was usually time to move on to the next town or village, thanks to Barrett’s magic, and he and Karia would share a cup of hot milk and a quick saga before bed.
It was almost normal, and he was happy each day and slept well at night—although he would have felt happier had he been able to talk to Merren. One night together had been fine when he had expected to die. But now he wanted to live, and he wanted more of her. Perhaps sensing this, she had been careful to only see him when there had been plenty of people around.
And now this summons had come from her. His first thought was of rising excitement, tempered by the thought he had to do something with Karia. Desperately he cast around for a way to give himself a free afternoon. A couple of turns of the hourglass, at least!
‘What is it?’ Karia asked, wandering over with the ball in her hands.
‘I’ve got to go and see the Queen,’ Martil said absently, knowing that Barrett would never help him out, and wondering if Conal could be the answer.
‘Great! I’ll come too!’ Karia said brightly.
Martil managed to keep the horror from his face at the thought. ‘No, it says only me—probably some talk about forming a new army. And you know how bored you get by that…’
‘Oh, it’s all you adults do!’ Karia agreed. ‘Talk and talk and talk! It’s boring! You should just play with each other, instead.’
Martil silently agreed. ‘Why don’t we go and see if Conal is free?’
Conal was, fortunately enough, talking with Louise, while her children played, and Martil was able to leave Karia with them with considerable relief. He almost ran to the room where Merren was staying, though he did take a moment to go to his room and rinse out his mouth, as well as change his somewhat sweaty tunic for a clean one and quickly brush his hair.
He knocked on her door—coincidentally the one he and Karia had shared when they stayed at the inn.
‘Come in!’
He opened the door, wondering what he might find inside. After all, she had hardly been backwards in being forward with him on that night back in Sendric.
But she was sitting down behind a table when he walked in.
Still, his heart was beating a little faster as he sat down across from her.
Merren could feel her own heart beat a little faster. Looking at him now, thinking of the child she carried, she nearly changed her plans. After all, they had nearly nine months to persuade the people that the Rallorans could be trusted. But it was a slow process—and would be derailed if the people thought this was all a Ralloran plot to seize the throne. She was under no illusions. There were some people who thought having a queen was an affront to the Dragon Sword and Aroaril. They did not remember her rule with any fondness and some, particularly those who had been affected by some of the Royal Council’s stranger rulings, were still bitter. No, this was the only way to secure the country.
‘Martil, I wanted to talk to you privately, before I make this announcement at the next Royal Council—and then have Romon and his bards start spreading the word publicly,’ she said solemnly.
Martil nodded cautiously. This was not exactly what he had in mind when he had walked in.
Merren looked at him and took a deep breath. There was no way but to say it straight.
‘I am to marry Count Sendric,’ she said firmly.
Martil thought he had misheard. ‘Merren, did you just say you will be marrying Count Sendric?’ he asked carefully.
‘Yes, I said I will be marrying Count Sendric. Of course nothing will change as far as you being the Queen’s Champion, until I have a child who will take the Sword,’ Merren ground on remorselessly, determined to get it all out.
Martil could barely hear her for the pounding in his ears.
‘Sendric?’ he croaked finally. ‘Why?’
Merren took another deep breath. ‘He is the last noble. Martil, you know what the reaction of the people has been. They mistrust all Rallorans, and will view me with suspicion for some time to come. I have to secure the country. Now I have a Champion, I can make a politically approved marriage. Sendric is the only noble left.’
‘But why now? Can’t you wait, to see if the people’s attitudes are going to change? Give them time!’ Martil almost pleaded.
‘I cannot.’ Merren shook her head. ‘I have to put the country first! My feelings are irrelevant. This is what the country needs.’
Martil stared at her. She had told him she loved him! His hopes, his daydreams—and night dreams—of Merren were being destroyed. He wanted to get out of there, drown himself in drink again. He wanted to leave with his dignity intact, beyond all else, but his stubborn pride—that had served him both so well and so badly before—made him ask one more question.
‘So, that night back at Sendric. Was that real or was that for the country?’
Merren looked into his eyes and longed to tell him the truth. Tell him it was his child she was carrying, that the marriage to Sendric was a union in name only. But for Sendric’s sake, as well as Martil’s, she knew she could not.
‘It was for the country,’ she said evenly, feeling a wrench deep inside her as the words left her.
Martil nodded once, jerkily, then pushed back his chair.
‘Excuse me, your majesty,’ he managed to say, then stalked out of the room, only just stopping himself from slamming the door.
Merren watched him go and bit her lip to stop herself from calling after him. It had to be done, the spirit of her dead father told her. Your first duty is to your country, not yourself.
‘It was decisions like this that saw the Dragon Sword kill you,’ she hissed aloud at his memory.
Martil staggered down the corridor, not thinking where he was going. Since Pilleth, he had nursed a dream that one day they could be together. And now she was marrying Sendric, of all people! He liked the old noble well enough but to imagine her with him…He shook his head. He could not think about it. He recognised the anger rising within him—months ago he would have gone looking for a fight to take it out on someone. He knew he should go and see Karia instead, let her silliness and games soothe some of the raw pain inside him. Yet he found himself at the bar instead.
‘What’ll it be?’ Darry invited warmly.
Martil was about to order whisky but decided o
ne goblet of wine might be a better idea.
‘Your best wine. But only one goblet, mind. Don’t serve me any more,’ he said heavily.
Darry tapped a small cask expertly and drew out a goblet of rich, red wine.
‘Something the matter?’ he asked, in his best innkeeper tone.
Martil looked down the bar but there was hardly anyone else there. Just some of the Queen’s guardsmen enjoying a meal at a table up the back and a couple of farmers talking down the far end over pots of foaming ale.
‘Tell me, do you hate the Rallorans?’ he asked.
Darry chuckled. ‘Hate them? Why, they’ve been some of my best customers for years! I never believed any of those stupid sagas about you lot, either!’
‘And your customers?’
Darry’s smile faded a little. ‘I grant you, there has been some talk of late. But after you and the Queen showed up, folks think different!’
‘Do they?’
Darry leaned on the bar. ‘Most of them. There’s still some who think you’re about to drink the blood of every Norstaline child, but then there’s always a village idiot or two.’
‘And if you heard the Queen was going to marry a Ralloran? What would the people think then?’
Darry’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hair. ‘Marry a Ralloran? King Tolbert’s son?’
‘Could be.’ Martil swallowed half his wine in one gulp.
Darry rubbed his chin. ‘That would concern folk. After all, that would make him almost as good as our king—and mean our next king would be half-Ralloran. Why, it’d almost be like being part of Rallora! Nothing good would come of that!’
Martil drank the rest of his wine. ‘Well, you can sleep easy. It won’t happen. She’s marrying Count Sendric instead.’
Darry beamed. ‘Really? Well, that’d be good news!’
Martil pushed the empty goblet towards him, then fumbled into his belt pouch and dug out a silver coin.
‘For some people,’ he said coldly, then walked away, knowing he had to—or he would stay there until he fell, or knocked someone down.
