Risen Queen Read online

  ‘Magnificent work!’ Rowran applauded, to the general agreement of the other captains.

  ‘Who wants to take their surrender?’ Snithe asked.

  ‘It should be Martil,’ Macord said firmly.

  ‘Rubbish, man! We should all go!’ Oscarl growled as Martil yawned. He did not have the energy for an argument over who was going to get the glory.

  ‘Then we all go. Let’s make sure we get some good Berellian wine in the surrender bargain. I could use a drink,’ Snithe said.

  The Lord of Bellic was a tall, muscular man with a face dominated by a hooked nose above a thick black beard. He strode out, wearing a fine suit of chain mail covered in his personal surcoat featuring a black lion on a golden background, and met them willingly enough outside the gate under a flag of truce—but that was where his co-operation ended. He did not even deign to introduce himself after the five captains had announced their names. Compared to the richness of his clothes, they looked like vagabonds. Martil, who had not been able to clean all the mud out of his armour and who still smelled of lamp oil, tried to stay at the back.

  ‘We are here for the raiders who struck a Ralloran village across the border. Surrender them or suffer the consequences,’ Oscarl told the Lord pompously.

  ‘This is an extreme act of provocation! Men and women have been killed! Berellia will not surrender its subjects in the face of armed force!’ the Lord snarled. ‘Besides, King Markuz himself, with the entire Berellian army, will be here by the end of the day. I advise you to run now, while you still can.’

  Martil’s temper flared. ‘You lying bastard! You probably sent those raiders out and you have the balls to stand here and complain about people being killed? Now give us the murderers who destroyed that village or we’ll come in and take them ourselves.’

  ‘You would not dare! We will fight you to our last breath! The glorious bravery of the Berellians will defeat the cowardice of you Ralloran dogs!’

  Martil pointed to where an arrow was stuck in the ground, about a foot away from the shadow of the gatehouse. ‘You have until the shadow reaches that arrow. Then we will be back to collect the killers. Don’t make us come in after them.’

  The Berellian spat on the ground in response, and then stalked away.

  ‘That went well. What do we do now?’ Macord said dryly.

  The debate raged until the forgotten arrow was easily in shadow.

  Oscarl and Snithe wanted to storm in now; Rowran and Macord wanted to starve the town into surrender. Martil was worried about the losses they might take in street fighting and suggested they take the gates and the walls and then demand a surrender.

  ‘We have to be careful. There are women and children in there,’ Macord stated.

  ‘That didn’t seem to bother the Berellians back over the border!’ Oscarl snarled.

  ‘We can’t leave Bellic intact. Or the Berellians will think they can strike at us, then run back to Bellic and laugh at our response. No Ralloran within a day’s march of the border is safe while this town still stands!’ Martil declared.

  But Macord and Rowran still wanted to wait for King Tolbert’s orders, which arrived just before noon.

  All waited while the messenger, dressed in mud-spattered royal livery, handed over an embroidered package. Macord took it and removed a scroll, then broke the thick royal wax seal and unrolled it. All leaned forwards to hear what he was about to say.

  ‘King Tolbert has ordered us to catch and kill the raiders and to let nothing stand in our way.’ He shrugged. ‘He says the border must be protected. Nothing else.’

  They thought about that.

  ‘So he’s not made any decision, he’s left it to us?’ Snithe growled.

  Again the debate raged. Order the town to walk away, and destroy the empty buildings with fire? Sack the town and drag the survivors back to Rallora? Starve them out?

  ‘Look, why don’t we just demand their final answer?’ Macord said in a frustrated effort to break the deadlock.

  So a junior officer—Lieutenant Garie was the closest—was found and sent forwards with a squad of men under a flag of truce to deliver the final warning. The captains argued on, their dispute only broken when a howl of rage and anger that seemed to come from all around the Ralloran camp sounded.

  ‘What in Aroaril’s name is going on?’ Rowran cried and they hurried outside, to see dead and wounded men being dragged back into the camp. Four men carried the writhing Lieutenant Garie.

  Martil raced to his officer’s side. The lieutenant had taken a crossbow bolt in the side and another in the chest. Martil knew from bitter experience that these would be barbed, and almost impossible to pull out. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We called for their lord to speak, and they just loosed a full volley at us, sir,’ one of his men said. ‘We were lucky we weren’t all killed.’

  ‘Sir!’ Garie opened his eyes and coughed up a spray of blood that told Martil he had an arrow in his lung. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  Behind him the other four captains were still arguing but Martil could not be bothered to listen.

  ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. It is my fault,’ Martil told Garie, as he gasped and died.

  Martil gently closed Garie’s eyes. Another fine man dead—murdered by the bastard Berellians. Dead, like his friends Tomon and Borin. Like his family. Like that village over the border. Well, he had had enough. His rage was swamping everything now. The townsfolk wanted to stand against them, did they? Were happy to shelter murderers and break a sacred flag of truce? That made them as guilty as if they had each taken a Ralloran baby and smashed its head open on the stone altar.

  ‘Martil, what is your decision?’ Macord asked.

  Martil wiped Garie’s blood off his face and stood. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘We are locked at two apiece—two for destroying the city, two for starving them until they give us every nobleman and raider inside the walls. You have the deciding vote. Whatever it is, we will all support it,’ Rowran said, his voice trembling with anger.

  Martil looked over his shoulder but could not see the town of Bellic. Wherever he looked, all he could see were dead friends and villagers. ‘Destroy them. We shall make every Berellian tremble to hear the name Bellic,’ he vowed.

  ‘Martil! Have some wine!’

  Captain Macord shoved a goblet of wine into Martil’s hand and he took a mouthful without thinking. His mouth told him it was a fine wine, perhaps one of the best he had ever tasted. Another time, he would have savoured it. But all he could do was stare out the window, at the carnage in the street outside. Bodies of Berellian men, women and children lay in heaps, with handfuls of Rallorans scattered among them.

  Images flashed through his brain. A raging woman had flung herself at him, slashing at his face with a bloodied knife. One of his men was screaming nearby, because that long knife had cut out his eyes a moment before. Instinct had taken over and he’d cut her down. A cry of fury behind him had made him turn, his sword thrusting out—to impale a boy no more than twelve, her son, who had run forwards holding a rusty spear and now had Martil’s sword deep in his lungs. His last act was to spit at Martil.

  ‘How did this happen?’ Martil asked softly.

  Macord drained his goblet and poured himself another. Martil realised numbly that the other war captain was crying silently.

  ‘Best not to think about it,’ Macord advised.

  But Martil could not help but think about it. The gate had fallen easily—with five companies of archers covering the gatehouse, the assault team had been able to throw down the barricade and open the way for the rest of the men to follow. But once inside the town, things had become confused. The Berellians had turned every house into a small fortress and every person in the city was armed. There had been no children under the age of ten—which seemed to indicate that the only ones who had stayed had been the ones who wanted to fight—but even the youngest children carried knives. Seeing friends stabbed in the back by those they s
ought to save was the final straw. Already angry because of what had happened to the Ralloran village and under the Ralloran flag of truce, the men lost control. They began treating anyone with a weapon as an enemy. Martil had felt it also. It became not a battle to take a town but to eradicate a pit of evil. By the time the Berellians wanted to give up, it was too late—the Rallorans were so filled with anger and hate that they would not accept surrender.

  And now the town was dead.

  ‘Is there anyone left alive? Did we even capture the bastard that started it all, the Lord of Bellic? Surely he wouldn’t have fought to the death…’ Martil trailed off as he realised, at the end, there had not been a choice in the matter.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Macord said softly. ‘Here, have another drink.’ Macord pushed the goblet into Martil’s hand. ‘We’re going to need it.’

  ‘Captain! Wake up!’

  Martil’s eyes snapped open and he rolled out of bed, his heart pounding.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded, unable to suppress a shiver. He could hear—and smell—the rain in the dawn.

  ‘You’d better come and see this, sir.’ Lieutenant Nerrin’s voice was grim.

  Martil scrubbed his face with his hands. He had been dreaming—about Bellic again. It was a different sort of dream, although no less disturbing for that.

  He knew he shouldn’t have left Karia behind in Sendric. She had protested bitterly, bursting into tears and pleading not to be left. He had been tempted to give in, let her come along with him, although back in the caves, he had left her behind often enough while he was ambushing Havrick’s forces. Now, he felt guilty, particularly when he remembered that small face peering over the battlement as he rode away. But it was only supposed to be for a couple of days. Just march his regiment of Rallorans to free the other two towns in the north: Gerrin and Berry. After Sendric, it was thought to be an easy enough task. The people would be frightened of the small garrisons Gello had imposed on them—and these garrisons would be terrified of the Rallorans. A quick march, demand their surrender, strip them of weapons and armour and then send them back to Gello. Then they could work on recruiting more men for the Norstaline part of the army.

  It sounded so straightforward back in Sendric’s keep, so logical. Only he was missing Karia badly—and dreaming about Bellic again.

  To make things worse, it appeared something else had gone wrong. They had marched to Gerrin, arriving in the dead of night and setting up camp. Martil did not want to demand a surrender in the night; he wanted to impress the town and scare Gello’s garrison with the size of his force. He had left Lieutenant Nerrin on guard duty while he tried to sleep.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You just have to see, sir,’ Nerrin said grimly.

  He dressed hurriedly then followed Nerrin until he could see the small town for himself. Gerrin was less than half the size of Sendric but, because it had been built in the north, back in the times when the so-called goblins had raided the area, it had an efficient wall and a strong gatehouse. In the first light of dawn it should have looked pretty.

  Instead, it looked like a scene from his nightmare.

  The battlements were packed. Men in the red of Gello, as well as men in ordinary clothes—and women also—all waving the closest thing to a weapon they had. Torches burned brightly along the embrasures as they yelled their defiance at the mystified Rallorans watching them.

  ‘Aroaril’s beard! It’s like we’re back at Bellic!’ Martil breathed.

  ‘That’s what I thought you’d say,’ Nerrin agreed miserably. ‘Do you know what’s going on, sir?’

  Martil stared at the walls. This was so different from Sendric. There, they had been welcomed by the townsfolk, who had been terrified of Gello’s men. Why were these townsfolk standing shoulder to shoulder with Gello’s thugs, screaming at his Rallorans?

  ‘What are your orders, sir?’ Nerrin asked nervously. ‘Do we assault?’

  Martil glanced at the tough, solid soldier, hearing the worry in his voice. He glanced over his shoulder and saw many of his Rallorans were listening as well, something close to fear showing on their faces. He raised his voice for their benefit.

  ‘We wait until full light, Lieutenant. There will be no assault. We will talk to them under a flag of truce.’

  He could feel the ripple of relief go through the men. Looking again at the town, he said, ‘I’m sure this will all make sense later.’

  But while the rain stopped and the sun offered the promise of a warm day, things did not become any clearer to Martil when he marched forwards with a squad of men under the Queen’s new banner, with the white flag of truce beside it. Since Bellic, he would not let anyone but himself go forwards under a white flag, instead ordering Nerrin to take command if anything happened to him. He did have Sergeant Kesbury with him, and the bulk of the powerful soldier was reassuring. He was conscious of the Dragon Sword at his side—and felt the familiar dread that it was doing nothing to help him win over these Norstalines.

  He stopped his men half a bowshot short of the gate and waited. He did not call out, instead used the time to look up at the defenders on the wall. The men in red surcoats were clustered heavily at the gate but there were plenty of men and women in ordinary clothes beside them. They all seemed to be staring at Martil with a mixture of fear and hatred. He tried not to wonder why, just looked at the gates and waited for someone to come out.

  Baron Gerrin, the eleventh of that title, had left behind his old name of Rhoden Salte but had been unable to shake the nervous habit of biting his nails. He chewed anxiously on his thumbnail as he peered out at the group of waiting Rallorans. He turned to his companion, a man dressed in Gello’s red surcoat, with the crest of a first lieutenant on his shoulder.

  ‘Do we go to them?’ he asked. ‘Won’t they just cut us down?’

  Lieutenant Bayes sighed. He was already worried about being the first man to test out Duke Gello’s new strategy and this annoying fool with his disgusting habit was not helping. But he needed Baron Gerrin to pull this off, so he pasted a reassuring smile onto his face.

  ‘We have to go to them. It is a flag of truce. They will respect it, no matter what that bard said. Remember, you need to start talking and provoke one or more of the Rallorans into threatening you—then the town council and that militia lieutenant will have no choice but to believe what the bard said was true.’

  ‘But what if the town doesn’t stand with us? After all, your presence here in Gerrin has not always been a happy one…’

  Bayes ground his teeth together. ‘I know that!’ He took a deep breath. ‘But the people are truly frightened of the Rallorans now. The bard did his work well. Otherwise we couldn’t have got them on the walls last night. Now, we need to talk to the others, then go out there. They won’t wait for much longer.’

  He almost shoved, rather than showed, Baron Gerrin out of the office and into the next room, where half the town council were seated around a table. These were mostly rich, elderly merchants, picked for the position by Gerrin. With them was the local militia commander, a Lieutenant Forde, who had clashed repeatedly with Bayes over the behaviour of the soldiers in town. Nonetheless, he was the man the town respected—certainly more than the ineffectual Baron—and so the key to the plan.

  ‘My friends, the Rallorans want to talk to us. We must go out there, convince them that honest Norstalines will not bow down before these brutal barbarians and that courage will keep our families safe…’ Gerrin began nervously.

  ‘Have no fear on that score, Baron,’ Forde said immediately. ‘We’ll defend these walls to the last drop of our blood. There’ll be no Bellic here. Everyone knows what will happen if those Rallorans get inside these walls. We won’t let them. Those Rallorans might be brave enough fighting women and children but we’ll show them the true Norstaline spirit!’

  His words were echoed by cheers and several of the councillors thumped the table in agreement.

  Gerrin and Bayes exchanged
smiles of relief.

  ‘Then let us go out there and tell them that!’ Bayes declared, and the group jumped to their feet.

  Martil’s patience was running dangerously low when, with a creak, the gates were hauled open and a strange party walked out to meet him. From his robes, the leader was obviously the local lord. With him was an officer in Gello’s red, what looked like a militia officer and several elderly merchants, who were probably part of the town council.

  The noble stopped several paces from Martil. ‘You have no business here!’ he called out, his voice thin and reedy.

  ‘Baron Gerrin, I presume?’ Martil asked, and when the man nodded hesitantly, Martil offered him a smile. He unrolled the scroll Merren had given him and began the speech she had insisted on writing for him—it sounded suspiciously like something from a saga to him but he had accepted it rather than start an argument where Barrett was sure to take her side. The closed gates and the men and women on the walls indicated their presence here was hardly welcome but he had to press ahead, regardless.

  ‘People of Gerrin, you have nothing to fear. I am Captain Martil, the Queen’s Champion and her envoy. She has claimed back her throne and wishes it known that she will be creating a new Norstalos, where all can live free and equal, without fear of war. We come to deliver you from the brutal oppressors of Duke Gello, the usurper, who has committed bloody crimes upon the innocent people of Norstalos. We are here to help you remove Gello’s vicious forces from your town, and to bring peace back to these troubled lands.’

  Martil finished reading and took a moment to compose himself before rolling up the scroll and seeing their reaction. He knew the speech had missed out a few things. Things that were better left unsaid if the town was to come onto their side.

  First, these towns would make ideal supply bases for Gello, should he attack the north, so they had to be under the Queen’s control. Second, by bringing them under the Queen’s power, they were placing these people in danger from Gello and, finally, they needed as many of the townsfolk as possible to volunteer to fight, and possibly die. These were all good reasons for the town to be distrustful of them and he hoped they would not mention them.