The Devil's armour

17

‘Mountains don’t need men. But men need mountains sometimes, I think.’

From her place across the room, Simah puzzled over the brooding words and did not know what her master meant. Ravel ignored her, continuing to stare out the window of his chamber. In the hills surrounding his city he could see countless pinpoints of fire, lighting up the night like stars. They had come like a noose to encircle Andola, building day by day until he could see nothing else on the horizon. Tonight, though, Baron Ravel knew there would be no more of them. There were enough, finally, so many that even Jazana Carr was satisfied.

‘I wish I could go to the mountains,’ he said. It was a lament, because his mountains didn’t really exist any more. They were a memory from his boyhood, and certainly could never be so sweet again. ‘I would hide there, and when I came down from the mountains this would all be over.’

His slave said nothing. She had said very little in the hours since he had sent for her. At first he had thought she would be a nice diversion, something to take his mind off the coming horror, but his lust had shrivelled up and died, and now all he wanted was to stare out the window at the Norvan hordes. He wondered how long his own forces could hold out, and if Colonel Bern could keep his men loyal. He wondered how Jazana Carr had mustered so many troops, marching them so quickly across the border. In little less than a month she had made good on her promise to take away his city.

Simah waited, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. In a few more hours it would be dawn, and so far neither of them had slept at all. Remarkably, Simah did not seem afraid. Though everyone else seemed to tremble at the impending invasion, Simah’s dispassion was constant. Ravel supposed she would relish his destruction. In the month since he had bought her, she had not warmed to him as he had hoped. Yet he adored her, and did not want her to go. She was perhaps the most beautiful thing he owned, and he wanted to look at her before he lost everything. He could see her image in the glass, wavy and confused, unsure why he had brought her here if not to dance or share his bed. She wore a dress that sparkled with gold thread. Her eyes watched him as he gazed out the window, and there was no contempt in her expression.

‘Would you leave us?’ she said suddenly. Surprised, Ravel turned to look at her. She sat perfectly still in a chair near his vast bed, an undisturbed glass of wine on the table beside her. Not once had she joined him at the window, as if she already knew what had gathered out there to crush them.

‘What?’

‘If you could, would you go to your mountains and leave us?’

It was her impertinence that made her special, Ravel supposed. He had wanted her to love him, but now she never would.

‘The city is surrounded,’ he told her.

She nodded. ‘But if it weren’t, I mean. If you could, would you flee?’

‘If I could I would flee and take you with me,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing to be done for it. You’re as doomed as I am, and for the same reason.’

‘My lord?’

‘Pride, girl,’ Ravel sighed.

His admission surprised Simah. It was very quiet in the room. It was as though he could hear the thoughts in her head.

‘I’ll give you what you want, Simah,’ he said, ‘and tell you what you so badly want to hear, what all you bitches live for. Your master was wrong, and there’s the proof of it.’ He pointed a fat finger toward the window, the long hem of his sleeve snapping. ‘Look, damn you!’

Simah rose from the chair and glided toward the glass. He put his hand on her back so that she could not pull away, not until she had seen all the horror and had her fill of his failure. Ravel laughed hysterically.

‘See them? See them now? It’s what you wanted, I know it. And now you have your wish. Now all of you can see that I am imperfect. It must be grand for you.’

The campfires of the Norvans stretched into the hills surrounding Andola. Simah’s blue eyes watched them impassively. Her indifference infuriated Ravel. He wanted to strike her. Instead he started weeping.

‘There’s not a god worth praying to that can get me out of this now,’ he said. He still could not comprehend Jazana Carr’s power. Simah turned to him, her face without pity, and Ravel knew finally that he had never understood women at all, or how fierce they could be. He sneered, ‘Is it so much better to die than to be in my company? Is that what makes you so contented?’

Simah did not quickly answer him. Since the coming of the Norvans, she had stopped her sycophantic replies.

‘My lord, your argument is with the Diamond Queen, not me.’

‘She wants me to surrender, girl! Don’t you understand? Well, I will not! I have men, and they will fight. And if need be, they will die.’

‘Will they, my lord?’

The question haunted Ravel. Colonel Bern had posted men throughout the city, in the streets and at the bastions. They were soldiers bought and paid for, but what kind of pledge was that? Baron Ravel sat himself down at the edge of his bed. In all his life, he could never recall a time when he’d felt so alone.

‘I have been kind to you,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe you don’t think so, but I have. Can you not be kind to me tonight? This will be the last chance you’ll have to show that you do not hate me.’ He looked up at her. ‘Are you so cruel, child?’

Simah — his slave — glanced at the door, then back at him. Clearly, she contemplated leaving. But then pity — another unfathomable trait of womanhood — warmed her blue eyes. She did not leave him. With the gathering storm outside the window, she sat back down in her chair.

Jazana Carr had made camp at the foot of a tall hill near the southern tip of Andola, across a wide plain that afforded a good view of the city and her men surrounding it. Here she had set up her pavilion days before, when she herself had arrived from Hanging Man to see the progress Rodrik Varl had made. It had been overcast the day she arrived, but she could still see her men massed in the plains surrounding Andola, preparing themselves for the coming battle. There were thousands of them, each company summoned from a different part of Norvor. The banners of their varied cities snapped ominously in the wind. Mercenaries by the hundreds had answered her call, as had lifelong soldiers from the conquered Norvan cities of Rolga and Ard and Poolv and Vicvar. The Diamond Queen was pleased. She was sure that Baron Ravel quaked this night, hiding somewhere in his fabulous castle, dreading the dawn.

Now, dawn was coming fast and true. Inside her pavilion, Jazana Carr presided over the last meeting she would have with her commanders until the city was taken. Rodrik Varl stood beside her, at the head of a table circled with eager men. There was no food or drink served; there was time only for talk. Jazana Carr spoke very little, letting Varl speak instead. From her chair she studied the faces of her commanders, looking for any sign of hesitancy. Except for Varl, there was none at all. The mercenary Kaj listened as Varl went over the battle plan, nodding his dark head. He and his Crusaders would have the hardest task of all — taking the eastern wall. The duty did not seem to bother Kaj, who remained cool. Jazana Carr’s gaze flicked toward Count Onikil. Of all the gathered leaders, the count was the most willing to invade Liiria. Jazana supposed he had his reasons, though he did not volunteer them. His fellow Rolgans had already secured the western front, cutting off Andola from the rest of Liiria. If Ravel had hoped for aid from Koth, it would not come.

To the north Lord Dugald’s army was positioned, prepared to advance down from the hills on the city’s softest flank. Along with Count Onikil, they would squeeze the breath out of Ravel like a python. Because he had the easiest task of any commander, Dugald leaned back in his chair with an air of disinterest. His overconfidence irked Rodrik Varl.

‘This will not be easy,’ Varl scolded. He looked from one to the next, stopping at Dugald. ‘Ravel’s men have the higher ground and the weapons to hold it. And they’re fighting for their city.’

‘They’re mercenaries, like you,’ Dugald reminded him.

Varl’s offence came quickly. ‘And that means what exactly?’

‘Ravel’s hirelings won’t fight for him. They haven’t got a chance and they know it.’

‘They haven’t run yet,’ Varl argued. ‘And they haven’t surrendered, either.’ He reminded the man from Poolv that it was he who had predicted their surrender a week ago. ‘If any of you underestimate them, it will be to your own great pity. These are seasoned soldiers. It’ll be bloody hand to hand. And your men Kaj will have it the hardest.’

‘Rodrik, we’re ready,’ said Kaj with easy familiarity. ‘We’ll do our best. That’s all I can promise.’

Jazana Carr remained quiet as the meeting continued. When it was over, the gathering rose dutifully from their seats, promised their queen victory, then left the pavilion, riding off with their entourages toward the distant corners of Andola where their armies waited. Jazana Carr drifted out of the pavilion and watched the ebbing night swallow them. Her own camp was quiet and the riders did little to disturb her sleeping soldiers, who had spread out like a vast carpet across the southern plain. The breeze was light, promising a good day. Around Andola a thousand little campfires blinked, going out one by one as the dawn edged nearer and the men prepared themselves for battle. Jazana Carr stepped away from her pavilion, stretching her lithe frame. She was tired and hadn’t slept much since coming to Andola, but she was invigorated by what she was about to accomplish. In the month since meeting Ravel in Hanging Man she had anticipated this day hungrily. But she knew too that this day was years in the making, and she wished that Thorin Glass was here to see it. If he were in Andola somewhere he would see the army she’d assembled to take his homeland, and how she had made good on her promise to take it. He would be like Ravel, trembling at the sight of what she had brought. But Thorin was not here, and that irritated Jazana. He was not even in Liiria, or at least she did not think so. Instead he was off across the Desert of Tears, somewhere in another world.

But he would hear about it. Jazana Carr was sure of that. She smiled, not happily, and hoped that the news of her victory here would soon reach her old lover. The hole he had left in her still ached, and that surprised her. She hoped that taking Andola would be a needed first step in stemming that pain.

But to Rodrik Varl her plan made no sense, and as her trusted bodyguard came up behind her she could sense the uncertainty in his gait. She wished he would walk on past her, but he did not. Instead he came to a stop nearby, mimicking her as she surveyed their loop of armies. It was an impressive assemblage; even Rodrik admitted that. But he had questioned her every step of the way. She had seen very little of him in the past month while he recalled his mercenaries and summoned the Norvan dukes from their cities. And in the past three days they had still had little time together. Yet somehow Rodrik had found the time to be discouraging.

‘It’s a fine host, my lady,’ he trilled, ‘but overconfident to be sure. The Liirians aren’t like Dugald thinks, and Count Onikil has the same streak of stupidity. I worry.’

‘Yes, you worry too much,’ said Jazana. She was tired of his warnings. ‘Now especially is not the time for such talk. There’s a task to be done. Let’s have at it quick and clean.’

The mercenary adjusted his beret and nodded. ‘Aye.’

Not far away, his horse and escort awaited him. Soon he would ride out to the southern front and rouse his men to war. The southern bastion was Andola’s best defence, and like the eastern wall it was well fortified with men and arms. They could take the whole city, but until they took the bastion their battle would not end.

‘Dark,’ Jazana commented absently. There were very few lights visible in the buildings of the city. She supposed the people were hiding, dousing their candles and lanterns to keep her hordes away. For a moment she was sad for them. This wasn’t a fight for slaves or gold or even territory. This was something different.

‘Pride.’

The word slipped past her lips before she could stop it. Rodrik regarded her strangely.

‘Ravel,’ Jazana explained. ‘He could have avoided all of this if not for his stupid pride. Such a foolish man.’

Rodrik Varl smirked. ‘Pride isn’t the purview of men alone, Jazana. Not only men are ruined by it.’

‘Oh, just say it, Rodrik. Before you ride off to kill people, please — let’s have the mercenary’s lecture on morality.’

‘All right,’ said Rodrik gamely. ‘I’ll tell you. I think this is a mistake.’

‘So you’ve said, many times.’

‘Not because I’m afraid for Liiria, but because I’m afraid for Norvor. You’ve bent your whole life toward winning Norvor, and now you’ve turned your back on it.’

‘Jealousy,’ she sighed dismissively.

‘No.’ He grabbed her hand and yanked her around to face him. ‘Listen to me. You’re playing a dangerous game, and if anyone here is jealous it is you. You think to lure Thorin back to you by destroying his family? His country? What about your own country? Norvor needs you, Jazana.’

She pulled free her hand and would not look at him. ‘Norvor is mine. I fought for it. No one can take it from me now.’

‘But the people must see you! They must know you care. Otherwise you’re just another tyrant, just another Lorn the Wicked.’ Rodrik shook his red head, exasperated. ‘You’re battling ghosts, Jazana.’

‘Rodrik, I have ghosts that never quiet,’ she said. Suddenly she was desperate to be away from him. ‘Just a little more,’ she whispered. ‘That’s all I need.’

Rodrik Varl’s lamentful sigh told Jazana Carr his disappointment. ‘Jazana, I do not understand you any more.’

‘It’s a jewel, Rodrik. The greatest jewel.’ Jazana’s eyes focused not on the city but on the nation beyond. Great Liiria, with all its riches and history. Even fractured, it was the centre of the world. It was important, in a way that Norvor had never been.

‘Ah, but how much is enough? How many jewels does it take to satisfy you, Jazana?’

Jazana Carr smiled at her bodyguard. ‘Sweet Rodrik. You’re right — you don’t understand me. You’re a good man, but you have a stunted imagination. Let me help you. .’ She put one arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. Then, with her free hand she pointed out toward Andola. ‘What is beyond Andola?’

Rodrik thought for a moment. ‘The Liirian shires.’

‘And beyond that?’

‘The Novo valley, I think.’

‘And beyond that?’

‘Koth.’

Jazana Carr grinned. ‘And what’s in Koth?’

‘Breck and his men,’ said Rodrik sourly. ‘And trouble.’

‘The library, Rodrik. The library! And all its knowledge, and all that it can teach us. That’s what made Liiria great. That’s what made Akeela a great king, why people remember him. He was a madman, yes? Yet people deify him! They speak his name with reverence, as if they’ve forgotten the ruin he brought them. And why? Because he made them see the stars.’

Rodrik Varl blinked silently.

‘This is no different than winning Norvor,’ Jazana went on. ‘It’s the same war. We’re bringing good to the world, just as Akeela did.’

Whether or not he believed her, Rodrik merely nodded. ‘My men are waiting,’ he said finally. He pulled himself from her embrace. ‘Don’t expect to hear from me too soon.’

‘I want reports, Rodrik. As soon as it’s safe enough, I intend to ride forward.’

His smile was wan. ‘I’ll do my best for you, my lady. You know I always do.’

With a slight bow Rodrik Varl dismissed himself, leaving her alone in the shadow of her pavilion. He did not turn back to her, nor say a word to his waiting men. He simply mounted his horse and rode off, toward the danger of the southern bastion.

On the roof of the southern bastion, Colonel Bern watched as dawn crept over the world. To the east, where a battalion of his men secured Andola’s eastern wall, the sun struggled over the distant hills. The sky blushed with the coming morn. The night breeze was fading and the air was still, rank with the smell of lamp oil and pungent smoke from the brazier behind him. Like a furnace, the giant brazier coughed up a thick, blanketing smoke. Colonel Bern could feel the heat from the fire against his back and neck. The brazier, he knew, could be seen for miles, like a defiant fist raised against the Norvans. At last, his enemies were moving. Reconnaissance had reported at least a thousand men on the southern front, and now Bern could see that monster beginning to stir, a great, dark, undulating mass. Inside the bastion he had less than five hundred men to hold them off. Bern licked his lips uncertainly. He had good men stationed through the city, more soldiers than he should have needed, but Jazana Carr’s pockets were deep indeed, and even he had been stunned by the force she had gathered.

The old Royal Charger adjusted his cape about his shoulders. The morning was fair, yet he was chilled. Nearby, his many archers stood ready on the rooftop. Like their brethren lining the catwalks below, they had trained tirelessly for this day. They would do a proud job, Bern was sure. It would not be an easy victory for the Diamond Queen. She had endless amounts of gold, apparently, but Baron Ravel had opened his own coffers wide. At Bern’s command were four battalions of men, armed and well supplied. Against a normal siege they could have endured for weeks.

Unfair, thought Bern wistfully.

Unfair that he should fight a mercenary like Rodrik Varl and be forced to lose. He ground his jaws together as he studied the army massed against him. Where was Varl, he wondered? Would he come here, to the southern bastion? Or would he take on the eastern wall?

Here, he decided. He’ll come here because he wants to face me. The thought comforted Bern. He was a Liirian, and happy to defend his country. He was not a mercenary like Rodrik Varl or the whore-queen’s other men.

Far below the tower was a courtyard. Both the yard and keep were surrounded by a twenty-foot stone wall. The wall was lined with catwalks and the yard filled with men and horses, ready to spring forward once the gate was breached. Beyond the yard stretched a hilly field of grass, now empty. Bern’s eyes paused carefully on the field. As high as he was, he could see nothing of the trap they had set. Nor could he smell it, for the brazier did a good job of masking the odour. He smiled, satisfied with his plan. It had taken more than a day for his men to soak the field with oil, and two days to gather all the lamp oil in the city. Except for candlelight, Andola was mostly dark now. Bern supposed his enemies would not see the clue, for they were under siege and frightened people always hid in darkness.

At last he turned away from the field. He watched the brazier on the rooftop spouting smoke and orange flames. Liiria was a place of many gods, and whichever deity controlled the wind was on his side today. Only a few sparks rose up from the fire, wafting up like fireflies then harmlessly fading away. It was not the way soldiers should die, but he had decided a long time ago that Jazana Carr’s men weren’t soldiers any more. Even the Liirians among them.

I am a soldier today, he decided. For a moment, the brazier was like a holy thing, and his thoughts were like a prayer. Finally, at last, he was a soldier again. Finally, at last, his cause was just. More than anything, he wanted to end the day without regrets.

Aliston, who had been a captain in the Royal Chargers and who still held that rank in Bern’s unofficial army, caught a glimpse of his commander staring at the flames. Not far across the tower, Aliston had been talking to a group of men, directing them on the timing of their archery, which needed to be perfect. Smart in his Charger’s uniform, Aliston was in control of the tower archers, while Bern himself took command of the bastion. He was a young man compared to Bern, but had long ago become a confidant. Seeing his troubled colonel, the captain ended his conversation and strode across the rooftop. The fire was hot on Bern’s face, and when he noticed Aliston coming toward him he turned from it.

‘Colonel,’ began Aliston cautiously, ‘we’re ready now. I can take command up here, sir.’

Colonel Bern nodded. Of all the concerns he had today, Aliston’s abilities were not among them. He noticed the younger man’s taut face, masking the fear he must be feeling. There was pride in the crispness of his uniform.

‘I’ll give the order when it’s time to light the field,’ said Bern. ‘No mistakes, Aliston. Don’t let anyone get carried away. Don’t let the bastards have a hint of what’s coming.’

‘No, sir,’ said Aliston. ‘I know.’

‘Don’t forget, Aliston — we’re Liirians.’

‘Yes.’

‘We shouldn’t be here, but we are. So we made mistakes. But we’re not mercenaries today. We’re Royal Chargers. We’re soldiers.’

Captain Aliston cleared his throat. ‘Sir. .’

‘No, I know what you’re thinking. But we’re all Royal Chargers today. Get your men to think like that or they’ll leave the field. I want them to have a reason to fight. That’s what I’m passing on to you, and what you need to pass on to your men. We’re not fighting for Baron Ravel. We’re fighting for Liiria.’

The words struck the captain, and for a moment his disciplined face emoted. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. He glanced over Bern’s shoulder at the Norvans. ‘They’re on the move.’

‘They are,’ said Bern with a nod. He didn’t need to look behind himself; he already knew what they faced. Firmly facing his captain, he said, ‘We’ll do our best. But we won’t die for no reason. This is just our first battle, Aliston. After this, Breck and his library brigade will carry on.’

Aliston smiled at his commander. ‘It feels good to be part of a country again.’

‘Keep that thought in your head,’ advised Bern. ‘Make the others believe it, too. And let’s start living without regrets.’

There was no more said between them. Bern left the roof and went down into the tower. There he checked on the stations along the spiral landings, all fortified with crossbowmen to oppose the siege, then proceeded down into the keep. Like the tower, the keep itself was heavy with men and arms. The main doors to the keep remained open, leading Bern out into the yard. In the yard he found his horse. A hundred more horses were there as well. Both men and beasts wore plates of heavy armour. Nevins, Bern’s cavalry commander, stopped what he was doing when he saw the colonel approach and quickly reported the cavalry’s readiness. Bern reminded Nevins that they were no longer mercenaries, and how they were fighting for Liiria. Nevins thought for a moment, nodded silently, then offered Bern his horse. Colonel Bern refused his mount, instead climbing up to the catwalks lining the high wall to join the archers. To his lieutenant on the wall he delivered his same simple message. Like Nevins, the lieutenant nodded gravely.

There on the catwalks of the southern bastion, Colonel Bern waited with his fellow soldiers.

An hour after leaving Jazana Carr, Rodrik Varl sat upon his horse facing the formidable southern bastion. Morning broke like a violent wave over Andola, spraying sunlight through the acrid smoke rising up from the bastion tower. The stink of burning oil irritated Varl’s nostrils. The grass beneath his charger’s hooves shone with dew. Rows of mounted soldiers flanked him, safely distant from the bowmen crowding every inch of the bastion’s walls. Alongside the cavalry, footmen with swords and maces waited anxiously for the battle call, when they would race headlong into the field fronting the bastion. In the centre of the army, a huge battering ram had been readied. Silent on its oiled wheels, the stout fist of timber stood manned by a hundred brawny conscripts, men not good enough to be soldiers but eager for Jazana’s gold. They would die by the dozens, Rodrik knew, but there were hundreds more to take their place. In the rear where Jazana waited, there were scores of men to be tapped, poor souls who had dragged themselves to Andola for the promise of food and gain.

Rodrik Varl snorted against the smell. The world around him stood remarkably silent. An eager murmur rippled through his men. The clopping of a thousand horse hooves sounded extraordinary. Varl waited a moment more, enjoying the relative peace that would soon be wrecked. At the eastern wall and at the western border and at the badly exposed, gaping hole of north Andola, men just like these were ready to strike, to tighten the noose and suffocate the city. Varl listened very carefully, unsure if Count Onikil or Kaj or Dugald had began their assaults. He supposed the time had come. Regretfully, he looked at the southern bastion and knew that brave men were inside it, ready to defend their nation. Next to him, his fellow mercenary Aykle from Astan nudged him from his daydream.

‘Roddy? What’s the word?’

Aykle wore his hair braided like a savage. He was a big man in bulging leather, but his soft eyes told Varl he shared at least some of his wariness. They should have been in Norvor, and Aykle knew it, too. But mercenaries weren’t given choices.

Rodrik Varl took his sword from its scabbard and raised it high above his head. He wondered if Colonel Bern was in the bastion, and if the old soldier could see him.

‘Attack,’ he cried. Then, louder, ‘Attack!’

A cry rose up from the ranks of men. The first line of cavalry bolted forward, covering the advance of the infantry and bowmen. Shields raised against the coming rain of arrows, the horsemen charged across the wet green toward the field, their comrades on foot echoing their cries. Varl watched as his men thundered into battle. Eventually he would join them, but not before his bowmen answered the arrows from the wall. Already the archers along the catwalks were raising their weapons skyward. Scores and scores of iron-tipped missiles tilted up. Among the lusty cries and snorts of horses Varl heard the twang of bowstrings. The Liirian arrows leapt for the sky, arcing through the murky sunlight. Varl’s own archers hurried forward, racing against the deadly rain. Like vengeance from heaven the arrows fell upon them, plummeting down. Among the infantry and archers the arrows fell the worst, piercing hearts and windpipes in an indiscriminate massacre. The horsemen galloped forward, undeterred, calling their brethren to follow as they hurried toward the wall. They would secure the field, attack the gate, and make an opening for the ladder-men.

Again the sky filled with arrows. Again they missed Rodrik Varl and the reserves by yards. Next to Varl, Aykle squirmed anxiously on his speckled stallion, eager to lead his own horsemen into the fray. Varl held up a hand to calm him.

‘When I say so,’ he reminded his comrade.

The first of his archers were in place. In unison they fell to their knees, drew back their weapons, and gave the first reply. Along the catwalks and battlements the Liirians ducked the whistling barrage, granting the Norvans needed breath. When he was sure the barrage from his men would continue, Rodrik Varl ordered the next rank of horsemen and infantry toward the field. Aykle of Astan raised his brutish sword and led his mercenaries into battle.

There were Liirians among the attackers. Colonel Bern could see them from his place on the catwalk, still wearing their threadbare uniforms as though they were somehow proud of what they were doing.

Below the wall the field was crowded with cavalrymen and infantry, all trying to secure the area and make ready for the ram. Bern shouted orders to the men along the walks, who concentrated their arrows on those nearest the walls. Inside the tower, the crossbowmen with their powerful ballistae pumped bolts at the Norvans, puncturing the armour of the horsemen and sending them sprawling from their mounts. With practised ease they traded positions, falling back to load their weapons while another took a shot. The air overhead filled with Norvan arrows, falling into the yard and forcing the men to take cover. Nevins gathered his horsemen into groups near the wall to protect them from the barrage.

So far, though, the Norvans seemed oblivious to the oil slicking the grass beyond the field. Colonel Bern peered out past the throngs of darting men and saw how the reservists flooded the green. Rodrik Varl had held back hundreds of his men. Even the battering ram rested there. Bern thought for a moment, wondering if he should give the order now, while he had a chance to burn the ram.

But he could not give the order. Later — when the bastion fell — they would need the fire’s cover.

At Andola’s eastern wall, Kaj and his Crusaders had battled for two hours and had gained only modest ground. Shortly after dawn they had launched their attack on the old fortification, but the city had grown out past the wall since its construction, leaving Kaj and his men with a bloody, street-to-street advance. The Liirians held the wall tightly in the hands of at least two hundred men, but had also positioned fighters in the houses lining the way. Ravel’s hirelings had done an admirable job of holding back Kaj’s more experienced men. Without armour and armed with quick, curved blades, the Crusaders advanced slowly toward the wall, occasionally pushed back by a barrage of Liirian arrows. Though he had over three hundred men at his command, Kaj kept most in reserve behind him. So many men would have choked the narrow avenues, and he preferred his own brigade — his Crusaders — to do the real fighting. As they advanced down a street of battered shops and abandoned homes, crossbowmen appeared at the other end of the road. Kaj ducked behind a broken shutter as the bolts blew past him, turning the avenue into a deadly funnel. Overhead, the rickety structure of the house groaned, threatening to give. He and his men sucked in air as they pressed themselves against the crumbling cobblestone. A few of his men sprinted forward, sheltered themselves behind open doors and returned fire.

Pinned where he was, Kaj groped for an idea. He could see the eastern wall up ahead, guarding the city. Like the southern bastion, the wall needed to be taken, for there was no way Andola would really fall before that, not while so many troops guarded it. But to take the wall they had to reach it, and that was the real dilemma. Sweat glistened on Kaj’s dark skin, stinging his eyes. He wiped at them furiously. He had already lost a score of good men.

‘Get to the roof!’ he called to the group behind him.

At once his men began scrambling, hoisting each other onto the low roofs of the shops and handing up bows. A crossbow bolt grazed past Kaj’s ear as he peered out to see, nipping it. He hollered, more in surprise than pain, and cursed at his men to hurry. His Crusaders shimmied quickly onto the rooftops and took aim down the avenue. The burst of fire gave Kaj the break he needed. An instant later he was on the move, leaping from shutter to doorway to window, guiding a group of twenty men behind him while more swarmed into the avenue. He was about to advance again when the door beside him burst open.

A group of soldiers — six or seven men in armour — rushed toward him. Kaj leapt into the street, twisting to avoid the rush of arrows. From the end of the street a company of horsemen advanced. Caught between the Liirians, Kaj called to his men for help, then threw himself at the lesser force, slashing wildly at the armoured figures. His curved blade danced, catching the first surprised man easily and slicing through his gorget. While he buckled Kaj turned again, spiralling against a swinging mace. The spiked ball breezed overhead as the mercenary ducked, bringing up his sword and slamming it into the man’s groin, hard enough to crush the flimsy armour. The soldier screamed and crumbled into Kaj’s rising blade.

With his own reinforcements coming up fast, Kaj ducked the blade of a nearby Liirian, scrambling to escape the squeeze. One of his men jumped from a rooftop onto the armoured pack, knocking some to the ground and scattering the rest. Kaj ran to his aid, slicing past more of Ravel’s soldiers, who were coming out of the buildings like cockroaches now. The horsemen down the alley were almost upon them. Kaj’s own men streamed down the street to meet them, screaming with bloodlust.

On the western side of Andola, Count Onikil’s cavalry had made good progress penetrating the city. Like Andola’s northern front, the west of the city was nearest to greater Liiria and so had no need of bastions or walls to protect it. Here the streets were crowded and mazelike, but the fighting had been sparse so far and Onikil’s men had spent most of their time securing the homes and gathering the populace into disarmed groups. Fires had broken out in the market quarter, and small bands of Liirian men had picked up weapons to ambush the Rolgans. Because the west side meandered so much, Onikil had been forced to break up his six hundred men into smaller brigades, which were now patrolling the streets and securing the area for the sweep toward the castle. What might have looked like chaos to an ordinary man was a perfectly metred orchestration to Onikil, who had a brain for complications and who, through his lieutenants, knew everything that was happening.

Since the death of Duke Rihards, Count Onikil had secured his rule over Rolga. He had quickly gathered his army and marched them to Andola, and now he could see Baron Ravel’s castle in the centre of the city, soon to be under siege. The sight thrilled the count. He and his men could be the first at the castle gates, the first to start taking it down brick by brick, but he had orders from Rodrik Varl not to proceed too far too soon, and so Count Onikil cultivated his patience, methodically securing Andola’s western districts and waiting for those with more difficult tasks to catch up with him.

Surrounded by horsemen in their black Rolgan armour, Count Onikil felt strangely indestructible as he trotted through the streets. He loved the smell of fire and the cries of women, and knew that from the windows of bolted homes children looked at him with fear. A tall man, Count Onikil sat arrow-straight in his saddle, feeling like a hero in his embroidered cape of gold and scarlet. A time of Norvan greatness was upon the world. At long last, his country had risen from its own ashes.

Oddly, it had taken a woman to make it so.

As arrows flew past his head, Rodrik Varl rode along the edge of the green, shouting orders to his men while the battering ram was brought up from the rear. In three hours of fighting his men had hardly breached the bastion at all. The ladder-men had tried and failed repeatedly to overtake the walls, beaten back consistently by the archers deployed along the catwalks and in the tower. By now Varl had called up his siege machines, a pair of catapults dragged all the way from Carlion. Before they had fallen into Jazana Carr’s hands they had been well used in King Lorn’s army and had taken hours to get into position. They were clumsy but monumental beasts, and the mere sight of them had drained the colour from the Liirian faces on the wall. Mostly, though, the catapults had been ineffectual. Though they had drilled with the weapons for days before the siege, his men were mostly unused to the machines. Each shot they launched landed harmlessly outside the bastion’s walls, more a danger to his own troops than to the Liirians. The catapults took far too long to load, too, and by now Rodrik Varl had given up on them. The ram, he knew, was their only real chance.

But his men had taken heavy causalities bringing the ram into position, and Rodrik Varl cursed Jazana Carr as he galloped along the battlefield. Though he loved her, he sometimes hated her stupidity. Her greed had cost him dearly at the bastion, and he wondered if Kaj was faring any better at the eastern wall. He held his shield high, guarding his head from the storm of arrows, which had concentrated on him lately, and sneered at his archers to return fire. They would need protection to bring up the ram. Nearby, on the outskirts of the field, the huge battering ram stood ready to roll. Muscular men lined its side, holding desperately to its iron grips as they awaited the order to heave. Behind them, the huge catapults were loaded. Varl could hear the strains of their many twisted splines tautly singing as the arms were pulled into position and the cups loaded with shot. It took ten men to load each weapon, piling jagged boulders into them from war carts brought onto the green. A train of carts snaked into the distance where the reservists and workmen waited. The field itself was bedlam and Rodrik Varl could barely hear his own voice in his head. He was exhausted, and the rank smell of oil and smoke choked his searing lungs. The field lay littered with fallen mercenaries, each pierced cleanly by a pointed shaft.

‘Ready on the ram!’ he called. His voice strained against the din. To his men at the catapults he cried, ‘Make ready to fire!’ Quickly he galloped toward a line of archers, protected now by hastily erected siege walls. ‘Covering fire,’ he ordered them, and the lieutenants passed the order down. The archers in the field dipped into their quivers and loaded their bows one more time. Seeing what was happening, the Liirians in the bastion replied with a hailstorm of shafts. A thump-thump of arrows hit the shields. Rodrik Varl raised his hand in defiance, saw the fire burning on the tower, and gave the order.

A volley of arrows streaked into the blue. The great catapults launched their deadly loads. A hundred men grunted against the enormous ram; the weapon let out a groaning wail. Slowly, slowly, the behemoth began to move. From behind the shields the archers drew back and fired again. The exchange of missiles darkened the sun. One, two, three men fell dead from the ram. Others hurried forward to take their place, leaving the fallen on the trampled field. Their commanders cursed at them, driving them on, while horsemen with long shields did their best to protect them.

‘Go, go!’ Varl urged. An arrow struck his shield, breaking through the wood, its iron head peeking through. The shot drove him on, deeper into the field and chaos, closer to the ram that was picking up speed, headlong like a charging bull toward the bastion’s gates. A nearby horseman rolled from his saddle, spraying Varl with gore as a bolt blew his head apart. Varl shook off the surprise, galloping in a wide circle across the field and hissing at his men to hurry.

Around the ram the world seemed to stop. Even safe in the bastion’s tower, the Liirians there paused a moment while the menacing weapon picked up speed. The fire slackened, the field grew hushed, and the sound of ten oiled wheels filled the air as the battering ram bore down.

Colonel Bern felt the world shake. The Norvan ram bashed the bastion gate with an earsplitting clap, cracking the timbers and sending men spilling from the wall. The two stout portals buckled, barely held closed by the splintered timbers. From his place in the yard, Bern could see the head of the great weapon through the breached gate and the triumphant, sweaty faces of his enemy.

The time was drawing quickly near. He had already mounted his horse, prepared to take the field. Nevins, his cavalry commander, rallied his horsemen for the coming melee. Once the ram was deployed again, the gate would breach and the bastion would be lost. It would be a slaughter for the men inside, who had all signed on to fight to the death but who deserved better than to perish for the sake of Baron Ravel.

It would not be that way, Bern determined.

At last, he had the excuse he needed. His men had defended the bastion mightily; they could all be proud. He gave a look to Nevins who nodded his beaten helm in understanding.

To the sergeant of the yard Bern gave his order, who called to his piper to sound the trumpet. The piper put his brass instrument to his lips and blew a mournful note.

Up on the roof, Captain Aliston heard the trumpet blast and knew the time had come. One by one his archers lowered their bows. Each took up a special arrow next, one unlike any other they had fired all day. They notched the arrows to their bows and hurriedly went to the brazier. The inferno that had so far covered their plan still belched smoke into the sky, passing along a tiny portion of itself to the oil-soaked arrows. As his men prepared their weapons, Aliston saw the ram being repositioned below. His forty archers took up their positions again along the rooftop’s crenellations. This time, blazing arrows tilted skyward, they took careful aim at the green beyond the field.

Confident the arrows couldn’t reach them on the green, the Norvans had arranged themselves in dense, clumsy clusters, waiting for an order to join the battle. Aliston smiled, happily anticipating the coming blaze.

‘Fire,’ said Captain Aliston, and watched in wicked glee while the flaming arrows took flight.

Rodrik prepared himself for combat as the battering ram broke through the gate. Only peripherally did he see the glowing fireflies sailing high above. He looked skyward, following the burning arrows as they arced toward the field, and wondered dreadfully with what Colonel Bern had gifted him.

He did not wonder long. A second later the field erupted with hot light. Varl shielded his eyes, shocked by the roar as the fire spread. His horse bucked beneath him and all was suddenly chaos. A chorus of screams rose up from the field as men and horses scrambled for cover. But there was no safety from the flames. Everywhere, cool grass had turned to hellfire. Varl struggled to control his thrashing horse, aghast at what had happened. Across the field his cavalry and archers ran as the flames reached for them. Frenzied horses rose up on their haunches, panicked by the fire and tossing free their riders. Varl reined his own beast, prancing in confused circles. The green had been a trap, and all that acrid smell had come from right below their feet. He cursed himself and rode for the green, but the heat was too great and forced him to pull back. His men were shouting and breaking ranks, trying vainly to help their burning comrades. Like a great, dead tree, one of the huge catapults stood stark among the flames, burning. Figures darted through the orange haze, their uniforms aflame. Scorched figures clawed at the earth as they pulled themselves away, only to collapse in agony.

‘Retreat!’ called Rodrik Varl. Suddenly, his every thought was of Jazana Carr. He remembered in a panic how she had promised to come up to be with him, and hoped desperately she was not inside the holocaust. He strained to see beyond the green, beyond the hellish blaze, but the light was dazzling and pained his eyes. ‘Fall back!’ he cried, hoping his men could hear. ‘Beyond the green! Back!’

Rodrik Varl had a mercenary’s sense of things, and knew that Colonel Bern had not set fire to the field without reason.

For some reason, Bern had waited before springing his trap.

To a man like Varl who was used to tricks, that meant only one thing. With the barest surprise, he looked toward the shattered gate and watched it explode outward, heralding a flood of Liirian horsemen.

With a broadsword in one hand and his reins in the other, Colonel Bern gave a wild shout as he jumped the threshold of the broken gate. Outside he found the chaos he expected. Jazana Carr’s mercenaries were in disarray, calling retreat or vainly trying to rescue their burning comrades. Already Major Nevins had led a dozen horsemen out onto the field. Dozens more followed Bern, all eager to avenge their own fallen friends. The hailstorm of arrows had ceased, replaced by the relentless roar and heat of fire. Bern ignored the needles piercing his eyeslits. As his eyes ran red with tears he brought his sword down on a confused Norvan, cracking through the man’s breastplate and rending his chest. He could see the mercenaries running for cover around him, confused now by this new attack. Bern swung his sword in a rage, smashing through the defences of any Norvan he came against and crying loudly for his men to follow. Frantically he scanned the field for Rodrik Varl, but the mercenary was nowhere to be seen. Calls for retreat echoed over the crackling fire. Bern shouted at his men to press on, to push the Norvans deeper into the fiery green.

A forgotten sense of victory seized him. Behind him, he watched his men pouring out of the bastion, climbing through the gates or slipping down hastily dropped ladders. They came in great swarms onto the field, too many for the shocked Norvans to deter, slicing their way past the retreating mercenaries as they themselves retreated from the bastion. Colonel Bern knew his plan had worked, better than he’d anticipated.

While the archers and infantry ran for the city’s centre, Bern found Major Nevins in the crowd. Busily shouting and happy with the rout, it took a moment for Bern to get his commander’s attention.

‘Ride north,’ he told Nevins. ‘Protect the men and keep them safe. Fight your way through the northern line if you have to, but get out of the city.’

Nevins laughed as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Say again, Colonel?’

‘You heard me, Nevins, north!’

‘Sir, we’re making a final stand at the castle!’

‘We’re not,’ barked Bern. ‘We’re not fighting for Ravel any more, Nevins. We’re fighting for Liiria.’

‘But where?’ sputtered Nevins. ‘We have to make a stand!’

Bern brought his horse close to the major’s. ‘We will make a stand! But not here! You’re in command of these men now. Take them north and fight your way out of the city. Get them to Koth. Tell them what’s happened here.’

The order bleached Nevins’ face. ‘Sir. .’

‘Do it, Nevins. Quickly now — do it while you still have cover.’ Bern turned his horse toward the burning green. The fire was already waning. He could see the mass of Norvans beyond it, still confused but still numerous. ‘Find Breck at the library,’ he continued. ‘Help him defend our country, lad.’

As he began to ride off, he heard Nevins shout after him, ‘Sir, what about you?’

‘I’m going to the castle,’ Bern cried. ‘And don’t you dare follow me!’

By the end of the morning, Kaj and his Crusaders had made their way to the eastern wall. As expected, they found the wall fortified with Liirians and some hirelings from other countries, all surprisingly willing to die for their employer, Baron Ravel. Kaj had lost at least sixty men taking the eastern district, and by the time his mercenaries reached the wall they were exhausted and ill-prepared for a prolonged siege. They took up positions in the streets just outside the wall, bearing down on the Liirian defenders and gathering their strength for the assault. Kaj waited patiently while his reserves were brought from the rear, over a hundred fresh men who could, at last, travel safely through the streets. He supposed that Count Onikil had encountered little trouble in securing the western part of the city, and that the count was ready to march on the castle by now. As for Rodrik Varl, that was a different story. By the time noon had come, messengers began arriving from the southern bastion. They explained to Kaj that Varl had indeed secured the little fortress, but at great loss. A fire had forced his men to retreat temporarily and the Liirians inside the bastion had escaped. According to the messenger, Varl supposed they had fled to the castle for a last stand, making the job of taking down Baron Ravel even more difficult. What had at first looked like a hard day’s work was becoming something of a debacle, and Kaj took the time to size up the situation. With Varl delayed in the south, there was no real rush for him to take the eastern wall.

Then, to his amazement, Kaj noticed something. He was in a high, abandoned building with a good view of the eastern wall just two short streets away. Looking out the window while men chatted anxiously about their plans, he saw that there were far fewer men patrolling the wall than had been there just scant minutes before. Then, when he looked down into the streets, he realised that the barriers the Liirians had erected were unmanned as well. Kaj quickly realised what was happening. He leaned out through the broken window and stared at the wall.

‘They’re abandoning it. .’

At first his men acted as though they hadn’t heard. His friend Anare went to stand beside him.

‘Are they?’ Anare asked, bewildered.

When the rest of the men realised what was happening they headed for the street.

‘No!’ Kaj called after them. ‘We won’t pursue them. They’re retreating. That’s good enough for now.’

Assuming the Liirians were heading toward the castle, he did not bother sending scouts after them.

Lord Dugald of the twin cities Vicvar and Poolv had enjoyed an uneventful morning. As predicted, his own small army had faced little resistance in their march south, securing the north of Andola easily and waiting for word from Rodrik Varl to proceed toward Ravel’s castle. The north of the city was the most sparsely populated and thus the least built-up, making Dugald’s progress simple. With his force of only seven hundred men — mostly infantry — he had forced the outnumbered Liirians south by flanking them on both sides and squeezing them down. The lack of heart the Liirians showed did not surprise Lord Dugald, who remembered gleefully what he had told Rodrik Varl earlier in the day: mercenaries simply couldn’t be trusted. They fought for money alone, and when their lives were really threatened they always — always — gave up. It did not matter to Dugald that these particular mercenaries were Liirians. Despite Varl’s ludicrous claims, they had no country to fight for.

An hour past noon, Dugald had made camp with his aides and guards in a clearing that had been a market square before strife had strangled Andola’s commerce. The square was large enough to accommodate all of Dugald’s underlings, who travelled with him everywhere and who, like their lord, enjoyed comfort wherever they went. Workers who had been slaves before Jazana Carr outlawed the practice cooked for Dugald and pampered him, while the lord himself sat around a makeshift table with his aides, commenting on how well their campaign had gone. Like Kaj, Dugald had received a message from Rodrik Varl telling him of the difficulties they had faced down south and telling him to go no further. Dugald, who was famished from the busy morning, had no intention of moving another inch until he ate, and so received the message gladly. It didn’t matter to Dugald whether Andola fell in a day or in a month. So far Jazana Carr had been a generous queen, and he saw no reason to be unhappy. He ate a game bird and drank wine while he talked with his aides, and he laughed at Varl’s misfortune, wiping his greasy beard on his sleeve and bellowing for more wine. He was a big man with no manners at all, and was often called Dugald the Great by the peoples of Vicvar and Poolv, not because of any special accomplishment but because of his burgeoning stomach.

As he ate and laughed, Dugald heard a strange noise in the distance. He paused to listen, then heard one of his own men shout. Looking up, he saw a soldier pointing southward, then noticed more of his men doing the same. Dugald laid down his quail and stood, causing his aides to do the same. What he saw confused him.

‘What’s that?’ he asked stupidly, unable to recognise the army galloping toward him. At first he thought they must be Onikil’s men, who were closest and, like him, mostly unengaged. But then he realised most wore Liirian uniforms — and his face fell in terror.

How many men were coming toward him? Dugald was too paralysed to count. He stared for a moment, unsure what to do, unsure that the sight was even possible. But as his camp erupted in panic he knew he wasn’t dreaming, and that a new force of Liirians had gathered to fight him.

‘My horse!’ he cried, scrambling from the table. Already the Liirians were charging toward him, a great mass of cavalry leading the screeching infantry. The thunder of their attack shook the ground beneath his feet as Dugald looked around desperately for his horse. His aides scattered, some drawing weapons while others merely ran, seeking cover anywhere they could. Unable to find his own horse, Dugald grabbed hold of the nearest stallion just as one of his aides was mounting, pulling the man from the stirrups. It was clear to Dugald that the mounted Liirians intended to cut a path through them for the infantry. At the rate they were approaching he had only moments to escape. Clumsily he unsheathed his sword and raised it over his head, trying to rally his forces.

‘Fight them! Don’t run, you cowards!’

But his men were running, surprised and outnumbered by the coming Liirians. Dugald found himself alone as he charged headlong toward them. Realising this he pulled back hard on his horse to turn the beast around. Too late, he noticed a flame-haired officer of the Chargers blazing toward him, lips snarling, sword drawn back and ready. .

It was the last thing Dugald saw before his head went tumbling through the air.

Finally, at nightfall, Rodrik Varl and his forces arrived at the castle of Baron Ravel.

Keeping to the shadows and remaining a few streets from the castle itself, Varl could nevertheless see the main tower of the castle peeking up above the city, lit by candlelight. He was plainly exhausted. His men had suffered horrible losses at the bastion, and even now there were many who remained behind, badly burned or crippled by the flaming trap Colonel Bern had sprung. Varl had spent the afternoon tending to his men and answering messages from Jazana Carr, who was rightfully incensed by his stupidity and demanded constant updates. At last, after seeing to the wounded and gathering those still able to fight, Varl had sent word to Kaj and Count Onikil to meet him in the centre of the city. Lord Dugald, he discovered an hour earlier, had died, and his men had been badly routed. The Liirians that Varl supposed were escaping to join Ravel in the castle had instead fled Andola, another miscalculation Varl flogged himself over. As he rode at the head of his depleted men, Varl considered all that had happened. His friend Aykle was dead, killed just moments after the fire erupted. Over two hundred others had died with him. It had been a fantastic reckoning for the Liirians, and Rodrik Varl applauded them.

But they would not be so lucky again. Though he was dead now, Dugald had also been prophetic — the Liirians had in fact abandoned Ravel. Only those most loyal to him remained in the castle, and if they had any brains at all they would surrender once they saw the force surrounding them.

Count Onikil and his men had come from the west to join Varl’s forces. The Rolgan seemed shaken by the fate that had befallen Lord Dugald. His splendid clothes hung a little less grandly from his frame as he waited on his horse. Varl trotted through the dirty street toward him. The houses around them were shut tight, but he could hear frightened murmurs from them.

As he approached, Onikil greeted him with a nod. ‘Rodrik.’

‘Where’s Kaj?’

The count replied, ‘He and his men took up positions on the other side of the castle.’ His smile sharpened. ‘I guess they don’t want another escape.’

If it was a jibe, Varl couldn’t tell. Nor could he tell from his vantage point where Kaj and his men were positioned, hidden as they were by the darkness and the big, brooding castle.

‘What about Ravel’s men?’

‘I’ve had patrols out. There don’t look to be that many men, at least not outside the castle yard. The walls are bare mostly, too.’ The count grimaced. ‘Frankly, I don’t know what it means.’

‘Most of them fled,’ said Varl. He studied the darkened castle carefully. ‘I don’t know where they’re going, but they’re not in Andola any more. Looks to me like Ravel’s all alone this time.’

‘Hmm, looks can be deceiving, don’t you think?’

‘That’s a lesson I shan’t forget soon, Count. Have your men surround the north and west sides of the castle. Tell them to keep free of any debris, any close spaces, anything suspicious. You yourself can come with me, if you like.’

Surprised, Onikil asked, ‘To where?’

‘To see Baron Ravel,’ replied Rodrik Varl.

With a casual flick of the reins, he guided his horse toward the waiting castle.

Up in the tower of his fabulous home, Baron Ravel sat slumped in a velvet chair with his back to the window. At last, his enemies were at his threshold. He had seen them from his bedchamber, surrounding his castle, drawing ever closer. A horrible silence filled the room, punctuated only by the noise in the streets and Colonel Bern’s tired breathing. Nearby, the slave Simah remained with him as she had throughout the day, a last, beautiful link to the baron’s former life. Ravel kept his eyes closed as he considered Bern’s dreary report. There was no longer a way for him to escape the castle, to flee Andola as most of his troops had, and the fat baron wondered why he didn’t hate Bern for giving the order to retreat, signing all their death warrants. Colonel Bern wasn’t really a mercenary after all, Ravel realised, but the revelation had come too late.

‘And now, like a good soldier, you will die, Bern.’

Ravel opened his eyes, almost laughing when he saw the military man standing proudly before him, his uniform soiled with blood, his face hard from the day’s gory work. There were still soldiers at the castle who hadn’t fled, but they were too few to do Ravel much good. They might take up arms against the Norvans, but they would certainly die. So would Simah and the rest of his women, eventually. It had all been an incalculable failure.

‘If you surrender me they might spare you,’ said Ravel miserably. ‘You’re one of them after all, a soldier. Maybe get yourself a nice ransom for me?’

Colonel Bern stood like a wax figure. Ravel put back his head and sighed.

‘Make a deal for my women and servants if you can. Have that bitch-queen spare them. At least Jazana Carr is a woman; she won’t stand for the raping.’ He looked at Simah and pitied her. Surprisingly, the girl didn’t flinch at his words. Ravel glanced back at Bern and sneered, ‘Or maybe you’ll take her for yourself, eh? A little something extra for ruining me?’

Still the colonel said nothing. His tired eyes seemed to groan.

‘Say something, Bern, you shit-eating maggot. Will you surrender me or will you fight?’

‘I could have left with the others, my lord.’

‘Ah, yes. But why did you stay? That’s what vexes me, Colonel. What’s in that military mind of yours? What fate have you cooked up for me?’

Colonel Bern replied wearily, ‘My lord, my advice is that you prepare yourself to meet Jazana Carr. I won’t be able to hold them off for long.’

Ravel sat up with some surprise. ‘You mean you’ll fight?’

There was no reply from Bern, who was already out the door.

By the time Rodrik Varl reached the castle, a group of Liirian soldiers had gathered in the courtyard. Remarkably, the gates were opened wide, but on the threshold of the yard a single soldier blocked their way. He was an older man of obvious rank. His sword dangled in his hand, its tip raking the dirt. When Varl realised the man was Colonel Bern he slowed the progress of his horse, looking carefully at the yard and the men positioned there. There were perhaps seventy men, all in Liirian uniforms and not a mercenary among them. They were armed but none of them seemed prepared to fight. Only Bern had his weapon drawn.

‘What is this?’ asked Count Onikil, who rode beside Rodrik Varl. Varl did not reply. Behind them rode a hundred horsemen, but he ignored them all as well. The lone man at the gate entranced him. A grudging admiration grew in him.

‘Colonel, you’re a very clever man,’ called Varl. ‘I don’t mind admitting your tactics at the bastion were a surprise.’

The Liirian tilted his head. ‘It’s not the way I’d want to go, burning to death. I suppose I should feel sorry for your men.’

‘War makes beasts out of all of us,’ lamented Varl. ‘Step aside, sir. I can get you and your men mercy if you’ll cooperate.’

‘I can’t do that,’ said Bern. ‘I’ll plead amnesty for these men — they’ll surrender if you’ll promise some decent treatment for them. But I can’t be among them.’

‘Colonel Bern, I have enough to regret today. Don’t make me kill you, please.’

‘I wish you would. I’m too old to die in a prison camp.’

‘Why die?’ asked Varl. ‘Why fight for Ravel?’

‘Not for Ravel. For Liiria.’

From his face Varl could tell Bern meant his words. ‘Where is that fat one? Inside?’

The colonel nodded. ‘In his chambers, waiting.’

‘And you’ll be his last true soldier, is that it? Seems very stupid to me, Colonel. You should have left with the rest of your men.’

‘Maybe you can’t understand this,’ said Bern. ‘Maybe you’re too much of a mercenary to know what words like duty and honour mean. But I’m an old soldier, and I gave my word to Ravel to protect him. Now. .’ He raised his sword just a bit. ‘If you’ll oblige me, I’d be grateful.’

‘Oh, let me kill this prating fool,’ growled Onikil. He put his hand to his sword, ready to ride forward.

‘Keep your place,’ snapped Varl. He looked back at the waiting Liirian. ‘If we had time I could tell you things, Colonel Bern. Maybe teach you that I’m not the man you think.’

Bern shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

To the astonishment of Onikil and the others, Varl dropped down from his horse. He knew that he had a grudge to settle with Bern. It wouldn’t be much of a fight; Bern looked exhausted.

‘Fate above, Varl, what are you doing?’ barked Onikil. ‘Let someone else deal with this old dog.’

‘Stay on your horse and stay out of it,’ Varl told him. ‘All of you, don’t do anything.’

He took a step toward Bern, then another, glancing at the Liirian soldiers in the yard behind him. Like his own men, they made no move to stop the coming duel. Varl slid the beret off his head and tossed it toward Onikil, who caught it with quick hands. Then he took his own sword from his belt, holding it in two hands before him.

‘When you’re ready, Colonel. .’

Varl’s politeness intrigued Bern, who gave what might have been a smile before raising his weapon. He stepped out of the gateway, pausing just a few yards before Varl. Varl stepped to the side, one foot over the over, stalking around his enemy. Colonel Bern twisted fluidly, following his every move. Varl didn’t want to toy with him. He leaped forward, sweeping his sword, prepared to unleash a deadly volley. The first blow clashed against Bern’s blade, the second did the same. But just as the third strike curved around, Bern’s sword fell away. A deliberate act to be sure, and done too quickly for Varl to halt his killing blow. His sword hacked at Bern’s midsection, slashing through his uniform and carving open flesh. The old man winced in agony, staggered back, and let the blade drop from his fingers, crumpling onto his back. Varl stood over him, stunned.

‘You. .’

His own blade slackened in his grip. Bern was looking up at him. Gasping, the Liirian nodded. Varl took it as an act of thanks.

He nodded back to the dying man, lifted his sword again, and mercifully decapitated his fallen foe.

Up in his quiet chamber, Baron Ravel no longer bothered staring out the window. His life as a Liirian noble was concluded, and so it made no difference to him what was happening in the courtyard or in the streets of the city he had tried so hard to make his own. He had regrets, but these he didn’t dwell on either. Instead he spoke to Simah, his last adored possession, and told her how she might get mercy from Jazana Carr. The Diamond Queen had a soft spot for women, and if she pleaded and made a good case she might be spared. He told her too that she should make sure the other women in the castle were safe. He told her also that he loved her. He was speaking like a drunkard and ended his talk with Simah by telling her that she was free.

‘You’re no longer a slave,’ he told her. The room was dark, but he could tell that she did not react to this bit of news.

‘Do one last thing for me,’ he said, ‘then you may leave me.’

Simah did as Ravel requested, and prepared a warm bath for him.

It was nearly midnight by the time Jazana Carr reached Ravel’s castle. With her came a contingent of bodyguards, trotting royally through the streets of the vanquished city while the rest of her mercenary army secured Andola for the occupation and spread the word of Baron Ravel’s defeat. Except for her own forces and a few overly curious peasants, the streets were deserted. Jazana could see faces peering out from the shutters of the homes she passed, striving to get a glimpse of her. She had had this same experience so many times it no longer bothered her, yet she realised that this time was different — this time, they were Liirian faces.

The struggle had been harder than she’d supposed, but Andola was hers now. She had her first toehold in the land of Thorin Glass. Pride surged through her, and she thought of her father as she rode through the streets, and what that lecherous beast would think if he could see her now, not only a queen but a conqueror. It was a good dream, and Jazana kept it in her mind as she approached the castle. There she found Count Onikil, who bowed deeply as she dismounted. A handsome man, Onikil had been loyal to her from the start, throwing off his fealty to Duke Rihards as easily as a cloak. That made him untrustworthy, but Jazana didn’t mind. She knew that money animated Onikil, and was not afraid of him.

‘Count Onikil, where is Rodrik Varl?’

‘Inside the castle, my lady. He asked me to bring you to him when you arrived.’

‘And Ravel? What happened to him?’

The count’s lips twisted. ‘Hmm, perhaps, my lady, you should see that for yourself.’

‘No riddles, Onikil. . is he dead or does he live?’

‘Oh, he’s quite dead, dear Queen.’ Onikil put out his hands. ‘Please, let me show you.’

There was a gaggle of eager men to look after her horse. Jazana handed the gelding off to them and followed Onikil through the broken outer gates of the castle and into its courtyard, which was larger than she expected and filled with milling mercenaries. On the east side of the yard Liirian soldiers sat in chains, the last holdouts who had surrendered after the death of Colonel Bern. Onikil gave a count of the captured troops, numbering them at forty-three and telling her that they were already being interrogated.

‘The ones that fled are on their way to Koth, apparently,’ said the Rolgan. ‘To fight at the library, perhaps.’

It was not unexpected news, yet Jazana Carr winced. Like the now-dead Lord Dugald, she hadn’t expected the Liirians to remain loyal to their shattered country. As she passed the prisoners they eyed her with awe and hatred. Jazana looked away, preferring the sight of Onikil’s back to the cold stares. She was not apathetic. Those willing to join her mercenary army would be given good pay and respectful treatment. Those who refused. . well, that was a decision for tomorrow.

‘Where’s Rodrik, Onikil?’ asked Jazana anxiously. She had expected to find him in the yard, but Onikil was leading her deeper toward the keep.

‘Up in Baron Ravel’s chamber, actually,’ replied the count with a little laugh.

He was vexing, but Jazana decided not to press him. Apparently, Rodrik had his reasons for bringing her to the baron’s chambers, and her curiosity spurred her on. They entered the keep — which like the courtyard was filled with Norvans now — and passed some of Ravel’s servants along the way. They were a harmless-looking group, mostly women and old men, and all of them bowed and hid their faces when they noticed the Diamond Queen, dropping to their knees and almost quaking with fright. Embarrassed, Jazana barked at them to rise and get on about their business, for the castle looked dishevelled now with all her men traipsing about, and there were many, hungry mouths to feed now that the castle was hers.

‘I’m the new lady of the house,’ she told an elderly maid locked in a curtsy before her. ‘Forget your old employer and remember my face.’

The old woman nodded rapidly then scurried away. Onikil guided Jazana Carr out of the area toward the stairs, a grand spiral of steps. Eager to be away from the Liirians, Jazana took the lead and hurried up the stairs with Onikil close behind. The count told her to go to the top, which was a good distance and had the queen quite tired by the time she reached it, and entered into a gilded hall that she somehow knew was Ravel’s private chambers. Here she found men she recognised, those mercenaries that were close to Rodrik Varl and had been in her employ for years. There were others with them as well — beautiful, well-dressed women that surprised Jazana when she saw them. All were young, pretty things with smooth skin and bright eyes, eyes that turned on Jazana Carr with dread as she approached. The women shrank away and Jazana leaned toward Onikil.

‘Who are they?’ she asked.

‘Ravel’s concubines, my lady,’ replied Onikil. He watched the women with admiration. A playful smile curled his mouth. ‘We weren’t sure what to do with them, you see. With Ravel gone, they have nowhere to go. Normally. .’

‘Normally you would have made slaves of them and taken them to your bed, Count Onikil. But since I’m queen now you can’t do that.’

Onikil grinned. ‘Just so, my lady.’

‘Disgusting. Great Fate, where’s that bloody Rodrik Varl?’

‘Here,’ came a voice from across the hall. From behind a grand and open door of carved oak stepped Varl. He wore no beret, and his red hair was matted with sweat and filth.

Jazana left Count Onikil at once and went to her bodyguard. Reaching out for him, she touched his face and smiled in relief.

‘I should be angry with you,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’

The weight of exhaustion on his face seemed unbearable. He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I’m glad you’re well,’ he said with affection.

She squeezed his hand, grateful to be with him again.

‘Why did you bring me up here, Rodrik? Where’s Ravel?’

‘In here,’ said Varl. He stepped aside so that she could enter the plush chamber, and when she did she saw another girl-woman. This one had blonde hair and was younger than the rest, seated in one of Ravel’s expensive chairs with her eyes fixed on the elaborate carpet. She kept her hands clasped dutifully in her lap, not even bothering to acknowledge the queen’s entrance. Jazana was not offended by the girl’s silence; she supposed something awful had happened to her.

‘One of Ravel’s?’ she whispered.

Varl nodded. Beside the three of them, there was no one else in the room. ‘Her name is Simah. She’s a slave, or was. She says that Ravel freed her before he died.’

‘Should I suppose that Ravel is in here somewhere?’

‘This way.’

Leaving Simah alone in the chamber, Varl led Jazana to an adjoining room, this one trimmed with marble and lit by dozens of candles. The scent of lilacs filled the air, and rose-water jugs lined the walls and polished floor. It was a bath chamber, and in the centre of the room was an enormous sunken tub, large enough even for a man of Baron Ravel’s giant size. Ravel himself was in the bath water, which was tepid now and turned an unusual rust colour. The baron’s head hung backwards at a grotesque angle, his eyes open and gaping at the ceiling. He was naked in the tub, but Jazana could barely see him in the opaque water. What she could see was the odd, upturned angle of one of his wrists, resting on the side of the tub, a great gash sliced through it that had long ago stopped oozing blood. A dagger rested on the floor nearby. The other wrist, similarly slashed, rested just beneath the water.

‘What an unholy sight,’ whispered Jazana as she inched toward the tub. She knelt down to inspect Ravel’s lifeless face. He looked miserable, as if his last hours had been unbearable. She even pitied him. ‘It’s not easy for a man to be bested by a woman,’ she said softly.

She picked up the soiled dagger and shook it in the bloodied water to clean its silver shaft. Then she stood and went back to where Varl waited for her. His face was tight, as if he too pitied Ravel and blamed her for what had happened to him.

‘Bite back whatever you’re thinking,’ she warned. ‘I don’t want to hear it right now.’

Passing him, she returned to the main chamber where Simah the slave sat. There she dropped down onto one knee before the girl, forcibly took her hand and slapped the dagger into her palm.

‘This,’ she declared, ‘is yours now.’

Simah looked up. Her haunted eyes gazed into Jazana’s own. ‘My family doesn’t want me,’ she said. Then, ‘I have nowhere to go.’

‘You’re free now,’ said Jazana. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking that Baron Ravel freed you. That was my doing, child. Ravel may have made a whore of you but I have given you back your womanhood. Now, take that dagger and keep it with you always. Use it to remember how strong you are.’

Simah nodded as understanding slowly dawned. ‘What about the others? Will we be safe here in the city?’

‘You don’t need Ravel to protect you any more. This city belongs to me now.’ Jazana Carr stood. ‘Rise,’ she commanded. Simah did so. ‘Stay in the castle until you’re ready to leave. No one will harm you. You’ll be given new clothes to wear, whatever you need.’

‘My lady,’ Simah stammered, ‘I don’t understand. .’

‘You are free,’ repeated Jazana. She took Simah’s hand and led her out of the chamber. ‘In time you will learn what that means.’