Authors: Victor Gischler
Rina didn’t waste time with more talk. Kork expected her to drag out her protests as she would normally, trying to wriggle out of some unpleasant task or practice session. She had one chance to tag him and that was surprise.
She started her hips moving first then put her shoulders into it. It was the only way she could get the sword up for a proper swing. Her back was almost to him by the time the sword came around, but at least she had it up to speed for a strike.
One of Kork’s gigantic hands was suddenly on her wrist, pulling her through the swing, using her own momentum against her. She started to go down and threw out her arms to catch herself, losing the sword. She cursed herself.
Amateur
!
Kork suddenly had one arm around her, pinning her arms at her side. With the other hand, Kork held the flat of the gentleman’s blade against the soft, exposed flesh of her throat. Rina knew Kork would never hurt her—with the possible exception of some tutorial bruises with the wooden practices swords. But in that moment when she first felt the cold steel against her jugular, she also felt fear, the brief but palpable knowledge that she could be alive one moment and dead the next.
He held her that way, helpless.
Rina cleared her throat. “So. Do you yield?”
“Jibes will not save you on the field of battle.”
“They’re pretty good jibes.”
He released her.
She stood away from him, one hand going instinctively to her throat. She half thought her fingertips would come away sticky with her own blood. They didn’t. “Fortunate that I have no immediate plans to find myself on the field of battle, isn’t it?”
“Plans are what people make when Fate is sneaking up behind them,” Kork said. “Tomorrow we shall alter your training.”
Rina sighed. “My dear lovely giant, you don’t really think any army is getting over the Long Bridge, do you? This place is impregnable.”
Another of Kork’s grunts. Rina thought she detected grudging agreement.
The Long Bridge was named for the simple fact that it was a mile long, the only way over a deep and icy chasm to the fortress city of Klaar. The stone bridge was just wide enough for two wagons to pass each other and, as her father put it, could be defended by a cripple and an infant with slingshots.
The bridge ended at a large gate in the outer wall, behind which was the town of Klaar. In the center of town was the Duke’s castle and keep. Theoretically, if the outer wall were breached, the citizenry could fall back to the keep.
No invading army had ever breached the outer wall. None had ever made it off the Long Bridge.
“How do you think they built it?” She asked, still looking at the bridge.
“Magic,” Kork said.
She frowned at him. “An engineer from the University in Luxum designed it and supervised the construction. This is a matter of record.”
Kork shrugged.
Rina said, “When I asked how they built it, I meant what sort of mathematical equations, the tools used, manpower. Those sorts of things.”
“Magic.”
“I keep forgetting you’re a savage from distant lands,” Rina said.
The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Kork nodded at the army camped on the far side of the Long Bridge. “You’ve seen enough? We can go inside now, get warm?”
“I want to go down into the town,” Rina said. She was restless, wanted to feel the tense energy of the commoners.
“I’d prefer you didn’t, daughter.”
She turned, saw the Duke with a gaggle of advisors behind him. “Father?”
Arlus Veraiin smiled at her. His presence was always reassuring. Still handsome at his age, with a perfectly trimmed white beard, hair thinning on top, but bright blue eyes just like hers.
“I need you dressed to receive guests,” the Duke said. “Hurry along now, please.”
“Guests? How could they have come through the Perranese army?” Rina asked.
The Duke said, “The guests
are
the Perranese army.”
See, this is why you don’t sneak into the castle kitchens to steal a pastry
, Alem thought as he walked the halls of the castle’s residential wing, a wicker laundry basket under each arm.
Alem was a stable boy. No,
head
stable boy. He’d started as a shit-shoveler and had been raised to stable boy when he’d shown he could handle the horses. Now, five years later, he was head stable boy and would likely be stable master when old Nard retired or passed. The point was, Alem was definitely
not
a maid.
But that didn’t matter to fat Bruny, who ran the household. She took one look at him skulking around the kitchen, pointed a finger at him and hollered, “You! Come with me now, boy.” A fever had run through the castle maids, and half of them were down with sour stomachs and green complexions. There was a feeling of panic among the castle servants as beds went unmade and chamber pots were not emptied. Bruny had pressed into service any set of idle hands she could find, and since it was generally understood that indoor servants outranked outdoor servants, Alem had obeyed.
They’d even made him bathe! His pale skin was pink from a cold-water scrubbing, his feathery blond hair puffed and downy. “You can’t go among them nobles smelling of horse dung,” Bruny had insisted.
Alem headed into the castle to gather dirty laundry and promptly got lost.
This place is enormous
. He slept on a straw pallet among the other stable boys and had come to think of his grandmother’s three-room cottage as roomy and extravagant. But this …
Well, that’s why they call it a castle, thicko
.
He finally found the right hallway. He’d been told that now was a good time to collect the dirty laundry from the bed chambers of the Duke and his family. They were out and about, up on the walls or down in the town, preparing for the Perranese. He opened the heavy wooden door to the first room, iron hinges creaking. He entered.
And froze.
A woman sat on a cushioned chair in front of a dressing table. She held a boot in her hand. The other boot was still on her other foot. The Duke’s daughter.
You’re not supposed to be here!
“Uh …” Alem began to back out of the room. “I didn’t know … I mean … I thought everyone was … I’ll just …”
Faster, you idiot, Get out, get out
!
“Who are you?”
He froze again. “I’m—” He almost said Alem.
Thicko, she doesn’t care about your name
. “Uh, the dirty laundry.”
She looked him up and down, a quirky smile flickering across her face. “New maid?”
“Yes.”
No! Stable boy. HEAD stable boy
!
She shrugged. “Bruny’s become broad minded.” She waved vaguely at the rest of the room. “Come on, then.”
Alem left one of the baskets in the hall, entered her room with the other. He moved quickly around the huge canopy bed, desk, divan, picking up articles of clothing strewn over furniture or dropped on the floor. He never would have thought the nobility could be so messy. Alem supposed if he owned this much clothing he might get careless with it too.
He hurriedly scooped up breeches and skirts and thick woolen socks and blouses and … something extremely thin and delicate.
Underwear.
Alem shoved it into the basket quickly.
Don’t look at it!
He glanced about. Nothing left. Good. He headed for the door. Fast.
“Wait.”
The word hit him in the back like an arrow. He turned slowly, looked at her.
She crooked her finger at him in a
come here
gesture.
Alem went to where she sat at the dressing table. She lifted one foot, the one without the boot, pointing her toes at the ceiling. “Don’t forget this.” She took the tip of her sock between a thumb and forefinger and pulled it off. Her toes were small and pink. She dangled the sock a moment as if it were a fish she’d caught, and then let it drop into the basket.
She sat back, lifted the other boot and looked at Alem expectantly. “This one now.”
Alem looked from the boot to her face and back again.
This one what
?
“I could barely get the other one off,” she said. “They’re new boots, not broken in. I think my feet have swollen.”
And just what exactly did she expect Alem to do about that?
“I need you to help me get it off,” she said.
Alem set the basket aside. He grabbed the heel, moved the other hand to take her by the calf, hesitated, his eyes flickering up to hers.
She nodded. “Go ahead.
He grabbed her leg, tugged on the boot. Tight. He was afraid to pull harder.
“Turn around,” she told him. “You’re not getting any leverage.”
Alem turned, straddled her leg and grabbed the boot again. He pulled.
“That’s better. I think it’s coming.” She put her other foot against Alem’s backside, and his eyes shot wide, cheeks warming. He was glad he was facing away from her. She pushed. He pulled.
The boot popped off. Alem tumbled over the dirty laundry basket, went down in a heap.
The Duke’s daughter trilled laughter, delicate fingers going up to her mouth.
Alem hastily got to his feet, scooping clothes back into the basket. His face flushed red, ears burning.
“How old are you?”
“Ma’am?”
“Your age?”
“Eighteen,” Alem said.
Nineteen in a month
.
“Well, young man, when you’re older and wiser—like me—you’ll know never to walk away when a job is only half done.” She lifted her foot, pointed her toes at him.
The confusion must have been plain on his face.
“You’re here for the dirty laundry, aren’t you?” She lifted an eyebrow and thrust her foot at him again. “Well?”
Her sock? That was it. She was insisting Alem remove her dirty sock.
He reached for the top of the sock, trying not to touch any of her bare leg. He felt moist behind the ears.
Why can’t she just take off her own damn sock? Because she’s spoiled nobility, that’s why
. He peeled it slowly over her heel, up past the toes and off, not quite understanding why his heart beat a bit faster.
She lifted her foot within two inches of his face and wriggled her perfect pink toes.
Alem felt his head go light.
He glanced at her face. A smirk.
She’s mocking me!
He shoved the sock into the basket, turned and stalked out the door, slamming it behind him, light and carefree laughter chasing him down the hallway.
General Chen Maa’Kaa hunched over a table in the large command tent, glaring at the maps spread out before him. They had been drawn by the Emperor’s spies, some painstakingly over a decade in preparation for the invasion, a few more recently to show updated activity, especially in and around Klaar.
Icy wind blew in from under the tent flap. He’d instantly hated this place upon arrival.
The largest and most thorough map detailed the entire continent of Helva from Klaar all the way to the Western Ocean nearly three thousand miles away. The map went north as far as the great Glacial Wastes and south to the Scattered Isles. How the Holy Perranese Emperor figured to take and hold such a vast territory wasn’t General Chen’s problem.
He slid the smaller map of Klaar over the Helva map and frowned at it. Chen understood the War Council’s strategy even if he didn’t agree with all of it. To the south of Klaar, there were literally dozens of better places to land an invasion force, places with more temperate climes, calmer seas, better port facilities and miles of open beach.
The coast of Klaar, however, was a different story. A majority of the coastline consisted of jagged rocks that would chew a ship to kindling. Chen ran a finger down the coast until he hit a dot on the map that marked a fishing village called Harran’s Bay, which Chen suspected must be some kind of local joke as there was nothing resembling a proper bay there. But there was a break in the rocks and deep water and the only pier in the entire duchy that could accommodate large ships.
The people of Harran’s Bay had, of course, fled the village and burned the pier. No matter. Such a thing had been foreseen. It’s what Chen would have done if he’d been defending. Actions were already being taken to rebuild the pier. In the meantime, landing thousands of troops by longboat was tedious at best.
Chen heard the rattle of armor a split second before one of his officers entered the tent and snapped to attention. “General Chen.”
“What is it, First Commander Skrii’ Faa?” Chen said without looking up from the map.
“Ambassador Ra’Karro is … uh … displeased with the military escort he’s been assigned.”
Another man would have sighed and rolled his eyes, but Chen found such displays petty and indulgent. “Send the ambassador here.”
The officer saluted and left.
So why Klaar? All of the advantages to the southern landing sites were also the drawbacks. Bigger populations, larger armies. Word would chase through the land like a tsunami wave, and troops would pour in to repel the invaders.
Klaar, by contrast, did not seem to be a region anyone gave a damn about. Chen’s men had already intercepted two riders attempting to leave the duchy, and it was likely nobody else in Helva even knew the Perranese had arrived. And when they did eventually find out, it could be weeks from now, by which time Chen would already have a strong foothold. Furthermore, it was reported that the people of Klaar were fiercely independent and seemed to have little use for the king and the rest of the nobility of Helva. When the king heard Klaar was in peril he might not even care. Although Chen thought that too much to hope for.
Chen heard someone clear his throat and looked up to see Ambassador Ra’Karro standing there, nose in the air, aloof, fat jowls spilling over his high collar. He wore a sash of deep scarlet to indicate he represented the emperor.
“There is a concern about the military escort?” Chen asked.
“It would seem inadequate,” the ambassador said. “I am going into a den of barbarians, after all. I’d like to come back out again. Four soldiers and a standard bearer offer little security.”