The King's Blood (63 page)

When they first arrived, the tower was little more than a disgusting boy's club, with knights left to their own devices stuffing filthy laundry and old chicken bones into every open crevice. It was either the divine hand of Scepticar or a lot of bloody good luck that most of the old castle's staff wound up following behind her husband and his pack through the pass. An army was a difficult thing to move, an army with its own wait staff doubly so. But she whipped most of the few squires still sewing buttons onto their shirts while still wearing them into shape with the help of her handful of girls. Bralda momentarily touched her head, her fingers crumpling around a greying curl and tried to put her missing daughter our of her mind. She'd raged for nearly 24 straight hours at Asim for letting her go, even as she accepted in her heart it was the logical move. It just wasn't the right one.

"'ey! Talia, keep your elbows up. Don't be dropping your entire days work into the mud like last time," her voice rang across the steep cliff towards the river's edge. The Tower of Ashar was built on what had been prophesied to be its own island, until the god of the sea tossed out an old couch that was getting in the way, and turned the sea into a river. It was a folktale to pass the time between the fifth round of "the wheels on the wagon go round and round" while on patrol.

Talia curtsied towards her mistress, but didn't raise her arm, sending a pair of Albrant's knickers into the mud. Bralda sighed, but, putting aside the typical cursing she'd have laid out on the girl, stalked forward. Most of the others were on the rocks at the other edge, pretending to wash clothes and not in anyway splashing mostly themselves while the knights watched. She'd been young once herself and knew all the tricks. Shaking her head and loosening more of the red curls from her hair scarf, the only sense of civility in the Keep leaned down to pick up the errant knickers and froze. Something glinted in the distance. Something that should not be there.

Bralda rose slowly, not wanting to give away that she noticed, when a blood-curdling scream rang out from the other side of the tower, where she foolishly left her girls alone. Breaking into a run, she dashed towards the screams as if she could do something about it. As her feet crushed the few strands of grass trying to poke through the weakening snow, she unknotted her headscarf and waved it about crying, "Get to the Keep! Get back to the Keep! We're invaded!"

The trip was a wearing one for Marciano. He already etched a detailed note of every surface in his house he intended to nap upon once this was all over, and that was before the Emperor finished securing his last sack of relics upon the priests' horses. The General wondered briefly if he should point out the folly of bringing men of god into battle, but thought better of it. If they were doing this for the sake of Argur, then maybe her men should see the dirty work up close for once.

He tried to ignore the groans and cries of his men as their saddle sore legs once again fell onto the warhorses. Not many of the steeds survived the hell on the ships, but it didn't matter. Not many of his men survived the hell on the battlefield, either. They'd taken most of the Queen's fist out, but she got in a few rounds herself. The ones who couldn't move he offered promises of a long rest away from battle and the lies that he'd be back for them soon. Even as he spurred Peter away from those injured and dying cheering him on, he didn't look back. He didn't want all those trusting, hopeful faces to follow his dreams.

Vasska was in a rare form, offering actual tactical advantage at times, and deferring to the General willingly when strategy was necessary. Marciano would almost think their fight was behind them were it not for the way the Emperor's eyes would swing to his as if he were trying to climb inside his skull and scoop it out. At least the man wasn't bringing any of the heads with him. He hoped.

Two days of hard travel, with less than thirty men under him, they found the Tower breaking into the sky on the horizon. She was white, whiter than an old girl her age should be, with a few broken parapets squaring the entire tower's ramparts. Most likely a pair of archers patrolled it regularly, if they were wise.

Marciano pulled Vasska aside and said, "Whatever your plan is to take the tower, it's best to hear it now."

The Emperor smiled that infuriating grin as if he read ahead of the class, "We march up to the gate and knock."

Only the flock of priests crowding around the Emperor kept the General from leaping over and shaking the man. "That will give away our position," Marciano said as calmly as he could muster.

"Exactly," the Emperor patted the old man on his cheek again as if he were about to offer a sweet, "Matters are at hand. But first we need to announce ourselves."

"Archers will pick every one of us off as we approach," Marciano muttered to himself, going over exactly how he'd stop this insane plan were he to have a tower's fortification to fall back on. "And they'll keep the gate shut, we won't have a chance to get close."

"So..." Vasska prompted, knowing that the only way to get that brilliant military mind working was to throw it impossible odds and see what came out.

"A distraction," it tumbled out of Marciano's mouth unbidden. He'd rather have said, "We all go home, gather enough forces to batter down a tower, and then attack." But his own body betrayed him, "Wait until they open the doors, to let the servants out for washings or midden dumping, then use the chaos as cover."

The Emperor grinned at his pet performing perfectly, "Excellent."

"The river forks around the Tower, yes?" Marciano spent months bent over the maps when he wasn't bent over the side of the ship, bidding adieu to his meager meals. "I'll take one team up the right, and..." he searched his brain to think who'd be his right hand now that Lanza was gone.
 

"I shall lead the others," the Emperor announced proudly. Every tonsured head snapped up at that.

"Sir, I don't believe that is a prudent choice," Marciano chose his words carefully.

The tonsures all nodded in agreement, not wanting to test how sword proof their faith's shield was. But Vasska waved away Marciano's concerns as if they were a fly, "No, no, I can handle myself. And Argur assures me all will be well."

Every priest turned to the General, whose tongue and hands were tied by a woman without eyes. He acquiesced begrudgingly by bowing his head and turned towards his men. The priests all huddled and whispered, but the slow burn of their Lords glare silenced them.

"Ten of you will follow me. We're going to create a distraction while the other twenty will follow behind the Emperor," the General ordered. Vasska waved happily while every soldier tried to hide the fall of their weary faces. "Wait for my signal before engaging, remain hidden," Marciano continued.
 

He pointed out the ten to follow him and directed them off towards the river to take as much time to prepare as they needed. Vasska grinned and said, "I shall need to arm my cabinet then," and toddled off with his bewildered and terrified priests in tow. As the Emperor passed old bows and swords to men who hadn't picked up anything heavier than a collection plate in twenty years, the General swarmed around the rest of his men.

"Do what you can to protect the Emperor, and for gods' sake, do not let him fight."

"And the priests, Sir?" one of the boys, probably not even fully into an apprenticeship piped up.

"What of them?"

"Do we protect them as well?"

Marciano looked over at the bewildered men, still in their ivory robes, trying to tie oversized swords to their light belts and hook quivers around their backs. "Fuck the priests," the General said to appreciative nods from the others, and a gasp from the child. He was getting a crash course in growing up today.

"All right, we move on my signal."

It wasn't his first campaign. Not technically, anyway. His mother had been growing heavy with him when she donned her father's armor and rode into battle. Oldest story in the Bard. The only fact she took an arrow to the knee was probably why Fabian wasn't born on the battlefield. She liked to joke that he'd been conceived there.

Fabian wasn't certain what to make of the famous General Marciano de Falcrine, a man who'd slain the barbarian hordes of the north into the loving embrace of the Empire. He hadn't expected a man that reminded him of his second or third grandfather (his mother moved around battlefields a lot). But he'd been tasked with protecting the Emperor and protect the Emperor he would.

Luckily for everyone involved, Emperor Vasska was placed far behind the front line, creeping through the underbrush. This was under the pretense that they wanted to keep him safe. In reality, the man wouldn't stop muttering prayers under his breath. Fabian, being so small, was voted for the frontline along with their only surviving scout and one of the priests, a birdlike nervous man who kept checking the sun as if he'd left the kettle on.

A break of trees crowded around the river flowing concurrent with the tower. As Fabian lowered his body to the ground with the scout and grabbed the collar of the priest to bring him with, he spotted a girl splashing in the crisp mountain water. The priest fumbled with the weapon the Emperor doled out to him, an old shortbow mostly gifted for adolescents. It must have gotten dropped into the armory on accident.

Fabian ignored the man, his eyes on the girl as she dropped another sheet to the water with a slap and turned behind her to call something to the other girls back on the warm edge. Whatever they replied back caused her to laugh, and Fabian felt his own cheeks rising in amusement. He'd never believed in love at first sight before, but this enchantress, this witch of his heart, a lady with hair the color of caramel, and skin as pale as snow, and nipples hardening in the cold water, ran off with what little of his manhood he'd managed to accumulate these past months.

He had dreams, images of him getting down on both knees and confessing his undying love, while she slapped him in the back with that wet sheet. Fabian figured he could work out the details later. The priest shifted beside him again, trying to figure out how to fit an arrow into the child's bow.

The precious love of his life turned and gazed into the underbrush, her hand rising to her eyes to shield the afternoon sun when an arrow burst through her perfect breast and she collapsed into the water. Fabian turned to the priest beside him, whose eyes were wide with shock at the arrow that slipped through his fingers.
 

He'd have pummeled the man to death with his bare hands if the scout didn't curse, "Shit. Attack!"

All thoughts of his beloved drifting below the river vanished as the enemy reared up over the servant girls.

Marciano slipped off Peter, nudging the horse back into the woods. His honed eyes followed a pair of shadows, willowy and skirted, babbling about in the foreign tongue as they carted about an overripe basket. He gave a signal to his men to hang back as he moved in the shade, inching closer to the arm of the tower. The girls paid him no heed, just another mass in a forest full of them. They either assumed they were safe or pretended they were for sanities sake. He knew the delusion, it had served him well for many campaigns.