by Liam Reese
“Come here,” Senechul growled, his voice low with desire. “Your Highness.”
The road leading into Vartula was full of heavily-laden wagons and caravans, being pulled up the hill into Gazluth by snorting, panting oxen, with the same going down into the port. Emmerlin and Senechul lost themselves in the crowds of people entering the port and passed through the northern gate without incident. Emmerlin stared at the town, not having been here for years, and saw how different it was from Morantine.
The capital featured numerous buildings that were architecturally pleasing, with marble facades and decorative features that demonstrated the wealth and status of the owner. Vartula, in comparison, was uniformly functional. From the gray cobblestones to the gray stone blocks in the walls of the buildings, the whole town lacked character.
To compensate for the utilitarian nature of their town, the citizens of Vartula were almost all dressed in outrageously bright colors. With easy access to the imported silks and dyes from abroad, tailors here had allowed their imaginations free reign to design and create clashing, jarring color combinations that lifted the depressive atmosphere in the streets.
Emmerlin spotted a group of soldiers in her colors standing almost idly at a crossroads and made for them.
“You there,” she commanded, pointing at them. “Take me to the citadel.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” one asked, stepping forward.
His uniform was stained and wrinkled, he had not bothered to shave properly for days, and Emmerlin could smell the drink on his breath from the back of her horse. “I’m talking to the one who’s soon to be tied to the garrison whipping post having the skin removed from his back,” she said in a deceptively calm tone.
While the apparent leader of the squad was sealing his fate, one of the others had taken a closer look at Emmerlin and then stared at Senechul who peeled back his cloak to free his sword and reveal his royal colors. Trembling and pale, he dropped to one knee as his companions turned to stare at him in astonishment.
“What’s up with you?” the first one asked him.
“P-p-princess Emmerlin,” he said in a shaken voice. “How can I serve, your Highness?”
“Oh, I like this one, Senechul,” Emmerlin said. “He can live.”
Meanwhile, the leader was laughing. “She’s as much a princess as I am!” he jeered. “Look at her. Dirty clothes and muck smeared on her face; she’s more likely a good time girl!”
Senechul leaped from his horse, about to smash the life from the man, but Emmerlin stopped him, gripping his shoulder tightly and feeling the tense muscles there. The second man still knelt as the others in the group began to realize who she was, probably having seen portraits or statues in the citadel, and dropped to their knees as well.
A group of brightly-dressed people had gathered about to see why soldiers were kneeling in the street, and Emmerlin smiled sweetly at them as she dismounted and approached the leader.
Still not convinced of her identity, he watched her come towards him, yellow and black teeth bared in a grin. “You might have these feeble-minded whelps fooled, but I know there’s no way Princess Emmerlin would arrive unannounced, dirty, and with one guard,” he said. “Now sling your hook, before I arrest the pair of you.”
Without saying another word, Emmerlin held her hand out, palm up, and jerked her hand sharply upwards. Gasps and screams of terror erupted around her when the leader exploded up into the air, as if fired from a catapult. The princess watched him disappear up into the sky, his scream fading as he faded from sight.
Around them people scattered, the street emptying within the space of a few heartbeats as people dashed for the nearest building or ran down the road, screaming. The remainder of the squadron still knelt before her, eyes downcast.
“Up you get, gentlemen,” she said, sweetly. “Now, where was the citadel?”
Just as the first to kneel was rising and pointing towards the best way to get to their base, they all looked skyward when a howling sound came to their ears, growing louder by the second.
The leader streaked back down to earth, screaming all the way until his abrupt collision with the ground. His body struck the cobblestone street with such force that his head detached, rolling down the street as the rest of him bounced. He hit with a sickening crunch and wet slapping sound.
Emmerlin looked to where his body had come to rest, his arms out and legs crossed at the ankles, as if relaxing. In fact if not for the blood and lack of head, he could have been having a rest on the ground.
“Citadel,” Emmerlin said, as she remounted her horse. “Now!”
The new leader of the squad stood up, trying to avoid the gory sight of his former senior’s corpse, a small dribble of blood rolling down the hill towards the sea.
“This way, highness,” he said, sprinting off down one of the roads.
General Khaleen reigned in her horse at the top of a rise, dismounting and handing her horse to one of her soldiers. Looking down through the trees into the valley below, she cast her eyes across the mercenary camp.
They look surprisingly organized.
Laid out in neat rows that made streets in the camp were hundreds of tents and log cabins with wide spaces around them. Wood strips and sticks had been laid in the roads to keep mud to a minimum, reminding Khaleen more of one of their military camps than a ragtag band of sell-swords.
The perimeter had been fortified with a palisade wall, thick trees driven deep into the ground and sharpened, limiting access to one main gate that looked to be heavily reinforced. Much of the outer wall and reinforcements, including wooden watchtowers at regular intervals, looked freshly built and newly installed.
Men marched about purposefully, carrying supplies around and building various things. At least two smiths were in operation, their forges belching smoke out into the air as ghostly hammers pounded endlessly against metal.
Khaleen stood behind the tree, watching the mercenaries scurry about for a while before turning to the scout who stood by. “Start estimating numbers,” she commanded. “I need a full breakdown of any force inside that camp.”
The Gazluthian scout nodded, not wanting to salute her and give away her rank if they were being watched, and turned away as the general returned to her horse, leaning on her cane as she went. Mounting easily, Khaleen steered the beast down through the trees and onto the road that would lead her back to her army. Flanked by several soldiers, she urged her mount into a gallop, thundering through the Waravalian countryside.
Rounding the southern edge of a dense pine woodland, she watched the Gazluthian army come into view and grow before her eyes. Similar to the mercenary camp, the Gazluthian army had spread their tents and temporary buildings out along straight roads. There was a main street that ran up the center and numerous side streets.
Khaleen had not bothered with the outer fortification walls on this occasion, as they were not expecting any kind of attack. She thought on the vulnerability of the camp as she rode in and made a note to have the wall dug, especially now that she had seen how organized these mercenaries had become.
At the command tent, she entered and started to issue orders for the earthworks to be dug when one of the lookouts dashed in, saluting and breathing heavily.
“General,” he said between gulps of breath. “The Waravalian army approaches.”
A little tremble of fright wobbled within Khaleen then. The last time she had been near the Waravalian army, they had been trying to kill her and wipe out her troops.
Get a grip, woman! We’re allies now.
“Prepare a welcome fit for royalty,” Khaleen ordered. “Erect another pavilion and furnish it. Have food and drinks on standby.”
Men and women saluted her before dashing off to carry out her orders, while the general herself stepped into the small curtained area set aside for her and started to change into a clean and pressed uniform. Handing her travel clothes to her valet, she made sure her insignia and medals were align
ed perfectly before leaving the tent.
She limped her way to the edge of the camp at almost the exact same time as the King of Waraval reigned in his massive charger.
Surrounded by a small honor guard, King Vetrulian had not changed all that much since she had seen him at the conclusion of the Battle of Ursley. Still whip-thin and appearing not to have aged all that much, even though he was in his forties now, the king smiled pleasantly as he dismounted and crossed to greet her.
“General Khaleen,” Vetrulian said as she bowed low. “Good to see you again.”
“I am honored you remember me, sire,” Khaleen said.
“Of course I remember you, general,” the king said, smiling. “How could I forget the woman who led Besmir’s armies against my brother?”
“Easily, I would imagine, sire,” Khaleen said modestly. “I’m quite forgettable.”
“Nonsense, general; you were instrumental in Dronsad’s defeat.”
“Thank you, majesty,” Khaleen said proudly. “If you would care to follow me, I have had facilities prepared while your army sets up camp.
“Lead on, general,” Vetrulian said.
Khaleen watched the eyes of her soldiers as they passed, each one snapping to attention. Vetrulian nodded to them, smiling and offering the occasional word or sly joke as he walked.
“Are we expecting trouble, then, Khaleen?” the Waravalian king asked from the side of his mouth, nodding at the earthworks that were being dug and thrown up.
“Just a precaution, sire,” Khaleen replied. “The mercenaries seem to be a great deal more organized than I expected.”
“More organized?” Vetrulian asked, scratching at his beard. “We had intelligence that led us to believe someone had proclaimed himself leader, but after many of the mercenaries were wiped out at Ursley, we didn’t think there was much of a threat. Has that changed?”
Khaleen nodded as she limped along. “One of my best scouts is estimating numbers as we speak, but from what I could see the camp has been fortified recently, and they seem to be making weapons.”
Vetrulian frowned and gestured for one of his men to approach. Obviously self-important, and dressed in more expensive clothing than Vetrulian himself, the older man crossed to his king. “Sire?” he asked.
“Lord Marunchet, take a small force and see that you disrupt any supply lines entering the mercenary camp. Make sure you’re not seen by any within the walls, but cut off and seize any goods headed there and redirect them here for our use.”
He turned back to Khaleen. “We’ll see how organized they are without food and wine,” he added with a grin.
Khaleen found herself warming to the Waravalian king. He appeared to be intelligent and treated those around him with respect, even down to her foot soldiers, whom he greeted warmly, shaking hands and asking their names.
As a people, especially during the Battle of Ursley mine, Waravalians had been superior and rude, believing themselves to be above other nationalities. Their defeat at Ursley, and their new, half-Gazluthian king looked to have changed their attitudes a little.
Khaleen knew Vetrulian had shaken the nobility to its core once he had been crowned, culling massive estates and dividing them up into smaller holdings that he gave to those he found more deserving. There had been rumors of civil war, the noble houses banding together against the new king, but he had the support of the main population, who outnumbered the nobles by thousands, so they eventually had to grin and bear it.
“How fares Queen Collise?” Khaleen asked, when they had arrived at the tent she had ordered. She lowered herself into one of the basic chairs, relief lighting her soul as the pain in her thigh subsided.
The arrow that had struck her would have killed her if removed, and so the healers decided to cut off what they could and seal the remainder inside her leg. The result was a large chunk of metal that ground and bit at her when she walked too far.
Khaleen wrapped both hands around her cane, squeezing tightly to stop herself from rubbing at her leg. Bitter experience told her that just made the pain worse.
“Wonderful,” Vetrulian said, his eyes going distant for a moment. “She should be here soon, and you can see for yourself.”
“You brought the queen here?” Khaleen asked, her surprise and pain making her forget her etiquette.
Vetrulian laughed and shook his head. He accepted a cup of wine one of her aides brought him and sipped at it. “There is no bringing or leaving Collise,” he said. “If she decides to come, she comes; there’s nothing I can do to stop her. Besides which, I’m more than happy to have my wife close, especially with her particular abilities.”
As a member of the Gazluthian royal family, Collise being Besmir’s cousin, she had Fringor blood in her veins and could use the power it brought with it. Khaleen thought for a second, recalling the horrors she had seen at Ursley, when Besmir had used his power to burn hundreds of men alive, cooking some in their armor.
She might be a useful asset.
“Have you had word from the Corbondrasi?” Khaleen asked.
Vetrulian’s expression darkened, and he frowned. “No, and I assume you haven’t either.” Khaleen shook her head.
“Vi Rhane is old, even by Corbondrasi standards,” Vetrulian said. “My man there thinks he may be a little senile, but that’s unsubstantiated and goes no further. Why, were you expecting support from the feathered?”
“Permission, at least,” Khaleen said, treading carefully around the subject. “Queen Arteera discovered that the drugs being brought into Gazluth originate in Boranash, but I can’t go stamping about in another country without the consent of their king; it might be construed as an invasion.”
“I doubt the Corbondrasi would believe that, even if Vi Rhane started barking at the moon,” Vetrulian said. “But I get your point. I’ll send a message to my ambassador there, see if I can get him to stir some kind of response up.”
Vetrulian peered through the opening of the tent, smiling and rising as Khaleen heard a commotion outside. Pain throbbed in her leg, halting her from going to look herself, but she heard voices and laughter, and a rare smile crossed her lined face.
Collise, Queen of Waraval, walked into the tent on the arm of her husband. Khaleen made to rise, wincing as white pain flashed up her thigh and into her back. Collise shook her head and motioned for Khaleen to stay seated.
“Most gracious, majesty,” Khaleen grunted through gritted teeth.
“No need for all that, Khaleen,” Collise said, her voice high and friendly. “You were my commanding officer once.” The queen stepped over and hugged the old general’s thin frame tightly. “It’s good to see you,” she muttered, her voice thick.
Utter surprise and warmth flooded Khaleen’s chest at the queen’s reaction. They had never been close — in fact, Khaleen barely knew the woman — but Collise obviously felt differently.
Maybe it’s because of Ursley. As many bonds had been formed as people had died in the aftermath of the Battle of Ursley mine. Gazluth and Waraval had settled differences, while the royal families had been united by the marriage of Vetrulian and Collise.
“Now, what are we going to do about these filthy mercenaries?” Collise asked, looking between her husband and Khaleen.
Besmir ripped into the dry meat his grandson had brought in, barely chewing the salty, tough jerky before gulping it down, as if he had been starved for a month. Flavor burst over his tongue as soon as he bit into the apple Merdon handed him, the sweet, tangy flavor almost painful at the back of his jaw. He sucked the juice down, belching loudly when the apple had gone.
“How do you feel?” Merdon asked tentatively.
Gods be damned awful!
Besmir thought back to the savage agony and madness he had just been through. He knew his grandson had imprisoned him in order to purge the drink from his system, and his now-clearer thoughts told him that was a good thing. Whatever that vile stuff had been, it had changed him, skewed his perception of the world bad
ly.
“Honestly,” he said, “I don’t know. I feel better than I have done for a while, but…” He looked into his grandson’s eyes. “There’s a bit of me that still needs that drink,” he admitted.
Merdon stared at the floor, and Besmir could see the sadness on his face. Guilt thumped him in the chest at the thought that he had caused this sadness. Memories of the last few days surfaced with the guilt: the awful things he had said, and the names he had called Merdon.
“I love you more than my own life,” Besmir said, his voice thick. “Thank you for ridding me of that poison. It can’t have been easy.”
Merdon shook his head, still staring at the floor. “I have to ask, grandfather,” he started, his voice small. “Where did you get it?”
Besmir sighed, knowing he would have to revisit some of the horrors that had driven him to take the stuff in the first place. “A merchant came to me,” he said. “What, two years ago, maybe?
“He was offering a range of wines from Waraval and Boranash, wanted royal approval, the usual kind of thing.” Besmir leaned back against the cold stone wall and stretched his aching legs out before him. “He arranged a tasting session, and must have mixed a little Pariah into my drink.”
“Pariah?” Merdon wondered.
“That’s what they called it. I found out later … too late,” Besmir admitted. “Anyway, I managed to sleep that night, deep dreamless sleep, like I hadn’t had for years.”
He hesitated. “I was having … nightmares,” he said, embarrassed. “Even when I was awake, sometimes. A shout or sound would take me right back there...”
“Ursley,” Merdon said.
“Yes! How did you know that?”
“You thought I was Eloren when we were coming to Ninse,” Merdon said quietly. “And in here, you were … speaking to the ghosts of the men you burned.”
The king listened for any judgment in his grandson’s voice, any hint he thought less of him for killing hundreds with fire. He could not hear any, and relief eased his tense chest.
