Princess Valerie's War

by Terry Mancour

  “On Baldur. On Danu, well, things didn’t go as well. Once he was out from under the Royal Family’s thumb, Reynard went crazy. The Baldurans didn’t care – as long as the money came in, they didn’t concern themselves with such insignificant details. But Reynard made Danu his personal playground, and so did his son, his grandson, and now his great, great-grandson, Reynard IV, Dauphin of Danu. He’s got his own private army and a couple of ships on top of the Balduran naval base. We try to raid Danu, and we’ll get slagged.”

  “Then we trade,” Lucas nodded. “I’m not opposed to that. Keeps the repair bill down.”

  “Of course, you could just go wagering,” offered O’Roarke with a grin, as he poured a titanic-sized cup of sour Kumarbian wine. “Danu’s national sport is gambling. There are casinos and such all over the place – especially around Danuport. I’ve known men who arrived at Danuport penniless beggars and left in private yachts.”

  “And many more who arrived in private yachts and left penniless beggars,” added Max. “Yes, the gaming houses of Danu are famed, but they’re also rigged. No future in it. And gods help you if you don’t have enough to pay your losses. On Danu, debt slavery is a noble tradition.”

  “Sounds like we need to be wary, then,” agreed Lucas. “I’m not one for games of chance.”

  “Wary is recommended,” O’Roarke nodded. “Danuport is a wild place. Travelers only go there if there’s cause.”

  Lucas found a chance a while later to find his executive officer, Lt. Comm. Delio, sitting alone at a table in the corner of the lounge, off-duty for once.

  “Sire,” he said, rising and bowing the moment he saw Lucas.

  “At ease, Mr. Delio,” Lucas said, gesturing for the young man to sit. “I just wanted to take a moment and commend you on your excellent service, on Planet X, on the Ludmilla raid, and at Kumarbi. Not to mention how well you’ve managed to organize the crew to run this scrapheap. Well done,” he said, nodding with approval. And, after a pause, he added, “Your father would be very proud of you.”

  Delio’s eyes opened wide. “My fath— Highness?” he asked, at a loss.

  “You can’t serve with a man day in, day out for six months without learning a lot about him. How he eats, how he sleeps, how he talks, and a million little mannerisms. I got that way with Otto Harkaman, when we were first starting out, raiding on the Nemesis. After a few thousand hours you start to know what a man’s going to say before he says it, and how he’ll respond in a given situation. Which is why I should have figured it out a long time ago. You must have your mother’s eyes, but there’s no doubt in my mind that you’re the fruit of Otto Harkaman’s loins.”

  “My mother was Lydia Delio, a minor noble on Durendal,” Delio confessed. “I was raised at my uncle’s estate, Sir Simeon Delio, at Rouen, in the south country. He had four sons and only so much of a legacy to leave them – I could have stayed on and become a foreman at his plantation, I suppose, but that life didn’t suit me, Sire. I knew of my father’s exploits – my mother told me stories of Space Vikings since the cradle. When word reached Durendal that Tanith had severed ties with Gram, and was building a world out in the Old Federation, the temptation to go seek my fortune there was just irresistible. I took ship to Tanith and enlisted in the Navy.”

  “Under your mother’s name,” observed Lucas. “Why didn’t you seek out your father at once, Armand? I know Otto pretty well, like I said, and the only reason I can think of that he wouldn’t help you is because he doesn’t know you’re his son.”

  “His Highness is no doubt correct,” Delio said, with a wry chuckle. “The Warlord is an honorable man. But a son – a bastard son – who shows up on his doorstep? I have no desire for his patronage or his wealth, Highness. I merely wish to demonstrate my worth through honorable service, and distinguish myself on my own merits, not borrow the fortunes of my famous father.”

  “If you do nothing else of note for the rest of your life, you have already managed that much, at least,” Lucas said, quietly. “And when – if Al wills it – we ever do get back home, Delio, you can count on a grateful prince rewarding his loyal retainer as richly as he deserves. A knighthood, a barony, and by the time we get back, perhaps even a county. And then you can announce yourself to your father as a peer and gentleman of the Realm, not a penniless bastard.”

  “Your Highness is gracious,” Delio said, bowing from the waist, his face cool and collected no matter what his heart might be doing. “I suppose I must therefore ensure that Your Highness returns safely, to protect my future fief? At last, the incentive I’ve been craving . . .” he joked.

  “Well, there’s at least part of that promise I can pay out on right here and now. Mr. Roupe! Go fetch my sword! I feel like making a knight of it.”

  It was a quick but solemn ceremony, which was looked upon with great interest by the eclectic passengers and crew. The Sifians were particularly moved, and began chanting and quoting the Regs that were traditionally invoked at a commendation ceremony. When Lucas had dubbed him, the neobarbarian Marines picked the knight up bodily and took him away to the shrine near the training area that had become the Gunny’s unofficial office. There the wizened old shaman would conduct the proper “paperwork” signifying the commendation. Lucas hoped that the designated area for displaying Delio’s new rank wasn’t in anyplace tender.

  The rest of the crowd continued with drinking and celebrating, as their ship crawled slowly through hyperspace. But Lucas’ mind wasn’t on the next planet, as wondrous as it sounded. Or on Sir Armand’s relationship with his father. It was on Tanith, and Elaine, and most of all Valerie. A great wave of longing welled up in Lucas at that moment, and he found himself returning to his cabin a lot less drunk than he had planned on.

  He found himself at the viewscreen, pulling up a still photo he’d captured out of Aton’s horrid propaganda film – the photo of Valerie returning to Tanith from her mission of mercy. She was pregnant, tired, and confused, he could tell, but he was still Valerie: his wife, his lover, his partner.

  “I’m coming, Val,” he promised the picture, touching her face on the screen. “Three thousand light-years away, and moving at a crawl, but I’m coming,” he vowed.

  EPILOGUE

  Her guards went into near-fits when she made the order, but Valerie insisted: before she returned to Trask House or the War Ministry to oversee the defense of the Realm against the latest attack, she wanted to make a stop. She didn’t care how dangerous it might be, or how untimely, but she insisted on detouring to Trade Town before she went to battle. Despite their objections the Golden Hand guards reluctantly turned the aircar towards Bentfork, and arrived only minutes later at supersonic speeds. Being a princess had its perquisites.

  It was an unannounced visit, but Valerie wasn’t here for a reception. She had the car land in the square nearest the Shrine of the Trasks, and then had Lt. Barnes fetch the priestess who oversaw the shrine. When Valerie ordered it cleared of parishioners, she hesitated – but she was the White Lady of Tanith, after all. It was her shrine. The priestess reluctantly agreed to have the building cleared for her use, despite the throngs of pilgrims waiting to get in. Being a demi-goddess had its perquisites.

  Valerie was still in her blood-soaked gown, so the wild cheers the peasants gave her turned to dark mutterings and cries of concern, but Valerie waved half-heartedly, demonstrating that she wasn’t injured herself, and things settled down again.

  “Come with me,” she ordered Barnes. “And bring my armor.”

  “Highness?” Barnes asked, surprised. “Is this wise? Two more emergences were just reported from Command, between the fifth and sixth planets. The first four have microjumped to translunar orbit – definitely ships from Gram – and they’re launching pinnaces. The largest is three-thousand feet and she bears the insignia of Omfray. We move to engage, but they could be here in hours!”

  “Is Princess Elaine secure?”

  “She is, Highness. In the Alta Fresca stronghold, Lady As
hley reports. Your Highness, I beg you!”

  “We’re seven minutes away from the War Ministry at top speed. Even if things go poorly, and the beasts from Gram evade our ships and land, it will take them hours. I won’t be returning to Trask House until this crisis is over, if we survive, and I’m not going to appear in front of the cameras looking like an accident victim. Coming here first will help inspire the common people, as well, and with invasion threatening, morale is going to be key to our defense. Trust me, Mr. Barnes, soon enough I’m going to be pacing back and forth in the War Ministry for hours while we wait for those ships to get closer. I think I have time for a moment’s contemplation before battle.”

  “Yes, Highness,” Barnes said, cowed. “What is the princess’ command?”

  “You heard me, Lieutenant,” she said, proceeding towards the blue dome. “Bring me my body armor. I’ll be waiting inside.”

  Walking proudly past hundreds of wildly cheering pilgrims, shouting “Princess Valerie!” and “The Realm!” and “The White Lady!” she did little to acknowledge the throng being kept at bay by Tradetown’s native guards. She gave the barest of nods, to assure the crowd that her bloody gown was not proof of injury, and that she was whole and hale.

  Valerie entered the dimly-lit shrine and stopped at the fountain in the center. Glancing briefly at the golden forearm displayed on the wall, between the two Golden Hand guards whose duty it was to stand their post here, she splashed water on her face, washing the last traces of blood from it. Her gown was ruined, though, not that she minded. Small price to pay for surviving her third – fourth? Fourth assassination attempt.

  Barnes appeared a moment later, bearing the bag that contained her body armor from the aircar. She had a few sets, now, one at Trask House, one at her island compound that she had worn during her pregnancy, and a custom suit of space armor aboard the space ship that bore her name. All were state-of-the-art combat grade armor, proof against most bullets and a host of hostile environments, and they were all brightly enameled in white from boots to gloves to the compact white combat helmet bearing the circle-and-trapezoid of Tanith in blue. The arms of the planet were detailed on the breastplate, and the bag contained a white chemical-warfare mantle as well.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said, as he set down the bag. “You are dismissed.”

  “Highness, you—”

  “Dismissed, lieutenant. All of you,” she added, nodding to the two motionless sentries. “Out. Your Princess commands it. Go.”

  “Yes, Highness,” Barnes said, reluctantly, looking around for any last-minute hidden dangers before he led the other two Golden Hand guards outside, and shut the door.

  Valerie unbuckled her borrowed side-arm and dropped the bloody gown in a satiny puddle at her feet – it was far too blood stained to inspire anything but horror, now – and then used the shrine’s fountain to rinse away as much of the blood that lingered on her skin as possible. There were no towels, of course, but she didn’t care. The water was cold and refreshing, irrespective of any divine powers it may have had. And she’d had a rough day.

  It took ten minutes to dress herself in the armor unassisted, but once she was done, it fit like a glove. It wasn’t military standard, of course, being fitted not only for a woman, but for herself, personally. And it was also nearly impervious to small-arms fire and shrapnel. When she was done, she was clad head to toe in shimmering white. Her reflection in the fountain didn’t even look much like the Valerie who’d entered the shrine. And even less like the young girl who had arrived here three years ago because Lucas Trask had dreamy eyes, a deep voice, and a very persuasive way of making a dreary, difficult job sound like a fairy-tale.

  This was no fairy-tale. Handsome princes existed, but so did evil villains. And faceless bureaucracies. And sinister criminal organizations. And ambitious, power-hungry men who saw worlds as pieces on a chess board, instead of the vessels of life they were. Somewhere, high overhead, there were ships full of men like that, men who wanted to use all that they had worked so hard for to their own purposes. Men more concerned with their own pride and duty and honor than the lives of the millions they threatened. This was no fairy-tale. This was a nightmare.

  And one that had become twice as hard to bear without the comfort of having her husband by her side.

  Before she left, she looked up at the gargantuan statue of Lucas, who was gazing across the shrine with steely eyes and a determined expression, offerings of flowers and produce and other tokens from pilgrims piled around his feet. So different than the actual expression he usually wore, but the artist had gotten the face right. She missed him, missed him desperately. And now he was lost to her, among the stars, half a galaxy away.

  “Lucas,” she said, hoarsely, addressing the statue. “I need you. We’re at war. There are more ships from Gram, Lucas, and Aton is still sniping at us, too. It’s only a matter of time before Xochitl and Haulteclere join the pile. We need you Lucas! Elaine is getting so big – she’ll be a full year in just a few months. She’s a happy, healthy baby, but she needs her daddy. I need her daddy, too. I miss you, Lucas. Come home,” she said. Then she smirked to herself. “Your Princess commands it!” she added lovingly and impudently to the same statue that so many revered with sacred awe. Being a wife had its perquisites.

  Then she strapped on the pistol, the wide black belt of which made a dramatic slash across her white-clad hips, then turned on her heel, and left to go deal with the latest invasion fleet. As much as she missed Lucas, wanted Lucas, needed Lucas, there was no escaping the fact that Lucas wasn’t going to appear out of thin air, no matter what mystical powers the natives ascribed to him.

  She was alone, in this. It was her duty to protect Tanith from her foes. That’s what she had sworn on her wedding day, before her husband had slipped the crown on her head. And that’s what she intended to do, no matter how hard or how hopeless it might seem. Valerie took one last look at the strong, sculpted slab of stone that was her husband’s handsome face, looming majestically above her. She blew it a single kiss, then took a deep breath and threw open the doors to the sound of a roaring crowd, her heart filling with determination.

  She had a war to fight.

  I hope you enjoyed Princess Valerie’s War! Thank you for buying it and supporting the author!

  If you’d like to contact the author, you may do so at tmancour@gmail.com. This book is also available in bound format, POD, at lulu.com.

  Also, check out the author’s blog for news and updates on future works, including Trask’s Odyssey, the forthcoming third book of the Tanith series of Space Viking novels!

  http://terrymancour.blogspot.com

  Also by the Author:

  Spartacus (Star Trek: The Next Generation #20) Pocket Books

  Original Fantasy

  Spellmonger

  THE TANITH SERIES

  Prince of Tanith

  Princess Valerie’s War

  Trask’s Odyssey (Forthcoming)

  Now for an excerpt from Book 3: Trask’s Odyssey!

  Excerpt from Book Three of the Tanith Series:

  Trask’s Odyssey

  Slago’s was a second-rate dive on a third-rate world, the type of tavern favored by down-on-their-luck space men and barflies near destitution. It smelled of liquor and vomit and less-savory aromas. Bodies piled outside the door in the morning were not uncommon. It wasn’t the worst bar in town, by far, but it was indisputably amongst the most dismal.

  A prefabricated steel front building grafted onto the crumbling mud brick native structure, the peeling paint and the dust and grime conspired to knit a cloud of despair and regret over the bar, an atmosphere augmented by the woes of its patrons.

  Slago’s served two kinds of fare, the rough native liquor the neobarbarian tribes around the spaceport made from some indigenous tuber and distilled in the heights of the nearby mountains, and imported off-world fare of decidedly inferior quality. Plenty of third mates and ship’s quartermasters were willing to
sell a case or two of some other planet’s rot-gut, and when they were more interested in cash than questions, that booze ended up at Slago’s where it sold for four times price of the native firewater known as ghackwa.

  Garvan Spasso had been soaking up prodigious quantities of ghackwa for over a hundred hours, now, ever since his tiny 200-foot scout ship had limped into port. By that time his damaged left eye and his face had healed beyond the ability of the robodocs-for-hire here to repair it, even if he could have afforded the treatment. Chemical burns were notoriously difficult to treat in the first place, but when the infection had set in on the trip, he had spent two days raving mad, his hands bound by his crew to keep him from clawing at his throbbing, itching face in his delirium.