A Crown of Lilies

by Melissa Ragland

  During the coldest nights, even our shelters proved insufficient, and the lot of us huddled together under piles of furs in an attempt to keep warm. Even the gezgin abandoned their wagons, joining us in the lodges to sleep among what relative comfort could be had. Quintin swallowed his Tuvrian modesty to ease the worst of my shivering, wrapping me against his tense but warm frame beneath the collection of our wool blankets. The river froze, and melting snow for our water stores became a part of daily life. Game became more and more scarce, the forest over-hunted by our own hands.

  Wolves were spotted about the perimeter, though with our numbers, they dared not approach. Mothers were warned to keep their children close, and the patrols shot not a few of them. We put their meat and their furs to good use.

  Several died, from sickness or age. That much was the worst of it, my lucid nightmare crashing back down upon me in a cascade of crushing guilt as I oversaw their meager burials, stacks of river stones piled as cairns atop their bodies on the frozen ground.

  Finally, after months of misery, when it seemed the bitter cold would never end, the snow began to melt. The first reasonably warm day felt like a celebration. Sunlight splashed through the barren treetops, scattering the encampment with light. We all tossed our furs aside, basking in the faint promise of spring. Quintin and I resumed our morning sparring, and soon our cluster of students reappeared. Amita dug out the last of the weapons from the armory, and targets were woven from leftover courses of thatch.

  When the final remnants of winter had given way to spring and the trees budded with new leaves, we rode to the southeast to see how the fort had fared. Sitting atop our mounts just inside the tree line, we took in the scene. Persica’s numbers had swelled, siege engines brought in or built in the months we’d spent huddled in our lodges. Catapults had carved deep scars in the battlements, the golden sun of Adulil fluttering high above in the breeze, a steadfast taunt to the masses below. Siege towers hovered just out of bow range on every side. Quintin put their number somewhere near five thousand. I tried not to despair, but it was difficult.

  Riders came and went from my family’s manor in the distance. The enemy command had taken it as their headquarters rather than burn it. I tried to be thankful. The beast coiled and uncoiled in my chest.

  Soon, I promised, and it fell silent. I crawled in my skin until the next supply convoy arrived. Selice was not among them, but Colin brought welcome news. The western provinces were on the move.

  “How long?” I pressed.

  He hesitated. “We should be at full force by the start of summer.”

  My face fell. “Summer?” I exclaimed unhappily. He nodded solemnly. I swore at him. “They won’t last until summer!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said with genuine regret. “It’s the best we can do.”

  I walked the woods in thought for the remainder of their visit, isolating my foul temper from everyone around me. Quintin gave me my space, content to keep tabs on me from afar. Even if Reyus stretched, the supplies we’d provided were only meant to last through the early spring. If the western army didn’t even march until early summer, it could be the solstice before they reached Laezon. My men, and Reyus’ men, would starve if they weren’t overrun first.

  I refused to leave them to die.

  He was waiting at the main cook fire, whetting his blades, when I approached. With a look, he knew my mind. Standing and sheathing his sword, he regarded me with his steely gaze.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “Theria.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “First light.”

  He nodded. “I’ll speak with Amita.”

  Chapter 23

  We reached the estate of Ian ben Therus in two days. It was a lonely, empty house, haunted by sorrow. He met us in the courtyard, eyes hollow with the echoes of a father’s grief. They narrowed in recognition as he took in my face. “Miss Elivya?”

  “You swore, once, to aid House Lazerin in its hour of need,” I said plainly, looking down at him from the saddle. “I would ask you to fulfill that vow.”

  It took some convincing. After the brutal death of his son, Lord Therus had retreated to the solitude of his manor to mourn, steadfastly ignoring the Queen’s missives. His two remaining sons, Leon’s elder brothers, listened solemnly as I laid out my request. Young men are ever eager for revenge, but they would not move without their father’s blessing. In the end, with a few harsh words to shame him into action, he relented. His sons, Titus and Brandon, rode out the next morning to call their banners. Theria maintained one of the largest light infantry forces in Alesia, and we needed every man.

  With their word to meet us in the forest in three weeks’ time, we rode south to Caelin. Selice was surprised, to say the least, when we appeared at Lord Ignatus’ doorstep. The Royal Physician ushered us into the study, which had been converted to a war room, and laid out the current state of their forces. A thousand had already arrived from Ulta to the southwest. We’d passed through their encampment as we approached the manor.

  “I need you to give them to me,” I pressed. Selice balked. I insisted. “When the rest have assembled, you can join us in Laezon.” I jabbed my finger at the fort on the map. “These men, my men, won’t last until summer.” They were not all mine, but a good half were, and the thousands lost on the fields outside Litheria still haunted me. She watched me judiciously. “Please,” I begged in earnest.

  For a long, terrible moment, I thought she would refuse. “Alright,” she yielded quietly, looking to Ignatus. “Can you arrange for a supply train on such short notice?”

  He bowed to her, clearly disliking my interruption of their carefully laid plans. “We will do what we can.”

  It was enough. We left the next morning, returning to the forest over the course of another two days. Stephan was a bit surprised when we stopped at the stable camp to inform him of the impending arrivals, but promised to send word as soon as they were sighted.

  “One last thing, my lady,” he called out as I made to leave, uncertainty edging into his voice. “A contingent of Freyjans arrived yesterday. I sent them on to the main camp.”

  Sure enough, our makeshift village was buzzing with activity, encircled by a vast sea of tents and horses, the latter crusted with faded smears of colorful paint in a variety of hues. There were hundreds of them. Our mounts picked their way toward the cluster of lodges and cook fires. Henry rushed over to greet us as I dropped from the saddle.

  “Lady Lazerin!” he exclaimed, taking Valor from me. “Adulil has answered our prayers! They are here to help break the siege!” He beamed at the throng of female faces milling about. Each of them with a scowl to rival Quintin’s, they stood among the refugees fully armored with a variety of weapons on backs and hips. To a woman, their hair was fixed into a cluster of tiny braids, gathered and tied back with a leather thong. It was their size that struck me most, though. Some stood nearer to my own height, but for the most part, they were as tall as any man and broad with it. A few had taken notice of our arrival, and I felt eyes upon me. Uneasy, I rested my gauntleted hand on my sword hilt and was glad to have Quintin at my side. Women, they might be, but these were seasoned warriors. I felt small and weak in their presence.

  “Did you earn that, little girl?” a cold voice rumbled to my left. A tall blonde Freyjan of middling years pressed through her comrades to approach me at the fore. Bits of colorful cloth fixed her braids, a bright red sash secured to the top of her breastplate. Gray-green eyes bored into mine. She was utterly terrifying, towering over me. Quintin made to place himself between us, but I halted him with one hand against his chest and stepped forward to face her myself. The woman nodded to my left arm. “Well?”

  I raised my Freyjan shield slightly, glancing at the lobstered metal plates. Her own was similar, though heavily scarred from years of battle. “Perhaps not, but it suits me better than a regular shield,” I replied honestly, trying to keep my voice steady.

  A chuckle reverberated thro
ugh their ranks. She leaned close. “Would you like to?”

  The entire camp watched as she laid the challenge at my feet. I considered her, a hand span taller and significantly bulkier than myself. At her back, a pair of swords hung in a mimic of Quintin’s own baldric. The way she moved, the way she stood, the traces of scars on what little of her skin wasn’t covered with armor, all of it stood testament to her skill and experience. I knew I had no chance. It didn’t matter. I had my pride, and I had my plans. Who would follow a coward into battle? Better to be bested than branded as such.

  “Perhaps a friendly demonstration?” I grinned coyly at her.

  She leaned back on her heels and laughed. “Friendly, yes!” Her tone indicated anything but. “I like your sense of humor, little flower.” She turned to her companions with a sweeping gesture. “Give us some room, ladies! The girl wants to earn her shield!”

  Bodies shifted, a large space clearing around us. Quintin grabbed my arm, eyes lit with concern. “Are you mad?”

  I turned on him. “Promise me you won’t interfere.” He hesitated. I shoved his chest hard. “Promise me!”

  “I won’t stand by and watch her kill you.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at her. “I don’t think she will.” I wasn’t entirely sure. Tilting my head at him, I raised my brows and forced a smile. “Have a little faith in me, would you?”

  He blew his breath out his nose in something akin to a laugh. “Alright,” he relented.

  I clasped his shoulder reassuringly and handed him my cloak. “This is a terrible idea,” I muttered to myself as I turned to face her. She waited patiently, arms crossed.

  “Did he give you permission?” she taunted, jutting her chin at Quintin. My ego burned, but I couldn’t let her bait me. At the end of this charade, I was still the Lady of Lazerin.

  Assuming I survive.

  Saying nothing, I drew my sword and knife and settled into a stance across from her. She grinned broadly, drawing her own weapons with enthusiasm. “It would be a shame to carve up that pretty face,” she taunted lightly. “Shall we say, first blood?”

  “As you wish,” I replied calmly.

  I held out longer than I’d expected. She rushed me with a fury, her speed a surprise given her size and the weight of her armor. She hammered me ceaselessly with both blades. I deflected and redirected as best I could, but she was overwhelming in her ferocity and I could feel myself slipping, stumbling to keep up as she continued to press. A quick dodge put me inside her guard, but my knife scraped against her armor and my opening was gone in an instant. After that, she made quick work of me, wearing me down with brute strength until my guard faltered and she landed a neat slice on my upper arm.

  I staggered backward, a sharp cry of pain escaping my lips. The Freyjans unleashed a deafening chorus of whooping cheers. My opponent sheathed her blades victoriously, beaming her battle grin at me. My chest heaving, I wrestled my own weapons back into their scabbards and fought the urge to clutch my bleeding arm.

  She offered one hand to me, all malice vanished from her face. “The little flower has thorns!” she bellowed good-naturedly.

  I clasped her forearm in truce and struggled to catch my breath. “You are relentless, General.”

  “It is why they chose me, Lady Lazerin.”

  General Brenna was boisterous and well-loved by her people. My own had made them as welcome as possible, eyeing them hesitantly from afar as Amita handled most of the exchanges. With my return, they deferred once more to me, for which my chamberlain was grateful. The Freyjans were an intimidating bunch. Nevertheless, they were generous and helpful and contributed what they could to the dinner pot.

  Rising to Brenna’s challenge ingratiated me in the eyes of our new company. Though I learned that, having lost, I’d not technically earned my right to wear the Freyjan shield, no one else challenged me on it. I watched them interact around the fire, massive, brawling brutes of women that behaved more like the men at the garrison than any women I’d ever known.

  I winced a bit as Quintin knotted a fresh bandage around my arm overtop Amita’s skillful stitches. “Sorry,” he muttered, finished. Still straddling the log beside me, he caught my eye as he pulled the neck of my tunic back up over my shoulder. “That was exceptionally reckless, even for you.”

  “I know,” I smirked. “But it was necessary.”

  He tilted his head at me. “You did well, considering.”

  I snorted unattractively at that, sarcasm lacing my reply. “Thanks.”

  Izikiel came to check on me, offering a poultice for the pain, which I politely refused. His eyes glinted in the firelight. “You are very much like your father, you know.”

  I raised one brow in surprise. “How so?”

  “He, too, was remarkably stubborn and proud.” He chuckled as he walked away.

  “Am I truly so insufferable?” I protested, turning to Quintin who was trying hard to conceal his own laughter.

  “He means well,” he reassured, a smile peeking through despite his best efforts.

  “You’re far more bull-headed than I am,” I pointed out dryly. “And nobody gives you any grief.”

  Three weeks dragged by, during which we resumed our daily routine. Once the Freyjans saw us sparring, they deigned to join us, spreading out among the trees in small groups. They didn’t need the practice. Every last one of them was born to the sword, just as Quintin was. It was as natural as breathing, to them. A few invited my wheat-haired guardian to join them, and though he initially refused, when he finally did relent, I could tell he was glad for the challenge. Sparring with me certainly offered no contest, and it had been long years since he’d faced an opponent of comparable skill.

  I watched from the periphery as he matched up against one Freyjan after another over the course of several weeks, the stiffness in his shoulders gradually easing as he relaxed into each bout. It bolstered me, to witness their commensurate skill in action. The boisterous warriors of Frii used their shields in a style not terribly dissimilar to my own, though their overall approach to combat was markedly more aggressive than the one I’d been taught. It inspired me to see women hold their own against a man as skilled as Quintin. For his part, my Tuvrian reveled in each contest, sweaty and grinning by the end of every match. They drew a crowd, and Henry was hard-pressed to keep everyone on task during those weeks.

  Will was openly impressed by them and caught the attention of one particular brown-haired fighter. He was a handsome young man, but I think it was his spirit she liked most. He joined her in her tent more nights than not, and the lot of us learned firsthand that Freyjan women are not shy about their conquests, on the battlefield or off it. Despite their uncommon height and build, many of them were rather beautiful with it. It suited them in a way I couldn’t quite identify, lending them a confidence and grace that was deeply alluring.

  My eager young man was not the only one to receive such attentions. General Brenna’s unit had been on the road for long months, and there were plenty of unattached men – and women – among our forest encampment. Even a few of the younger gezgin men allowed themselves a bit of recreation, though it drew disapproving murmurs from their elders and not a few jealous tears from the unmarried girls among their ranks.

  I thought my modest Tuvrian would find it abhorrently offensive, given his long history of denouncing my own liberal activities, but he tolerated it with surprisingly good humor.

  Finally, after a painful wait, scouts from the stable camp announced the arrival of our reinforcements. General Brenna and two of her captains joined us to survey the amassing army.

  “Do you have a battle plan yet?” she asked me pointedly from the saddle, eyes sweeping the clusters of tents sprawling across the fields around our secondary camp.

  “I’d hoped you might help with that,” I replied honestly. We rode out the next day to the southern edge of the forest to gauge the state of the siege. The Persicans had rallied their forces on the southwestern wall, the portcu
llis being the weakest point. A few of the siege towers stood burned on the field and a number of corpses piled around the outer walls, dark clouds of vultures circling overhead. Riders still flitted between the manor and the battlefield.

  Brenna took her time, conferring with her captains at length. I sat silently in my saddle and listened. They deferred to her, certainly, but she took their input to heart as readily as they did hers. From their conversation, it was clear that not only were they fierce fighters in Frii, but also skilled tacticians. When they presented their plan to our assembly of camp leaders and the commanders of the Therian and Ultan forces, it was far better than any I could have thought up on my own.

  Without near cover, we would quickly lose the element of surprise, so we must wait and move into the field under cover of darkness on the next moonless night. Our infantry would darken their skin and armor with soot, to better their odds of crossing the open plain unseen. Dredged from the annals of my rebellious youth, it was the only useful contribution to our strategy that I was able to make.

  My two dozen cavalry and a third of the Freyjan force would emerge from the forest far to the north, drawing the attention of their night watch away from the rest of the army. The other two-thirds of the General’s troops would harry from the opposite flank, sowing confusion long enough for our men to close the distance between the forest and their back line. Beyond that, we had to rely on the fort to supply enough support to turn the tide. If everything went well, their superior numbers would be overwhelmed, pressed on all sides. It was the best we could do, given our limited resources.