Blade breaker, p.11
Blade Breaker, page 11
Commander lin-Lira and Sibrez were gone, replaced by the captain of Isadere’s ship. He studied the map with Corayne. The Heir remained at the edge of the candlelight, occasionally glancing to the mirror full of moonlight.
Valtik had not returned, and Charlie was gone, too, probably snoring somewhere. Andry looked like he wanted to be asleep, but sat valiantly in his chair, his eyes half-lidded. Sigil poked around the hall, a glass of wine in hand as she examined the rich furnishings, picking at everything from the chairs to the rugs underfoot.
Dom went back to the table reluctantly, his eyes falling on a familiar point on the map. Unmarked, but he knew the place all the same. The foothills, the branching of the river. A quiet forest, quiet no longer. His breath pulled between his teeth.
“The temple poses two dangers,” Dom forced out, his voice harder than before.
At the table, Corayne raised her eyes.
“First, Taristan’s army, the Ashlanders,” he continued, each word more difficult than the last. The memory seared his mind. Drawn out from the ruined realm. “Either they are still there, guarding the Spindle, or they are with Taristan in Madrence.”
“Either way, not good,” Corayne muttered.
Dom nodded. “The second danger is that the temple sits in the foothills of the Mountains of the Ward, in the kingdom of Galland.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “A kingdom hunting us all.”
To his surprise, Corayne smiled.
“So we go around,” she said, drawing her hand down the long line of mountains splitting the northern continent in two. “We cross the Long Sea.” Her finger traced the path over the waves, from the Ibalet coast to a city across the water. “Make port near Trisad, cross through Ahmsare to the Dahlian Gates, and ride north along the mountains. Let them be a wall between us and Galland.” She walked her fingers along their route, marking the way. “And then we’re in Trec, on Galland’s own doorstep. Running with the white wolf. With any luck, Oscovko will be with us, his army too.”
Her cheeks were pink, not with exertion, but with glee. The map was her home, her purpose. Something she could do. Besides open and close Spindle portals.
She looked from Dom to Sorasa, a lip in her teeth.
Dom had not seen much of that part of the world, though he knew the map of the Ward as well as any other immortal. He looked at the mountains again, inked on the worn parchment. They seemed small like this, the journey not so far. Still, he estimated it would take many long weeks. If nothing got in the way.
“The enclave of Syrene is near,” he said, pointing to an unmarked place on the map. Of course mortals would not know it anymore. The rams of Syrene were secluded, high in the mountains, and had not dwelled among mortals for many centuries. “Perhaps the Vedera there will help us in our journey.”
“We don’t have time for family reunions, Elder,” Sorasa spat, all but knocking him aside.
He pulled his finger from the parchment as if burned, putting distance between them.
Sarn only lowered her eyes to the map. “This is a long road, and we must make all haste to walk it. But it is the right road,” she added after a moment. “The only road I see, to take us into Galland without being caught. And perhaps find an ally too.”
Her eyes flickered to Isadere, who nodded gravely.
Corayne all but beamed, proud of herself. “Thank you, Sorasa.”
“Don’t thank me—thank your mother,” Sarn fired back, now tracing the route herself. “She may not have taught you how to fight, but she certainly taught you how to think.”
Dom did not consider himself well versed in mortal emotion, but even he could see the shadow crossing Corayne’s face. Is it sadness or frustration? Does she miss her mother? Does she hate all mention of her? He did not know.
“Very well.” Isadere clapped their hands together, and the maidens jumped to attention. “We will do all we can to provision you for the journey.”
In unison, the handmaidens swept from the hall of the tent into the adjoining rooms. Dom could hear other servants through the thin fabric walls, already scraping together food and supplies.
“The sand mares?” Sorasa asked, raising an eyebrow.
Dom braced himself for a denial. The sand mares were fine horses, fast and strong enough for the long journey ahead. But the road behind taught him to expect obstacles at every turn, if not outright failure.
To his relief, Isadere nodded. “The horses are yours to take north.”
With that, Sarn straightened and inclined her head. It was as close to a bow as Dom had ever seen from the Amhara. Behind her, Sigil’s eyebrows practically disappeared into her forehead. Clearly, she’d never seen Sarn bow either. Dom doubted anyone in the world had.
“My thanks,” Sarn said, without bite or lie.
Isadere scowled, showing their teeth. “I want none of your gratitude, Amhara,” they snapped, turning away as if they could not bear to look at such a creature. Isadere faced Corayne instead. They raised their proudly sculpted face, throwing their features in sharp relief against the golden candlelight.
“Sleep through the heat. You leave for the coast at dusk.”
8
The Life of One Man
Erida
Taristan promised to lay victory at her feet, and so he did, every single day.
Erida’s army rolled over everything in its path, the Lion raised at the head of twenty thousand men. The green flag of Galland flapped high in the cooling winds of autumn. The Rose River flowed at their side, holding the eastern flank as her grand army marched south through the countryside.
The Queen was glad to be out in the air, free of the wheelhouse that held her ladies. The massive carriage lumbered at the back of the column, with the baggage train. Though her knights urged her to remain within the safety of its walls, she refused.
Erida was done with cages.
She wore her usual deep green cloak trimmed in gold, so long it covered the flanks of her horse. Beneath, her ceremonial golden armor flashed, light enough to be worn for hours without difficulty. It would hardly turn a blade, but Erida would never see the wrong end of a sword.
They left the Castlewood behind, and their line of fortresses. The kingdom of Madrence fell over them in an invisible curtain. They crossed the border in daylight, without opposition. There was only a stone to mark the line, its markings worn smooth by time and weather. The river still flowed; the autumn forest still stood, green and golden, as if the trees themselves welcomed the Lion. The road beneath their horses’ hooves did not change. Dirt was still dirt.
Erida expected to feel different in another kingdom, weaker somehow. Instead, the new land only emboldened her. She was a ruling queen, destined for empire. This would be her first kill, her first conquest.
The fortress city of Rouleine loomed to the south, at the confluence of the Rose and the Alsor. The city walls were strong, but Erida was stronger.
The enemy army massed along the far bank of the Rose, following their progress. They were too weak to meet her army in battle, but they nipped at their edges as a scavenger would at a great herd. It only slowed the Gallish army down, enough for another force to cross the river and dig in, carving trenches and makeshift palisades overnight.
The Lion devoured all of them.
Erida did not know how many Madrentines lay dead. She did not bother to count the corpses of her enemies. And while hundreds of Gallish soldiers were lost, more came to replace them, called up from every corner of her wide kingdom. Conquest was in her blood, and the blood of all Galland. Nobles who resisted her first summons to war rode hard now, bringing their retinues of knights, men-at-arms, and stumbling peasants. All were eager to share in the spoils of war.
And in my glory.
Taristan was beyond her sight, marching at the head of the column, accompanied by a cluster of her own Lionguard. It had been so every day since Lotha, at Erida’s behest. It earned him the respect of nobles too cowardly to ride with the vanguard, but also kept him away from such vipers.
And away from me, Erida thought, unsettled by how his absence bothered her.
It was so much to measure, but Erida had long years of practice at court. She was the Queen of Lions, and her nobles certainly lived up to the name. She felt like she stood in the lions’ den now, a whip in hand. But even the tamer of lions could be overwhelmed, if outnumbered.
For now the lions were sated, fat and happy. Gorging themselves on broken men and barrels of wine. It would be the same tonight, in a siege camp instead of a castle.
Rouleine was small compared to Ascal, a village next to Erida’s great capital. It stood at the crest of the hill, walled by stone and two rivers, leaving only one direction of assault. The city was well made and well placed, good enough to hold the Madrentine border for generations. But no longer. Twenty thousand souls lived behind the walls and in the surrounding farmlands. Erida could match a soldier to each if she wanted to.
The Madrentine villages were empty now, quiet as they rode through. The buildings were but husks, doors and windows hanging open. The peasant soldiers picked through anything left behind, looking for better boots or an onion to gnaw on. Any lingering livestock were driven to the baggage train at the end of the column, to join the army’s own supply herd. But little else remained.
Even from miles away, Erida heard the bells calling the farmers to safety.
“Funny, it’s the bells that will be their ending,” she said aloud.
On the horse next to her, Lady Harrsing cocked her head.
“How so, Your Highness?” she said.
The old woman held a saddle better than ladies half her age. She wore a sky-blue cloak, her silver hair braided away from her face. At court, she wore enough jewels to remind everyone of her wealth. Not so on the road, when jewels would only weigh her down. Bella Harrsing knew better than to peacock herself in the middle of a war march. Not like some of the others, who wore gilded armor or brocade, as if this were a ballroom and not a battlefield.
“The bells call the peasants and commons inside the walls, so the gates can be shut and the city protected,” the Queen said. The bells pealed without any kind of harmony, tolling from many towers. “If they would only leave the gates open, we could march on in without any bloodshed at all.”
Harrsing laughed openly. “Even the Madrentines would not surrender a city without a fight. Their king may be wine-blind, but he isn’t stupid.”
“On the contrary, he is incredibly stupid.” Erida tightened her grip on her reins, the leather soft and worn to her fingers. The autumn chill was less in the Madrentine lands, and she did not need her gloves in daylight. “I have twenty thousand men at my command, with more coming. King Robart would do well to ride out of his fine palace and kneel before me this very day.”
A smirk twisted Harrsing’s thin mouth. “You’re starting to sound like that husband of yours.”
Warmth crept over Erida’s cheeks.
“Or is he starting to sound like me?” she wondered aloud, giving Harrsing something else to chew on.
“That’s one way to look at it,” Bella said with a sigh.
Other nobles rode with them, knotted behind the Queen. Erida glanced back, watching them as they marched south in a parade of fine horseflesh and gleaming armor. There were many lords and a few ruling ladies, commanders and generals of thousands of men ahead and behind. She knew every face. Their names, their families, their own intricate alliances, and, most importantly, their loyalty to Erida of Galland.
Bella followed her gaze. “What are you thinking, Your Majesty?”
“Too many things,” Erida answered, pursing her lips. She dropped her voice a little. “Who knelt at my coronation, pledging to serve a fifteen-year-old queen? Who rode to the Madrentine front when I called the first muster, summoning legion and personal army alike? Who waited? Who whispers? Who spies for my vile cousin Konegin, still hiding somewhere, safe even as I hunt for him? Who will put him on the throne if I fall, and who will send me to that lethal ending himself?”
On her horse, Bella paled. “So heavy a burden on such young shoulders,” she muttered.
Erida could only shrug, as if buckling beneath the weight. She shook her head. “And who looks on Taristan with fear? Or jealousy? Who will ruin all we seek to build?”
To that, Bella had no answer, and Erida did not expect one. The aging woman was too deft a courtier. She knew when she was well out of her depth.
Erida cleared her throat. “Thornwall, what’s the latest report?”
Lord Thornwall reined his horse, and the stallion trotted to the Queen, joining her side. The commander looked taller on horseback, but most men did. Unlike the other lords, he did not wear armor for the march. He did not need to play at war. He commanded the entire army, and spent too much time riding the length of the column, meeting with his scouts and lieutenants, to bother with full plate.
Thornwall nodded at the Queen, his red beard fierce against his green tunic. There was a lion embroidered on his breast, surrounded by curling vines and thorns to mark his own great family.
“Scouts say the Madrentine army across the river is three thousand strong. Maybe,” he said.
Two squires rode at his side, their tunics matching Thornwall’s. Erida tried to remember their names, once so easy to recall. One had ugly yellow hair, the other a kind expression. She did know one thing—who they used to squire for, before Thornwall took them on.
Their tunics used to be bright red and silver, a falcon across their chests.
The Norths, Erida thought, all warmth receding from her face. Sir Edgar and Sir Raymon. Lionguard knights sworn to serve.
They lay dead in the foothills, their bones swallowed up by mud. Her loyal guardians were Taristan’s first victory.
But for one, still alive. Her lip curled, remembering Andry Trelland. A noble son of Ascal, a squire raised for knighthood. And a traitor to his kingdom, Erida thought, seething as she remembered her last glimpse of him. Escaping through a door, the great hall destroyed behind him, with Corayne of Old Cor and her Spindleblade ahead.
Thornwall kept on blathering, and she blinked, forgetting the squires and their dead knights.
“But more soldiers arrive every day, in dribs and drabs,” the commander said, rocking with the motion of his horse. The road suited him better than the council chamber did: his cheeks were filled with color, his gray eyes bright. “There are rumors Prince Orleon is with the army across the river, leading a hundred armored knights and twice as many men-at-arms.”
Erida smirked. “I think he’s figured out I’m not going to marry him,” she said, laughing with Harrsing. The crown prince of Madrence was one of her many disappointed suitors, kept dangling on a hook for as long as possible.
The Queen had met the prince only once, at the wedding of Konegin’s daughter to some Siscarian duke. He was tall and fair, a minstrel’s version of a prince. But dull, without any wit or ambition. Most of their conversation had revolved around his collection of miniature ponies, which he kept in the garden of his father’s palace of Partepalas.
“If he’s captured, give him quarter,” Erida said, her laughter trailing away. Her voice turned hard. “He’ll fetch a fine ransom from his king.”
On her other side, Harrsing hemmed low in her throat. “Perhaps. Everyone knows Robart is wildly jealous of his golden heir, a foolish thing for any father to be.”
“I care little for their family squabbles,” Erida sighed, still watching Thornwall. “What of the other scouts?” One dark eyebrow arched with meaning.
Thornwall shook his head. He pulled at his red beard, frustrated. “No sign of Konegin. It’s as if he disappeared into the hills.”
“Or was hidden,” Erida mused, watching his face, noting every pull and tick of his muscles.
Her commander dropped his gaze, focusing on the mane of his horse. “It’s certainly a possibility.”
Is that shame I see in your eyes, Otto Thornwall? Or a secret?
“Thank you, Lord Thornwall,” she said aloud, reaching across the space between them. With a practiced smile, she squeezed his forearm, no small gesture from a ruling queen. “I’m glad to have you at my side.”
Still. The implication hung in the air, clear as words on a page. Thornwall read them easily. They both knew of whom she spoke. Lord Derrick had disappeared with Konegin that night at Lotha, sneaking out of the castle in the early hours of the morning. Another member of her own Crown Council, another traitor from the smallest circle she kept. That left only Thornwall, Harrsing, and aging Lord Ardath back in Ascal, the old man too weak to make war on the world.
I cannot afford another betrayal.
The siege had already begun by the time Rouleine came into view. It lay across the top of a hill like a fallen giant, church spires and towers rising behind stone walls and a marshy moat. Though the border was only a few miles away, anyone with eyes could tell the city was not Gallish. The walls were shorter, the towers less stout and strong. The rooftops were red tile, most of the buildings white or pale yellow. Flowers burst from window boxes, and burgundy flags, embroidered with the silver horse of Madrence, flapped in the wind. Rouleine was too quiet, too pretty, and nowhere near proud. Not Gallish at all.
The Rose and the Alsor joined behind the city, flowing south to the Madrentine capital and the Auroran Ocean. The two rivers were better defense than the city wall, itself only thirty feet high, but thick enough to withstand most armies. While Rouleine was a market city, well positioned on the old Cor road that once linked this part of the empire, it was also a defender of the border, the gateway to the rest of Madrence. Even in peace, Rouleine maintained a sizable city garrison, and there was a great stone keep directly on the confluence of the rivers, should the walls be broken. Erida could see its towers and ramparts, the stone like a storm cloud over the bright city.
