Queen of Fire
Page 102
“How so, my lord?” she asked, seeing Count Marven stiffen. Of all her captains, he seemed to harbour the greatest enmity towards Al Hestian, something she assumed had been born of their time in the desert war.
“The obvious line of march should always be avoided,” Al Hestian said. “The road will be patrolled, policed. Word of our position will be conveyed to Volar within days. If we are to send forces north, they should only be diversionary.”
“Whilst we continue to wallow in mud,” Count Marven said.
“No rain can last forever, Dark-born or no. And if we can’t march through it, neither can the enemy.”
“Time is the true enemy,” Lyrna said. “Every day of inactivity allows the Empress leisure to gather forces at Volar.” She straightened and nodded at Count Marven. “Battle Lord, issue orders to change the army’s line of march come the morning. My lords, to your duties.”
• • •
Alornis was drawing again when she returned to her tent, the charcoal stub moving with feverish industry across the parchment as she hunched over her easel. During the day she would tinker with the cart-mounted ballista, all the time barely saying a word, but at night she would draw. It was only when she worked that her face took on some animation, tense with concentration and eyes lit with memory, though, judging by the nature of her drawings, Lyrna divined they were memories best left alone. Burning ships, burning men, sailors screaming as they flailed in a storm-tossed sea. Page after page of expertly rendered horror produced in a nightly ritual of self-flagellation.
“Did she eat something, at least?” Lyrna asked Murel, shrugging off her rain-soaked cloak.
“A little porridge only, Highness. Though Davoka had to practically force it on her.”
She went and sat by Alornis for a time, the Lady Artificer acknowledging her presence with a barely perceptible nod, her charcoal continuing to move without interruption. Lyrna took some heart from the fact that this sketch differed from the usual finely crafted carnage, a portrait of some kind. Alornis set out the basic shape of the face with a few expertly placed lines then began to detail the eyes, dark eyes, narrowed in judgement and reproach, eyes she knew well.
“Your brother loves you,” she told Alornis, reaching out to still her hand, feeling it tremble.
Alornis didn’t look at her, eyes still fixed on the picture. “It’s my father,” she whispered. “They had the same eyes. He loved me too. Perhaps, if the Faith has it right, he still sees me. It could be that he loves me more now, for we are the same are we not? He too once killed thousands by fire. Sometimes he would dream of it, when he got older and the sickness came, thrashing in his bed and calling out for forgiveness.”
Lyrna resisted the impulse to shake her, slap her, try to force a return of the bright, sweet girl she had met in Alltor. But looking into her confused eyes she knew that girl had gone, consumed by fire along with so many others. “Take your sleeping draught, my lady,” she said instead, gently but firmly tugging the charcoal from her fingers. “Hard marching tomorrow, you need your sleep.”
• • •
They made the road in three days, the rain slackening a little by the third day, though the going was scarcely any better to the north. Brother Kehlan reported numerous cases of men falling out on the march due to a condition known as “guardsman’s foot,” an affliction brought on by constant immersion in water whereby the skin became like a sponge. Soon almost every wagon was laden with grey-faced soldiers, their feet bound in bandages wrapped in canvas to keep the rain off. So it was with considerable relief that they first set foot on the road, a truly remarkable example of human construction that shamed the dirt tracks typical in the Realm. Malcius, if you had seen this, Lyrna thought, noting the gentle curve to the road’s surface that allowed the rain to flow off to the sides. You would have scraped the treasury clean to cover the Realm in such wonders.
“Should do thirty miles or more a day on this,” Count Marven said with a satisfied grin, stamping a boot to the brick surface. “More when the rain lifts.”
“Be sure to scout all approaches,” Lyrna said. She was reluctant to tell her Battle Lord his business but Al Hestian’s counsel had instilled a lingering caution. They were certain to meet the enemy somewhere along this road; the only question was in what strength.
“Of course, Highness.”
The rain finally began to abate three days later, revealing a pleasing landscape of rolling hills and broad valleys, lush with grass and little sign of habitation save the occasional small villa, all of which proved empty of occupants.
“All livestock slaughtered and crops burnt,” Brother Sollis reported two days later. He had led his brothers on a wide-ranging reconnaissance in force, finding no sign of the enemy but ample evidence their approach had been detected. “All wells spoiled with carcasses. A few bodies here and there, mostly old people, slaves by the look of them.”
“Was there ever a more vile race than this?” Lord Adal said, shaking his head. He had taken the North Guard south on a similar mission, returning with equally grim tidings.
“So,” Lyrna said, “we have no forage.”
“Our existing supplies should last us to Volar, Highness,” Brother Hollun advised. “Where no doubt we will find more, once our . . . business is concluded.”
“If I might enquire, Highness,” Lord Nortah said, “as to the exact nature of our business in Volar.”
Lyrna met his gaze, finding his usual willingness to return the scrutiny in full measure. “We will exact justice for the wrongs visited upon the Realm,” she said. “And ensure they will not be repeated.”
“Yes, as you have stated before. However, I should like to know how this justice will be administered. Do you intend to hold trials, perhaps?”
“I don’t recall any trials at Alltor,” Lord Antesh said, regarding the Lord Marshal with a harsh glower. “And I know there were none at Varinshold.” He rarely spoke at council and kept to his own troops when on the march. The Cumbraelins had taken on a uniformly grim demeanour since the loss of Lady Reva, along with her aged guard commander and so many of their countrymen. Whenever she toured their ranks Lyrna found herself greeted with curt nods or barely concealed resentment; she had sent their Blessed Lady to her death, and they knew it. However, any anger they might have felt towards their queen was greatly outshone by their burning hatred for the Volarians, birthed at Alltor and a thousand other nameless atrocities, now stoked to greater heights by a feral hunger for retribution. Lady Reva had been their link to the Father’s love and guidance, surely He would bless all efforts to avenge her passing.
“There were no trials at Alltor,” Lord Nortah returned, “because the Volarians are a disgusting, pestilent race raised in cruelty and murder. We, on the other hand, imagine ourselves a people of reason and compassion, or are our virtues to be cast aside now?”
“Courage and fortitude are equal virtues,” Baron Banders pointed out. “Our people look to us to secure their future. It won’t be done with a soft heart.”
“I have journeyed the length of the Reaches and the Realm,” Nortah said. “Taking more lives in the space of a few months than I did in all my years in the Order. I have led my regiment through battle, fire and hardship because I thought it just and right . . . and my wife told me it was necessary. But I do not wish to look into her eyes when she beholds a man who took part in wholesale murder.”
He turned to Aspect Caenis, whose eyes remained fixed on the map, unwilling to meet his brother’s gaze. “And you, brother? Are you content for the Faith to be stained with innocent blood?”
The Aspect didn’t reply immediately, lowering his head for a moment’s silent contemplation. When he finally opened his eyes and spoke, his tone was regretful but also certain. “The Empress and her empire are merely tools for a greater enemy. We all know this, though often we dare not speak of it. Knowing the nature of this enemy, I see the only path to his defeat in employing all measures at our disposal. If that makes us murderers, then I accept the name and the guilt. For if we fail, brother, there will be no wife for you to return to.”
“I cannot believe the path to victory lies in staining our souls so black we become indistinguishable from those we fight.” Nortah looked to Brother Sollis, voice strained now. “Master? Surely you see the Faith compels us to a more reasoned course. The Order has always sought to defend the defenceless.”
“And to preserve the Faithful,” Sollis replied, his tone no less certain than the Aspect’s. “Should we fail here, the whole world may fall to ruin. The Faith gave its support to the queen’s course in full knowledge of the import of this mission. We cannot afford virtue now, brother.”
“And I,” Antesh grated, face flushing red, “did not come to these shores to leave the greatest soul in Cumbraelin history unavenged.”
“Vengeance is not justice!” Nortah’s fists thumped the table as he leaned forward. “And if Lord Vaelin were here . . .”
“He is not,” Lyrna stated, her voice soft but implacable. “I am here. And I am your queen, my lord.”
“The obvious line of march should always be avoided,” Al Hestian said. “The road will be patrolled, policed. Word of our position will be conveyed to Volar within days. If we are to send forces north, they should only be diversionary.”
“Whilst we continue to wallow in mud,” Count Marven said.
“No rain can last forever, Dark-born or no. And if we can’t march through it, neither can the enemy.”
“Time is the true enemy,” Lyrna said. “Every day of inactivity allows the Empress leisure to gather forces at Volar.” She straightened and nodded at Count Marven. “Battle Lord, issue orders to change the army’s line of march come the morning. My lords, to your duties.”
• • •
Alornis was drawing again when she returned to her tent, the charcoal stub moving with feverish industry across the parchment as she hunched over her easel. During the day she would tinker with the cart-mounted ballista, all the time barely saying a word, but at night she would draw. It was only when she worked that her face took on some animation, tense with concentration and eyes lit with memory, though, judging by the nature of her drawings, Lyrna divined they were memories best left alone. Burning ships, burning men, sailors screaming as they flailed in a storm-tossed sea. Page after page of expertly rendered horror produced in a nightly ritual of self-flagellation.
“Did she eat something, at least?” Lyrna asked Murel, shrugging off her rain-soaked cloak.
“A little porridge only, Highness. Though Davoka had to practically force it on her.”
She went and sat by Alornis for a time, the Lady Artificer acknowledging her presence with a barely perceptible nod, her charcoal continuing to move without interruption. Lyrna took some heart from the fact that this sketch differed from the usual finely crafted carnage, a portrait of some kind. Alornis set out the basic shape of the face with a few expertly placed lines then began to detail the eyes, dark eyes, narrowed in judgement and reproach, eyes she knew well.
“Your brother loves you,” she told Alornis, reaching out to still her hand, feeling it tremble.
Alornis didn’t look at her, eyes still fixed on the picture. “It’s my father,” she whispered. “They had the same eyes. He loved me too. Perhaps, if the Faith has it right, he still sees me. It could be that he loves me more now, for we are the same are we not? He too once killed thousands by fire. Sometimes he would dream of it, when he got older and the sickness came, thrashing in his bed and calling out for forgiveness.”
Lyrna resisted the impulse to shake her, slap her, try to force a return of the bright, sweet girl she had met in Alltor. But looking into her confused eyes she knew that girl had gone, consumed by fire along with so many others. “Take your sleeping draught, my lady,” she said instead, gently but firmly tugging the charcoal from her fingers. “Hard marching tomorrow, you need your sleep.”
• • •
They made the road in three days, the rain slackening a little by the third day, though the going was scarcely any better to the north. Brother Kehlan reported numerous cases of men falling out on the march due to a condition known as “guardsman’s foot,” an affliction brought on by constant immersion in water whereby the skin became like a sponge. Soon almost every wagon was laden with grey-faced soldiers, their feet bound in bandages wrapped in canvas to keep the rain off. So it was with considerable relief that they first set foot on the road, a truly remarkable example of human construction that shamed the dirt tracks typical in the Realm. Malcius, if you had seen this, Lyrna thought, noting the gentle curve to the road’s surface that allowed the rain to flow off to the sides. You would have scraped the treasury clean to cover the Realm in such wonders.
“Should do thirty miles or more a day on this,” Count Marven said with a satisfied grin, stamping a boot to the brick surface. “More when the rain lifts.”
“Be sure to scout all approaches,” Lyrna said. She was reluctant to tell her Battle Lord his business but Al Hestian’s counsel had instilled a lingering caution. They were certain to meet the enemy somewhere along this road; the only question was in what strength.
“Of course, Highness.”
The rain finally began to abate three days later, revealing a pleasing landscape of rolling hills and broad valleys, lush with grass and little sign of habitation save the occasional small villa, all of which proved empty of occupants.
“All livestock slaughtered and crops burnt,” Brother Sollis reported two days later. He had led his brothers on a wide-ranging reconnaissance in force, finding no sign of the enemy but ample evidence their approach had been detected. “All wells spoiled with carcasses. A few bodies here and there, mostly old people, slaves by the look of them.”
“Was there ever a more vile race than this?” Lord Adal said, shaking his head. He had taken the North Guard south on a similar mission, returning with equally grim tidings.
“So,” Lyrna said, “we have no forage.”
“Our existing supplies should last us to Volar, Highness,” Brother Hollun advised. “Where no doubt we will find more, once our . . . business is concluded.”
“If I might enquire, Highness,” Lord Nortah said, “as to the exact nature of our business in Volar.”
Lyrna met his gaze, finding his usual willingness to return the scrutiny in full measure. “We will exact justice for the wrongs visited upon the Realm,” she said. “And ensure they will not be repeated.”
“Yes, as you have stated before. However, I should like to know how this justice will be administered. Do you intend to hold trials, perhaps?”
“I don’t recall any trials at Alltor,” Lord Antesh said, regarding the Lord Marshal with a harsh glower. “And I know there were none at Varinshold.” He rarely spoke at council and kept to his own troops when on the march. The Cumbraelins had taken on a uniformly grim demeanour since the loss of Lady Reva, along with her aged guard commander and so many of their countrymen. Whenever she toured their ranks Lyrna found herself greeted with curt nods or barely concealed resentment; she had sent their Blessed Lady to her death, and they knew it. However, any anger they might have felt towards their queen was greatly outshone by their burning hatred for the Volarians, birthed at Alltor and a thousand other nameless atrocities, now stoked to greater heights by a feral hunger for retribution. Lady Reva had been their link to the Father’s love and guidance, surely He would bless all efforts to avenge her passing.
“There were no trials at Alltor,” Lord Nortah returned, “because the Volarians are a disgusting, pestilent race raised in cruelty and murder. We, on the other hand, imagine ourselves a people of reason and compassion, or are our virtues to be cast aside now?”
“Courage and fortitude are equal virtues,” Baron Banders pointed out. “Our people look to us to secure their future. It won’t be done with a soft heart.”
“I have journeyed the length of the Reaches and the Realm,” Nortah said. “Taking more lives in the space of a few months than I did in all my years in the Order. I have led my regiment through battle, fire and hardship because I thought it just and right . . . and my wife told me it was necessary. But I do not wish to look into her eyes when she beholds a man who took part in wholesale murder.”
He turned to Aspect Caenis, whose eyes remained fixed on the map, unwilling to meet his brother’s gaze. “And you, brother? Are you content for the Faith to be stained with innocent blood?”
The Aspect didn’t reply immediately, lowering his head for a moment’s silent contemplation. When he finally opened his eyes and spoke, his tone was regretful but also certain. “The Empress and her empire are merely tools for a greater enemy. We all know this, though often we dare not speak of it. Knowing the nature of this enemy, I see the only path to his defeat in employing all measures at our disposal. If that makes us murderers, then I accept the name and the guilt. For if we fail, brother, there will be no wife for you to return to.”
“I cannot believe the path to victory lies in staining our souls so black we become indistinguishable from those we fight.” Nortah looked to Brother Sollis, voice strained now. “Master? Surely you see the Faith compels us to a more reasoned course. The Order has always sought to defend the defenceless.”
“And to preserve the Faithful,” Sollis replied, his tone no less certain than the Aspect’s. “Should we fail here, the whole world may fall to ruin. The Faith gave its support to the queen’s course in full knowledge of the import of this mission. We cannot afford virtue now, brother.”
“And I,” Antesh grated, face flushing red, “did not come to these shores to leave the greatest soul in Cumbraelin history unavenged.”
“Vengeance is not justice!” Nortah’s fists thumped the table as he leaned forward. “And if Lord Vaelin were here . . .”
“He is not,” Lyrna stated, her voice soft but implacable. “I am here. And I am your queen, my lord.”
