Drunken on joy, she let Talin carry her back to their bedroom. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as they entered the door. A dozen honeycomb candles flickered, and flames crackled in the hearth. The valance was pulled back from the canopy bed, and rose petals sprinkled the blankets. Talin placed her on the bed, and Aeolia sat, the butterflies turned to galloping horses. Talin stood watching her, his green eyes warmer than the fire.
Aeolia was suddenly overcome by a fit of giggles.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t help myself....”
Talin knelt and kissed her lips, and Aeolia’s giggles died, and she stared at him silently. He sent a hand to her hair, but Aeolia stopped him.
“Wait,” she whispered, then linked to him. “Now.”
They were tentative at first, moving slowly, still clinging to themselves. But their bodies guided them, and soon they could merge, flowing into each other. She wrapped her arms around him and lay back, pulling him down beside her. They felt his hands caress her, his lips brush over her neck, blowing warm breath. He kissed her skin, and she buried her hands in his hair. They became as one body.
It wasn’t frightening like she had thought. Not as they were. It hurt only briefly, and it was a good pain that was soon replaced with maddening pleasure. He left her on time, would not risk a child of three bloods, but Aeolia did not care, she felt no loss, only joy and love that flooded them until they lay still.
He lay atop her, his chest heaving, his warm breath on her face. Aeolia leaned her head sideways and saw that the candles had burned low, and their wax hung in pretty forms. Talin and she must have made love for an hour, though it felt like minutes. He rolled away and Aeolia nestled against his chest, running her fingers over his skin. Talin took her hand, kissed her fingertips, brushed his lips over the tattooed letters.
“What does it say?” he asked softly.
“My master’s name.”
“I wish I could erase it.”
“You do, Talin.” She kissed him. “You do.”
He did not reply, only turned his head away and lay still. When Aeolia reached over and touched his cheek, she felt that he was crying.
Chapter Sixteen
Blood and Steel
Roen stood behind Brownbury’s gates, feeling as inept a soldier as ever was. His sword was rusty, and his wooden shield was cracked. His helmet was too big. His ringmail was torn, and the boiled leather beneath it stank of old sweat. He had been among the last drafted, so his equipment was old. But his purple surcoat, hanging over his armor, proudly proclaimed him a queen’s man. That was enough to send him to battle.
He pulled a roll of parchment from his pocket. One of his drawings. A beautiful woman, with two orange braids and slanted green eyes. Whenever he sat down to paint lately, he found himself painting her, the Forestfellow from his dream. Roen sighed. Suddenly he felt foolish. All the other soldiers carried locks from their beloved’s hair. Nepo had offered him a lock of her hair, and Roen had refused. Instead, he took a painting—of an imaginary woman, no less. He sighed again. The siege must have affected him. He was addled from weakness.
His comrades, standing around him, were also frail. Their eyes were hollow with privation, and their faces seemed too gaunt for their helms. Even Sir Grig Purplerobe, their commander, sat slumped upon his destrier. The siege had weakened them all. When the waters had been poisoned, they turned to drinking cows’ blood. When rotting meat had been tossed into the city, they all fell ill. But now, salvation had arrived in the form of Wilon Greenhill and five thousand green-clad men, marching toward Brownbury to banish its besieging Redforts. Now, the queen’s purple army would fight.
The queen. His mother. Two moons after the breathtaking discovery, Roen’s mind still boggled. In truth, he still barely knew her. His parents wished to keep their relationship secret, and Roen was glad to oblige. He would rather be a painter than a bastard any day. But if he had hardly talked to her, Roen had grown to admire the woman, and was proud to fight for her. He swore he’d get to know her better after the war.
If he survived, that was. Roen tapped his fingers against the pommel of his sword. Who would win the day? he wondered. The Greenhills and Purplerobes together equaled the Redfort force in size, but the reds were healthier and better trained. But then, the purples, after weeks of siege, were more desperate, and would fight harder. Roen rubbed his chin. It would be a tough battle of uncertain outcome. Only one thing was for sure: today’s victor would claim the throne. Today the civil war would end, for good or bad.
Up on the wall, the sentries flurried. One turned his head and called down: “Duke Greenhill is approaching!”
Roen licked his lips. Now, for the first time in weeks, Brownbury’s gates would open and the purple army emerge. And, Spirit help him, he among them. The muffled sounds of agon came from behind the wall: war horns blaring, horses neighing, armor chinking. Roen could imagine the relief force: thousands of green-clad soldiers, led by the exiled duke of Greenhill.
Sir Grig stood up in his stirrups. He drew his sword. “Open the gates!” he called.
Slowly, the gatekeepers heaved the large, oak gates open. Beyond them, out in the countryside, Roen saw the green army crashing against the red. Droplets of blood flew.
“Draw!” Sir Grig commanded.
The air whistled as Roen and his comrades, three thousand men in all, drew their swords.
“Charge!” Grig cried and spurred his destrier into a gallop.
With a great roar, they followed. Roen’s helmet wobbled up and down as he ran, alternately blinding him. The rumble of charging soldiers deafened him. The man behind him kept stepping on his heels, and Roen feared he’d fall and be trampled. They ran into the gateway, passed under the wall, and burst out into the countryside.
Hurriedly, they formed into rows and began marching. The first row of purple soldiers, several rows ahead of Roen, crashed against the reds. The sweet, sickly smell of blood filled the air, accompanied by screams, grunts, and clanging steel.
Roen’s heart pounded. Meanwhile he only waited, surrounded by his comrades, not fighting. Soon his turn would come. He knew the battle plan. The purple army would advance row by row, slamming itself into the reds. When a man in the row ahead fell, the man behind would move up to replace him. Wilon’s green army would be doing the same on the other side, trapping the red force in the middle. This would continue until all the red soldiers were killed. It was a simple, brutal plan.
The purple rows ahead of Roen were falling quickly. More soldiers kept moving up to replace them. Soon Roen was only one row behind the action. He tightened his grip on his sword. He was deathly afraid, but it was a determined, exhilarated fear. He knew he might die, but he was determined to fight for his life rather than flee for it. Too long at siege had given him this desperate bravery.
The man before him fell, and Roen moved up to fight. He stood in the front row now. A red soldier stood before him. Roen tightened his lips and brandished his sword. The red soldier began to retreat, slowly pacing backwards. Roen breathed in amazement. Was he so daunting? Then he noticed that the entire red force was walking backwards. Roen frowned. Were they all fleeing?
Then he understood. The Redfort army was changing form. Roen watched indignantly as the rows of red soldiers folded backwards to form, instead of a straight line, an arrowhead. The arrowhead began marching, pushing its point forward, splitting the purple army in two.
A red soldier slashed at Roen, and he raised his shield. Splinters flew. Roen thrust his sword and punctured his foe’s chest. The man fell. It was the first time Roen had killed a man, but he was too frightened to muse upon it. Hurriedly, before another red could arrive, he glanced around him. The purple formation had crumbled. The red infantry had split it in two. The red cavalry was flanking the two halves from the sides. Blood splashed.
A red footman rushed at Roen. They began to clash blades. The red’s blade sliced skin off Roen’s shoulder, but Roen kept fighting till he killed
the other man. He was panting now, and more afraid. His force was divided, he was bleeding, and he could only imagine how the greens were faring on the opposite side. His helmet and armor were heavy and stifling.
At his right, Roen glimpsed a fat horseman crashing into the purple troops, slamming a heavy hammer onto infantrymen’s heads. The fat man’s visor was down, but his coat of arms marked him as Duke Hyan Redfort. Two mounted bodyguards surrounded him. Roen watched in disgust. Instead of fighting other armored horsemen, Hyan was cracking the heads of footmen. The duke knew no light infantryman could harm an armored rider. He simply enjoyed the killing.
The only rider in Roen’s army was Sir Grig Purplerobe, sitting atop his own barded horse. Seeing Hyan’s butchering, the Winged Knight galloped toward the fat duke and his mounted bodyguards.
Another soldier attacked Roen, diverting his attention. Sweat dripped down Roen’s face as he fought. He suffered another nip, this time to his thigh. His opponent was better than he, and Roen would surely have died had not one of his comrades helped him slay the red.
Roen glanced back at Hyan. Sir Grig had just finished slaying the second of the duke’s bodyguards. The Winged Knight was wounded, though. Blood flowed from several joints in his armor. His horse was lame. But still he rode forward, toward Hyan. Unperturbed, the fat duke swung his hammer into Grig’s head. Red and gray spilled from the winged helm, like paint from a cracked jar.
“No!” Roen cried, the death of his commander chilling him to the bone even in the heat of the battle. He began to run, elbowing his way between his comrades towards Hyan.
“Mob him!” Roen shouted. “Now, when he’s unguarded!”
He reached Hyan’s horse and swung his sword, hitting Hyan on the knee. The blade rebounded off Hyan’s armor, doing the fat man no harm. Several other purple soldiers, following Roen’s example, began to slash at Hyan as well. None of their blows could penetrate the plate armor, but Hyan was confused, slamming his hammer down left and right. Roen and his comrades wouldn’t stop harrying, and soon Hyan’s destrier lost its legs, and Hyan must fight on foot. Swinging his hammer, the duke began fleeing toward his own army. Snarling with surprising rage, Roen chased Hyan and caught him on the red army’s fringe. Roen began to slash his sword. Hyan turned to face him, parrying.
“You again!” Hyan hissed, his eyes narrowing.
Suddenly fear washed over Roen. He had hoped to catch Hyan surrounded by purple soldiers. As it was, Hyan stood with his back toward his own troops, Roen with his back to his. The two of them dueled alone. For the first time in the battle, Roen truly feared for his life.
Hyan’s hammer was heavy. As Roen blocked with his shield, he thought his arm might dislocate. He slammed with his sword, but Hyan’s fine, filigreed armor seemed impenetrable. Roen knew that although Hyan was older and fat, his armor and weapon gave him the advantage. Unless Roen thought of something, he would die.
And so, Roen pretended to slip. He fell to one knee, leaving his shoulder open. Hyan slammed his hammer down. Roen thrust his sword up. The hammer connected with Roen’s left shoulder, shattering bone. The sword slipped through the chain mail in Hyan’s armpit. Both men gasped with pain. Tears spilled from Roen’s eyes. He pulled out his sword, rose to his feet and slammed the blade onto Hyan’s helmet. Hyan looked stunned; he made no effort to resist. Roen slammed down again and again, with all his might, until Hyan’s helmet caved in and leaked blood, and the duke slumped to the ground dead.
Squinting in pain, Roen looked around him and saw that everyone was staring. A sudden hush fell over the battlefield.
And then, the purples roared with renewed vigor and charged forward, attacking the leaderless reds. Roen retreated several paces back into his own army. He felt he would faint from pain. Shakily, he summoned his magic. He passed his hands over his shattered shoulder, healing it. He took a slow breath. He felt better.
The red soldiers were trying to retreat now, but Wilon’s troops blocked them from behind. Mayhem ruled the battlefield. With the Purplerobe and Redfort commanders both dead, the battle became unorganized butchery. Trapped in the middle, the red soldiers could not escape, nor could they officially surrender for lack of command. The dead were piling up, encumbering the fighters’ feet. Roen fought madly, killing several men, being wounded several times. He lost blood. He felt like he was losing his sanity. His sword became a red paintbrush, sketching death with every stroke. He had seen men die before, during the siege. This was different. This was mindless slaughter.
It was an hour past noon when the greens and purples finally met. The grand red army that had once separated them had perished.
Roen dropped his sword from his shaking hands. He tossed off his helmet and looked around him. The purples and greens numbered maybe a thousand men in all. Hills of dead rose around them. The air stank of blood and offal. Some of Roen’s comrades began to cheer, but Roen did not join them, and soon they too fell quiet. The only sound was the cawing of the feasting crows. Snow began to softly fall, covering the dead in white shrouds.
Roen began to move among the fallen, searching for the wounded and healing them. His comrades joined him in silence. Many of the dead carried favors from their beloved. Some dead were no more than beardless youths. On one slain Redfort’s finger, Roen saw a Master Painter’s ruby ring. He recognized the sentry who had taken it. Roen knelt and meant to claim the ring, but could not bring himself to touch the dead man’s hand.
He thought of himself as he had been only several moons ago: a foppish, soft-cheeked boy. Who would have thought he would stand over hills of dead, blood rather than paint on his hands? Never in his life had Roen seen or heard of such carnage, where thousands could die as one. Surely, he thought, this was one of the bloodiest days the Island had ever seen. He remembered how Hyan had escaped imprisonment two moons ago. What an evil hour that had been, Roen reflected. If Hyan had been hanged that day, there would have been no civil war.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see the broad, simple face of Wilon Greenhill gazing over the snowy killingfield.
“A hard sight,” the duke said.
Roen nodded. “I suppose it had to be done, Your Grace.”
“And you did your part well. You’re the one who killed Hyan, aren’t you?”
“I killed many men.”
Wilon sighed. “May you never have to again. Thank the Spirit, we won our war here today. Finally we’ll have peace again.”
Peace.... The word drifted through Roen’s mind like snowflakes. Once again, he reflected, Heland will live in peace. Water will flow freely, not blood. The smell of fresh bread will fill the city’s streets, not the stench of disease. Everything will be as it had once been.
Suddenly Wilon frowned. “Do you hear that?” he asked.
Roen furrowed his brow. “Hear what, Your Grace?”
“Listen.”
Roen listened. At first he heard nothing. Slowly, however, he became aware of a distant rhythmic booming and a barely audible rumble. Wilon leaned down, cleared away snow, and put his ear to the ground. Roen did the same. He heard it clearly now. The whole earth trembled and moaned with the sound.
Roen and Wilon straightened.
“What is it?” Roen asked.
Wilon’s face was grim. “I don’t know. But something tells me we should be behind the city walls when it arrives.”
Wilon’s soldiers, noticing the sound as well, gathered around their leader, awaiting commands. Their own commander killed, the purple soldiers joined them, wordlessly accepting Wilon’s leadership.
“Let us enter the city,” the duke called loudly. “Our troubles may not yet be over.”
The soldiers followed Wilon into the city, carrying their unhealed wounded. When everyone was inside, the gates were shut and barred.
“Come with me,” Wilon said to Roen, and they climbed the stairs onto the city walls. They reached the top and gazed off the battlements.
In the western distance, it looked li
ke an oozing puddle of spilled gray paint. The rumble came loud now: war drums and hoofs and marching boots. An army, Roen realized, an army uniformed in gray. More Redforts? No, it couldn’t be. This army wore the wrong color, and Roen guessed them about twenty thousand strong, a force the Redforts could not possibly have mustered.
The duke turned his head and yelled down to the weary soldiers in the courtyard. “There is yet fighting to be done. The city is being attacked.”
The soldiers below, battered and fatigued, grumbled in disbelief.
Wilon shouted, “I want you to raid the city armories and fetch every crossbow you find. Then climb the walls.”
Still incredulous and muttering, the soldiers went to their task.
“Stay here and keep watch,” Wilon told Roen. “I need to talk to the platoon commanders. I’ll make sure someone brings you a crossbow.”
Roen nodded silently, too bewildered and weary to talk. A gray shadow seemed to cloak his heart, like the one cloaking the land. Just moments ago, he had been basking in the thought that he’d never see war again. Now he was not so sure. His stomach knotted.
Heland, he knew, was being invaded by Stonemark. Just like he had heard Lale promise Hyan. Only now, Hyan was not here to drive Lale away.
The Stonish army drew closer and closer. Roen could discern horsemen and chariots, hundreds of them. He had never seen an army so large. This army had conquered the Beastlands and the Forest, he knew. Will we now follow?
No, he told himself as his comrades returned with crossbows. This was not some backward farmland. This was not some benighted jungle. This was an embattled city with stone bulwarks and armed, professional defenders. Brownbury had withstood Hyan’s siege. It could withstand Lale’s. The Stonish army might be large, but it had no healing magic. Brownbury’s missiles would ravage them. Roen felt even better when he was handed a crossbow. He loaded a quarrel and stood with his finger on the trigger. He felt hope of victory.
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