by Duncan Lay
Feld had turned white. ‘Sire, the Queen has more than one thousand archers up there. Not one in ten of our men would survive to reach the top trying to gallop up such a hill, over the bodies that would obstruct us.’
‘What?’ Gello roared, turning on him, glad to find an outlet for his anger and fear. ‘Do you dare contradict me?’
Feld straightened. ‘I will lead the attack myself. But I tell you now, sire, you will throw away the last of your men on such an attack.’
‘He is right!’ Ezok declared, and Gello spun again.
The Berellian stalked forwards, until he was close to Gello.
‘You have lost this battle, your majesty. But you do not need to lose the war. Berellia stands as your ally in your time of need. If we leave now, we will escape before your cousin can think about pursuing. With the men you have left, along with Berellia’s finest, we can return and take back your throne.’
‘Leave Norstalos?’ Gello said stupidly.
‘That is right, your majesty,’ Ezok said. ‘We shall leave now, but we can return with an army even the Dragon Sword cannot stop!’
Gello looked around desperately, hoping someone else would have a better suggestion. He couldn’t lose! He couldn’t! He couldn’t run away in tears again!
‘All is not lost, your majesty,’ Prent said suddenly, stepping forwards from the back of the crowd of hangers-on. ‘All that has happened is your eyes have been opened to the truth. You did not embrace Zorva, you thought you did not need His help. But Aroaril has helped your enemies and now look at what has happened. In Berellia we can regain our strength, and return in triumph!’
Gello looked around. Nobody else would meet his eye.
‘We are outmatched,’ Feld said stolidly. ‘Cavalry is all we have left, and they cannot beat massed archers. Soon they will stop pursuing our infantry, and think about a bigger prize.’
Almost as soon as he had spoken, the recall signal sounded from up on the hillside.
‘They will be marching down here. But we can get back to Norstalos City, secure the treasury, and be on our way to Berellia before they catch us,’ Ezok explained.
‘The treasury?’ Gello was still trying to come to terms with the sudden reversal of his dreams. ‘Leave the country? But I can’t leave!’
‘You have no choice. But we take everything with us. Your cousin will get a country that is broke, its nobility gone, its people fearful of the men who put her back on the throne. When we return, how do you think she is going to stop us?’ Ezok demanded.
‘And this time we will be ready, really ready, to face the powers working against you,’ Prent promised. ‘You can still regain your reputation, and your throne. Zorva can save you.’
Gello clutched at that thought the way a drowning man clutches at a rope. He could not lose again! He would not be forever known as a failure. Whatever it would take, whatever it needed to wipe this out, he would do it. Nothing, and no one, mattered.
‘Then let us go! The infantry can keep up with us as best they can, if they want to live,’ he decided. ‘We shall return, and let the world tremble then!’
Ezok and Prent exchanged a look of satisfaction.
Martil watched Gello’s men begin to ride away, the surviving infantry clutching on to the stirrups of the cavalry. The Queen had too few cavalry to pursue Gello but, at least with the few men he had left, Gello was almost helpless. Rocus would follow him at a distance, and report back. Wherever he tried to hide, they would catch him.
He left Nerrin in charge of collecting arms and armour; Conal in charge of helping the wounded; Merren to speak to the survivors, especially the conscripts, rangers and archers. He had had enough. He hoped with all his heart this was his last battlefield. Saying goodbye to Karia like that, thinking he was going to live, then thinking he had lost the battle, killed his own men—he could not bear going through that again. Pausing only to pull off his bloodied mail and wash the gore from his face and hands, he hurried up the hill. He was tired, but the thought of seeing her gave new strength to his legs.
‘Karia!’ he bellowed.
A small figure leaped up and sprinted down the hill, hair flying out behind her, arms held wide.
‘Daddy!’
20
Merren almost did not know where to begin.
Gello had arrived back in Norstalos City at dusk four days after the Battle of Pilleth, and stayed just long enough to ransack the palace, strip the treasury and either take or burn every report, tally scroll and account in the place. For good measure, he had had many of his men use her old bedroom as a toilet. Then he had left. Rocus, with two hundred men, had followed at a safe distance, tracking him all the way south to the Berellian border. There, apparently, he had been greeted with open arms. Rocus had reported seeing a grand welcome, with flags, trumpets and speeches.
Merren was torn between anger he had escaped and relief she did not have to lose more men to finish him off. Having him in Berellia was a concern but, for the moment, he could not hope to hurt them. That made it a problem for another day.
And she had more than enough problems.
The entire noble class had gone, for one.
Captain Kay told her Gello was killing many of the nobles, sacrificing them to Zorva. And certainly they had found many bodies. But any that were left had fled with Gello. While there were few that she trusted, they were still the administrators of the country. And, as Gello had disbanded every town and village council, as well as dismissing the entire militia, to say the country was in chaos was almost an understatement.
Kay was restored to commander of the rangers, now down to about six hundred men. Lieutenant Cropper, now Captain Cropper, led the archer regiment, which was a little less.
Conal, with Hutter as his deputy, had been put in charge of the militia, and had begun to bring the country back under the rule of law. More than one hundred and fifty militia had died in the Battle of Pilleth—it was only thanks to the priests that so many others lived. The survivors were all made into officers or sergeants, so at least Merren knew the men in charge of the militia could be trusted.
But it was not just a matter of re-forming the militia.
Nott and Milly were in charge of the church, of course, and were trying to rebuild its numbers and weed out those who had lost Aroaril’s favour.
Kettering and his men had all received pardons, and given the option of either returning to their families and former lives, or joining the army. A third of that regiment had died in the battle, and many just wanted to return to their old lives. But most of the remaining real criminals—not just the men arrested for defying Gello—had joined the army, led by Kettering, Hawke and a healed Leigh. For Kettering, it had not been a hard choice.
‘I cannot go back to my old life, for I am not that man any more,’ he told the Queen. ‘But I will serve you still, and faithfully.’
Above all, the greatest problem was the legacy of Gello’s short rule. Many people had taken the opportunity of a complete absence of authority to enrich themselves, while others now wanted to gain revenge on those who had supported Gello’s reign. And Gello had done his best to persuade the entire country that she was some sort of evil witch who had brought thousands of murdering Rallorans into the country to kill their children.
If she stayed in Norstalos City, and tried to deal with the problems there, she knew they would multiply beyond her control. But her experience in Sendric had shown her that people responded if you went out to speak to them.
She wanted to speak to every person, which was simply impossible. Instead, she hired several of the guilds, asking their members to speak to as many people as possible and send back reports for Sendric and Conal to compile into an accurate picture of what opinion was across the country. She did not have the money for this of course, having instead to promise tax credits to the guilds. But the information she was getting back was priceless.
Naturally there was no better way than hearing it for yourself, which was wh
y Merren also went on a tour of the country, using Barrett’s powers to whisk her from town to town, village to village. With her went Father Quiller, to speak about how the church had been betrayed and was being rebuilt; Romon to explain how the bards had been forced to lie, and offer his new saga, called The Risen Queen; and Sendric and Gratt to explain how the people would be able to choose their own town council, rather than have one hand-picked by the local lord. This took a fair bit of explaining, as the concept of having a say in the running of each village or town—and that each district would choose an ordinary person to sit on a new, expanded Royal Council—was a concept most of the people found hard to grasp.
Last to speak was Martil—and he was usually only needed to show the Dragon Sword.
It was slow, but Merren felt she was making progress. The main sticking point was still the people’s fear of the Rallorans.
Despite the best efforts of Romon, several other bards, Nott and the priesthood, the people seemed obsessed with the thought they were the Butchers of Bellic. It came up, time and again, in the reports Merren was getting. Wherever the Rallorans went, disquiet followed. Finally, she decided to solve two problems in one by posting them down on the border where, under Nerrin, they patrolled watchfully. They were out of sight, out of mind for the country. Meanwhile her southern border was now secure. Gello might have been thrown out but she was under no illusions that he was completely defeated.
‘The Berellians might like to try something—but they have few enough men,’ Martil had assured her. ‘They might be able to scrape together five thousand. With Gello’s three thousand, that would look a strong force, but it would be nowhere near enough to invade a country as big as Norstalos. After all, the people might still be scared of Rallorans, but they would soon rally if there was a Berellian invasion. They’ve been worried about that for centuries.’
Merren had accepted his assurances, but wanted Rocus to start recruiting more men to rebuild her army. Hutter and Conal were also recruiting militia who, in an emergency, had shown they could fight. With just three under-strength Norstaline regiments—two of those archers—and one of Rallorans, she felt vulnerable.
Several hundred of Gello’s infantry had survived their wounds from the Battle of Pilleth, thanks to the healing powers of Nott, Milly and the priesthood. Some of them—not enough to even make a company—had come forward and asked to join her. Many of these were relatively new recruits, deceived into joining Gello’s army and then forced to fight. But Gello’s veterans just wanted to return to their homes where, she had no doubt, they would foment trouble. Nerrin had even reported catching a handful of them trying to slip across the border into Berellia.
It was now autumn, and winter was approaching. Thanks to Gello stealing the royal treasury, there was little money to buy food from countries such as Tetril until they could rebuild with gold from the mines. Merren had had to ask Barrett to persuade wizards all around the country to use their powers to help boost the harvest. And all she could do was promise the people less tax, which was only putting the problem off for another day.
So she had many problems that kept her working from dawn until past dusk, when Louise and Gia usually forced her to stop working, eat something and rest.
And now Bishop Milly was presenting her with this.
‘Say that again,’ Merren insisted.
‘You are pregnant,’ Milly said calmly.
‘But that’s impossible! How can you tell?’
Milly sighed. ‘It is at a very early stage. But I have been given the power to sense such things.’
Merren leaned back in her chair, her tired mind rebelling as she tried to absorb this.
‘You do know what this means?’ she accused Milly.
‘Of course. The next King of Norstalos will be half-Ralloran,’ Milly continued softly. ‘Both I and the Archbishop—’
‘Nott!’ Merren surged to her feet. ‘He was the one who suggested this! He knew what was going to happen! He’s to blame for this!’
Milly restrained her. ‘He gave you a choice. But if you had not seduced Martil, Gello would have won at Pilleth.’
Merren wrenched her arm free of Milly’s grip. But she also sat down, breathing heavily, trying to think. ‘Do you realise how much trouble this will cause?’ she almost moaned.
‘I know. Most of the country is still terrified the Butchers of Bellic are on the loose and looking for blood. They believed the bards, as they have always done. Then there is the whole issue of being the first Queen of Norstalos. Many people are suspicious of a ruler who cannot take up the Dragon Sword. Even without anything else, it would take time to win those over. At this stage, with the country in chaos, to tell the people you are pregnant to the last Butcher of Bellic, and his son will be their next King—’
‘His son!’
Milly spread her hands. ‘I am sorry. I should have asked you if you wanted to know first. He is a healthy child, and you will have no problems through your pregnancy. If that is any comfort.’
‘Not really.’ Merren touched her belly absently.
There was certainly no sign there that anything was happening—and she had not felt different. Or had she? She had certainly been thinking more about Martil—but had been far too tired to think of doing anything about that.
‘This could undo all the work I have done so far, and make it almost impossible to win them over. They will no longer trust me, and it is doubtful they would ever accept Martil’s son as King,’ Merren said slowly.
‘All true,’ Milly admitted.
Merren bit her lip. ‘It might be easier for all of us if I visited an apothecary,’ she said carefully.
Milly almost recoiled in horror. While she knew that there were apothecaries who would mix up a special herbal potion for women, it went against everything the Church taught.
‘Your majesty, I am not saying this because what you suggest is repugnant to me—I understand why you say it. But I have to tell you that, if you end this child, there will be no more for you.’
‘Is that you saying it, or Aroaril?’ Merren snarled at her.
Milly held her gaze. ‘That is what Archbishop Nott told me, and I believe it.’
Merren sat there for a while, trying to come to terms with it all. The thought of harming the child growing inside her made her feel sick. Going to an apothecary would have been the hardest thing she had done—although she knew she would have done it for her country. But not to ever have another child—that was even worse. And to top it all, it would allow any child of Gello’s to step up to the throne.
How could this have happened? She was pregnant, with Martil’s son? She had not even thought about the possibility of getting pregnant. Stupid to think of it now, but then, surviving the battle with Gello had taken priority. So how did she feel about it? She was being forced to make a choice here, between what was good for herself and what was good for the country. Only that was not really a choice—she had to put the country first. She tried to search her feelings, but swamping everything was the fear of what this news could do to her country. She was working so hard to win it back, she could not throw that away now. Not just for her, but for all those who had suffered and died to put her back on the throne. But she could not end the pregnancy, and could not let it be known it was Martil’s son. There had to be a way through this. Think!
‘Sendric,’ she said thickly.
‘Your majesty?’ Milly looked up.
‘I have to marry Sendric. He is the last remaining noble loyal to me and the only man the country will accept as my Prince Consort in the short time before my pregnancy becomes obvious. I can tell him the truth. He will do this because he swore an oath never to disobey me again. It will be a marriage in name only but only he, I and you can know that.’ Merren bit her lip. ‘This is going to rip Martil apart again, but, if I tell him the truth, he might do something stupid.’
Milly reached out to hold Merren’s hand. ‘My Queen, what you do now is braver than charging into G
ello’s army.’
Merren shook off her hand.
‘I have to talk to Sendric now, before I change my mind. All I can say is, if this is Aroaril’s idea of rewarding us in our fight…’
‘Don’t think like that, my Queen,’ Milly warned. ‘Be assured, this is part of something larger.’
‘Part of something larger? Do you know how little comfort that is?’ Merren said through gritted teeth.
Milly bowed her head. ‘I wish I could offer you more. You deserve far more, my Queen. All I can give you now is a little time to yourself. I shall be back with Count Sendric in half a turn of an hourglass.’
Merren nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She knew she had to put her country first. It was the right thing to do. Why, then, did it feel so wrong?
Gello—he still thought of himself as King Gello, and insisted that all Berellians both call him ‘sire’ and bow when they spoke to him—waited impatiently by the dock.
‘What are we waiting for?’ he growled at Ezok. ‘Why don’t you ask Markuz what he wants and why we aren’t marching across the border even now?’
Ezok bowed. He was tired of dealing with Gello, who seemed to become more unstable by the day. Before, he had been easily controlled—now he was simply obsessed with marching back into Norstalos and destroying everything in his way. Ezok had also caught him muttering conversations with his ‘Mother’ more than once. Ezok’s ability to manipulate Gello was also his ticket to power and riches but he was already worrying that, as his influence over Gello waned, so did his worth to Onzalez. The Fearpriest was the real power here. And once Gello’s usefulness was over, Ezok wondered if the two of them would be discarded, like a pair of emptied wineskins. But that day was some time away and Gello still needed to be humoured.
‘Sire, we are here because we are expecting a ship from over the seas, bringing with it the way in which we shall restore you to your throne,’ Ezok explained patiently.
Gello just grunted.
