Immortal Defiance

by Laura Maybrooke

  She remembered her meeting with Chief Hai’Mezene—not the impostor, but the one who now sat in front of her. She recalled him taking a seat at one of the unoccupied tables, peering around himself as though looking for someone. Dulcea also remembered how the man whom she had at the time assumed to be the chief had risen and joined Hai’Mezene at his table.

  Back then, she had assumed it was because the two men knew each other, but now she realized what must have occurred. The unknown stranger had recognized the barbarian and had posed as a soldier serving under her banner, bringing Hai’Mezene the news of her absence.

  Dulcea gritted her teeth. “I never sent you a note saying I would be late, and neither did I ask anyone to convey such words on my behalf.”

  Hai’Mezene shifted back, as if stupefied, and his eyes widened.

  Myoden made a frustrated sound and rubbed a hand over his face. “None of this makes any sense. This stranger—whoever he was—arranged on purpose for you two not to meet, and yet he told the chief to wait for a new negotiations invitation. If his purpose was to stop this alliance from forming, then why did he tell that to Chief Hai’Mezene? Would it not have been better for you two to part ways, never having met? Both of you missing the other would not have endeared an alliance to either party.”

  “Yes, but you forget…” Lady Pendralyssa pushed her indigo hair behind her ear and sat up straight. “Lady Dulcea thought she had met him and believed he wanted to negotiate. His silence would have concerned her.”

  “True, which begs another question,” Dulcea said, tapping her fingers on her thigh. “If it was not in his best interests to prevent the alliance, then why did he interfere at all?”

  “And,” Myoden said. “His interference served no purpose. It changed not the outcome.”

  Pendralyssa’s expression darkened. “Unless we were the instruments in someone else’s plan.”

  “What do you mean?” Hai’Mezene frowned.

  “Perhaps someone wanted this place attacked.”

  “There’s nothing valuable here.” The barbarian stroked his bearded chin. “Perhaps it is a diversion?”

  Dulcea turned her head so fast to meet Myoden’s gaze that her neck hurt.

  “You don’t suppose…?” She paled.

  “Amparo Darksun would have contacted you,” Myoden said, but his voice was not level.

  Pendralyssa nodded. “Or Tarim. He would have sent a rider. That’s why he remained behind.”

  Dulcea grasped her Golden Staff with rigid fingers, her mind seeking a familiar connection.

  Darksun, are you there?

  Lightbringer? You sound alarmed. Darksun’s reply was immediate. Is something the matter?

  Not with us, no, but are you all right? Is everything all right at camp?

  Not even the wind stirs our peace. Why? Has something gone wrong? Should we come to your aid?

  No, nothing. Just an alarming possibility. Dulcea took a few minutes to explain the situation to Amparo. Say nothing to no one. I do not want them to worry.

  Dulcea sighed. She turned back to face the others. “We’re okay. The camp is safe.”

  Everyone was silent for a moment. There were questions no one seemed to want to voice; questions that needed answering. Lady Pendralyssa cleared her throat, looking disgusted.

  “We have it on good authority that you raided a nearby little village, not even a mile from this site. Jyreu or some such.” She narrowed her eyes. “How do you explain that?”

  Hai’Mezene shook his head, glancing sideways at his wife and daughter. Dulcea following his gaze and noticed that his wife and some other of the tribe’s women had moved to light a cooking fire. They were brewing something in a kettle over it despite the late hour. The chief’s frizzy haired daughter was sitting on the ground, nodding off next to two younger boys.

  “I see. It’s not like that at all.” He rubbed his chin. “You talk of things with no knowledge of them. Bride robbing is an ancient custom. You have no right to judge.”

  Dulcea shuddered, feeling ill at ease. The concept of how the barbarian culture seemed to treat its women sickened her, but it was not her place to criticize the barbarians for their inherited way of life. Lady Pendralyssa, however, did not care to keep her opinions to herself.

  Anger flashed in her violet gaze. “You steal young women to be your slave-wives?”

  “You misunderstand me!” Hai’Mezene squared his massive shoulders, looking affronted. “They are not our slaves! Our purpose in robbing brides for Winter Meet is for young tribesmen to find a willing wife by competing for their favor. They can always choose not to take a husband and return home.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s a great consolation to them.” Pendralyssa turned her nose up in disgust. “And then what, if they happen not to fit your notion of the perfect woman? If they don’t care to slave in front of the fire and bear your children?”

  Hai’Mezene’s nostrils flared. “We may be barbarians, but we are not savages, lady.”

  The high priestess remained unconvinced. She snorted and paid the barbarian no more attention.

  The chief’s stare was unapologetic. “Six years ago, at two and twenty, I competed to gain the favor of my beautiful Charilla-Mae.” His fond gaze flitted for a moment to his pregnant wife. “I wouldn’t have her, or my strong boys, or my lovely little girl without the rites of Winter Meet. Charilla-Mae and I, we have no regrets. I love that woman, and anyone who calls her my slave will suffer for it.”

  The silence that followed was as awkward as it was telling. They would discuss the matter no more.

  Myoden kicked at the hard earth with the tip of his battle boot, raising dust. He coughed.

  He rubbed his neck. “We had an eyewitness account of Sarusean dark mages in the area.”

  Hai’Mezene shook his head. “No, we’ve seen no dark mages here.”

  “This eyewitness is credible. I cannot discount what she saw with any ease.”

  The barbarian quirked an eyebrow at the statement. “And what did she see?”

  “A group of men wearing helmets of Minotaur skulls and capes of animal hide. They spoke a foreign language and did strange rituals. These are all characteristics of mages in the Sarusean army.”

  The chief burst into a laugh. “You’re talking about shamans! They dress in fur and hide and wear headdresses of animal skulls. They are the memory of my people’s history. Their powers allow them to learn the wisdom of spirits.”

  “Shamans.” Dulcea repeated the word with sudden understanding. “Oh.”

  “Have you anything else of which to accuse me?”

  Dulcea, Myoden, and Pendralyssa glanced at each other.

  “No, I suppose not.” Dulcea grimaced.

  “Then time’s a-wasting!” The barbarian slapped his thigh. “We got ourselves an alliance to discuss. Charilla-Mae, the drinks!”

  Dulcea looked up in a wonder. “F-for real?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

  The chief’s wife along with some other of the tribe’s women moved to serve them steaming cups of hot cider. The drink, seasoned with sage and thyme, was a traditional drink of the south, and the barbarians of Miranma shared it at all gatherings. No one ever discussed an alliance without it.

  Hai’Mezene took a hearty gulp of his cider. “I reckon I could scrape together four or five thousand men for you, but only if they make me the Great Chieftain again this coming Winter Meet.”

  Dulcea knew the country’s population was not large, but the estimate still disappointed her.

  Her shoulders sagged. “So few. I had hoped there might have been more…”

  “I suspect you are overestimating both my role and my authority, lass,” Hai’Mezene said with a grim smile. “There is no great unity amongst the barbarian tribes of Miranma. On the contrary: our beliefs, practices, and regions divide us. That is why Winter Meet is important to us. Each time we are a little closer to understanding one another better. Say, how much do you know about Miranm
a?”

  “I have tried to study, but perhaps you should enlighten me as to your meaning.”

  “We are a small country, with not much in the way of population,” he said. “Nobody knows for sure how many people inhabit this land. Some say thirty thousand, others say forty. Our numbers swell and diminish with the seasons. This is the basis of all life in Miranma, no matter which of the three livelihoods you follow.”

  Dulcea frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there are only three ways to live here. There are those who live in little towns, rooted and permanent. They have no real strength to lend you. The nomadic tribes, meanwhile, go where the wind shows them: setting their travels by the season, the weather, and the abundance of game. And then there are us, the barbarians. You may think us warlike and savage. Perhaps you have heard that we are uncivilized and brutal. This is Sarusean bullshit. We are proud of this country and will defend it to our last breath. We get a bad name not because of who we are, but because of what we are not.”

  Myoden nodded. “Independence breeds courage. You cannot buy it, and you can ill fake it. Something tells me you will all be difficult to convince.”

  “The nomads of Miranma bow to no man. There is no allegiance they owe to anyone. They make as much as five to ten thousand of our whole population. The villages, too, stand in isolation and are independent. There is no jurisdiction here, no king or ruler to order them to war. You can get them to join you only as individuals, through campaigning and your own popularity. They make fifteen to twenty thousand people of the country’s population, with more than half of them living in Sheliath as idlers, triflers, and ne’er-do-wells. The life of a barbarian is the third option. We are maybe a good ten thousand people, but we live, hunt, and die in more than a hundred small tribes.”

  “Thank you for your honesty.” Dulcea sighed. “I appreciate whatever help you can provide me, even if I would have preferred your answer to be of a different kind.”

  They sipped at their drinks. No one said anything for a while.

  “Say, how would you estimate the Sarusean population still in Miranma?” Myoden asked.

  “They used to be many, but their numbers have dwindled since the summer,” Hai’Mezene said. “I reckon them perhaps some three or four hundred in Sheliath and a few thousand elsewhere in Miranma.”

  “Does the name Captain Raiven mean anything to you?” Dulcea looked stricken as the chief’s wife moved to fill her empty cup with more hard cider. “We came here chasing after him.”

  “Yes, I know that name. Tall fellow, fair complexion. Had a run-in with him last year; haven’t seen him since. My boys chased him to the Qu-Seradh Mountains but not further. Too much trouble with the Minotaurs: they don’t take well to strangers in their lair. That captain must have gone north. Might have traveled all the way to Dranmore. Traders sometimes use that route.”

  Dulcea glanced at her companions, catching Myoden’s eye.

  “Well then,” the priest said. “Looks like we’re going north!”

  ---

  A half an hour later, the barbarian chief had joined them in the War Tent. He was proud and happy about his wife’s news, but there was sorrow in his eyes. Dulcea hoped it would soon vanish. For him and those in a position similar to his, she would try even harder. Nothing would give her more pleasure than to see him soon get to return home to a family he had not seen in over two years.

  She pushed her plate away. “Here we are then, unsinkable as ever, but let me tell you I have learned my lesson. You will see me trying to shirk my guards no more. This is my duty to myself and to you.”

  Dulcea pretended not to hear the collective sigh of relief.

  “If you would then, Haden.” She nodded at the mercenary leader. “Any news from the dwarves?”

  He sorted through his papers. “No, alas. I have discussed the matter with Lord Itozard, but he does not recall any dwarven halls by the name of Serpent Rocks. We have sent a word to his brother Belizard in Mine Deep, but we are yet to receive a reply.”

  “Do we have access to their legacies?”

  “It’ll take time. Itozard has promised to look, but the books are being kept secure in old dwarven vaults.”

  Tarim leaned his jaw in his hands. “If only you could remember…”

  “If only I could.” Dulcea tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. “I would love for the dwarves to point us in the right direction, but failing that, we must reach a solution ourselves. What we know is that it took the Saruseans somewhere between six and seven hours to get me underground. How far do you suppose we might have gone in that time? Tarim and Hai’Mezene—you’re both proficient with horses. What would you say? What kind of mileage could they cover?”

  The barbarian chief tapped a finger to his chin. “About five miles an hour, with a carriage.”

  Tarim shook his head. “No. That’s ridiculous. It’s closer to four. Lady Dulcea would have been bouncing around in the carriage if bagged and bound, had they been going any faster.”

  “Perhaps we can calculate it as four miles an hour for seven hours on the road?” Nemnyan said.

  “Something like that.” Tarim shrugged. “Besides, if they did not change horses, thirty miles is the most that a two-horse carriage would even go in a day without pushing the horses too far.”

  “We didn’t change horses,” Dulcea said.

  “That settles it then. We’ll look at distances between twenty-five and thirty miles,” Myoden said, “and make allowances for rough terrain where necessary. Would you bring me a map of Usvameer, Haden?” He glanced at the mercenary. “Let us look at the lay of the land.”

  They spent the next thirty minutes poring over various land maps. Usvameer was a large but flat country, with not much in the way of elevation. Between twenty-two and thirty-one miles south, southeast, or east of West Ford, there were eight locations where an underground base might have existed. It would take a good strategy to search them all without risking their position at the river.

  Haden rested his forehead on his hand, staring at the map before him. “It needs to be a simultaneous effort unless we know which target to hit. The land here is old and connects in a lot of places. These rubble hills here,” he said, pointing at the map, “are certain to share an underground tunnel network. Most of them time has forgotten under cave-ins and ruination, but we need to keep it in mind…”

  Dulcea pursed her lips. “Let’s wait to hear what the dwarves say and then make plans as we see fit.”

  “If I may digress,” Nemnyan said. “A word about our traitor and his accomplices. I have ordered the armorers at both camps to inspect all weapons and armor. I gave the order at the pretense of making sure the Saruseans who had a hand in abducting Lady Dulcea did not first strike at our supply chain.”

  “An excellent point. Good thinking, Nian.”

  Dulcea nodded. “Yes. I agree with Myoden. It does not take many men to corrode a crate of arms, but the damage is manifold. We must look to the dealings of those with whom that traitor kept close counsel. I have already placed the servants of House Surinquel under supervision. We also need to start the search for Delbin and his missing accomplices. This is your expertise, Hai’Mezene?”

  “Aye. I will take care of it.” The barbarian grinned. “That turncoat’s got no place to hide.”

  The matter concluded, Dulcea and her generals filed out of the War Tent. A sudden hush settled over the crowd outside, and Dulcea launched into her speech. She spoke for four hours that afternoon, repeating her fabricated story to over one hundred and sixty thousand people. The people at West Ford had been more vocal, more demanding of an explanation, while at East Ford they seemed content with whatever she gave. Dulcea puzzled over this difference until Tarim pointed out that of the camp’s full manpower, most were Sraeynians. His countrymen, the king explained, were honest, god-fearing folk who had no business arguing with a lady, and for whom courtesy and appearance were everything.

  The following
morning, they flew back west, and the dull safety of routine ensnared her once more. The war was at a standstill, but no one could rest idle.

  It felt like the calm before the storm.

  Chapter 16

  Second Meetings

  Two and a half hours more, and it would be First Zephyr’s Day, the third in the month of Strawberry Moon. Dulcea sighed. The first days of the year’s sixth lunation were yet to yield any change. Belizard had sent word from Mine Deep to his brother: claiming he, neither, recognized the place they sought. The dwarves had yet to unearth their tomes from their vaults, but Dulcea dared not hope too much in that regard, either.

  She was tired of disappointment.

  Dulcea stood in a half-secluded corner of her tent, lost in contemplation before her mirror image in the tall, three-paned looking glass. She pressed her fingertips against its cool surface, tracing the alluring elven features reflected on its main pane. It was difficult to merge the warring images in both her mind and the mirror. Dulcea took a deep breath. The world was no different today than it had been a half a fortnight ago, despite her anger at Delbin’s betrayal. Both she and the war were still here, and yet Dulcea felt frazzled and exhausted like never in her life before.

  There should not have been any real reason for her to worry. She was fine, the world still turned, and Hai’Mezene was hot in pursuit of Delbin and his accomplices. These were all facts Dulcea recognized, but it subtracted none from the truth. Anxiety seldom asked for a reason. An attack from either side was imminent, but none of that worried her. She knew the war—it was only the peace which made her restless.

  Dulcea exhaled, resting her head against the sturdy frame of the mirror.

  She could not quite describe the odd sensation that overcame her then.

  She felt it down to the marrow of her bones—that eerie unpleasantness of being watched. The hair at her nape stood on end, and a shudder ran down her spine. Dulcea snapped her head up, but only her own wild eyes stared back at her. Each of the three mirror panes remained empty of threat. She had not heard footsteps or even the chiming of the visitor bell outside her tent. No one should have been in the room with her, but it was hard to dismiss the dreadful certainty that she was no longer alone. She could neither see nor hear him, but his presence was near tangible.