Valour and Victory

by Candy Rae

  “We’ll keep it a secret, so no telling even your brother when you meet him and that includes your commanding officer if you see him. Just ask to extend the detachment.” He rubbed his hands together with anticipation. He was so looking forward to the time when he could spring all his plans on the ultra-conservative nobility.

  * * * * *

  The Convent

  The smell of old death was all pervading. The group of armed townsmen from nearby Brindal tied cloths soaked in vinegar round their faces before they attempted to enter the eerily silent building.

  A teenage boy called Danny was with the men. He had been the last person to have seen the Sisters alive.

  The townspeople had survived the advance of the Larg kohorts by barricading themselves inside their church. They were very glad that a town priest, now long dead, had insisted that their ancestors build their church of stone and brick and not of the more common but much cheaper wood. He had also insisted that it be built tall, with thick walls and that its windows be narrow.

  When the kohorts had irrupted into the town, all of its inhabitants, no matter of what class and status, had been inside the church. They had even managed to bring inside a proportion of their livestock and enough food and water to withstand a siege of at least two tendays if they were careful.

  Every one of the townspeople had survived.

  This was not the case elsewhere along the route the kohorts had taken. Some of those who had lived there had managed to flee west, usually those with means, who had the horses at their disposal with which they had a chance to outrun the Larg. Very few of those who had remained had lived. The Larg had swept through the area east of the River Murdoch like a swarm of avenging ondises, sniffing out and killing every living creature they could put their paws on.

  The relieved inhabitants of Brindal were scouring the countryside looking for survivors and doing what they could for the few, the pitifully few, they came across.

  The majority of the bodies they found were unrecognisable, bones for the most part, gnawed clean by the hungry and kill-crazy Larg.

  Rumours were beginning to reach the townspeople about that events that had transpired elsewhere, that the Larg had been defeated and had gone back home. There was even talk that the Larg would never again attack Murdoch; that they had seen the error of their ways but nobody really believed that. The half-fearful rumours of dragons in the sky they discounted as the fevered imagination of the insane but even if a quarter of the rumours were true it seemed that they and their loved ones were safe again, for a time. They would never however think of the Larg as anything but evil.

  The townsmen kept their weapons beside them. Some of the younger men, the more hot headed, were keeping their eyes peeled for any Larg stragglers.

  Each man carried a shovel that he would use to bury the pitiful remains of each dead man, woman and child he came across. The countryside was littered with new dug graves.

  Now it was the convent’s turn.

  “How many were there?” asked the Town Headman in a hushed voice as they traipsed through the entrance chamber with its broken-hinged door and into the convent proper.

  “Must have been around sixty,” answered Danny.

  “There were schoolgirls here too,” said the blacksmith in his rasping voice. He looked green around the gills. “They didn’t stand a chance.”

  “No,” agreed the Headman with a glance in Danny’s direction. “You stay here son, there’s no need for you to come in.”

  Danny swallowed but shook his head. “No, I have to see what happened. I spoke to Mother Breguswið that day. She was so calm and brave, sort of accepting, somehow.”

  “They’ll be in the chapel,” said the Headman and led the way towards it.

  The sickly smell of death was growing stronger. All the men, and Danny, were breathing it in. Their soaked cloths were doing little to sanitise it.

  This is going to be bad, thought the Headman, his boots scrunching on the broken glass underfoot. “This will likely be the worst we’ve seen,” he said aloud. The buildings around the tower at the manor house at Cocteau had been like a charnel house but here the buildings had not been on fire and what was left of the bodies had been lying for many days.

  The Headman pushed open the wreck of the chapel door and retched. Nothing had prepared him for this. This was horror incarnate.

  Part eaten bodies lay everywhere, on the floor and slumped in the pews. A headless, grey habited, blood spattered corpse lay spread eagled over the altar. The body had no arms.

  The Headman stood silent, trying to pull himself together. Beside him was Danny who had peeked inside. He was being noisily sick.

  “As I said, they never stood a chance,” said the rasping voice of the blacksmith. “Is this all of them? They all appear to be Sisters. Every one of them is wearing the habit. Where are the children?”

  “Probably further in,” the Headman answered. “Mother Breguswið would have known that the chapel wasn’t safe. She was a brave woman. She would have tried to hide the children in the hope that once the Larg had killed her and her Sisters they would go away.”

  “Small chance,” said the blacksmith who seemed to be addicted to the word chance, “their blood lust was up. That door over there, the one with the bolts, where does it lead to?”

  The Headman walked through the chapel, being careful not to stand on what was underneath and reaching the door, drew back the bolts. The door opened without any bother and he took a quick glance at what lay within. What he saw would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  He refused to let Danny look inside the strong room. He and the blacksmith took it upon themselves the task of clearing it of the bodies of the children and the younger nuns.

  They buried the nuns and the girls in the convent graveyard. They didn’t try to identify them. There was no point. There was not enough left, especially the children, to make the exercise worthwhile.

  “Do you think the nuns will come back some day?” asked Danny as they left the building six candle-marks later.

  “Perhaps,” the Headman answered, gathering the reins of his horse. The animal was wary and restless. He sighed. “I don’t think the Grey Sisters would ever want to.”

  “But it is their Mother House,” protested Danny.

  “It was,” he said, “and they can build another. A convent isn’t bricks and mortar. It is the Community within. The buildings here will crumble away and perhaps that is as it should be.”

  “I’ll never forget them,” vowed Danny.

  * * * * *

  Elliot

  “Elliot, you need to marry. You must secure the succession.”

  “Do I?” Elliot raised his head from the papers he was studying, only half paying attention to what the Archbishop was saying.

  “You need a wife.”

  “I suppose you’ve got a candidate in mind Lord Archbishop?”

  “More than one,” he answered, placing another piece of paper in front of his young king.

  “I’ve no time to worry about such matters at present. This is not the right time.”

  “This is exactly the right time. The Kingdom needs something to take its mind off recent events, a bit of excitement.”

  “We’ve got the Fealtatis Ceremony coming up, then the Coronation and Conclave to convene,” Elliot argued. “I’d say that that is enough excitement to be going on with, wouldn’t you?”

  “No I wouldn’t,” insisted Tom Brentwood, “a pretty young queen at your side, that’s what you need.” This was Archbishop Tom Brentwood at his most persuasive but Elliot was not to be convinced and his face showed his displeasure.

  “You are the King, you get to choose your bride yourself.”

  Elliot’s head came up.

  “I do?”

  “Just look at the list Kellen Taviston has prepared, that’s all I ask.”

  “I’ll look at it later,” said Elliot, in a non-committal voice.

  Later, much later, when Elliot
had finished wading through what he called ‘matters of state’, ‘little’ things such as who were to hold the Conclave seats on behalf of the minor heirs and the immediate problem of what to do with the thousands of freed slaves of Sahara who were still residing in the Fort area, he rather thought he had already come up with a tidy solution to that one, Elliot picked up the list the Archbishop had left. It was sparse to the point of extremism.

  There were three names and all three and been considered and rejected by Conclave the previous year when Margravessa Isobel Cocteau had been chosen.

  First came Contessa Ania Kirk of the Western Isles but she was only fifteen and had been rejected then for reason of age. Martin Taviston had noted that it would be politic to at least consider the match saying that the ties with the islands should be maintained.

  The other two were daughters of Barons. Martin had included his niece Alison who was sixteen. Elliot dimly remembered seeing her at Court the previous year.

  Wasn’t she one of Isobel’s ladies? I rather think she was, plain little thing with vuzy brown hair.

  Last was Kellessa Lucy Merriman, the same age as Elliot and sister of Derek who had accompanied him on his grand tour of the northern continent. Derek had often spoken of his sister and Elliot almost felt he knew her already. Derek was dead now but if this Lucy was anything like her dead brother, marriage to her might be all right if his plan came to nothing.

  Elliot sighed as he picked up his pen and dipped it into the ink. He made two annotations on the sheet, annotations Tom Brentwood saw and drew his own conclusions.

  Beside the name Ania Kirk, Elliot wrote ‘too young’ and beside Alison Taviston’s name Elliot wrote ‘too plain’.

  As Elliot left the paper on the desk in plain sight he probably shouldn’t have been surprised when Kellessa Lucy Merriman arrived at Court under a tenday later, nor should he have been surprised at the news that Lucy Merriman was being widely tipped as Murdoch’s next Queen. The days passed and Elliot said nothing.

  Elliot was waiting for the return of Robain who he had sent northwards with despatches and invitations for the coronation scheduled for the last day of the last month of the year.

  There was an invitation for everyone who was anyone on the planet, one to the Head Councillor of Argyll and others to the Island Dukes and Earls. For the first time invitations had gone out to Vadath and to the rtathlians of the Lind, to the Lai and to the Larg.

  * * * * *

  Robain and Zilla

  “Nurse Talansdochter,” said the flinty-eyed senior nurse entering the hospital tent where Zilla was bent over one of her patients, a young militiaman who had been badly burned when the Quorko had attacked the support lines.

  Zilla straightened up. “Yes Sister Harrisdochter?”

  “You have another visitor.”

  “Me?” queried Zilla, wondering who could be visiting her now.

  “Yes.”

  The senior nurse walked over to the bed and examined Zilla’s handiwork. Changing a burns dressing was a finicky business and needed a firm yet gentle touch.

  “Yes, very good. Off you go, I’ll finish here. Your visitor is waiting in the mess tent.”

  Wonder who it is?

  Zilla gave her patient an encouraging pat.

  He didn’t look too happy about the temporary replacement. Zilla’s gentle hands were famous and Sister Harrisdochter’s were not.

  Zilla didn’t recognise Robain at first. When the young officer had visited the inn the previous summer he had been dressed in nondescript travelling clothes. This man was dressed in Garda blue and was, as she realised by the shape of his jacket and the beading on it, an officer

  Robain turned. His face broke into a smile.

  “Zilla,” he greeted her, “you look older.”

  “It has been a year,” she answered. “It’s good to see you Robain. I’m glad you made it.”

  “Yes. So many have died …” His voice trailed off.

  “You’ve heard then, about Hilla?”

  “Liam wrote.”

  Neither quite knew what to say next. Robain broke the silence.

  “I feel I failed her. I wasn’t there.”

  Zilla smiled sadly. “Don’t say that. Hilla always said that if she had to die young she wanted to die in a famous battle doing something heroic.”

  “She got her wish.” Robain’s voice sounded bitter.

  “She died doing what she wanted to do. Hilla lived for the Garda. She didn’t want to die but she was prepared for that eventuality. She was one of thousands of ordinary men and woman who wanted to live but gave up their lives so that others could. I keep trying to remind myself of that.”

  “I passed one of the graveyards on my way here,” said Robain then, “I presume Hilla is in one somewhere?”

  Zilla nodded, “and Zak and Maura.”

  “Maura?” he queried.

  “My friend. You might have seen her at the inn when you visited. She was one of the maids.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Robain.

  “You’ve missed Rilla and Zawlei,” said Zilla in a too bright voice. “They’ve gone back north.”

  Zilla chattered on, anything to stop this talk of death. “Matt’s gone back too. He mentioned you, he came to see me before the Stewarton Militia left. He talked about when you stayed at his house.” How do I ask if Walter survived? “We talked a lot about Tala.” Her voice broke.

  “She was a heroine,” said Robain.

  “That doesn’t make her death any easier. I don’t envy Rilla, she and Zawlei are going to visit Mother and Father on their way back to Vada. They’ll know about Hilla and Zak by now but Rilla said it would be best if she told them about Tala herself.”

  “A sad and difficult task,” said Robain who had visited grieving relatives before.

  There was silence as both remembered friends who were no longer with them.

  Zilla took a deep breath and asked, in as nonchalant a voice as she could, “what happened to the three southerners who came with you to the inn? Philip, James and … Walter wasn’t it?”

  “James is dead. He went back home and was killed in the massacre at the Cocteau manor.”

  “That’s a shame, such a happy go lucky, cheerful person.”

  “He was. Philip survived too. The King has made him Lord Marshall.”

  “He has a family doesn’t he?”

  “All well and happy to see him home safe.”

  “And Walter?” Zilla gazed at the canvas of the mess tent.

  “He’s fine too. I was with him the entire time.”

  “Did he have to fight?”

  “He did and he was very brave.”

  “Was he wounded?” she asked with a catch in her voice.

  “Not a scratch.”

  Zilla almost fainted with relief.

  “Come and sit down,” said Robain, noticing her white face. “I’ve got something to tell you, a story which began over a year ago and before even then.”

  Robain sat down on a nearby chair and patted the one beside it.

  “I should get back to my ward.”

  “Your patients can do without you for a little longer. Come. Sit.”

  After she was settled, Robain began.

  “Once upon a time there was a Prince …”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 5

  Fifth Month of Summer - Rakrhed

  Rilla

  Rilla and Zawlei topped the well-remembered hill that overlooked the sprawling buildings of Dunetown and stopped. Rilla was reluctant to go any further.

  : I don’t want to :

  Zawlei was adamant.

  : You must :

  : Mother and Father might not know yet : she fretted. The casualty notices had been leaving Settlement for a number of tendays now, carried over the miles by the Express to most if not all, of the towns and villages and to many crofts and farmsteads as well.

  The cost of victory had been a high one for Argyll. Half the Garda were gone and a
full third of the Militia.

  Nadala had given Rilla permission to break her journey (the First Ryzck were on their way to take up their patrol sector along the coast) and to visit her parents.

  Her new uniform tunic still felt tight around her neck and she still felt self-conscious in the maroon and silver rather than cadet maroon and white.

  : Let’s get it over with : she decided at last and Zawlei began to pick his way down the hill towards the inn.

  Zawlei kept to a walk. He had reasoned that it would not be fitting to run in at speed on a sad occasion such as this.

  Thus it was that Zawlei came to a halt at the main door of the inn and in front of a silent group of inn servants. Her father stood to one side but Rilla’s mother was nowhere to be seen. He looked tired and his eyes were red-rimmed.

  “Father,” Rilla greeted him.

  “Daughter,” he answered, “you are safe. We did not know. You aren’t wounded?”

  “Only a scratch,” she said and slithered off Zawlei’s back. She winced as her left foot hit the ground, it was only a scratch when compared with the wounds others had suffered but it still hurt when she tried to put her weight on it.

  Talan noticed but said nothing.

  “We heard about your brother and sisters,” he informed her in a curiously even voice. “There’s hardly a family in the town that hasn’t lost someone. The notices said that all three died bravely.”

  “Where’s Mother?” asked Rilla.

  “Upstairs, crying. I can’t get her to stop crying.”

  “Can I go to her?”

  He nodded. “Call me if you need me. I’ll see to your Lind, Zawlei is it not?”

  “Zawlei, this is my Father.”

  “Pleased meet you,” said Zawlei, inclining his head in greeting.

  “Go on Rilla,” insisted Talan, “I’m not angry with either of you any more. I’m just happy to see you here safe and sound. I’ve lost too many of my children to let past differences come between us. Go to your Mother.”