Immortal Defiance

by Laura Maybrooke

  Myoden held out his hand to her. His smile was wide.

  “Come, my lady.” Excitement saturated his voice.

  Dulcea took his hand, stepping out of the circle, and at once her powers flowed back into her.

  Wondrous power crackled at her fingertips, raw and unrestrained. It was strength at its purest; power unlike any she had ever known. Dulcea doubted even the Council at the enchanters’ White Tower had ever witnessed such limitless force. The moment was fleeting, however, and the strange power surge soon faded, dropping to a more comfortable level.

  “That’s amazing!” She grinned at him, too preoccupied to notice him still holding her hand.

  “It worked, then? You are back at full strength?” He gave her fingers a slight squeeze.

  “Yes.” Bemused, she looked down at their linked hands but did not let go.

  His powers were astounding. Dulcea stared at him in awe, not knowing how long a time passed. Lelani cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable at their display of familiarity, and Dulcea let go. It was only as the priestess’s expression eased that another thought came to her. Perhaps it was not just Myoden’s lack of propriety toward her that had Lelani so distressed. There had always been something special in her smile that she reserved only for Myoden. Dulcea felt awful. That man… Why did he have to be so blind?

  “Hello, my lady.” Nemnyan peeked his head in from the open doorway. “You are back?”

  “Nian, lovely to see you!” She gave an exaggerated laugh, grateful for the interruption.

  “We have lifted the curse,” Lelani said. “She is herself again.”

  Dulcea nodded. “This is true. I feel better than in a long time. She and Myoden are amazing.”

  The smith grinned, clapping his hands together. A healthy glow of excitement suffused his face, rivaling the brilliance of his copper hair. Myoden coughed, looking both embarrassed and ecstatic. Lelani curtsied to her and then bid her goodbye, leaving her alone with the two generals.

  “Do you yet recall anything new?” Nemnyan asked.

  Her stomach dropped. Dulcea knew he meant well, but she wished he was not so eager.

  “No, nothing.” She sighed. Shame for deceiving her friends burned in her core.

  She exchanged a few more words with Myoden and Nemnyan, taking comfort in their camaraderie, but it was not long before Dulcea grew to mind the indecency of it. She was wearing naught but a thin white robe, her feet bare and her body nude under it. The day was almost over; the hour edging to darkness.

  At Myoden’s insistence, she left the two men to clean up after the purification ritual and walked the short distance to her private tent, accompanied by a few guards.

  Chapter 15

  Old Faces and New

  The following morning Dulcea, Myoden, and Nemnyan took wing with the Adegan Clan and started on the long, grueling journey eastward. The River Sithra ran for almost two hundred and fifty miles between the two Caerynian camps. It was a distance the golden dragons could conquer in five to six hours, depending on the weather. Dulcea’s plans were to lunch and confer with her generals, after which she was to speak to the people of East Ford. It would take her the better part of the afternoon, she supposed, considering the five hours she had spent at the task the previous day. Afterward, they were to sleep at East Ford and then return west.

  It was rare for none of the generals to be present at camp. Dulcea could not remember a time when they had last all been absent. Lord Gerridov, who had been an aide to Lady Pendralyssa before her death, was at present the camp commander in the west. He was a shrewd, sharp-eyed man: well capable of upholding order while Dulcea and her generals sojourned elsewhere.

  Tarim rushed out of the War Tent to meet them, a wide grin on his boyish face. The young king was turning eighteen in less than a month’s time, and Dulcea was proud of the man he had become. Gone was the lanky pale-faced boy: at the cusp of adulthood the young man was tall, fit, and tanned from his years of war, exercise, and outdoor life. Dulcea had watched him grow from a boy to a man and held a genuine affection for him, despite their sometimes stormy friendship.

  The king ushered them inside the War Tent, exclaiming for Haden to see who he had brought.

  A pale-haired man in his early forties stood up, inclining his head at them. Contrasted with Tarim’s giddy excitement, his reaction was almost indifferent, but it did not fool Dulcea for one moment. Haden did not always do so well with first impressions, but he more than made up for it on closer acquaintance.

  ---

  Dranmore, Camp Fort Izar. Mating Earth Moon (summer season 7092).

  The sixth year of the Rebellion.

  They returned to Dranmore without an alliance.

  Avarea remained under Sarusean hold and would so continue until the end of King Endrad’s reign. It was not yet fall, but after the heat and dry warmth of the deserts even the late summer of Dranmore’s pleasant climate felt almost chilly. Nothing, however, was as cold as the self-accusations in Dulcea’s mind.

  Dulcea stared out of the window, resting her chin in her hands and her elbows on the damp stone of the windowsill. The tent sea of Fort Izar spread for miles around the old watchtower, vanishing into the distance.

  Myoden cleared his throat. “No one blames you.”

  Hai’Mezene nodded in agreement, but before he could say anything, loud footsteps echoed from the narrow staircase leading up to the generals’ conference room. A few moments later, the rangy figure of their young king occupied the arched doorway. A pale-haired man wearing swan gray under a polished battle armor followed him into the room.

  Dulcea rose. Myoden and Hai’Mezene glanced at each other.

  “The protocol, Tarim.” She frowned. “You know the rules, and you know why.”

  They had agreed amongst themselves not to bring strangers into the generals’ conference room. Even if they happened not to be in a meeting, the room contained plenty of maps and strategy lists that would harm their cause if caught in the wrong hands. Sealed chests and locked drawers were no obstacles for a thief.

  The youngster grimaced. “Sorry. I’ll vouch for him.”

  Dulcea gave the man a wary look. “And… who is this him?”

  “I am Haden.” He inclined his head in a way that was likely meant to be courteous.

  “That’s the mercenary leader, lass.” Hai’Mezene’s whisper was only a touch quieter than his normal voice, and Dulcea cringed at it.

  Ah, Haden. His reputation preceded him. Haden was the leader of the local mercenary group and known as much for the reach of his sword arm as for his shrewd business sense. Dulcea had never dealt with him in person before, but she knew some in the army who allied with his men for company and games.

  The man’s intrusive gaze lingered on her. “Stopped wasting time at last, did you? The news say you came back without an alliance.”

  Dulcea startled, taken aback by such a direct comment. Myoden’s expression darkened, but it was Tarim who reacted first.

  “Whoa!” The blond-headed youth raised his hands in the air. “I didn’t sign up for this!”

  Haden scoffed. “Don’t get your breeches in a bunch, boy. I didn’t come here to quarrel.”

  Hai’Mezene rose to his full height. At six-foot-two, he towered over everyone in the room, including Haden, but the mercenary leader showed no fear.

  The barbarian crossed his arms. “What business have you with the lady?”

  Haden pulled out a letter from under the midriff sash of his armor, waving it at Dulcea.

  “A little bird told me you were getting nothing done. Here.”

  Dulcea bristled. “What’s in the letter?”

  “My official pledge to your cause. It’s time we took Caeryn back.”

  Myoden made a frustrated sound. “This is not some mercenary army. We cannot pay you.”

  Haden shrugged. “Don’t worry about that.”

  Hai’Mezene uncrossed his arms, but his stance remained tense. “What kind of mercenary are yo
u?”

  “We already got ourselves a benefactor.” Haden clapped Tarim on the back, surprising him. “A few months ago, while the lot of you were in Avarea, I saved the life of this young man in battle. Since then, he has taken it on his conscience to repay me for my valor with his friendship. Well, that… and a hefty reward for my services from the royal Sraeynian treasury when the war is over.”

  Dulcea frowned, unsure what to think of the mercenary leader’s comment.

  “Pardon me, but… do we have some agreement here that I am not aware of?”

  He shook his head. “No, not between you and me, girlie. It’s to this young man here to whom you owe your thanks.” He tapped his cheek. “We’ve all a home and a warm bed, perhaps a woman, too, waiting for us at the end of the road. That promise drives us to fight. We’ll get our reward at the end.”

  “Don’t let him rob you blind, Tarim.” Dulcea rolled her eyes.

  The teenager ran a hand through his messy blond hair. “Wait! What? Earlier, you were kidding about the royal treasury, weren’t you, Haden?”

  The mercenary leader guffawed. “As much as you were about feasting for a fortnight next summer at your eighteenth birthday, my good king.”

  Tarim looked horrified.

  “Oh, man! Saron will talk my ear off for this!” His shoulders sagged.

  The mercenary laughed. “Chin up, boy. At least I left you your castle.”

  ---

  To the surprise of many, Haden and Hai’Mezene had formed a fast, strong friendship between them in the months since the mercenaries had joined the Caerynian army. Haden began attending their meetings first as an observer—and then later as a full-fledged participant. There was no contract in effect between them, only a dubious agreement between Tarim and Haden, but no one seemed to pay it the slightest attention anymore.

  Haden had carried the knowledge about Grom and the title of a general for the last half a year, and his skills were beneficiary to the cause. He was a brilliant tactician, perhaps the best of Dulcea’s acquaintance. He governed his men with an iron fist and knew how to handle fights and disputes. No one in his line-of-command questioned his authority.

  Dulcea glanced around herself.

  “Where’s the Chief?”

  “Um.” Tarim’s posture slumped. “In his tent. He’s… feeling a little under the weather.”

  Dulcea raised an eyebrow. “Hai’Mezene is?”

  “Yeah.” Haden nodded. “Charilla-Mae’s letter reached him this morning. His youngest son’s just over two years of age now; he’s never seen him to this day, and his eldest is becoming skilled at the bow.”

  Dulcea’s expression fell. “It must pain him to miss all that. He’s a wonderful father.”

  ---

  Miranma, near Desert Rocks oasis. Cold Winter Moon (winter season 7090 - 7091).

  The fourth year of the Rebellion.

  The soothsayers had predicted the lunar eclipse to take place on the new year’s first night. Three attack teams approached the oasis of Desert Rocks. In the north, the Qu-Seradh Mountains and the Upper Wind River blocked all escape. They had posted a supporting attack team beyond the river, but they did not expect to have to deploy the archers for this battle. The cool winter night misted their breath, but the cold and the creeping fatigue were the furthest away from anyone’s mind.

  Dulcea observed the Sarusean watch fires burning in the narrow valley formed between the tall rock pillars. The place Captain Raiven had chosen for his refugee army was strange: the site was a death-trap. In the darkness, there was little hope of escape for the Saruseans. The only question was of the damage they could inflict before their capture.

  A sudden lull settled over the Caerynian fighters. Dulcea raised her gaze to the sky, her silent gasp lost in the collective murmur of wonder. She pressed a hand to her chest. She was not superstitious, but lunar eclipses were still always unnerving. All Caerynian cultures kept calendar by the moon, and to see the night devour the full moon upset their trust in Lady Lunara’s invincibility. What if this time the moon never returned?

  Dulcea forced her gaze away from the empty place where only a dull coppery shadow revealed the missing moon and ordered the three teams to attack.

  The Saruseans, startled and surprised by their sudden appearance, gave little resistance, and the fight ended not even ten minutes later. Dulcea walked through the masses of people, huddled together at the Caerynian soldiers’ feet. Her step faltered. Myoden and Lady Pendralyssa approached her. Even in the near darkness Dulcea could see the shame and horror on their faces.

  Myoden’s voice was rough. “We’ve done a terrible thing. You had better come with us.”

  “What is it? Did you find the captain?” She matched her stride to his hurried footsteps.

  “Well…” The priest glanced at Lady Pendralyssa, and neither said anything more.

  They guided her to the center of the Sarusean camp: both a picture of humility as they took log seats by a watch fire, requesting her to do the same. Dulcea perplexed about what to make of the situation as she sat down with them.

  Dulcea fixed her gaze on the people before her, trying to decide whom to address. She was nothing short of astonished to recognize a familiar face. She clamped a hand over her mouth. On the ground before the fire, nursing his sore right arm, sat the man she had met in Sheliath on her way out of the Black Seagull tavern. He looked at her with endless distaste: the sharp features of his face distorted into an angry frown.

  Shock and humiliation made her blood run cold. Dulcea was not sure how she knew who he was, but something in her heart told her the truth.

  A strange thing had happened in Sheliath less than a month back. Dulcea had traveled there to meet Chief Hai’Mezene, both with an interest in forming an alliance. She had met and talked with him, only to learn later the man had not been Hai’Mezene at all. She and the barbarian chief had exchanged letters afterward, but because of their strained and infrequent communication, Dulcea was yet to convince the man to meet her. A burning sense of panic settled in her breast.

  “Hai’Mezene?” she asked, praying to all the gods she did not even believe in that she was wrong.

  “I spit on your name, Lightbringer!” The barbarian brushed off dirt and twigs from his long black hair with his good left hand. “What do you mean, stabbing us in the back like this?”

  Dulcea stared at him in disbelief. Her stomach dropped, and she found it difficult to breathe. Myoden pressed a calming hand on her shoulder.

  Her heart sank. They had erred. All their spying and investigating had been in vain: Captain Raiven eluded them still. Dulcea felt like a fool, acting on so much gossip and hearsay without confirming the evidence. It sat even less well with her that she could not find any explanation within reason for the things a select few had witnessed. If true, it painted the barbarian chief and all that he represented in a questionable light.

  Dulcea hesitated. Whatever her own feelings, they had attacked innocent men, women, and children.

  She bit her lip. “Chief Hai’Mezene, on behalf of us all: I am so sorry. The day that I have disgraced myself this way and shamed all who support me, is a day that no good man should ever forget. We never meant to harm you or your clan.”

  He scowled, stroking his goatee. A young girl of perhaps five years of age disengaged herself from her mother’s arms and threw herself at him, clinging to his leg. Her dark, frizzy hair—once pulled up in pigtails but now half loose and wild—cascaded down her back in a river of thick, curly hair. They did not need the moon to see the tears that streaked her face.

  “Pa! Papa!” The child buried her face into his pant leg and cried without control.

  The barbarian chief gave them a hard stare.

  “Shh, dolly. Your papa’s okay,” he said to the little girl in their native tongue, patting her hair with a compassionate hand. “These people just made a mistake. They didn’t mean to harm your ma or your pa.”

  The girl looked up at her father, her d
ark eyes full of adoration. Her cries lost their volume and strength. Dulcea watched Hai’Mezene comfort his young daughter, on his lips that reassuring smile only a father possessed. Out of nowhere, she felt her own eyes watering and had to bite back a sob.

  “Your momma will take care of you. Go take your mother’s hand, sweetheart.” He gestured toward the shapely, pregnant woman who gave her husband a shy smile.

  “I suppose we both have things to explain…” Dulcea watched the child race back to her mother’s awaiting arms, feeling a pang of something unnamed. “We made a mistake, I’ll own to that, but the evidence suggested that yours was a Sarusean camp. We didn’t realize—”

  Hai’Mezene looked offended at her remark and sniffed in indignation.

  “It’s a tradition. We’ve always gathered here. This is where we come to hunt and meet friends.”

  The chief explained their customs. From his narrative, Dulcea realized her actions against the alleged Sarusean threat had led to them intruding on the preparations for the barbarians’ Winter Meet: a huge, clan-wide gathering. Desert Rocks was where the barbarians held their biennial big event, and Hai’Mezene’s clan as the hosting tribe had arrived a month early to prepare the site in advance.

  “I understand now.” Dulcea swallowed. “And I apologize.”

  The barbarian glowered, giving her a dirty look. Dulcea burned with shame but did not look away. The bead chains in his hair reflected the firelight, distracting her. She cleared her throat.

  “I met a man in Sheliath who claimed to be you,” she said. “You cannot fathom my surprise and worry upon learning that you and I had never met.”

  “What do you mean? This is news to me.” The chief raised his brows. “I got a note from you, asking me to wait in the tavern. It said you would be late. Then you never showed up, and one of your men told me to wait for a new invitation. And now you’re here, before we had even discussed a new date.”

  Dulcea clasped her hands together, feeling confused. This tale was not at all what she had expected.