Upon the Flight of the Queen

by Howard Andrew Jones

  “Thank you, Donahla.” The commander left off her spell and the squire fell silent.

  Tesra studied them both as Synahla paused, wondering when they’d revert to their previous opinion. But their expressions remained clear, if troubled. Could it be that Synahla hadn’t just temporarily altered them, but affected some kind of permanent change? Was that even possible?

  “Squires,” the commander said, “it is never easy to hear bad news. And it is doubly hard when you learn those you admired have failed you. It was right and proper to revere your leaders. But you couldn’t know their weaknesses. Kyrkenall is a drunk, who was almost exiled from the corps many times. The Altenerai command ignored and excused his terrible habits for too long, and innocents have paid the price. As for Varama, well, she was always a strange one, far more interested in her studies than her duties. When the queen asked her to put aside her self-indulgent researches to aid the Mage Auxiliary, she fled the city. From notes Rylin left, I think it’s fairly clear that he jealously craved attention and probably thought a grand apostasy could win him some measure of glory.”

  Tesra had heard nothing of Rylin’s notes. What else might he have said in them?

  Synahla continued: “The unfortunate squires deceived by these traitors may yet learn to see through their lies and rejoin our ranks. Remember. When you seek glory for yourself, rather than for your state, you are one step closer to failure. Follow the oaths you yourselves have sworn. And above all things, put your trust in the queen. There are strange and terrible challenges to be faced. But under her guidance, we will overcome them all. Thelar, you may assume command.”

  Synahla stepped to her side as Thelar walked to the stage edge and addressed the audience. “Squires! You will meet me on the practice field at the tenth bell. That leaves you less than a quarter hour to get into your training gear. Elik, move them out!”

  “Yes, sir! You heard your commander! Fall out!”

  Despite Elik’s continued shouting, the squires knew their business already, for they moved quickly and orderly for the exits. Thelar trailed after, apparently content to watch Elik put them through their paces. Perhaps he was appraising the fifth ranker’s abilities.

  Synahla watched until most of them had departed, then turned a satisfied smile upon her adjutant. “You sensed what I was doing?”

  How had the commander known? “There was almost no sign.” Tesra didn’t attempt to conceal her awe. “How did you manage it?”

  Synahla shrugged one slim shoulder with false modesty. “I’ve been practicing. It’s possible to draw upon the hearthstones and absorb a little bit of their strength for longer than I’d previously believed.”

  “It’s not just that. It’s … you changed their very minds. How did you do that?”

  “Again, I have practiced.”

  But where, and with whom, and for how long? Tesra didn’t press further, because she sensed she wouldn’t get a real answer. One question, though, had to be pursued: “Why did you do it? Wouldn’t it have been better to have won them over with the strength of your arguments?”

  Synahla smiled drolly. “Their opinions were dogged and dangerous. And we’re short on time.”

  “Will they … stay changed?”

  “I believe so. Though I may need to meet with them a few more times to be sure. Why does this bother you? They were in the wrong, and they were the ones responsible for most of the grousing. This is better than kicking them out of the corps, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Synahla sighed. “What’s wrong? Breath of the goddess. Don’t you dare question my ethics.”

  Tesra had privately been doing that very thing, because mages weren’t supposed to wield magic against unwilling targets unless they were foes.

  “If we aren’t careful, they will be our enemies,” Synahla continued. “Their objections had to be stifled before things grew worse.” Her commander looked at her sidelong. “Or is that not it? Does that look have something to do with Rylin again?”

  “A little,” Tesra confessed, although she hadn’t currently been thinking about that particular part of Synahla’s speech. The exalt had turned her from one troubling subject to another. “You said there were notes about his desire for glory. I didn’t know that.”

  Synahla flapped a hand dismissively. “That was just a bit of improvisation.”

  So she’d lied? “He didn’t leave any notes?”

  “He might as well have. Clearly he was desperate to impress Varama and the other rebels. He was too easily influenced by the wrong people. Weak.”

  Tesra was struck by the irony that Synahla asked everyone to follow her and the queen without question, while criticizing others for obeying orders.

  “You can take a lesson there. Be careful who you follow. If you hadn’t trusted Rylin, we’d never have believed that nonsense about his wanting to join the Mage Auxiliary. He flashed his pretty eyes and you fell in bed with him. Dragging all of us with you.”

  Tesra felt her cheeks flushing. That wasn’t exactly how it had happened.

  Synahla continued, over-justifying. “You do understand that we’d have achieved the same results with those squires if I hadn’t taken a shortcut? It just would have taken time we can’t really afford.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t look convinced.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “That’s good. Because,” she said, “I think you’ve seen I can be very convincing.”

  Was that a threat? Synahla laughed lightly, suggesting that she only teased.

  Tesra forced a smile, feeling ghastly. “Yes. Yes, I’ve seen.”

  “Come. There’s work to do.” And so saying, she led the way to the door. Tesra glanced back once at the empty chamber, and brave Jessaymyr charging against her shadowy mosaic foes, then followed her commander.

  3

  Dragon Lord

  Asrahn had drilled any number of lessons home to Rylin over those long years as a squire, and one choice statement came back to him as he paused before the battered and broken doors of the citadel. “The Naor don’t think you’re human.”

  The first time he’d heard Asrahn say that, the legendary Master of Squires had been lecturing first rankers on the practice field. It was a morning only a few months after Rylin had qualified for admission, and Asrahn had been uncharacteristically trenchant.

  Though no one would ever have described the Master’s instruction methods as gentle, his manner was usually a model of dignified restraint. Not so that day.

  At that time the Naor war had been under way for two years, and N’lahr was riding toward Kanesh. Asrahn was training his unseasoned squires to follow as quickly as possible.

  The older man was as immaculate as ever, from his polished boots to his well-worn but clean khalat, to his short brown hair, going to gray. He stopped in front of priggish Thelar, his weathered face heavy with a scowl. The hook-nosed squire nervously licked his lips and struggled for composure before his taller elder.

  “You grew up in Alantris, didn’t you, Thelar?” Asrahn’s question might as well have been an accusation.

  Thelar answered quickly. “Yes, Alten.”

  “A city boy?” The way Asrahn asked this, he might as well have been accusing Thelar of child abuse, temple desecration, and propositioning the queen.

  Thelar gave Asrahn the confirmation he seemed to want. “Most of the time, sir.”

  “Taught that all men and women are equal, each presented with a divine spark, and sometimes a gift as well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Asrahn stepped away, back straight, hands clasped behind his khalat. His head turned and he met the eyes of the squires lined before him one by one. “The Naor don’t see it that way. If you’re not from their chiefdom, then you’re an obstacle to be cut down. If you surrender, the best you can hope for is enslavement. Male squires, though, are a special prize.” His voice sharpened. “They like to tear the hearts from you. They think their bloodthirsty g
ods consume the beating hearts of warriors. Let me be clear.” He stepped up so that his face was thrust beside Thelar’s. “They do their best to keep you alive while they’re ripping your heart from your body.”

  To his credit, Thelar showed no obvious reaction, although Rylin noticed sweat beading his high forehead.

  Asrahn stepped past Thelar and his eyes drifted over two lovelies: Gyldara, a blond woman strikingly beautiful, and Tesra, smaller, pretty, dark-haired and buxom. “They don’t kill female squires. Don’t count them as warriors. They use them for breeding stock. At least once. So you’d live for nine months the prisoner of some Naor king, which is better than being passed around the camps like any other non-prized woman. Your child, blessed with Naor blood, would be human, but you would never be. No. Sooner or later you’d end up on an altar, too.”

  “How can they … do that?” Tesra’s voice was husky with disgust.

  “Rape, you mean?” Asrahn asked.

  It was a filthy word. In the realm of Erymyr and its allies, forced intercourse was such an astonishing social taboo that it was almost unheard of, and, like murder, certain to result in banishment or death.

  “Are you uncomfortable with the word, Squire?” Asrahn asked. And then, surprisingly, he repeated it. “‘Rape’?”

  Tesra blinked long lashes, clearly affronted. Rylin wondered why Asrahn was conducting himself in such a mannerless way.

  “You should be uncomfortable, Squire!” Asrahn stepped back and his voice rose. “If you ride out expecting quarter, you’re in for a rude awakening. The Naor look on their own women as lesser beings, good only for labor and rutting. The Ushlekt clan routinely cuts the tongues from girls when they’re born. Less trouble to remind them to be silent.” He paced along the line, and Rylin made the mistake of meeting his eyes before looking straight ahead.

  Pass me up, he silently prayed. Go on to Lasren on my right. Go on.

  The Gods didn’t hear, for Asrahn halted and faced him. “It wasn’t so long ago the Naor spent most of their time squabbling over their own miserable little realms and splinters out there in the ass end of creation. All we had to worry about was an occasional raid. It kept our ancestors sharp. Do you know what changed, Squire Rylin?”

  “Mazakan, sir.” He’d quickly learned never to hesitate when Asrahn or any other alten asked him a question or gave a directive.

  “You’ve just told me what any child over two knows. Is that how you plan to report should some shortsighted alten be so foolish as to send you on a scouting mission?”

  “No, sir.” Damn. This wasn’t going well.

  Asrahn’s gray eyes narrowed. “Then provide specifics, succinctly! Strive for precision.” He turned to Rylin’s neighbor. “You.”

  “Yes, sir. Mazakan and his elder brother fought their way to the top of their own tribe and mastered it,” Lasren answered.

  “Too vague.” Asrahn stepped passed Lasren to Sogahl, a lanky squire with astonishing endurance but no great aptitude. “How?”

  “Um. His brother was a weaver, and Mazakan was a clever warrior, and they conquered a bunch of other tribes. One after the other.”

  “Passable. Speak with more authority. Unless you’re guessing. You’re not guessing, are you?”

  “No, Alten.”

  Rylin would have said much the same as Lasren and Sogahl, and without hesitation, if Asrahn hadn’t interrupted. But then, just as Asrahn had stated only a few minutes before, every child was acquainted with the information they had presented.

  Asrahn walked on down the line. “Mazakan. The fearless leader of half a million. The god emperor. Now he could convince the other Naor, by fire and sword, that they were all human, under him. Any ‘kings’—keep in mind they call any ruler of a Naor village, no matter how small, a ‘king’—who didn’t bow to his laws had his heart taken for the olech. The sacrifice of blood to benefit those in power.” He paused for effect and turned to face the line. “But we will never be fully human in their eyes. They want our lands. They want our homes. They want our bodies to bring them pleasure and to work their unwanted tasks. And they want our hearts for their fires. But most of all they want to eradicate us as unholy offenses to the proper order of the universe.”

  Asrahn paced back toward him. “We are beneath contempt. Our men without beards are womanish, unmanly. Our women are exotic chattel. Our children vermin.”

  “Commander N’lahr said we should respect them, sir,” Lasren said.

  Asrahn’s head turned very slowly. His voice, despite being suddenly softer, was somehow more ominous. “Did I say anything about respect, Squire?”

  “No, sir. But—”

  “Did I ask for your input?” Asrahn’s voice rose.

  “No, sir.”

  “Everyone: seventy push-ups!” he snapped. “And the last one done gets fifty more!”

  Rylin dropped with the others, planted his hands in the dirt, and launched quickly into push-ups, privately cursing Lasren. Clearly the old man was in no mood for a conversation.

  Asrahn’s voice was a whip crack. Rylin saw his boots pass his line of vision as the Master of Squires strode once more to the right. “They don’t value life as you do! They don’t care about your morals, or your books, or your plays, or your poems. They don’t care about your culture, or laws! They won’t think like you. They’ll not hesitate to take actions you would never contemplate! So don’t you forget that when you face them!”

  Rylin could no longer remember who’d ended up with fifty extra push-ups, only that it hadn’t been him. But he did remember the lecture. It was only after being deployed along the border of Kanesh and facing the enemy had he understood what Asrahn really meant. The Naor had a completely different worldview inherited from birth. Not only did they treat others as less than human, they were reckless with their own forces, sending them forward in great masses despite crippling losses. Their commanders sacrificed their men and themselves in numbers the Allied Realms refused to contemplate.

  It had taken the battlefield genius of N’lahr to counter those vast Naor numbers. He had lured the enemy into death traps that slaughtered enough troops that even the Naor had paled and withdrawn. Unable to face them on an equal battlefield, N’lahr had changed the way the war was waged, and he had won.

  But now he was gone. The Naor remained in fear of him, but that fear seemed a pale rendering of the original. N’lahr’s most talented pupil, Aradel, had perished in battle with the Naor only yesterday. Who was left to counter them? The other Altenerai were fantastic warriors, but the nearest thing left to a great troop leader was Enada. And her cavalry focus would be little help in the forested mountains around Alantris.

  There was no one out there to counter the Naor this time, and inside there was only him. The Gods help them all.

  The evening guttered to a close as Rylin exited the citadel tower. A pile of limp and broken Alantran soldiers was mounded where he’d spoken with Cerai on horseback earlier that day, their limbs draped across one another in the unfeeling embrace of the dead. Glittering in lurid lantern light, a ribbon of blood rolled out from the mangled bodies and armor and twisted along over the cobblestones.

  Farther on, corpse parts projected through the rubble that remained of the innermost wall to the east. The roars from the wyrms he’d heard hadn’t been directed against the citadel itself, only its protective barriers. The Naor probably meant to retain the fortress for themselves; walls could be far more easily rebuilt than the great towers.

  He banked his burning outrage, clenching his fist beside his sword hilt rather than draw the weapon as he neared the Naor soldiers leading horses from the citadel stable. One man dragged a bloody stable girl by the foot toward the corpse pile, uncaring that the dead child’s head clunked against the paving stones with each of the soldier’s strides.

  As Rylin drew closer, the Naor officer overseeing work noticed him. He was tall, his long chin coated with a sparse yellow beard. Like the rest of his group, he wore a long leather jerkin
that hung to his waist, topped by blackened ring mail, and his muscular arms were shielded with metal guards. Despite the obvious rank of the appearance Rylin had adopted, the Naor soldier didn’t come to attention like a squire or soldier in the realms would have.

  “I’ve come for a horse,” Rylin said.

  The Naor was unimpressed. “These are for the general, sir.”

  It was no wonder the general wanted the mounts for himself; these were penarda, the finest in the Altenerai realms, bred for speed, endurance, and intelligence. The general would know that any horses in these stables would likewise have been highly trained as well.

  “I’m taking that one.” He pointed to Rurudan, his tall black.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The soldier didn’t look particularly apologetic.

  “I’m glad you’re sorry, but I have an important message for the general. The horse, now. I will give it to the general myself, in advance of the others.”

  The Naor didn’t seem to like the sound of that very much. “Your name?”

  “Commander Elchin.” Rylin emphasized the first word.

  “Take the horse.” The soldier’s bored tone suggested he was permitting a favor rather than following an order. “I’ll make sure the general has your name.”

  Uncertain as to the appropriate response, Rylin frowned as he headed past. Would the real Elchin have dressed the man down, or did the blue feathers affixed to these men’s helmets denote some prestigious unit, perhaps the personal guard of the aforementioned general or his clansmen?

  He located his own saddle, grabbed a blanket, and found a suitable bridle with snaffle bit and reins. Soon he was mounted and leaving through the citadel’s splintered gates.

  The wails of men, women, and children hung in the night air. Dogs barked. Buildings burned, and the air was thick with smoke clouds reeking of timber and less savory scents.

  Naor soldiers were everywhere, randomly defacing buildings and heaving contents into the streets. They reveled in destruction, carefully smashing heads and limbs from statues they passed. As Rylin rode over the canal circling at the foot of the second wall, he came to a square under an aqueduct where dozens of Alantran citizens were being sorted by Naor soldiery in the glare from nearby blazing market stalls. Rylin halted as one of the Naor smashed a woman in the face with a spear butt. The Naor’s shield mate snatched a screaming toddler the mother had been shielding and raised his sword.