Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  She heard a shout and looked back to see a mounted warrior about a hundred feet away draw his sword and trot toward her between the lowering trees. Imogen shouted, “Move out!” and turned Victory around, not sure what she planned to do against an armed man, but no one else was in a position to take him on. She urged Victory into a trot, rode directly at the warrior hoping to intimidate him into making a mistake. Pine branches snagged her hair, making her duck to lie low along Victory’s neck, and she felt her breath coming quick and shallow with the excitement of battle and made herself breathe slowly. Muscles ready but not tense, legs gripping Victory’s sides firmly but not squeezing, hands holding the reins lightly but not loosely, everything in her crying out to attack.

  As they converged on each other, the warrior raised his sword high in the air, readying a heavy strike. The branches rustled loudly, then the sword was gone, ripped from his hand from the entangling branches. He slowed, looking around for the blade, and Imogen punched the man in the jaw as she rode past, Victory’s momentum adding to the force of the blow.

  As she’d hoped, the man was as poor a horseman as he was a fighter; he lost his seat and landed hard on the ground beneath a knotty pine. Imogen brought Victory around, leaped down and picked up the man’s fallen longsword. “Thanks,” she said. She tested its balance; not a bad blade, though not the saber she was used to.

  The warrior scrambled to his feet and drew his short blade. She saw his teeth gleam white in the darkness. “You’d better figure out how to use that real quick, girl,” he said, approaching her with his sword at the ready. Imogen observed him, noted that he favored his left side and his grip on the sword was all wrong, shifted her own stance and met his first swing with a block that made her bones hum. She smiled. Oh, yes. She’d missed this. She let him swing at her a few more times, then went on the offensive, forcing him back with her superior weight and height. He wasn’t smiling now, and his swings were getting wilder. Then he tripped on an exposed root, went down hard, and Imogen’s sword took him in the throat. He didn’t even have time to cry out.

  Imogen stood over the body, breathing heavily. She looked around, listened, heard no evidence the man had companions. She had no idea which way to go. She cleaned the blade, retrieved the man’s short sword and strapped it to Victory’s side, just in case, then mounted and rubbed her shoulder. She was out of practice. It was lucky for her the man had been careless and cocky. She chose a direction at random and moved on.

  After about a minute, another horse approached her in the dimness under the trees. She held her weapon in a guard position. “Where did you go?” Owen said.

  “We were attacked from behind. I thought I warned everyone.”

  “You did. They took it as a sign they should move on, double-speed.” Owen was close enough for her to see him clearly. “I’m—watch out!”

  Imogen threw her weight to one side and Victory moved in that direction, enough that the sword blow aimed for Imogen’s head connected with Victory’s flank instead. The horse squealed and twisted. Imogen hung on and shouted at Victory. They turned to meet the next attack, which Imogen blocked with her sword. She shoved hard at her opponent, who laughed.

  Karel. Of course.

  He countered, and Imogen moved to block him again. His horse jogged nervously under him. Imogen called out another command, and Victory reared up and screamed at the other horse, which bucked and twisted. Karel lost his grip and fell, cursing. “You think that’s a fair fight, woman? Why don’t you get down off that monster and let’s have a real test of skill,” he shouted.

  Imogen looked around. Where was Owen? It was just her and Karel in the middle of a very small clearing. The rest of his friends should be here soon. If Owen had gone to spur their party on, maybe she could buy them some time. Her arm already hurt from the unexpected exercise. She had no business challenging this man to any kind of fight. But she didn’t have room here for Victory to get up any speed, and she was sure Karel wouldn’t be as easy to kill as the first man. She closed her eyes, prayed, and dismounted.

  Karel rushed her the second she landed. She ducked and rolled and ended up on her feet, ten feet away from him. “Drop the second sword, if you’re so eager for a fair fight,” she said. He smiled and drew out his short blade, showed it to her, then kicked it away to where the trees grew thicker. They circled one another until Imogen neared Victory; without looking away, she slapped her flank and gave her the command to withdraw. She could hear the silly animal move only a few feet out of the way. As long as she kept clear, Imogen was satisfied.

  “Shall we just circle each other all night, or did you want to fight?” Karel said. “Or maybe you want to drop that sword and I’ll give you what I know you’ve been aching for.”

  Imogen darted in, tapped the center of his chest, then pulled back for a real thrust he parried, but not easily. “Oh, I’m interested in a fight, but I thought you were offering yourself for target practice,” she replied. He grinned that nasty grin at her and brought his sword around; she parried it and responded in kind. Their swords connected, and for a moment both pressed hard against the other’s weapon, metal scraping against metal with a sharp skree until they both disengaged and began circling again.

  Imogen started to sweat despite the chilly air. Her feet crunched against the thin layer of snow, slipping now and then—she’d have to watch her footing. All she could hear was the crunch of snow under her feet and his breathing and her own, hers a little heavier, a little faster. Damn, but she was out of shape. He darted in and her left shoulder flared pain. He grinned at her again and ran his tongue along his upper lip lasciviously. She bared her teeth at him. Wetness trickled down her arm, but the wound couldn’t be too bad because she could still use it. She turned her body at an angle to prevent him doing that again, came in close and struck his sword arm hard. He dropped his sword and she moved in to press the edge of her blade against his throat. “Did you think our battle would end like this?” she asked.

  Karel dropped to the ground, rolled, and came up wielding his sword in his left hand. “Did you think I would give up so easily?”

  Now they went at it in earnest, blades clashing fast and loud, bodies circling, looking for an advantage. Her opponent got in a lucky strike that scored a thin line along her unprotected middle; it was unfair, she thought, that he was in armor and she wasn’t, but then she remembered looking for fairness in a fight was a fast way to get killed. She wiped sweat from her eyes and brought her sword up to block yet another strike. He looked like he might be tiring, but not as much as she was. She had no business fighting this man, who might impale her with one breath and rape her bleeding body with another. The image sickened her and at the same time fortified her. She’d always planned to die in battle, but she wasn’t going to fall at the hand of a man like him. She pretended to swing widely for his head, then thrust for his chest when he ducked the first swing. He barely got his sword in line in time, and she bared her teeth at him in a grin.

  “You are a fearsome fighter,” Karel said, sounding as if he really did admire her. “Even if you are a girl.”

  “You’re a fearsome fighter, even if you are an ass,” she countered, and his smile broadened. Then he struck, and her side felt suddenly hot and wet. She put her left hand there instinctively, and it came away bloody.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t damage you too much,” he said, lowering his sword. “I want us to have—”

  “Spare me the details of how much fun you plan to have with me,” Imogen said wearily. “If you win, you can say anything you like, but for now, shut up.” The blood was flowing more freely now, and she felt herself weakening. Stop thinking like Imogen and start thinking like Dorenna, she told herself. How would Dorenna win this battle? Well, she wouldn’t have been drawn into it in the first place, stupid.

  She backed away from her opponent, buying herself some time. There, under the trees. She backed away some more, circling, looking from side to side to feign distress. Her foot tap
ped the hilt of Karel’s discarded short blade. She nudged it around until she was certain how it lay, then pretended to stumble and fall, grasping the short sword’s hilt in her left hand. Instantly he swept in for the kill, and Imogen launched herself at him, caught the crossguard of his sword with hers, and used her momentum to lift his sword out of the way and knock him off balance. She brought his short blade around and drove it deep through his belly, below his armor. “Dead,” she whispered, and his astonished eyes blinked at her. He slid off her sword onto the ground.

  She leaned over, panting, then made certain he was dead before staggering over to lean against Victory. They were lost in the woods, she was bleeding from several wounds, and the rest of the Ruskalder army was hunting her, but at least she had her horse.

  She did her best to bind her side and her shoulder, her whole body protesting that it wanted to lie down in the snow and rest, then examined the dead man’s sword, his prize from the Samnal fights. It was beautifully designed and exquisitely balanced. It had her blood on it, so she figured she’d earned it. She strapped the other longsword to Victory’s harness next to the other, cleaned off her new sword and worked his sword belt free of his body; she wasn’t going to wander through the woods with a bare blade in her hand. Thus armed, she pulled herself atop Victory, which took her a few tries and hurt like hell, then hugged her horse’s neck in pure exhaustion. How long had it been? If she could figure out which way to go, she might be able to catch up to the rest. She chose a random direction again and nudged Victory that way.

  She’d only gone a few dozen steps when she heard Owen call to her. “You’re going the wrong way,” he said. There was blood trickling down the side of his face and his horse was limping.

  “What happened to you?”

  “There was another warrior. I had to let him chase me until I found a place where I could fight him.” He touched his head and seemed surprised to find blood on his fingers. “It took me a while. I take it you were victorious?”

  Victory whinnied, and Imogen laughed. “Yes, I was, but I think we should try to avoid fighting anymore and get Elspeth to safety as soon as possible,” she said. She fell in behind Owen and watched for more attackers, but the forest was silent now except for their breathing and the harnesses’ clinking. Imogen kept watch nonetheless until they reached the rest of their strange procession, which was waiting for them on the banks of the river.

  “We should keep moving,” Imogen said as she and Owen washed and bandaged their wounds as best they could. “Hrovald could still send more warriors after us.”

  “Just a day’s ride, maybe two,” Owen said, “then you can return home. Thank you.”

  “Thank me when we’ve reached the border,” Imogen said, dried her hands on her filthy trousers, and mounted up again. She felt mostly certain they’d outrun their pursuit, but it took several miles of tense watching before Imogen felt confident enough to relax. Everything would go as planned. They would return Elspeth to her brother. They would ride home and tell Mother of Hrovald’s treachery. And Imogen would finally stand before the King of Tremontane and tell him how she hadn’t let his sister die.

  Chapter Twelve

  They reached the Tremontanan camp at sunset the following day, exhausted from the hard ride. “He’s moved the front line,” Owen said, giving the sentries a wave; they watched the procession pass, mouths gaping. Imogen would have disciplined them sharply for such behavior, if they’d been under her command, but she reminded herself she was a guest and Tremontanan military behavior was none of her business. “When I left, the camp was another seventy-five miles south of here. What the hell is he thinking?”

  Owen and his scouts left their horses at the picket line, where they were claimed by men and women who led the animals away to be cared for. “Jeffrey will want to see you,” he said to Imogen, “and I’m sure he’ll want all of you to rest here overnight before returning to your people.” Imogen stared at him, her mind dull from all the riding. “Please, Imogen, Elspeth wants to see her brother. And I need to ask him some questions, assuming he doesn’t kill me outright.”

  “The Kirkellan don’t let others care for their horses, Owen,” Elspeth said. Imogen shook the cobwebs out of her brain and dismounted, wincing at the pain from the wound in her side, and laid her cheek against Victory’s smooth one. She’d need to get the injury properly stitched soon.

  “I’ll take her,” Dorenna said, “and you go see the King. Do you suppose any of these southerners speak our language? We’ll have to mime asking for water and a currycomb.”

  Imogen nodded her thanks and followed Elspeth and Owen through the camp. It was more regimented and orderly than a Kirkellan camp, which tended to sprawl to reflect the mood of the individuals pitching their tents. The tents were made of heavy canvas, white or gray or tan, and when she caught glimpses of the tents’ interiors through open flaps, they were as bland and neutral as the exteriors, unlike the brightly colored and textured Kirkellan tents. Men and women stared at her as she passed, which made her uncomfortable, so she squared up her chin and shoulders and pretended not to see them. Unlike the Ruskalder, their interest was curious; like the Ruskalder, they saw her as an outsider.

  Owen led them to a large tent near the center of the camp, not as big as the matrian’s but still very large, with peaks where multiple tent poles held up the roof. A flag bearing the triple-peak emblem of Tremontane flew from the highest pole, just above another flag in blue and silver whose emblem she didn’t recognize. Fully armed men in helmets, chain shirts, and metal plates at shoulders and legs stood to either side of the flap. They moved to bar the door, but then recognized Owen and stepped away, startled. They didn’t seem to notice Elspeth and paid no attention to Imogen. She’d have disciplined them for that, too. A strange warrior approaches the King’s tent and you don’t have a plan to kill her? Poor discipline, fellows.

  Owen held the tent flap for Elspeth and Imogen, who had to duck her head to pass through, then ducked through himself. The inside of the tent was as stark and bare as the others Imogen had seen, with the addition of several rugs over the grass. Canvas partitions sectioned off part of the tent, though they were currently folded down so Imogen couldn’t see what lay beyond. Camp chairs stood here and there, but all were unoccupied. A large square folding table stood to one side, surrounded by several men and women who were preoccupied with the objects lying on its surface.

  “If we put a force here, we can—” one of the men was saying, but a woman glanced at the doorway, did a double take, and said, “Sweet holy heaven.”

  That drew the attention of the rest of them. An extremely handsome young man, tall and black-haired, recovered from his surprise first. “Owen,” he began, angrily, “what the hell—”

  Elspeth let out a sob and rushed forward with her arms outstretched. The man’s fury turned to open-mouthed astonishment. “Elspeth,” he said, and folded her into his arms, bent his head to kiss her shining hair. “Dear heaven, what did they do to you?”

  “She was very sick,” Imogen said in her halting Tremontanese. “She is still not well completely. I promise I cared for her the best—as best as I could. We had to cut her hair because of the fever. I am sorry.”

  The man lifted his head and fixed her with an intense blue-eyed gaze that startled her. “Who are you?” he said.

  “This is Imogen of the Kirkellan,” Owen said. “It is because of her we escaped Hrovald’s city alive.”

  The King of Tremontane tucked Elspeth under his arm and came around the table. “I owe you everything,” he said. “Anything I can do for you—you brought me my sister and my best friend—anything at all, it’s yours.”

  He stretched out his hand toward her, and reflexively she took it. “Um,” Imogen said, overwhelmed by his words and the force of his presence and those blue eyes fixed on her. “I need nothing. I cared for Elspeth because she needed me. I must go to my mother soon. She will want to know how Hrovald wanted to take the Crown of Tremontane.”


  The King looked puzzled and released her hand. “The Crown?” he said. He looked at Owen. “What do you mean?”

  Owen glanced around at the listening ears. “This should be private,” he said.

  The King nodded. “Leave us,” he commanded, and the men and women filed out without a word of argument.

  “Jeffrey, if you want me to stay,” said the woman who’d first noticed their presence.

  “Thank you, no,” he said, his firm tone contrasting strongly with his polite words, and she left the tent without comment. Imogen was impressed. She judged the King to be in his early twenties, certainly no older than twenty-five, but his quiet air of authority commanded the loyalty and, from what she could see, the respect of his subordinates. She’d seen her mother behave exactly the same, but Mother had had years of practice. This young man had only had three.

  Owen held out his hand for Elspeth to return to him. He drew the King closer to the center of the tent, away from inadvertent or intentional eavesdroppers. Imogen followed. She was a part of this too. “Swear to me you will not yell, or rage, or tear around throwing things until you hear all,” he said.

  The King made an exasperated face. “You went off against my express command and it’s sheer luck you made it back alive, let alone with Elspeth,” he said. “Don’t think succeeding at your insane mission means I won’t rip you a new one.”

  “That is not what I mean,” Owen said. “Swear.”

  “Fine. I swear not to throw a fit. What is so dire?”

  Owen lowered his voice. “Hrovald’s son raped Elspeth.”

  The King looked briefly confused, as if he didn’t understand the words. He glanced at Elspeth, and realization, then fury, swept across his features. He opened his mouth to roar, then saw Owen’s warning expression and turned away to control himself. Elspeth’s chin quivered, and Imogen told her in Ruskeldin, “Let your brother be angry on your behalf, Elspeth.”