I
n a way, fighting human
men came as a relief. Though the guard inside the walls put up a
fierce fight, fueled by the desperation of men defending their
homes and families, Lonen understood it better. And though
exhaustion dragged at him, that bleak despair no longer clouded his
mind. This kind of battle at least made sense.
These men would not give up easily, either.
Though the sun had risen to midmorning, making him entirely too hot
in his furs, with no opportunity to doff them beyond shoving his
cloak behind his shoulders, the Báran guard showed no sign of
flagging. Lonen and his men had formed a defensive wedge inside the
gates, holding it in the narrow passage against the city guards who
came at them, but they hadn’t yet found a way to open the massive
doors. Could be magic, knowing these sorcerers.
Destrye from outside arrived to supplement
their forces, finding the ropes and scaling the wall, then dropping
over. But more Bárans joined the guard attacking them—common folk
by their dress, mingling with the brightly uniformed guard. The
Destrye who added themselves to Lonen’s defense were men separated
from their units, still doggedly following the primary mission of
getting up and over the wall, then throwing into Lonen’s fight for
lack of any other objective. None had news of the rest of the army,
at least not that could be transmitted between pitched
skirmishes.
Much depended on the Destrye forces outside
the walls, because they had arrived at a stalemate within it. It
sounded like utter chaos on the other side of the doors and, if
Lonen’s people weren’t going to make it through soon, it could turn
his occupation of the gate into a long-term proposition. Something
they had meager supplies to outlast. At least the narrow alcove
just inside the gates made it relatively simple for a small group
to defend.
They might as well implement rotations and
settle in.
Sending several of the recently arrived men
to push the line of defense forward, to gain them a bit of
breathing room, Lonen stepped back behind them. Then he shucked the
damn cloak, grateful for the immediate cooling. Too bad he couldn’t
discard it altogether, but he’d need it if they found themselves
still outside when the cold night settled in on them again.
“Alby!” he called, waiting for his man to
disengage and similarly take refuge behind the wall of fighters.
Alby also immediately doffed his furs.
“What kind of monstrous land has burning
days and freezing nights?” Alby panted, leaning hands on knees to
take full advantage of the breather.
“I begin to understand why they came to Dru
for water, brutal as this place is,” Lonen agreed. “We need to set
up shifts. Only enough men to hold the gate, rotate out the ones
who’ve been fighting longest, fresher ones to the fore.”
Alby eyed him wearily. “There’s not a man
here who
hasn’t
been fighting all night.”
“Best judgement then. And find me whoever’s
come over the wall most recently. I need to know what’s going on
out there.”
“Yes, my prince, but—” Alby’s eyes widened
just as a trumpet pealed. “Holy Arill incarnate!”
Lonen spun to follow the direction of Alby’s
gaze, tired muscles singing into life as he lifted his axe to meet
the challenge, then lowered it again in slow bemusement. A white
banner rippled over a blaze of copper hair. The woman from the
window. Another dream made flesh in this nightmarish and impossible
place.
The clank of weapons fell from cacophonic
levels to bearable. Enough for the men to hear Lonen as he called
the command to desist but remain alert. He pushed to the fore,
ready for a trick. If she did wield magic she might be able to
obliterate them all, and he’d be responsible because he could have
killed her at her window.
All for youthful idealism and a soft heart
he’d long since thought shredded by the golems’ claws.
Quiet spread outward, reverse ripples that
stilled the fighting, bringing a welcome respite as she approached.
Men continued to face off, holding their poses, ready to reengage
at the slightest hint of betrayal.
She rode a pale horse, decked out in
exotically smooth fabrics that caught the sun and shone with
reflected light like Grienon, all in shades of cream and crystal
white. The gown she wore distorted the slight frame he recalled
from her silhouette, an impressive display of wide shoulders and
voluminous skirts. It put him in mind of a small cat arching its
spine, every hair on end to appear bigger and more ferocious. She
dripped with laces and shimmering pearls, jewels from the sea he’d
only read about or seen in illustrations.
That bright rain of copper hair was the only
color about her, a stubborn note of resistance against her vigorous
demonstration of surrender. That and the armed guard who walked at
her stirrup with a determined mien, and desperate emotion in his
eyes. He loved his mistress, whoever she might be.
The white dragonlet on her forearm moved,
spreading its wings and blinking at him with those green eyes so
brilliant they vibrated against her vivid copper hair.
Lonen tore his gaze away from the mythical
creature and forced himself to focus on the woman’s face, to read
her intent. Though if she opened the earth beneath them, there was
precious little he’d be able to do. Rationally, he should not let
her approach.
But he seemed to be far beyond rational
thought.
Normally her skin would be golden-kissed by
the sun, he guessed, but something had made her unnaturally pale.
Lines of strain rode her forehead and bracketed her mouth. She
looked to be in pain, possibly injured in the fighting? But she
didn’t look like a fighter, all soft limbs and graceful
slenderness. Young, too. Younger than he’d first thought, when he’d
glimpsed the curves of her woman’s body in the candlelight.
Barely more than a girl, in truth,
especially to be apparently negotiating a surrender.
But then he wasn’t that far into his own
majority. Only last season his father had scolded him about
flirting with girls more than he practiced with his axe. How things
changed in a short time. Look at him—war-weary and in the position
to discuss terms for the Destrye armies. War had aged him far
beyond the demands of daily life. What he wouldn’t give for those
irresponsible days.
The woman reined up before him, her eyes
narrowed. Another sign of pain.
“I believe you can understand my words?” she
asked in an accented but clear use of the trade tongue.
“I do. What is your intention?”
“I will speak with the leader of these
men—is that you?”
“Yes. I am Prince Lonen, son of King
Archimago of the Destrye. In his absence, I may speak for him.” He
hoped. His father was in no position to disagree and Lonen would
pass off negotiations to him soon enough.
“I am…” The woman swayed a little in the
saddle and her guard cast her a concerned glance. She recovered,
however, straightening her spine. “I am Princess Oria, interim
ruler of Bára. I wish to negotiate a surrender.”
A susurrus of surprise ran through her
people. Not what they’d expected, despite the banner she carried.
Probably, in their arrogance, they’d never witnessed or even
contemplated such extremity. Well, they would now.
“Total surrender,” he stated, his voice
harsh to his own ears. “You, your people, and your city agree to
complete subjugation to King Archimago of the Destrye. In exchange
for your lives, you will yield everything else.”
Princess Oria looked to the lizard on her
arm, her lips moving ever so slightly. Talking to the animal?
Perhaps they’d dressed up a crazy girl to bargain, to distract them
from a sneak attack. Backing up a step he summoned Alby. “Keep out
a sharp eye, in case this is simply a ruse.”
“Yes, my prince.”
Oria fastened her gaze on him. The same
color as her hair, her eyes gleamed brighter with shrewd
intelligence. “You offer death, not life, Prince Lonen. Abject
slavery is no way to live. The people of Bára might as well expend
all our effort and the last of our lives taking as many of you
barbarians with us as we can.”
Her people cheered at that and Lonen kicked
himself for the misstep. No cause inflamed people faster than that
of the martyr. He should know. “Who do you call barbarians?” he
challenged, his men shouting in accord. “You sit in your fine city
draped in jewels and send your monsters to slaughter our children.
Who is barbaric in their behavior?”
She flinched—though she covered it well—more
color draining from her face. Her lizard mantled, hissing at him,
eyes burning with green flame, as if he’d injured the princess in
some way. She soothed the creature, stroking a hand along its
scales, and Lonen suppressed a shudder of revulsion. Oria’s eyes
flicked up to his again and a small smile twisted her lips, as if
she’d somehow read his discomfort and found it amusing.
“Look around you, Prince Lonen. It is you
who attack us, our people who are dying. We can debate the
specifics later. For the moment it seems to me that it gets us
nowhere to hurl insults and accusations at each other. The fact
that we are enemies has been well established.” She waved a
graceful hand at the scatter of bloodied bodies on the stones, and
Lonen didn’t miss that she averted her gaze. “The challenge is to
find common ground for setting terms to end this conflict.”
“I offered grounds for your surrender,” he
all but growled. It rankled that she remained so calm in the face
of utter destruction.
“No, Prince Lonen.” She emphasized his title
with the same mild reproof his mother might have in correcting his
manners. “You flung out the most extreme ultimatum, likely to
challenge how easily I’d fold. I can tell you quite plainly that
yes, you have cornered us to the point where we offer surrender,
but we are not defeated. Given the choice between utter subjugation
and death on our own terms, the people of Bára will choose
death—and we have the means to take you with us.” Her people broke
into cheers again, raising their weapons.
She was bluffing. She had to be or her
sorcerers would have hurled magical weapons at them already. Still,
he had to give her credit. Young princess and interim ruler or no,
she had a gift for rallying her people. Something about the way she
held herself communicated her commitment to that path. She
would
rather die than give up entirely. The sudden image of
her white gown bloodstained, her throat cut and those brilliant
copper eyes going dim with death raked at him. He had no wish to
see her dead.
He’d had plenty of death already. In fact,
it suddenly felt as if he might agree to anything to be able to set
down his axe, wash off the blood, and sleep for a few days. Could
she be that sort of witch, to influence him that way?
“What terms do you propose then,
Princess?
” He made the question hard and sneering, so she
wouldn’t catch on to his weakness.
She steadied herself, raising her eyes as if
reading from a mental list. Someone had prepped her. Not a fool
then.
“We will agree to cease all fighting, both
in and out of the city. You and your men will be granted safe
passage. We will open the gates and you will inform your forces
that a temporary truce is in effect. We will similarly inform our
forces of such. At a date and time we agree upon, the highest ruler
of each of our peoples who yet survives will meet to discuss
further terms.”
It sounded reasonable, though his tired
brain could be missing a loophole. Or whatever she was doing to
cloud his intentions and incline him towards sympathy. “The truce
includes the use of magical weapons against us.”
“Of course.”
“Including any witchcraft you or your
creature may be working on me at this moment.”
She cocked her head, ever so slightly, but
he noted it. He’d surprised her. “I’m working no magic on you at
this moment,” she said. “And Chuffta is magical by nature. He
cannot cease being who he is. However, I offer my personal
guarantee that so long as you do not violate the truce, magic will
not be used to harm you or your people.”
“And your personal guarantee is worth how
much, exactly?”
A shadow flickered across her face, beyond
whatever pained her, something hard behind that pretty oval
face.
“I might ask the same of you, Prince Lonen,
you who wears the fur of animals and is covered in the blood of my
people. I am not the one with a battle-axe in my hand and hatred in
my gaze.”
No. If anything, grief and exhaustion
clouded her eyes. She had no right to play the high moral card,
however. She might be pristine in her garments, but her people’s
hands were bloodstained with the guilt of causing this war.
She must have read something of his anger in
his face because she held up a hand, as if to ward him off, briefly
closing her eyes. “I cannot offer more than my word. Either you and
I trust each other enough to stop the fighting long enough to set
terms or we might as well all go back to slaughtering one
another.”
Once again, she set him back, had him
feeling chagrined. Fine then. Lonen lowered his axe, wiped it
ostentatiously on the uniform of a fallen guard of her city, then
sheathed it on his back and held out his bloodied hands. “You have
your temporary truce, Princess. Open your gates. You, however, will
go through them with me.”
O
ria managed to keep her
expression smooth, drawing on years of faking enough
hwil
to
escape lessons. She couldn’t let this Prince Lonen—if he was indeed
a prince, as that seemed a lofty title for such a brutish man and
people—perceive how much he frightened her. Up close the Destrye
were every bit as vile, ferocious, and bloodthirsty as the worst of
the illustrations she’d pored over with such sick fascination.