 
The Conqueror

Louis Shalako

Copyright 2014 Louis Shalako and Long Cool One Books

Design: J. Thornton

ISBN 978-1-927957-57-8

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author's imagination.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The Conqueror

Louis Shalako

Chapter One

With aching bodies and buttocks numb, with cracked lips and burning eyes, they rode out of the backwoods farm country into Windermere. On its crag above was the castle of Queen Eleanora. It rose before them in discolored white towers and heavy stone walls encrusted with moss and mildew.

The long wagons lurched along the rutted road, with riders in front and riders behind. Men with crossbows sat or stood precariously behind the driver and the gaoler on their heaving slab of a seat. The two wagons at the front of the train were official county prison wagons. Those bringing up the rear were consignments or other privateers. Having paid a small fee for the privilege, they traveled under the aegis of the Crown for protection from outlaws and bandits. They'd come seventy-four miles in a little less than three days and everyone was hurting.

As for the horses, covered in foam and sweat, flies buzzing around their eyes, those in the traces were looking at an early retirement to the knacker's yard. The troopers' mounts, although rather more loved at times, were little better off in the long run.

At first, the peasants, the idlers, the women drawing water from the fountain at the centre of the village took no real notice. This was in spite of the noise being considerable. Laden as it was with its cargo of miserable, sweating, thirsting humanity, it was a common sight. A few faces looked up when the cavalcade was right upon them. Mothers pulled their wide-eyed children out of the way. There was little sympathy for the huddled forms behind those black iron bars, neither was there much rancor towards the other unfortunates, the ones destined for market. Those who rode naked and unwashed, chained to open boards, those who sat on those land-scows at the rear of the column were merely unfortunate. They were unable to pay a debt or a fine and so they had to forfeit. It was easily understood that it could happen to anyone...or almost anyone. The horses that towed them looked as if they desired death by this point in their journey. They had made a good pace, but no one had the mercy to give it to them.

More than one onlooker had prayed fervently that it didn't happen to them.

If it wasn't for the severest penalties, people would borrow money and run up prodigious debts and then simply abscond. Right-thinking people didn't get into debt in the first place. Not if they could help it, anyways.

The riders in their colorful jackets and plumes, those flanking the teams, rode forward as the rest of the train slowed. Seated beside the driver, Serjeant-at-Arms Garvin thought the need for vigilance would be greatest on the fringes of a large town. Human nature being what it was, the men tended to let their guard down.

It was the quietest part of the day. The busiest time, early morning, was past, where anyone who could was at the market. The market was the centre of life, of gossip, of news and not incidentally foodstuffs and all sorts of other provisions.

Before too long the shadows would begin to lengthen and people would be thinking of supper, and more than anything, their beds. Early to bed, and early to rise, had made at least the more successful, healthy, wealthy, and wise. There were others, of course.

There were many fools and fools seldom prospered. Everybody knew that except for the fools themselves, who would never learn.

Some people, men and women, even children sometimes, were always at a tavern. They practically lived there. A lucky few would be feasting and gaming the night away at the castle. This tended to be the privileged minority in a hard-working and tightly-knit community based on hand labor and open-field farming where the individual strips were all laid out all over. The work was always hard and the days were too long and too short at the same time.

A small boy, bored and seeking almost any kind of diversion ran alongside, rattling a stick against the heavy black bars of the second wagon. Wide metal straps in a cruciform pattern, they were secured in deep sockets top and bottom, hot-riveted where they intersected, heads flattened and distorted by the blacksmith's hammer.

A trooper scolded him but the youngster just laughed and ran away. The prisoners, intent on their own fears and hopes, took no notice of this latest indignity. They had enough on their plates as it was.

As the last few mounted figures disappeared up the winding road into the castle proper, the town became quiet again. It was the hottest part of the afternoon on what might be the last of the fine, late summer days. Those days were getting perceptibly shorter, one by one, in their inexorable fashion. With nothing much to do except work, eat and sleep, people were enjoying the brief respite before the harvest and its inevitable strains. Then would come the rains, and then another long, cold, harsh winter.

Circling up and around the hill, the wagons finally came to the entrance proper.

Serjeant at Arms Kann held up his hand and bellowed at the gate-keepers in the barbican, despite the fact that the gates were thrown open at sunrise and only closed at the appointed hour. A couple of rather plump, heavily-bearded young men came out and stood there, hands at their sides and with halberds lazily trailing.

His own men, clean-shaven or with much more rakish facial hair, were something else. Kann saluted smartly and received a laconic greeting as he went past.

"Hey."

Kann almost spat at the man, but a glare would suffice.

Proper military form would be observed at all times, with one such as Serjeant Kann. The keep lay further above. Its eminence dominated the surrounding countryside, with its rolling, forested hills and intervening fingers of low, flat plains. The granges were waving in golden wheat, shimmering under the haze of dead, dry dust that the afternoon breeze always picked up. From its highest battlements one would be able to see the ocean, wine dark under moonlight and scudding grey clouds. Kann had always thought he had a poetic soul, his present occupation notwithstanding. It was a nice thought.

Thundering across the bridge, the dust of the county high-road finally settled and the last of the riders came along and bunched up at the head of the column. Cheerful remarks were made, and retorted back upon each other. It had been a long ride, and yet this day at least was ending early. They straggled across an open space of a hundred yards to the second gate. The inner wall was higher still. The inner gate was thinner and less heavily defended. The keep within was a formidable set of fortifications in itself. This part of the castle had been built hundreds of years before the outer walls and was consequently simpler in concept, although still composed of a Cyclopean masonry. The tops of the tall walls were heavily crenellated. Loopholes for crossbows went swirling up, following the staircase inside of every tower. The top of the wall over the gate was heavily galleried, for the pouring of hot oil and the discharge of missile weapons. Even then, they knew enough to put the towers well out, with places to shoot along the facing walls.

Interesting.

Very nice.

Garvin quite approved. He admired its purity. The builders had clearly been thorough-going bastards. It was a trait he had always admired.

A flock of chickens browsing in the immediate vicinity of the entry-way scattered a few feathers, beating a hurried retreat before an onslaught of menacing noises and plodding dark shapes. The dim tunnel echoed with heavy iron tires on oaken rims, rough cobbles throwing the carts from side to side. The prisoners inside cursed and hung on for dear life, or took the knocks with a becoming fatalism. Upon coming out the other side into the hot glare of the yard, Kann shouted instructions, and then sat his horse, looking around and muttering quietly. The wagons halted all in a row, in the usual place in front of the Baillie's office. This was just to the right inside of the inner gate. All hands were tired, sore and dry in the mouth after a long journey. In the sudden quiet, their murmurs took on added significance before being lightly tossed aside by the breezes at this elevation, a full five or six hundred feet above the town. He pulled off his stinking helmet, wearing a hole in his scalp in one or two places, and held it under his arm. With no shade for the eyes, he blinked back a sudden watering. Shading his eyes, he kept looking.

Kann could not help but approve of clean pennants on whitened staves, hanging from the battlements, and fit-enough looking men in the vicinity. They were in red and black uniforms that look well-tended and bore weapons that looked competent enough for most purposes. With nothing but dull, drab routine to go on these days, there seemed to be very few of the Queen's household troops about. To their left, for a considerable distance, lay stables, the smithy, small paddocks and stalls. His eye took in the all-important water troughs. There was a tower with a wooden water tank, probably rain-fed and even a windmill pulling water from below. It went gushing into a tank at the far end of the yard. A few men and boys could be seen working here and there. People came and went, ignoring them. Some stood just watching, and some were clearly from other places, as several standing teams, their drivers nowhere about, quietly attested. Two young men yanked down bags of carrots, beans and other provisions from the back of one wagon, an official checking them off a numbered list as they carried them away on their backs. The castle loomed above everything else, dominating the skyline and drawing the eye in admiration. In purely military terms, it was well placed and well built. The question of water supply had been relatively well solved, as to his knowledge there was a stream that had been diverted ages ago, which also led under the citadel. There was a strange beauty here too, he conceded. Whoever built this knew what they wanted, and arguably, what they were doing. They weren't far wrong, either. The place was only a few miles up from the sea and commanded all the land trade routes for a hundred miles in all directions. The Queen's fleet held sway in this end of the Great Sea. There was relative peace at present amongst most of the adjoining states.

Her capital looked strong and secure enough for most threats.

Half a dozen men stood at his stirrup, all ready for drinking up their pay. This was a natural assumption once you got to know them a little.

"All right, lads." Sounding pleased almost, Kann finally dismounted.

After the long road, his nostrils were almost blocked with the dust.

Garvin was hustling around with his pouch of papers.

"All right, all right. Where is everybody?" Garvin cast a sharp eye on his own affairs.

He had a bag of coins, a list, everybody's time-sheets, and a record of anything they had charged or advanced against the good name of the Crown. Technically, he was in command but content to let Kann handle the boys and men.

The troopers were under strict orders not to break off and head for the nearest tavern until all of this was sorted out, but one never knew.

"Right lads. Help the man." Kann gave a sharp nod in Garvin's direction and the troops, young and old, big and small, shuffled over with relative cheer.

You had to keep an eye on them and keep a firm hand on the reins. Other than that, they were all right.

Kann figured you could do worse.

***

Upon dismounting, the County's troopers had divided themselves up almost without bidding from the Serjeants at Arms, in command of this very detail.

"Watch your mouth, Trooper Bibbs." Kann had glared at the offender, and the fellow turned with flaming ears to attend to his mount.

Every so often Kann picked one and made an example of him. This seemed to work well enough, and then after a time, the effect wore off again. This was especially true of the younger ones.

Taking their own reins in hand along with those of their fellow-troopers, some of the junior men led the horses off to be watered, unsaddled, and put into stalls or turned out into the yard between the curtain walls, as suited their condition or temperament.

The more senior troopers stood close as the door to the tall cell on wheels was opened by the gaoler with his bunch of jangling keys. One by one, with much talk, barked orders, threats and promises from the soldiers, the prisoners were brought down to be confined within proper stone walls for the night. It would almost be a relief, for some of them had come a long ways. They always took the women off first, especially the ones with kids. The Crown wasn't heartless, after all. Kann was strolling around, pretending to ignore them, but the wiser heads kept the juniors on the ball.

The job was easy, and it would be over soon enough.

An officer of the guard, distinguished by the red lining of his short grey cloak, more a mark of office and a bit of a formality as the day was still middling warm, came out of the Baillie's office.

He was helmetless, which was understandable but it had always bothered Kann to be commanded by such men. When you took the metal hat off, you were just one of the boys, he thought.

Kann patted Garvin on the shoulder after coming up on the blind side, and then made off after a gaggle of the men.

"Hallo. Who goes there?"

"It is I, Garvin of Boeth, in charge of prisoners of the Court and slaves for the auction." He had a leather folder with a sheaf of papers attesting to just such a fact.

The other nodded, after a glance. The official folder carried its own weight, and then there was the man.

Garvin craned his neck, shaded his eyes against the glare coming off the white wall behind the fellow and looked at the tall, rather distinguished officer.

"And your name, sir?"

"Nyron. Officer of the Guard. It's one penny a night for official prisoners. Two pence a night for slaves and private prisoners. If they have money, they can send out for their own food, assuming they can bribe one of my men to do that for them." Nyron grinned pleasantly at this witticism. "Hopefully, we have enough space."

He stopped, and his mouth hung there as the last prisoner stepped to the door.

"Absolutely." Garvin nodded, all of that was simple routine. "Some of them are being bound over, and a few are going out again in the morning."

He'd been provided with enough cash for the eventuality, and he was a bit of a stickler in his own record-keeping.

"Take a good look, er, Captain Nyron." He smiled at the older fellow, and the insignia on the shoulder of his cloak was plain enough.

The officer's eyebrows rose in appreciation. This didn't happen every day. Normally, it was the very dregs of humanity, mostly the criminals, the unfortunates and the fools that washed up here.

The barbarian prisoner had to bow his head, reluctant captive as he was, with a pair of handlers tugging on short lengths of chain attached to an iron ring around his neck. The cell door was only about five feet high.

"Dear me. Goodness, gracious." The man certainly had an impressive physique, all bulges and ripples and pectoral muscles and things like that.

He was very good looking, and unusual in that he was clean-shaven. His long brown hair swept back in healthy waves, falling on his shoulders, giving an impression of power and masculine grace.

He wasn't wearing much except a soiled green wool kilt around the middle, serviceable sandals and a short cloak made of some animal skin. The tawny color and white edges indicated that the skin came from a sizable feline of the puma genus.

From what little Nyron knew of barbarians, one had to earn the right to wear such a garment, and there was really only one way to do that, now, wasn't there?

Holy. Shit.

The man was trying not to let his heels slip on the short iron ladder at the front of the carriage, going down frontwards and with his hands bound in front. Nyron wouldn't try telling these boys their business. A rough looking crew, the two of them would hopefully be enough to handle him. Four of his own troops stood idly by but close enough for any emergency. As far as he was concerned they were there as a last resort. The Crown could live without damage suits resulting from harm caused to the human merchandise, at least on his watch. The same was true in handling privately-owned animals, in a day and age when a good milk cow was said to be worth its weight in copper.

While this wasn't strictly true, some of those little folk sayings had a kind of wisdom.

Men, women and children were being led away on halters and chains, properly segregated as much as possible. Queen Eleanora's great-grandfather, Wlodimir the Great, had decreed that infants would not be separated from their mothers. In such circumstances, with Autumn Court only days away, facilities were crowded and inevitably they must compromise. Efforts were made not to break up families, even barbarian families. The professional soldier could see the sense of that—it prevented plenty of heartaches for all concerned and made handling the mob a little easier sometimes.

Nyron did a quick head count: forty-three souls plus another hundred or so already in custody. He had a few empty cells, and most of the others, the really big ones, were not too outrageously overcrowded. The problem was a nice division of the sexes and ages, and just keeping trouble to a minimum. It made sense to keep the private shipments together as much as possible. This was not his favorite duty, but it had to be done. It came with the job.

"I make it forty-three prisoners in all."

"That's right, sir, forty-three. Yes, sir."

Nyron accepted a bill of lading listing names and descriptions, running a quick eye over it.

He'd been a slave for five or six years himself, before buying his freedom from an indulgent master who needed money. The master wanted to pick up a few extra acres for his youngest son's death-portion. It was a common occurrence, when the better class of owner began feeling their age and sensing the cold hand of mortality. Fairly well read, Nyron considered himself a bit of a philosopher. He was also luckier than most. The Army had been the making of him, and now he wouldn't trade it for anything.

It was better not to take things too personally sometimes.

He wondered if the man would risk a fight.

The big prisoner stood at ground level. After his long confinement, he gratefully stretched his spine, seemingly growing in front of their eyes, and they could almost hear it crack at hip-level. It was more a thing of the imagination. The cage wasn't very big, only about four and half feet wide and about ten feet long. Nyron doubted if it was a full six feet high inside. With nine or ten people in there for several days, plus the honey-bucket, sleeping accommodations left much to be desired. It was a very good reason to stay out of trouble. It was better than slogging along on foot, chained to a dozen other people, all of them of different size and gait. That's how Nyron had always thought of it. You never really forgot. Nyron nodded at the driver, his boy standing patiently beside the team. The kid hit the nearest horse on the flank with a willow switch. The tall wagon trundled and lurched forwards in anticipation of being turned around and left outside the second gate where the big draft animals could graze and rest if they didn't need other attention. There simply wasn't enough space in the inner yard for all the big wagons.

"Holy." The prisoner dwarfed his handlers, who were often not the most prepossessing of men. "Mother of Nutshepshat."

Each according to his needs, each according to his abilities, thought Nyron. What irony—a man who should have been a general, being dragged around by the likes of them.

"Yes. Lowren, ah, that's his name, is the really, really big one that didn't quite get away. Our prize, and one that shall bring my master much profit."

Nyron examined the lean, strong features and formidable physique of the prisoner. He'd had to bend double to get out of the cage. Loaded with chains and shackles, whose weight he seemed to ignore, head held high as he stretched his legs in unconscious yet urgent manner, the prisoner looked around at his new, albeit temporary home.

"Oh, he's one of yours? How much, if I might so inquire?"

"Ah, a connoisseur. Good fellow. Well. I reckon we'll start the bidding at---" As if not already familiar with Lowren's statistics, he took another appreciative look. "A hundred gold pieces..."

"A hundred!"

"Yeah. Don't forget I have to answer to the Count. Some sort of northern prince-ling, if his story is to be believed." The barbarian's head came around, and his eyes hardened and the gaoler's look sobered. "He wasn't too happy to be taken, I can tell you that much. His manners are good and they say he can read and such like that. He's not like the others. His spirit hasn't been broken, not yet anyways, and in my opinion his next owner had better take that into account."

Lowren was an exceedingly healthy looking specimen, Nyron thought. He might not understand a word of it, but he knows what a gaoler is. He met the eyes for a moment, strangely uncomfortable with it. He doesn't like me very much, does he?

"Yes, but a hundred pieces?" That was outrageous, the average farm hand not worth a tenth of that.

Not even a twentieth.

Barbarians, tall and strong as they might be, weren't good for much else. They had no trades, no skills to speak of except war and plunder—they were pretty good at drinking and fighting and carousing in general of course, and once that was taken care of, that really only left subsistence farming and grazing the herds.

"Really. He is a king, you know. That's the last of them."

The second wagon had finally moved off and the slavers were pulling their people into line with the occasional kicks, slaps for the younger or weaker ones, and a good measure of cursing as well.

"A bloody king. Hah." Well, serve him right then!

Looks good on you.

Nyron nodded sourly. Too rich for his blood, and it probably wouldn't be worth it anyways.

Keeping a certain type of man or woman docile and subservient was extremely difficult. They were expensive to feed, clothe and house. He'd heard some real horror stories, not the least of which was how they would sicken and die for no real reason sometimes, and just when the owners were growing quite fond of them.

A thought struck him.

"How, in the names of the gods, did you ever take him?" There had to be a good story here.

Barbarian kings didn't travel or camp without followers and hordes of armed men with naked swords and those horrid little re-curved bows. Bags and bags of arrows, as it was said, and the women were almost worse. In a defeat, barbarians had been turned back upon the enemy by their own wives and mothers more than once.

It was no legend—it was truth.

"Ah. Trade secret—I wasn't actually there, you understand. But there may have been a female companion involved—and maybe a little ale as well." Garvin cracked a grin, grabbing Nyron's upper arm in familiarity. "It's possible she, ah, might have slipped him the old knock-out drops, eh? Heh-heh-heh."

He let go, and turned to look again.

The prisoner's startling blue eyes impaled Garvin and the smile disappeared. Garvin, cold in the face now, made an overhand motion with his free hand. The prisoner looked away, feigning indifference. Apparently the prisoner had been bonked on the head when he was in his cups...those eyes were definitely forbidding, thought Nyron as his own grin faded.

It could happen to anyone.

Nyron chewed on a lip as the group moved indoors for registration and cell assignment. There were times when you could just sense trouble.

Better if this one goes to some big farm, a long ways from town where they can quickly work him to death in the traces. You can end your days pulling a plough around all day and sleeping on the ground in an animal shed at night, and hopefully, with a little luck, you can stay the hell away from my town.

"Well. Good luck to you, and especially with that one."

The Officer of the Day took the gaoler back into the office. They went over the documents and determined the number of private and public prisoners. With only minor haggling, they settled on a price for food, water, straw and blankets. For the record, this would be under the manor's roof as custom called-for, as well as provision at stipulated rates for water, oats and fodder for the animals.

Nyron, with six years under his belt in this position, had never met Garvin before, a fact easily explained by Garvin being new to the job. His best wife was a second cousin to the Reeve up Boethmoor way. Otherwise he'd still be running a few scraggly sheep out on the common, as he explained.

Nyron's piles were killing him. A thick, embroidered silk cushion did nothing to alleviate that. It was a known occupational hazard of scribes everywhere. Garvin nodded in sympathy, saddle weary as he was. His own bench was quite hard, although worn smooth with beaten-in terrain features attesting to a thousand sets of buttocks before him. With a bit of a sigh, Nyron inked his quill and in the appropriate book took down all relevant details as to prisoners, and properties, the names of the owners, person-or-official-having-charge, origin and destination. He verified that all tax and postal seals were proper and in place on the documents supplied by the County's gaoler.

"Very good." Garvin read the manifest and bill of exchange and carefully made his seal, the hot wax always stinging a knuckle on your ring finger if you touched it accidentally, and then he looked up at Nyron.

Each and every form required a fee, of course. He paid over the money cheerfully enough.

"Time for a drink, my good sir, and a meal, and possibly a buxom wench or two besides—although I have been bidden not to trifle with the merchandise." There were one or two fairly attractive females in the shipment, although Nyron's taste was for something a little more nubile.

So far, he hadn't noticed any really beautiful boys or anything like that. A bit of a wash might help, he thought.

"I couldn't agree more—about the drink, anyways."

They had been bound over and only a fool messed with those in the care and custody of the Crown.

"And of course you're welcome to have your own men check in, even guard them, and use our, ah, guardroom facilities. Just behave yourselves and stay out of prohibited areas." Basically, anything that was locked, guarded or behind closed doors in private or state quarters, was out of bounds to visitors.

"Ah, yes, sir."

"Off you go then, there's a good pub just around the corner. The Dead Boar. A bit of a pun, really, ah...it's not that bad. Half of your men are probably there already. On behalf of Queen Eleanora and all of our assorted merchant guilds, we bid you welcome, and, we sure hope that enjoy your stay in this, our fair city."

They shook hands and then Garvin was cut loose to make what he could of the rest of the day.

Chapter Two

Kann had gone off to see to the men, most of whom were already straggling along on foot, back towards the town below, and he wouldn't mind finding his own quarters before too long. In the county uniform of grey kilt and blue jerkin, they blended right in and no one took any real notice of them.

Garvin headed for the stables. One of the personal string of animals had lost a shoe and it was his first thought. Their animals were distinguished by not having the royal crown branded on the left flank, but private animals changed hands fairly often and it was more a matter of having a good description and a bill of sale. This one in particular he would be sad to part with, a nice piebald gelding, black and white with all the vigor of a young stallion and none of the bad temper.

Nyron was just going off shift. As was his habit, after signing the book below the day's entries he turned it over to his relief. Serjeant Torak had the night shift. Captain Nyron headed for the kitchen complex. This lay at the rear of what had been renovated into a proper palace, built on the foundations of the original keep or so it was said. It was said the dungeons were the only remaining vestiges of the old place. With the renovations had come new buildings at ground level, backing up the inner curtain wall to some extent with the holding cells. Actual Court was held in smaller rooms off the Great Hall.

The smell of bread, and ale, and cheese, and fish, and more than anything what smelled like chicken pies was overpowering to a hungry soldier after twelve hours on duty. Much of that had been spent on his feet. The rest had been spent on his butt. As to which was worse, that was sometimes difficult to say.

The chamberlain, Taez was there, talking to Margg, and Nyron had a thought. While the reward might be interesting, it wouldn't be much in monetary terms. There would inevitably be too many middle-men, and one was often enough to seriously complicate matters. His personal status was simply too low to pull it off. Then there was the question of the price. The barbarian had a certain rugged sex appeal, to the extent that Nyron, not the most ambivalent or ambidextrous of men, had even noted it himself. He grinned slightly at his internal word-play.

Queen Eleanora had a certain reputation, not that he cared one way or the other.

The question was how to bring the subject up, in a socially-palatable form. Margg was getting a quiet and extremely polite dressing-down, but it was a dressing-down nevertheless. All the signs were there. She looked extremely upset. Nyron had appeared during a brief lull in the conversation and she looked at him in something akin to gratitude.

"Taez."

That shaven head gleamed in the overhead light falling from a hundred tallow candles. Tattoos wreathed the shiny hairless forearms, arms like a stevedore Taez had. Each and every one of them seemed to have a past. The kitchen was very hot, and a kind of unofficial sanctuary for the more junior officers. This was true on summer nights and most especially in winter. Taez turned to regard his colleague. They served civilian and military functions respectively, their duties didn't overlap and Nyron had always deferred to Taez in household matters. For that and other reasons, they had a pretty good relationship.

They might even be friends, insofar as it was possible to do so, thought Nyron.

"Oh, hello, Nyron. How was the day?"

"It was all right. The usual, as usual. Perhaps even a little boring. This is usually a pretty good thing, at least to my way of thinking."

Taez nodded, half-grinning, and his eyes naturally gravitated back to the head cook, a stout woman and a bit of a terror in her own right. She stood wringing her hands and looking unhappy.

"We'll talk of this later."

"Yes, Master Taez."

She nodded, bobbed her head, and bolted.

"What's up with Margg?"

Taez shook his head.

Then he grinned again, as Nyron helped himself to a poultry-pie and a tall mug of milk.

"Nothing, really. She just takes everything a little too personally."

Margg's greatest fear was that she would be replaced, thought Nyron. There must have been something wrong with the fish, or the mutton, or the pudding was a bit cold last night, and she was desperately trying to lay the blame squarely where it belonged...somewhere else, no doubt.

He nodded pleasantly. The pie steamed and the smell was wondrous. He put it down quickly and beckoned at a boy, who came over and gave him a thick pair of potholders.

"Spoon."

"Yes, sir." The lad scuttled off to get him one.

The kitchen boys would catch it today, if he knew Margg. The pair moved to Taez's cubicle where he kept the books and there were locking cupboards for anything expensive that might walk away.

The kid was back again.

Nyron nodded and the boy stuck it in the pie.

"Off you go, then." Nyron looked around at the bustling activity.

The noise, as usual, was bedlam.

They fed hundreds of hungry mouths on a daily basis and they had the staff to prove it, with people cooking, stirring, brewing, cheese-making, setting out platters, carving, and washing up the inevitable pots and pans. The main kitchen area was a hundred feet long and then there was a series of storerooms along the back wall. The hearth was a marvel, fully twelve feet tall and with multiple iron doors, ranges, and warming surfaces in addition to a pair of open fires with spits big enough to roast an ox.

Theft and pilfering would always be a problem with stores and beverages littering the place at all times.

Things walked away from the kitchen with depressing frequency around there. Nyron seated himself on the bench just inside the door. How many kitchen boys had sweated it out on that bench, waiting for Taez to dispense justice in his own inimitable fashion over the years? All of them, probably.

"So. Taez." Nyron took a long breath and just spat it out. "We have a very special prisoner today. Came in just now, along with the usual lot of sorry slobs."

"Oh, really?" Taez, busy with the accounts and the constant re-provisioning of a household that numbered anything up to three hundred warm bodies on any given day, and that was when there was nothing really special going on.

Taez enjoyed Nyron's company well enough.

Nyron wasn't one to hang about all day, and that was better than some would-be acquaintances.

The Army had their own mess, their own quarter-master and their own kitchen. Taez imagined things weren't much better over there. It was just another side of the fence. Nyron was welcome enough to the pie, if it came right down to it.

Taez was also a busy man, subject to supervision and the occasional audit from above, just like anybody else.

"They say he's the king of some barbaric northern tribe." Nyron held his hand up, palm down, indicating that the height of the prisoner was a good eight or ten inches greater than his own. "I mean, this one is really something."

"Hmn."

"Uh, huh. They say they're asking a hundred gold pieces for him."

Taez's head lifted from his account books. His door was always open, and his crowded little cubby was in the noisy kitchen area with its hordes of bodies, all hands all keeping busy just to keep up with the demand. Nyron got up with a little grunt and thoughtfully shut the heavy oaken door, not latching it but leaving a crack open to indicate that people could enter on actual business.

They could hear each other a little better now.

***

After taking a good look at Lowren the night before, on Nyron's suggestion he was in attendance at the auction first thing next morning.

Taez didn't think much of it at first. The place was certainly crowded this morning, a wooden bull-ring with high rafters holding up an octagonal dome roof, also in wood. There were tiers of seats, with a raised platform for distinguished guests such as himself. There were barricades in front of the wall, a walkway around behind the short barriers, and stalls in under the galleried seating for animals penned and waiting for sale.

Looking around, he saw one or two people he knew. The noise was horrendous, even compared to the kitchen. He watched a few desultory sales, and bought one or two lots, but Taez wasn't here for beef or mutton today. He wasn't even sure he was going to do it. It was just curiosity more than anything. At least that's what he told himself.

It was best not to get one's hopes up. The auctioneer held up a wooden hammer and the spectators lining the ring fell silent.

"Lot number seventeen. Lowren. He is a barbarian prince, age about thirty. Weight, well over two hundred, height, six-foot and a half, ah, more or less. Experience leading men in battle and governing a small, proud and nomadic people...pure in spirit and simple of mind..."

Hoots and catcalls, ribald laughter echoed round the chamber as Lowren was led out.

They had a couple of much bigger men on him this time, saw Nyron. While the prince or king of the Lemni was hardly placid and could probably fling them around like dogs, he was in control of himself and still maintaining his dignity. His jaws were tightly clenched and muscles bulged at the corners. Something dangerous glinted from his eyes.

"So what do you think?" Nyron had to get to his duties, and he was a few minutes late already.

"Magnificent!" Taez closed his mouth firmly.

He gave Nyron a look.

"All right, then. I must be off! Once more unto the breach, dear friends—although I seem to be more book-keeper than soldier these days."

"Ten gold pieces."

Taez's mouth opened and he leaned forward, trying to locate the bidder. Wordlessly, Nyron turned and made his way through the crowd, all mouths open and all eyes on the spectacle before them.

More laughs went through the hall as the auctioneer flushed.

"Reserve bid is set at one hundred gold pieces."

They should know that already, gossip being what it was. The troopers had been around to half the taverns in town last night, and there was only so much to talk about. Even so, a long groan went through the assembly. Unless the reserve bid was pulled, there weren't that many folks around there who stood even the slightest chance of getting Lowren. As to how desirable a prize he was, that would soon be revealed.

The auctioneer raised his hammer.

"Bidding begins at one hundred—"

"Done!"

Without bothering to look, Taez raised his own paddle, stained purple and gold to represent the Crown in all of its glory.

There was a big numeral, 'one,' painted on it in white. Registered bidders received a numbered paddle, on a first-come-first-serve basis. In heated sales contests, all the rules and all the protocols went out the window, fairly quickly at times. The Queen's numbered paddle was always reserved for her or her representative, a tradition going back as far as anyone could remember.

"One-ten." The buzz of talk in the building went on unabated and the buyers had to shout loudly and clearly.

A murmur of interest went through the mob. The noise swelled as the press of humanity recalled the rumors and the reputation of their Queen. The Queen's Chamberlain was a familiar figure.

Anybody that didn't know him or hadn't seen him on his official business about the town and surrounding countryside would quickly have any blanks in their knowledge filled in by their neighbors.

Every eye in the house was upon Taez, but this was no time to think about that. Surely this one deserved a better fate than walking around in endless circles, turning a water-screw or whatever a more regular fate held in store. As to whether or how he might be controlled in his new duties, that wasn't his department. He was sure it could be done of course.

Taez heard a call, one he didn't quite catch, but the roar that accompanied it told him all he needed to know.

"One-thirty." He sounded cool, confident, and very determined.

"One-forty."

This time he heard it properly. Knowing better even as he did it, he leaned forward, looking to his left, and tried to locate the gentleman. It was hard enough in this crowd. All eyes were on someone over there somewhere. He caught a glimpse of the tip of a paddle.

A non-descript individual leaned out, met his eye, politely tugged on the brim of his low cap and then turned back to the auctioneer.

"Going once..."

Taez met those eyes. The auctioneer could only hold off so long.

"Going twice..."

Shit, that was a lot of money—it wasn't his either, but Taez had his instincts. And those instincts were telling him to buy.

The hammer was about to fall on Lowren.

"One-seventy-five."

There was absolute silence, until the gentleman over there took one last look at the item on display, shrugged his shoulders and turned away. He melted back into the crowd, apparently uninterested in the more usual household or agricultural servants.

The auctioneer grinned and nodded.

"Going, going...gone."

Taez sagged a little on hearing it. The crowd rumbled and this was no time for second thoughts.

"Sold, for one-seventy-five!" The voice rang out, clear and jubilant.

Knowing Taez well enough, he went through the contract and disclaimers in a quick breath and then it was on to Lot Eighteen. This was a matching pair of fairly healthy-looking, not exactly young women with experience in textiles and dye-works. They both still had a lot of their teeth, had no dependent children and might very well be suitable as domestic servants, agricultural specialists, or for work in the hospitality industry.

While he was there, Taez also bought one or two new staff members for the household. He had a certain leeway in his budget and the people were needed here and there. Making his way to the holding area, he made arrangements for them to be brought up to the castle. Arrangements for Lowren took some thought, but they did have all those dungeons after all.

The smiles and giggles from those all around him could be borne. He was sort of wondering, kind of late as it was, but hopefully Queen Eleanora would be pleased with her latest acquisition.

If nothing else, they could always put Lowren in the ring and let him fight it out with other condemned prisoners. He had a sneaking suspicion that other bidder might have been a fight promoter or something like that.

The possibility that he was a shill, merely there to drive up the bidding had also crossed Taez's mind.

***

Taez was very conscious of the speed with which the average secret evaporated in any small community, which was just what any properly-constituted household was. He presented the Barbarian King Lowren, as he was billing him, just after the main course at dinner.

This was a long, drawn-out affair. If things went his way, it would be the highlight of the night. No one around Taez shared his tension and the time dragged interminably until the desserts had been served. Servers were going around freshening the wine glasses.

It was now or never.

Taez turned and found the eye of his assistant, hovering in a side entryway. He gave a wave and the man nodded, turning behind him to give the signal.

When the prisoner was led out, it took a minute or two before people caught sight of him being led forwards and to catch on to what it might mean.

A hush fell over the assembly as Taez stood to address the Queen and the handlers pulled Lowren out front and centre.

Flanked as she was by guests of honor, interrupted in the act of sending choice tidbits, the first slice of something to Loshon, Ambassador of the Heloi, her mouth opened even as the light smattering of applause died away and the people waited for her reaction. The foreigners, at least, looked pleased and they muttered amongst themselves. Unfortunately for Taez, their opinion, while possibly helpful, wasn't the one that really mattered.

At first, it did not seem good, and Taez's heart sank, as did that of his friend Nyron, attending all official state functions as per standing orders in his role as an officer and a gentleman. His table was on the far side, at the kitchen end of the Great Hall, but there were half-empty tables as well and he saw it without heads and bodies in the way.

A small gasp had escaped Eleanora, and her hand flew up to her mouth. The hand came down, ever so slowly.

"Majesty. We have a surprise guest attending this evening's celebration. I give you—literally, in this case, Lowren, King of the Lemni."

The handlers gave the chains a shake to emphasize the point and Lowren glowered left and right.

There was a hush and Taez thought he was going to die of the suspense.

She smiled, ever so sweetly, that pale oval face turning from Lowren, looking angry and resentful and no doubt wondering what they were saying about him and what his fate might ultimately be.

"What? For me?" Her eyes slid back to the tall stranger, shackled, chained and collared like any common criminal.

It really was a most extraordinary sight.

Her ladies-in-waiting, the most prominent seated not far along the head table, gave a collective gasp as if of one mind. All eyes turned to Taez, and more than one heart fluttered in sympathetic tremors. He'd taken a fearful risk, and some of them could see that.

His heart sank further still, and Taez wondered if this was the blunder that would send him to he stocks—or the frontier, or maybe even the gallows. The chopping block, he thought.

"No, really, Taez—you shouldn't have."

"Yes, my Queen—" How his knees knocked when he spoke those words. "It's just that as soon as I saw him—and I thought, what if some other noble citizen should take him before you even had a chance...to see him?"

He stopped right there.

The Queen regarded Taez, eyes narrowed. The Queen was a beautiful woman in profane terms. She was, within a heartbeat, at her most forbidding, and yet that countenance could also hide her true feelings.

"I cannot think, Majesty, of any other sovereign, anywhere in the known world, who has anything remotely comparable in their own collection." His only safety lay in buttering it on as thickly as he dared.

She swung around to look at the big barbarian again.

"He's going to look wonderful standing guard beside your throne, and providing his neck as a footstool when you mount, or a bench, possibly...one for your favorite dwarf to sit upon..."

Titters and giggles broke out all around and the man under scrutiny darkened, ears burning at the humiliating sound of their laughter. His chin came down and he watched her closely. The handlers braced themselves.

Lowren stood very still, staring into her eyes. She found herself torn.

A barbarian king. Here. Now.

A strange toxin of emotion went through her. It could happen to any one of us, she thought.

Eleanora was aware of the man, very much so.

He was like a cobra, coiled to spring at anything that moved, and yet he had a brain, he knew what would become of him if he made the least threat.

She stared into those eyes for a long moment.

"Perhaps one of our more deserving—or perhaps one of the more honorable ladies-in-waiting will require a husband. Your Majesty could simply have him sent back to his own people as the best possible gift of state: the restitution of their beloved king."

There were precedents for that last option, and he had to think of her dignity in front of all these people.

The Queen took a long, hard look at Taez. Foreign policy was not his arena and he'd best tread lightly there, but displaced barbarian kings had it notoriously tough. Most were executed on the battlefield. Some lived their lives in exile, captive in another sovereign's court, hidden in castles or dungeons and never seeing the light of day. At the first sign of trouble, they were quickly put to death on any mere suspicion. To escape was almost worse. Their brothers, sons or nephews, having succeeded to the throne, were rarely so eager to give it up—and yet the people (and all of the world was people) saw it as a peace offering, a gift of what was thought irreplaceable. It was good foreign relations and even better foreign policy. That's not to say Taez had any ambitions in that regard, because he didn't—it was just an opportunity he could not overlook to please Eleanora. It was what he had been retained to do, after all.

"Well. Thank you for this, Taez."

The talk was that Lowren's people had been quite fond of him, he explained, voice lower now but still strong and clearly heard in all corners of the great room. His audience listened with rapt attention. This prize, whatever she did with it, would reflect great glory on her crown and her kingdom.

Eleanora surprised him, which she had done once or twice in the past.

"Good. Excellent." Those expressionless eyes stared right through Taez, and he trembled for his head in that moment. "Send him up to my bedchamber immediately after dinner."

The roar of laughter that rang forth upon this remark was both gratifying and terrifying to Taez.

He had taken a terrible risk, and the results were so uncertain—so nebulous, that he wondered at his own, sheer, unmitigated gall.

Quite frankly, he wondered just how stupid a man could be. He had taken an insane risk, when he thought about it.

And yet it was true, too—far better to buy the slave, return him to his people, and let him sow discontent and confusion among his own loyal followers. Taez had a hundred thoughts on that score, if only he had a brief moment to explain. It's not like he didn't have a story to cover his backside. The thing was to get a chance to explain, sometimes.

With a wave of her wrist, she had the prisoner taken away. With a look at Taez, he had been admonished, chastened, and promised some sort of great reward, all in one and the same moment. If she was pleased, that was—and as for all of that sort of thing, they would not know before the morrow.

Eleanora, two husbands and a half a dozen lovers later, was said to be notoriously fickle, and yet Taez was pretty sure he wasn't the only one who had discerned the fine hand of policy in there somewhere. People would and did talk, after all. There was pressure to marry, produce heirs, her life was complicated enough as Taez was discovering.

With his own face and neck burning from the unaccustomed risk and its companion, cold, naked fear, Taez settled back into his own place and prayed that she would not look this way again.

And yet if she did, he had better be able to meet those eyes with the proper grace and poise.

Chapter Three

With foreign dignitaries in attendance, Eleanora had little choice but to be gracious and attentive at dinner. To eat too often in one's private quarters invited speculation as to your health and your lack of love for your subjects. It did not pay to be seen as cold and indifferent, or even just unfriendly. To be a sovereign and a private citizen was a contradiction in terms. Surrounded by courtiers and her ladies, it could be amusing enough at times, and a dead bore at others. A person had to eat after all, but heavy was the head that wore the crown.

Surrounded by her ladies, and with all of the tables cleared, after a time she signaled that the serious entertainment could begin, and the hogsheads were rolled in to general acclaim. Pleading fatigue, she took her leave of the ambassadors, legates and attentive nobles.

One last look was enough to convince her.

Dancers skipped in, launched themselves into the air, and tumbled in time to the music coming from a corner where the royal band was ensconced. The guests would quickly forget they were in her house, which was a fine thing.

It was the essence of hospitality.

Eleanora took a moment to herself as she always did at this time, and paid a short visit to her private chapel, with only the Priest Dervent and her cousin Theodelinda in attendance. After a short prayer to Neptune, Father of the Seas and patron of her kingdom, she retired to her private toilet chamber, where she made her private ablutions. Getting out of the stiff and formal robes of state into something a little more comfortable was blessed relief. The simple garment laid out for her varied only slightly from the everyday wear of her maidens and other noble women.

As Queen, one made use of finger-bowl and face towel as appropriate, but cleanliness was next to Godliness some said. If nothing else it was a private act and a private moment where none could make demands upon her limited time.

It was a habit and one she found some small comfort in. It was a very human thing. It was humbling. A sovereign needed reminding that all men were flesh and blood and had much more in common besides that.

Taez and the barbarian prince preyed on her mind. His analysis of policy was good, but she had never thought of him in terms of ministerial status. He ran his department well enough and hadn't exhibited any real signs of great ambition previously. To read too much into it might be unwise.

He saw a chance to please me, and he took it. Surely he was aware of the risks and had confidence in his sovereign. Either that, or Taez takes me for an awful fool. There was a third possibility, that Taez was a fool. There was always that.

What the people thought of their king or queen was vital. Public opinion could be a real killer.

A glance in the mirror revealed that Eleanora was alone. This didn't happen often enough in her peculiar little world. Everyone was always so eager to please, and hanging on her every word, constantly flattering her, and earnestly trying to analyze every little nuance of her language and her posture. Any little shift in her expression was enough to send a shock wave through an assembly.

Gods, how she was so terribly tired of it all. The one thing she could never do was to escape.

Such thoughts merely endangered her and all of her people.

She lifted the bolt and stepped into the short, arched hallway that led to her outer bedchamber.

If it was suspiciously quiet in there, in spite of two dozen or more young and high-spirited maidens and all of their natural buoyancy, at first she just plain missed it.

Her head was just so far away these days.

***

The first thing that caught her attention was Theodelinda, up on tiptoes on the other side of a sea of heads, waving madly, and then Eleanora remembered.

The chattering bodies parted and she was confronted by the towering barbarian, facing away from her and restrained by his handlers. It went very quiet, with stifled coughs and giggles.

The handlers bowed their heads, bending their knees slightly.

"Oh, yes. Lowren, the King of the Lemni."

Shining eyes and glowing faces surrounded them as Eleanora stepped coolly inwards and came around for a closer look.

He seemed so calm. She could not help but look into those eyes, where she saw the most extraordinary thing.

Humor beckoned in there, and something else too—mischief.

He smiled at Eleanora, which came as something of a shock to the system.

"Good evening, Majesty. I bring you greetings from the people of Lemnia."

Bobbing their heads in feasance as best they could, the two handlers quickly removed his collar and chains. Eleanora's jaw dropped and more than one of the girls shrieked in either mock or real surprise. The handlers stepped back and went and stood by the front wall.

"What—"

A loud knock came at the door.

Lowren rubbed his wrists where the shackles had been removed and looked around at the main door to the regal apartments.

The door opened. A man stuck his head in.

Eleanora stood, stunned beyond belief to see a stranger enter her chambers unbidden. He locked gaze with Lowren.

"All secure, Sire." He glanced rather longingly at the ladies and then quietly closed the door again.

He left a rather confusing tableaux behind, as all the ladies began talking at once and Lowren and Eleanora took their first real good look at each other.

"Silence!" Eleanora didn't know whether to laugh, or to cry, or to simply let loose with all the furies of hell—upon this hairy, half-naked man who stood in a ladies bed-chamber with the most insouciant air.

Lowren struck a pose, engaged the tittering ladies with a friendly grin and then, as if the evening hadn't been quite upsetting enough already, he took a long breath and began to speak in a sonorous tone.

"Be still, the beating wings of my heart, dry up, the windows of my soul, do not weep for that which could never be..."

The first claps were awkward, lonely things, but the swell of applause grew and grew and even Queen Eleanora had to accept that the man was here, after all.

***

"Lowren."

He stopped his recital.

"Yes, Majesty?"

She stood there very straight and grim. She clapped her hands.

"Ladies."

They shuffled and giggled and stood up straight. They tittered and covered their mouths and waited upon their sovereign's instruction.

His mouth opened. He winked, looking around in sly understanding.

"Ah."

She blushed. He grinned in pure enjoyment.

"Ladies. You will please retire. And no eavesdropping." This was always a hazard.

All the women of noble birth were confined to this end of the house during the hours of darkness for many reasons, some of them not so obvious.

She could always lock them in indefinitely. It had been done before, although not by her...not yet.

There was a second exit at the far end in case of fire, but the look on Lowren's face told her that this too would be guarded.

"Perhaps Theodelinda would care to stay and be of counsel." Those dark eyes glittered at them.

There were squeaks and giggles as the group made their exit into the inner reaches of what could only be described as the harem. It was a harem of virgins, presumably. Bright, round eyes took one last look back, an appreciative look, even a speculative look in one-too-many cases. The last girl went out the door.

Her cousin was right there. Quiet reigned at last.

Her face was grim.

"Lowren. What is the meaning of this intrusion?"

"I needed to speak to you, Eleanora. And yet, so far, you have rejected or refused to recognize my embassies. There are matters of grave import which require attention, both yours and mine."

"This is a most extraordinary act. Even for a barbarian. Explain yourself."

"If I had sent a rider, with messages of state, and if he did not arrive, or if you should send him back...and if the message should fall into the wrong hands, it would be tragedy for all concerned. These are serious matters. I must speak frankly with my neighbors. With all due respect, Majesty, that includes you."

"And what message would that be?" Theodelinda glanced at Eleanora, unsure of the reaction but reassured by her short nod.

"That the Hordes are arming. And they have taken Sinopus, on the Great Blue Sea. And there are a half a million men under arms...probably more, actually. The Great Khan does nothing without reason, Majesty."

She took a sharp breath.

She'd heard the news of course, and troubling it was.

"And so naturally, you thought of us first."

"Something like that, yes."

The King looked down at his attire.

"I hope you will be inclined to listen, for I mean you no harm. My own presence is evidence of my sincerity, for surely we cannot stay long without being discovered and overwhelmed."

He wasn't about to tell her that she had been taken by a bare dozen men, all of them volunteers.

She stared, half-believing it. As far as barbarian rulers went, he was better than most. His word was said to be good, and the Lemni were some of the finest light cavalry known outside of the boundaries of proper military discipline and organization. But they were good nevertheless. They were also known to raid far up and down the coast in their long-ships when the cause suited them. They accepted gifts from many other states, which were usually seen as tribute by the recipients. Lowren's kingdom was at least stable and had been so for a couple of generations.

There weren't very many of them, of course. In that sense, they didn't carry much weight when considering alliances.

"Go on."

"With your permission, Majesty, I would like to call in one of my men."

"Go ahead—I clearly can't stop you." But if I live, I shall surely avenge myself.

Her tone conveyed the menace well enough.

"Thank you." He raised his voice towards the door of the chamber. "Kann."

The door came crashing open and the man in question came in with a calm visage and confident air. There was someone else out there she noted, as the door was pulled closed from outside.

"So far we are undiscovered, sire."

"Thank you. The map, Kann."

His Serjeant at Arms drew it out from a long leather pouch and unrolled it.

He spread it out on a table normally used for sewing, embroidering tapestries, and the odd light refreshment when the nights were long and cold and the ladies were all in attendance.

"Please."

Eleanora, with Theodelinda, moved in closer.

It was a map showing the northern half of the Great Sea and its littoral.

"Kann."

The Serjeant nodded and went to secure the door to the area where the ladies-in-waiting were quartered in the dormitory-like upper floor on this wing of the castle.

He came back in a moment.

"It's locked, and it seems fairly quiet over there."

Lowren nodded.

"All right. Let us begin, then."

***

The Great Khan ruled over a hundred satrapies. Some said there were more than that but no one could remember all of their names.

His predecessor, Cyril the Great, had ruled by force internally and at the same time, with his empire turbulent with internal dissensions, he had kept the peace, for the most part, with his neighbors. Yet the military reputation he had acquired in his youth during his rebel years, and then the constant fighting, over the course of decades to consolidate and pacify his newly-won people had deeply influenced his sons. The one lesson Cyril had inculcated, over and over again, practically pounding it into the heads of all his sons, was that one had to be strong to be secure—a usurper with no real claim on the throne, Cyril had both a strength and a personal insecurity that could tolerate no rivals.

Upon Cyril's demise, three or four of the elder brothers had fought it out. Their younger siblings had been quickly dispatched in battle or strangled with their own bowstrings in the sanctity of the seraglio.

The wars had been long and bloody, and the man who would become the Great Khan had a long memory. His embassies and requests for alliances had been rebuffed here and there, everywhere almost, by the sovereigns of neighboring states. They were, quite openly in some cases, waiting to see which way to jump. They were afraid to back a loser. No one could ever really know in the early stages which of the brothers stood the best chance of winning. To back a loser was often fatal for other allied rulers and nations. The plain truth was that his neighbors just didn't want to get involved.

That's not to say that Jumalak didn't take it personally, because he did. Very much so. Especially after he had won in a war that cost eight years, the best years of his youth, and the lives of millions of his eventual subjects.

Feeling that he alone had been anointed by his Gods to rule over his people, he also believed that the sword of justice was his and his alone. He could accept of no other. All such men had their justification.

Simply put, he was a man with a grudge. He had a standing army which needed employment and which it would be dangerous to disband. That army was costing him hundreds of thousands of gold pieces a day just to feed.

In short, sooner or later, he would come.

Lowren looked up from the map.

He met their eyes, for both were formidable women. There was no underestimating Theodelinda. He was going on an impression gained by merchant and traveler's reports, one now borne out by his own observations.

She asked the first question, while the Queen carefully studied Lowren.

Theodelinda was calm and cool.

"Why are you here, Lowren?"

"Because you have something I need."

"Why should we help you?"

He straightened, addressing himself to Eleanora.

"Because it would be in your best interest to do so." His shifted his gaze to the cousin. "I have ten thousand warriors available to me. We will be swept away just as surely as a dead branch in a flooding river in springtime..."

Eleanora nodded. This much was true—the Lemni didn't have stone fortifications, neither were their soldiers professionally trained. And yet her own chances didn't look all that good either. Even if they were put together, their forces would be puny. To treat with the Khan would be to delay the inevitable, nothing more. To wait and do nothing, and not act in accord with neighboring kingdoms, was to be devoured in turn, each afraid to stand up alone against the common enemy. It was fatal to be unwilling to ally with an old and not particularly friendly neighbor...it was the old dilemma. Even the Lemni had raided Windermere, not fifteen years ago.

There were too many petty nation-states, and too many tongues and creeds, too many peoples, and not all of them happy under a given flag. Some rulers were rather precarious on their thrones, and some of them knew it very well. Lowren laid it all out, starting with the basics of statecraft as it was practiced these days. Some of the precepts and some of the lessons sounded very familiar—like something her father might have said.

"And then comes along someone truly formidable—with a view to conquest and the means to do so."

"Keep talking." It wasn't her kingdom to worry about or dispose of, but Theo had a point.

In truth, she was next in line of succession. Eleanora had no heirs.

"What exactly are we asking for, Lowren?" It was the first time she had spoken since he began.

"Well. I have a plan. As you might imagine."

She clamped her mouth firmly shut, eyes narrow.

"I will ask for your word. We must keep this secret." His eyes traveled to the door where the ladies in waiting had disappeared. "Just the fact that I was here would tell the Khan much."

Eleanora bit her lip. He was right. The man had already dragged her into it—unless the secret could be kept.

She knew so little about Lowren, and yet everything that she had heard redounded to his credit as a king, a soldier and as a man. Her father had ended up buying off his father. All of their captives and hostages had been promptly returned, having some oddly good things to say about the humanity of their savage conquerors once you got to know them a little...

"What do you propose?"

"That I shall escape in the night from your bedchamber, Majesty."

A bitter smiled crossed her face.

"It will be said that I disappointed you in love, but somehow overpowered my guards and escaped on the way to the block."

"But of course."

"It's not your own people that matter, Majesty. It is the distorted view that will be transmitted across the seas by the very next commercial vessel to make the journey to Sinopus—or more importantly to the Khan's palace at Artesphihan."

By map, it was eleven or twelve hundred miles to the Khan's capital. The queen was familiar enough with ocean commerce. It was, after all, the lifeblood of her kingdom. A ship, fully laden and with favorable winds might only be making six or eight knots. On a very good day, nine or ten.

Over the course of twenty-four hours, that was still a formidable distance. This was a good story and the news would travel fast. If we can't keep the secret, then let us distort the truth.

"Assuming I don't have hundreds of men outside that door, Kann and I, one or two others, are completely in your power, Majesty. I turn our fates over to you."

What an extraordinary thing to say.

She regarded him for a long moment. He was a brave man, but she hadn't had any doubts of that before, and all of that had just been hearsay. This was Lowren in the flesh—and now she'd had a glimpse into his mind.

It might not be enough, but it was all she had to go on at that particular moment in time.

"Tell us more, Lowren. Tell us much more."

He talked about ships, and weapons, and men. He talked about horses and fodder. He talked about gold, and grain, and what it took to win a campaign. She and Eleanora had many questions. As Lowren explained, the nucleus of the deal he was proposing became clear. The only problem was one of mutual trust.

They talked far into the night. Finally she begged off on making any decision.

"We will consider the problem, Lowren."

His face fell momentarily, but he took it with as much grace as he could muster.

"We must purify ourselves in mind and body before coming to any decision." A few more facts wouldn't hurt either. "This is not a decision to be made in haste."

Theodelinda broke in.

"What she's trying to tell you, Lowren, is that she must consult with her ministers."

"I understand." He gave Theodelinda a look. "All of your men will be returned unharmed—that includes the County guards. They're being well treated."

Kann spoke up, bringing out the bag of gold, a hundred and seventy-five gold pieces.

"This is yours, I believe. Your men will be released on the stroke of midnight." Their guards would simply melt away at the appointed hour, making their way independently to a rendezvous point which he withheld from the ladies, discretion being the better part of valor.

Eleanora ignored the purse and he put it gently down on the table. Theo gave a soft snort, rolling her eyes and Kann grinned affably at her.

"Interestingly, Majesty, if we can get into your castle, we can get into Sinopus." His eyes went from one to another, having no doubts about Lowren's or his own abilities, nor the abilities of the Lemnian troops in general.

Theo just stared coldly at Lowren. Then her gaze shifted to the other one and the look softened in assessment. Lowren commanded the loyalty, possibly even the love, of such men.

It was a factor.

"You may go if you wish."

Kann looked at Lowren, who nodded.

"Give us ten minutes, please, your Majesty."

"You shall have it, although if there are any tricks, it might go very hard with you, Lowren."

The one known as Kann, far more than a simple serjeant it would seem, furled the map and stowed it away in his shoulder bag. With one long, last look into Eleanora's carefully-neutral gaze, Lowren and his companion turned on a nod and departed silently and swiftly. The heavy slab thumped softly closed and the bolt dropped. There was one last whisper of sound as they descended the stairs.

They were gone.

The pair of them stood looking at the door for quite some time.

Turning to each other, there wasn't much to say.

"Well."

"Well, yourself."

But sooner or later, one of them would have to go out there and find out what had happened to the guard.

Chapter Four

They skedaddled down the stairs, with its curious absence of guards and men. Out the door and across the yard, feeling naked and exposed...into the cold hard shadows of slanting moonlight.

The boys were right there in front of the stables. The horses were saddled and their weapons slung from the pommel in the case of the horses provided for Lowren and Kann and the others. They strapped on the short swords that they favored, listening for any hint of detection or pursuit. Their bucklers were handed over and then they were ready.

Nothing but crickets and the far-off murmur of soldiers by the gatehouse.

"Right. We're off." They cantered to the gate, clods and dirt flying in the dim orange light of the exterior sconces.

Lowren, Kann, Bibb, Garvin and the others exited the castle by the simple expedient of riding up to the gate and waving a scroll at the men on duty. Still clad in the livery of the County, the door was half open before one of the guards thought to reach for the papers. Kann pulled them away jokingly and then handed them over with an exaggerated flourish. His timing was impeccable.

"Yeah, yeah, slow down!" The other guards hauled away at the foot-thick gate halves. "Idiot."

"Thank you." Lowren spurred his horse into the opening and as the others kicked up their horses, the way was fully open and there was no stopping them now. "I resemble that remark."

"Ride!" Lowren's heels slapped against hard, warm, surging horse-flesh.

The moon was well up above the horizon, the gravel of the road a white ribbon winding its way down the hillside, following the contours and exposed to the full fire from the battlements in case of war or siege.

Just ride.

"Well, that seemed to go very well." Garvin held up a skin bottle of the local red, a bit resinous, very dry and with enough alcohol in it to take the top of the head off if one overindulged even the slightest. "Quite an adventure, I must say."

Their voices went and came echoing back off the stone walls and abutments. It was a naked feeling, and yet there was this rush of intense and rather pleasurable juices inside. With a fairly sure-footed mount, Kann risked a quick look up, knowing there must be men watching them go from the top of the battlements. He thought he caught the gleam of a helmet here and there as they patrolled on their rounds.

It was best not to think about it too much.

"I'll take that." Kann had worked up a powerful thirst over the preceding couple of hours.

He removed the stopper, drank greedily, and showed no signs of passing it on.

The warm golden lights of the town lay below, and as yet, there was no alarm raised behind them. It would seem that their ten minutes must be up by now.

The paper was a simple travel order, ostensibly signed by Captain Nyron, who had gone off duty earlier. It had been carefully forged for the eventuality. It was unusual not to get a document properly stamped, as it really should have gone on with the riders. It would take a while for them to figure that out. In the meantime, as soon as the riders got to the bottom of the castle's approach road, they took the left fork, thundered over the long stone bridge built at great expense decades previously. Cantering through the cobbled streets, they came to an intersection and headed for the northwest road, leading deeper into the hinterlands. Their real destination was the coast and the marshes.

The horses would be turned loose, to run free and eventually, some might be caught and find new masters.

Lowren was quiet when they slowed the horses to a walk. Having circled back two hundred seventy degrees from their original course, they had hours ahead of them. There was time to think, and it was all he could do to hope.

A ship lying up there for just such a purpose would take them away. Hopefully it would still be there.

"Do you feel that?"

Lowren licked a finger tip and held it up to the wind.

"Southwest."

There were nods and murmurs from the riders. The moon was up, but for much of the time, the road lay under trees. There was a sense of urgency and yet they must pick their way carefully. So far, their maps and travel notes from their spies had been fairly good.

The hours passed and the pain began.

"Dawn is not far off, Sire." Kann was slumping in the saddle.

Although his eyes were tired he was in pretty good shape.

"Yes. And with a bit of luck—"

They might be home, or near enough as made no difference, in two or three days of clear sailing.

***

Dawn was breaking and the sky to the east was a salmon-colored glow. They had her all ready to go, having heard them coming for the last half mile or so.

They kept their voices low, but so far the boat had remained undiscovered. With their minimal draft and long, lean lines, the Lemni ships were ideal warships, although limited as to cargo-carrying capacity. Run up in the reeds, her shape obscured with rotten old fishing nets, her mast just one more dead tree along the coastline.

"Goodbye, oh, useless one." Garvin slapped the animal on the rump and it turned its head to give him a loving look.

Bought for a couple of pieces, a temporary acquisition only, the thing hadn't eaten so well nor had such an attentive rider in years. It stretched its neck forward for one more pat on the nose.

"Ah...go on with you." Garvin turned, and parted the reeds. "Find yourself a lady friend."

He crashed through the marsh, feet buried in stinking black muck. He felt badly for the damned horse for some reason, but it wasn't his fault. He'd bought the thing a few more months or even years of life. Otherwise it would have ended up in the boneyard in pretty short order.

"Come along, come along."

"Yes, yes." Encumbered with the weight of sword and scabbard, his buckler on his shoulder, keeping his bow and quiver well clear of the water was no easy task.

He hit sand underfoot, which was a lot harder at least, and then the side of the boat loomed above him.

Willing hands relieved him of his burden and Garvin felt strong hands grab his wrists.

"Wait a minute."

The hands let go and Garvin moved further out to where the gunwales were lower to the water.

He caught the edge and hauled himself up. Bibbs was there to grab his belt, and with one final heave Garvin was aboard, albeit half on his head.

"Argh."

"Ah. Yes, you prefer the land, don't you."

Bibbs stood there grinning.

Lowren leaned hard on the oar he had set into the bottom.

"Come on lads. All hands." Kann wasn't one to be denied, and Garvin and Bibbs pulled oars from their swiveling rests and moved as far back as they could. Pushing hard, the men leaned into it, with the small crew of dedicated sailors raising the boom and pushing on a few more oars.

The air seemed almost completely still.

The ship let go with a lurch.

"Forwards, boys." Lowren kept pushing but as soon as the other three moved forwards, the bow went down ever so slightly and she was finally free of the sand under her stern.

A quick bit of footwork prevented him from falling flat on his face as she went into the deeper water.

"Pull." The quiet orders of the captain floated on the grey and misty air.

The boom went up, the sail came down, and then the captain scuttled the length of the ship. Oars were dropped back into the swivels and all available hands dropped into their benches. They began a comfortable stroke.

"Steady."

"Aye, sir."

Lowren grinned. What an incredible moment, the captain and the helmsman quietly conferring, the first brilliant sliver of the morning sun on the horizon, a good ship and a dozen or so men that knew what they were doing. Boys went along, tying off the corners of the sail, waiting to see how it took. The breeze caught her and the boom swiveled slightly. She was making way on her own.

It didn't get much better than this.

"Lowren."

"Aye, captain?"

"Have your men stow those oars please, and you will find food and refreshments in the locker."

Lowren nodded.

He might be King, but a ship could only have one master.

"Aye, sir." He nodded happily as the bow began to go up and down and then came around to the north as the helmsman leaned into his work.

They had escaped. The shore was still and silent, only calls of birds to say there was land there at all. They were halfway down a long shallow bay, sheltered from the wind at first. The low hills to their rear dropped further away and the bay widened out. The waves were bigger ahead, with just a hint of spray coming off about every third one.

The ship heeled, the sail bellied out and then the waves began to slap and splash over the bow on the starboard quarter. A series of vee-shaped streamers of white foam came off the bow as she shouldered the waves aside, and she had a discernable wake now. Parts of the ship creaked and groaned, and a sailor walked up and down, leaning carefully against her motion, and studying the level in the port side bilges as the water sloshed back and forth under the duckboards.

"She looks good, sir."

The captain gave him a quick wave of acknowledgement. He put his hand on the helmsman's shoulder.

"Ten degrees to port, please."

"Aye, sir. Ten degrees to port, thank you."

"All righty, man, good fellow, steady her up."

She wasn't rolling quite so hard now, thought Lowren.

"Aye, sir. Steady her up, and thank you very much, sir."

The captain was aware of Lowren watching them.

"To Lemnia we go, sire. Three days hence, if the winds and the waves hold fair." By the captain's reckoning, they might make it early on the evening of the second day, but it was wise not to make too many promises when the weather could turn at any moment.

If they had to row into a strong wind, using all available hands, it could take a week, perhaps even longer if a big storm came along and they had to run her ashore.

"Thank you, Captain Rollo. And how did you find the wait?"

"Boring and tedious, sire. More than anything." Days of nothing but suspense, and keeping a sharp eye and voices low. "And how about you?"

"I think we did very well, to bring our message and come away again unscathed—or un-scourged. Only time will tell." There was nothing else to report, apparently.

"We came away with our skins intact. That is the main thing, sire."

It's not like they needed, or even wanted to know. Most were content just to live, and to serve, and to have a place. It was more than some men had, after all.

A quiet rumble of humor went through the boys on overhearing this interplay. Even now, they were keeping their voices down. The land was barely a mile away. The mouth of the Great River was right there, a few miles off the port bow. It was only a matter of time before sails loomed on the horizon.

Being with the men was a kind of reward in itself. There were times when it was possible to forget his position, to just be one of them, and Lowren treasured those moments. He stood, hand on the gunwale, and then sank, surprisingly tired all of a sudden, onto one of the rowing benches beside him.

The land, still dark under those trees, was silent and inscrutable behind them. The marsh was perfect cover, although you couldn't use it too often. Unsuitable for farming or grazing, too wet for commercially-valuable trees to grow, it was a refuge for felons, escaped slaves, and the occasional poacher. Smugglers would know of such places, and they were lucky that none had come along at an inopportune time. Since neither party would want to draw attention to itself, the results of such a meeting would be incalculable. It would mostly depend on whether the other party felt itself stronger or weaker, thought Lowren—and that had been all they had to go on. They would be thieves, pirates and smugglers after all.

The captain and crew of the good ship Cygnus hadn't seen anyone in the three days they had been there. The creek wasn't navigable, and the mouth was obscured by bulrushes and waterweeds.

Yet it was only three miles from the mouth of the Great River and barely twelve or thirteen miles from the capital city.

Lowren wondered if Eleanora had sent troops after them—if so, there hadn't been any signs of it. Leaving the castle, the party had galloped off by the northwest road, then after going through the town, they had circled through the hills and farm fields, and then headed southeast to the coast.

He would hear more about that later from certain resources in place at her court and in the town itself.

Spying on even your most friendly neighbors was nothing new, and he must assume she knew something about his kingdom as well. Any number of magicians, merchants, peddlers, musicians and dancers traveled back and forth. Ships of both nations traded far up and down the coast. Aside from their cargos and their trade, the news and talk they brought from afar was worth its weight in gold. For a few pieces, they might take extra special care in using their eyes, ears and noses—sometimes serving more than one distant master. This often worked out pretty well for all concerned, although it was a fine balancing act for the asset in question.

Typical for them, Garvin and Bibbs had dragged a spare sail and some canvas covers out onto the duckboards ahead of the mast. After their long night in the saddle, the tension of their slightly-ambiguous position in the castle, and the sheer physical exhaustion of the last few days, they had one thing on their mind and that was sleep.

"Sails on the horizon, sir."

"Yes. Thank you."

Chapter Five

It was a Council-of-War in everything but name. Some of her ministers hadn't been in the same room together for quite some time. Quiet reigned here, surrounded by heavily-framed walnut panels, and the tall windows that let in a bit of light even on the darkest winter days.

Weeks or even months had passed since the last big crisis.

What had seemed important enough at the time, had faded into insignificance. But this was different.

Nobles who had laughed and politely applauded at the presentation of Lowren, the barbarian king, were at a total loss as to how to react, and so they reacted badly.

"This is an outrage." Hermoslaus was her Attorney General.

Having been badly shamed by the Lowren incident, including the hijacking by subterfuge of his shipment of prisoners, Hermoslaus was all for declaring war—on the Lemni. While she was sure it was more for show than anything, it took some time to sooth his ruffled feathers. Taez was somewhere off in the wings awaiting his fate as well.

Let him wait, she decided. When in doubt, do nothing—let him wait for a long time.

Let him be grateful, she thought. Let him think that Lowren somehow displeased and disappointed me, and that he had escaped in the night. Let him tremble for his head, which was in no real danger, and let others seem him tremble

Her first order of business had been to state publicly that certain staff were being punished, and that others were on probation. The official statement gave no names, and no further details. Some of the troops, once they freed themselves and reported their assault and abduction, had been reassigned to training duties. Others here in the palace were expecting momentary transfer to remote frontier outposts. They could talk all they wanted, and some versions of the story would get around. They needed a certain amount of window dressing, and the punishment of long-serving and fairly senior officers was fairly convincing. The only oddity was that Nyron had been promoted and given a field command of raw troops. He had been ordered to whip them into shape. Forty miles from Windermere, Nandadere was a garrison town and about as provincial as the dark side of the moon in cultural terms. On the face of it, Nyron had been punished for something.

It sent a mixed message and that was good sometimes. Let the enemy ponder on that one.

"I commend your spirit, Lord Hermoslaus. The real threat is not from Lowren, who simply doesn't have the forces, but the Great Khan, who does. And we have too much to recommend us as targets for his aggression..." She nodded at the Minister of Commerce who winced slightly.

What were positives yesterday were liabilities today—Windermere had a thriving economy and a grain surplus ten years running. Her granaries were full, although prices were a bit low, but in the event of war the price would go up. Wheat and other grains were the kingdom's real wealth. Windermere's population had almost doubled in thirty years due to enlightened policies and special immigration incentives to skilled candidates.

"Lord Pell."

"Ah, yes. Majesty." She and Theodelinda had explained the problem and what Lowren had told them as best they could recall.

It had been a long session. As to his alleged presentation and subsequent absence, rumors were already going about that he had disappointed her in the boudoir and been put to death. Those rumors would last a few days and be replaced by other rumors. The next set of rumors would be even more outlandish...and so it would go. The important thing was that no one had seen him since, and that the Queen and her party weren't talking.

"Well. He's right on pretty much every point." The kingdom lay at the hub of a network of trade routes that radiated outwards like the spokes of a wheel. "Our own production of meat, grain and other foodstuffs is considerable. Our kingdom is relatively wealthy. And yet Lowren spoke of ships and naval stores. In addition to other things."

Many other things.

He pursed his lips.

"Well, we have all that, of course." The Minister detailed how jack pines were used for masts and linen for sails.

Flax, hemp and other fibers went into rope. He quoted a few figures.

Windermere exported quite a lot of rope, as it turned out. A goodly proportion was in fact purchased by the Horde on a yearly basis.

Windermere's forges and smithies produced all sorts of hardware, including chandler's stores. The manufactories could be quickly adapted to more warlike activities such as weapons or for equipping a fleet relatively quickly. But what seemed like a positive was again just bait for the Khan. The conclusion seemed inescapable. They were an inviting target.

The kingdom was heavily forested, with tall pines for masts, plenty of oaks for timbers and frames, and lots of smaller trees which provided staves to make barrels for shipment of wet goods. Wine and oil were a source of portable and easily-transferrable wealth, and stored well for long periods. There were a score of smaller industries, hides, beeswax and honey, dried fish, lamp oil and bitumen for the caulking of warships.

The kingdom had a surplus of certain commodities, a situation which was vital to trade. Even their armories were productive and well-stocked. They had bows and the seasoned staves to make more, more than they had the manpower to utilize. They had one-point-two million arrows and crossbow quarrels, and three thousand crossbows, their components ready for immediate assembly. All of it was properly stored and accounted-for. Normally this would equip their own militia and hastily-levied reserves. This weaponry would be a windfall to one such as the Khan. Swords, pikes and bows were the stuff land armies were made of. Like any modern army, the Khan would be equipping hordes of auxiliaries as well—as many as he possibly could.

There's nothing to stop us from doing it either, Eleanora realized. Such small flashes of inspiration were welcome indeed, in a rather barren and nonplussed atmosphere. Fine for peace, her ministers were flabbergasted, though hiding it well enough, at the thoughts of a real war—a big war, taking in all the major powers. No smaller power would be entirely safe in such an atmosphere.

Especially a war against Jumalak. His empire covered half the continent. Beyond the Hordes lay nothing but lost and unknown tribes. There lay scattered peoples who lived half underground, in a land of small, bedraggled firs that dripped constantly with moisture. A place where all the rivers ran north, to a place of ice and snow and constantly-smoking volcanoes.

Almost anyone else, they might have handled—given a torrent, a waterfall of blood and treasure.

It was interesting how fear clarified the mind. Eleanora had always thought that a cliché.

Crystallized might be a better word for it.

Theodelinda was consulting some brief notes she had made during the meeting with the King of the Lemni.

She didn't appear to have any questions, so he mused further.

"The Khan's mortal enemy lies to the south, in the Empire. The Empire has been quite protective, for their own reasons, of certain small states which the Khan is not very fond of." These included a couple of republics, an emirate and a principality, as yet independent. "Yet until the present, his power has always been in his land army, which as we know, is estimated by his closest observers at something on the order of two and a half million men."

While the Empire of the South wasn't an active threat to the Horde, they would meddle quite a bit in the affairs of small neighboring states, states which the Horde might have an interest in themselves.

Over the last two years, the Khan had been building ships in a great naval yard not far from his capital, Artesphihan. This lay at the eastern end of the Great Sea, dominating the choke-point of the narrows, and which ultimately led to the South Arm. Artesphihan's harbor had been greatly expanded, which offered many commercial advantages to the Horde. To one such as the Khan, this was secondary to military considerations. Armies always had to be paid for—and he had recently increased all the manifold and often petty excises and tolls along trading routes he controlled.

Most of the soldiers would be on garrison duty. A good proportion of the total were troops raised by his retainers. There was little doubt that the Khan would field a formidable force. With the acquisition of Sinopus, he had a strong advanced base, with good access to the northern sea and a ready-made fleet at his disposal. Sinope was another trading city, and not considered barbarians. Their seamen were as good as any. Located at the northern extremity of the Great Sea, on the landward side, there was not much between here and there. Loosely-organized barbarian states in the middle would either be swept aside, taken under the wing of the Great Khan as allies and auxiliaries, or simply flee before him. To take a solitary stand wasn't exactly in their best interest. One of the principles of statecraft was to always understand the other fellow's perspective. They would follow the path of least resistance and, in any pinch, they could be counted on to adhere to their own interests.

Lowren had been right on all counts, Eleanora wasn't particularly pleased to discover. But her most trusted ministers were all agreeing with him.

The Minister of Foreign Policy spoke next. Eleanora had always seen the sense of not having a Minister of War, but then her policy was not aggressive. It wasn't passive either, but relied on collective benefits and therefore collective security. Her policy and her alliances had always been in response to major powers such as the Horde, the Empire of the South and other powerful neighbors. The neighbors weren't necessarily unfriendly, they were merely powerful. They had their own best interests at heart and it didn't pay to be too weak amongst them. Then the Great Khan had risen above his brethren and welded together a hundred disparate and petty little kingdoms. He had an empire of his own now, and he was only thirty-four years of age. Kullin, Emperor of the South, was in his sixties. According to reports, he did not look well. He had three sons, one lame and one a cretin, only the oldest brother showing any real promise. The boy was only seventeen years old, although he'd been invested with many powers. The Emperor had seven or eight daughters, by three different wives. Most had been married off into families that for the most part had some relatively-clear claim on the throne in their own right. Politically, it was a situation rife with disaster in the event of an early demise on the part of Emperor Kullin.

Eleanora's heart was sinking faster by the minute.

The time for speculation was at an end. It wasn't too difficult to see which way that situation was headed. The Empire had aided and comforted the Great Khan's enemies. Some of the many kings, queens and princes displaced by the Khan were still finding refuge in the Emperor's own court. He had refused to give them up, with not particularly good grace, and the Khan had never dropped his petition, also not with particularly good grace.

The Emperor's policy of keeping his neighbors weak and divided would come back to haunt him when the Khan came calling. He didn't have a friend in the world. When push came to shove, his more distant neighbors would quickly ally themselves with the Khan or make their peace otherwise, in the hopes of being the last to be devoured.

Over the course of the meeting, they all had the chance to speak, although one or two did not.

After a while it devolved into minutiae, which had its place.

General Forbis suggested strengthening the south-east elevation of the outer walls. Water had been at it, and erosion was taking away the topsoil. This had always been the problem of building on a slope, he explained. The land was moving downhill, no matter how slowly, and the fortifications had been neglected to some extent, as times were peaceful and the money was being spent elsewhere.

By the time they were done talking again about the fleet, recruiting, stockpiles, weapons and foodstuffs, it was turning into a very long council session indeed.

After two and a half hours, she adjourned the meeting.

In the next session scheduled for three days hence, she would inform them of Lowren's proposed plan of attack.

In the meantime, they would have an opportunity to think about the situation.

Chapter Six

The air was heavy with incense, swirling up from thin, resinous sticks of burning gum, stinging the nostrils when a random current of air brought it to them.

The rites of purification were extensive. There was long preparation in the privacy of her bathing chamber, attended only by the purest of her maidens. The most profound of the rituals took place in the Cave of Sighs.

It was said that the cave was never silent, and yet they were over a hundred yards from the entrance. If a person sat there very quietly, they could hear the sighs, which had never been accounted for in purely naturalistic and scientific terms. There was too much noise around them at present. Their journey must take them deeper. Her heart fluttered as she contemplated the possibilities. Perhaps it was the heaving tides inside of some sea-cave, miles away, some kind of underground volcano...or maybe it really was the breath of Gaia, the Mother of the World.

She blew air out through loose lips, nodding slightly as she did so, intent on the words she had carefully memorized.

They stood on a clean rug of deep, red-dyed wool. Around that, white rose petals had been strewn everywhere, petering out into the darkness, away from the torches. They stood in the middle of five torches, planted in the soft and vile stuff that had fallen to the bottom over countless eons. There were two dozen girls in the chorus, all as nude and pale and white as she would be, long dark hair framing their faces and hanging down, offering some modesty in spite of all being revealed.

Under the rug was sand, dirt, dung, decayed cobwebs, dead animals, and above all else, dead bats and the droppings of tens of thousands of their living brethren. The bats, hanging in their clumps and rows above and all around, were the least of her problems. Broad daylight outside as it was, the bats weren't going anywhere for a while, although their noise was fairly irritating. Blinded by the torches, they were hanging on for dear life. For that Eleanora was grateful.

While any thinking person knew what an echo was and how it was propagated, this place had always been thought to be sacred. It was all she could do, to tell herself that it was all nonsense and that there was nothing to be feared. Proper forms would be observed, and if the gods were not appeased then hopefully public opinion would. Simply put, she was Queen and the moral responsibility lay with no other.

Theodelinda took her cloak and Eleanora slipped out of her thin white cotton shift, letting it fall to the ground.

Her body had been shaved, from head to toe. Her skin burned with the cleanliness of it, shining red in the glare of the flames when she looked down at herself, suddenly self-conscious. All she wore were her sandals and a garland of daisies around her head, her long, fine red hair intertwined and holding it in place. Her toes were a reminder that she was as human as anyone in the final analysis. No one was more fallible than the Queen, for all things rode on her shoulders.

When I fall, everything falls.

The perfumes she wore clogged the nose, they were so strong, and yet it gave a life to the place, dead and dark and full of dimly-perceived creeping things that squeaked and rustled and moved about in the detritus of the cave floor. Even as she looked dubiously at her sandaled feet, a large beetle, with sparkling green shimmers on his back, ducked under a dead leaf which quivered and crackled with barely perceptible sound.

Her entire body had been oiled from head to foot and most of her hair was tied in a rope that fell straight down her back. She was white, white from chalk and gypsum powder. She was chill, and yet thankful that as yet no sweat had run down and spoiled her perfection.

There was the High Priestess, eyes as black as coals, looking solemn as she poured out a cup of blood and wine. She set that aside on a small, one-legged stick-in table. Taking a vial slung on a string around her neck, she opened it and took a pinch of fine, charcoal-grey powder and put it into the chalice. She then sprinkled the same incense into each flaming sconce. She took one smaller torch, which had been sticking in the ground at her feet, and lit it from a wall torch. She brought the cup to Theodelinda, similarly prepared all in white body chalk, and the obvious choice to accompany her Queen.

"Are you pure of heart?" Those dark eyes studied first Theodelinda, and then Eleanora. "Speak now."

The woman stepped back, for it was out of her hands now.

"Yes, Priestess."

Those eyes took in Theo.

"Yes, Mother. Our hearts are pure."

"Very well. Listen closely, for the voices say many things, and not all of them are meant for you."

She eyed Theo strangely for a moment.

Eleanora nodded. Theo nodded. All she had to do was hold the torch, and presumably, listen to the echoes, which were thought to be dead people speaking from the other side of the wall of death. Why they would ever want to come here, to such a dismal place was a good question, but of course it was supposedly the door to the underworld. It was a bad idea to laugh hysterically, thought Theo, but what if I can't help it? She couldn't help but note the thin edge of fear tickling the insides of her belly. Ellie looked a million times worse, like a rabbit confronted by the coyote.

Eleanora was as ready as she was ever going to get.

She'd been through this once before, as a little girl when all females of noble birth were initiated.

There were other initiates as well, but their path was longer and based solely on merit. The woman before her now was just such a one, purely a commoner and yet with the most comprehensive mind—and few had ever doubted or questioned her right to a position that most did not envy and few had ever aspired to. Eleanora certainly hadn't.

"Drink, my child."

Theo's eyes were big and round and with a bit of white showing where it normally shouldn't.

Eleanora took the cup from her cousin.

Eleanora lifted the stained wooden chalice, the smell stinging her nose like pure vinegar. The stuff wasn't quite as bad as might have been expected, although there was quite a kick to it. There was even a vaguely dry, burgundy grape taste somewhere in there. She handed it off to Theo, not even looking at her. She was looking forward, into the red and black tunnel before her, ridges of seamed and eroded rock looking putrid and organic in the flickering and guttering torches.

No, this dark underworld of secrets and incantations was quite outside of her interest. Let them have it, she thought, as the woman nodded in approval, taking the cup from Theodelinda and looking at Eleanora in assessment.

This was in stark contrast to other kings and queens, who were seemingly intent on engrossing every kind of power. For Eleanora to conduct the chorus in song, make the sacrifice or lead the people in prayer was almost unthinkable. At least in her own mind. Hades, it was almost laughable. And yet she had told Lowren that she needed to do this—and for some reason it was more than just a delaying tactic.

Maybe there was something to be learned here after all. At one time, when she was a child, all of this had meant something to her unformed self. It still meant something to a lot of people. Had it really been so long then?

The Priestess took a massive breath, threw her head back, and bellowed out into the darkness.

"So long as your intentions are good, as long as your spirit is pure, as long as your thoughts are clean and your motives are inspired by love, then you may enter. Beware, all of those who are unworthy."

The effect was astonishing, as a thousand voices, in different tones and even languages it seemed, repeated back and forth and all around and swam all the wrong way inside of her head. The babble of voices and people and animal sounds and waves crashing and thunder and lightning and trees splitting asunder swelled, fell away and swelled again. It became more and more incoherent with each crest.

The echoes in the Cave of Sighs fell to a dull roar, and Eleanora found the courage to speak.

"Thank you, Mother."

The Priestess' eyes were black pools in the torchlight as she opened the wicker basket and pulled out the first of their special breed of snakes, all-white and with darting red tongues and black eyes.

While everyone assured her they were completely harmless, there was that sickening lurch in the guts, and it wasn't just the snake—it was the sudden realization that you were completely naked.

There was something primeval and atavistic in that fear. It was the fear of violation.

Eleanora took one, holding it up and away from her, trying not to squeeze it to death with her tight grip around the neck. It was horrid when the creature curled around her forearm. It wasn't the snake's fault she was afraid of it. It was her problem. A helper gave her the other one as the Priestess and her acolytes nodded in approval. They went silent and then began a dull, throbbing chant that belied its coming forth from the throats of women. Their helper quickly rejoined on the end of the line, picking up on the beat and now apparently ignoring the royal ladies if that was possible.

The echoes swelled and strengthened, becoming a roar again.

It was like drums beating in her head, and her body tingled all over as a sudden wave of fear swept over her.

She took a deep breath, as there was no backing out now. She was just being silly. It was just a dirty old cave full of bat droppings and in a half-hour or so they would be able to come out. With a little luck, they would never have to do it again.

The Priestess raised her hands and the chorus fell silent.

"Begin."

Eleanora began speaking the ancient words in the ancient tongue, as it was used all those eons ago, and with Theodelinda and her torch throwing her crazy black shadows every which way, she slowly led off with measured steps, following the rose petals into the darkest recesses of the unknown.

O Gaia Matrem totius mundi  
Neptunus et Pater omnium fugasset  
Nudus sumus coram te,  
Nos filii Dei verbum  
Sequimur per semitas iustitiae  
Inquisitores in via sumus,  
Iuppiter Pater, de sapientia,  
Et petimus, et inveniamus  
Rogamus et nos accipere  
Gratias Deo pro munere tuo,  
Et amor qui cadit, et stellas.

Oh, Gaia, Mother of all the World

And Neptune, Father of all the Seas

Naked we stand before thee

We are the children of the word

We follow the paths of righteousness

We are seekers of the path

Jupiter, Father of Wisdom

We seek and we shall find

We ask and we receive

We are grateful for thy bounty

And the love that falls from the stars.

This part was different. As little children, the Priestess and a party of initiates had held their hands and been with them in the forbidding darkness. She couldn't quite locate the place where they had actually stopped, although the memory seemed quite firm and detailed.

This time, they were entirely on their own, and perhaps that was fitting enough considering their rank and position.

If you couldn't get through a silly little ceremony like this, then you were obviously not very suited to the work.

At least that's what Eleanora told herself as the chant started anew, and the ceiling lowered, the sides narrowed, and then they were at the first corner.

With a quick pause for breath, she kept speaking. To the eyes of those watching from behind, they quickly went out of sight.

***

They were following a single passage, thankfully one with no openings to left or right. The way was marked by more white rose petals underfoot and Theo thought she could even catch the odd whiff of them.

In front, Eleanora had to contend with her own shadow throwing everything into the harshest possible relief and the evil sublimity of the two wriggling serpents, outlined and highlighted by the dancing glare of the torch.

Her breathing was labored and she was fighting to control it. Her nipples were fully erect and hard as a rock.

Her skin tingled. The temperature had dropped as quickly as her fears had mounted. Cold grit from underfoot had gotten between her toes and she was all too aware of her nakedness.

"Oh, my."

The walls opened out and the top of the passage lifted and then the light was swallowed up by blackness.

Theo's voice startled her.

"There are people who would pay good money to see this."

Eleanora laughed out loud, turning to give Theo an appraising look.

"I mean the cave."

The queen laughed again, thankful that they had always had each other.

The rose petals ended abruptly. Their instructions were clear. There appeared to be steam hanging in the air about them.

Theodelinda looked to her left. There was a rock, rising up from a bed of gravel and stones, oddly clean for something this deep in bat heaven. It had been recently swept and washed, she thought. As per instruction, she mounted the rock and held the torch aloft.

Eleanora took one last look and nodded firmly. She had a sneaking suspicion, going by sound and some odd reflections, that there was water up ahead, or maybe just some kind of shiny bits in the local stone. There must be walls out there somewhere. Her heart pounded in her chest, making itself known in an urgent manner.

She had to slide a foot forward, and then the other. The eyes took a while to adjust to the dimness.

Something glittered, and as she advanced, the guttering flame of the torch, and Theo's loud breathing fell away. Her hands were sweaty where the snakes hung, still wriggling enthusiastically if ineffectually.

There were sparkles in the cave walls, quartz or something and yet there was an odd rise and fall ahead of her.

The shock of water on her toes stopped her dead in her tracks.

She was afraid to call out for the noise it would make.

She stood there for a moment, staring downwards into water that was probably crystal clear and yet invisible in the darkness.

Her shadow fell in front of her, elongated and distorted, rising and falling with the level as the cave breathed all around her.

Her mouth opened and she bit back a scream.

She slid one foot forwards. Then the other. She went in ankle deep. The water was warm, and that could mean only one thing: the sea.

"...huh......huh. Ah................ahhhhhhh. Siss. (boom) huh."

The cave was talking to her.

"...ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

She was knee deep. She leaned forwards, not wanting to lose her balance, and released the snakes. She had a quick glimpse of the one on the left darting off in a series of S-shaped wriggles, but where the other one got off to she had no idea. They were headed away from her and that was all that she cared. She heaved a quick breath of relief.

"Ye, Gods. I thank you for that." It was a whisper, albeit a sincere one...

She walked forwards a little more boldly, now that she knew what it was. There was sand crunching beneath her rapidly loosening, soaking wet leather sandals. She went waist deep, into the surprisingly warm water, feeling it wash off the tacky white goop covering her body and leaving her whole, complete, and very clear on what she was doing.

"...sigh...ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

No wonder people were spooked the first time they came in here, she thought. The hard-packed sand beneath sloped gently downwards and she took a few more cautious steps.

The water rose around her.

She turned, neck deep, enjoying the sting of hot water and suddenly realizing what the place actually looked like from the other side, properly lit and with the flat plane of the water rising and falling before her. It reflected the blood-red torch and Theo, all white and nude, almost posed there up on her rock. Shrouds of mist hung and swirled back into position after Eleanora's passage. Ducking her face, she gave it a quick wash, feeling slightly foolish for a moment.

But this was sublime.

"Theo!"

The figure of her cousin, thirty yards away, flinched at the sudden shock of noise in this most intimate of places.

"Oh, my, gods, Eleanora. You scared the shit out of me!"

"Theo." She spoke more carefully now. "Stand up straight. And do you hear it?"

Theo lifted the torch, suddenly becoming a vision of something very goddess-like, nodding in a kind of elation. Eleanora wished she could see her cousin's face a little more clearly.

Lifting her feet, she treaded water, gently bobbing for a moment.

She would remember this for a long time.

There were voices muttering in the background. They never seemed to let up in this chamber, and from the sounds of little waves hitting flat stone walls, and some very black shadows, Eleanora concluded that there was more than one passage leading off somewhere behind her. The waves she was making tinkled and gurgled, coming up against hard surfaces.

"Yes—yes, I hear it."

Eleanora stood there in the water for a good long while, thinking and seeing and listening to the cave breathe all around them as the water rose and fell about every half minute, going up and down her neck like the stroking hands of a lover.

Words came to her unbidden, perhaps the first real inspiration she'd had in this affair, and so she spoke them aloud.

"Oh, Gaia, Mother of all of the world, and Neptune, Father of all the seas, guide me in my thoughts, and in my heart, and in my actions. Guide my words and deeds just as surely as you guide the arrow of Lowren, when it flies from the bow and strikes down the common foe."

"Who said that?" Theodelinida wracked her brains, but the quote was an unfamiliar one.

"I did." Eleanora waded firmly up out the water and took the torch from Theo's unresisting hand as the echoes slowly subsided and the pair turned to go.

Chapter Seven

Lowren strode into the great hall with a few of the boys clumping along behind, still laden with personal weapons and assorted baggage.

"Mother." The place appeared empty at first glance. "Mother?"

A man looked up and shrugged.

There were one or two loungers, local men, sitting at a table in the furthest corner. They were probably wondering when lunch was served. He nodded pleasantly in their direction. Their business couldn't be too pressing, and perhaps they were content enough with an ale or two.

Otherwise they would have been right on him.

He looked around. There was a lass right there.

"Ah."

"Sire."

He smiled, and the young serving girl, busy sweeping up the old rushes from the hard-beaten dirt floor, blushed and curtsied, eyes averted and head held low.

"Would you please bring the gentlemen some ale, and perhaps some cold meat, young lady?"

"Bread, and cheese, and bacon and whatevers." Bibbs was being his usual irrepressible self. "Potatoes, and gravy, and cakes and pies and tarts would be well, my dear girl."

Her eyes darted back and forth, and nodding profusely, the unfamiliar servant turned and bolted for the kitchen, taking the rake with her. Lowren looked down dubiously at the pile of soiled rushes, but no doubt someone would get back to it soon enough.

"You've frightened her off, you good-for-nothing individual."

Bibbs stood right there, eyebrows climbing in speculative manner.

"Wot damme. Forgive me sire, but that was one sweet young thing."

"Well, don't get your hopes up too high, Bibbs" Lowren's tone was pleasant, even humorous.

People brought into the household very often married out of it—when they were of age, and if they were of a mind to, and if there was no moral, social or legal encumbrance to say otherwise.

"She seems a bit young yet, my fine fellow." Garvin slapped Bibbs hard on the back in sympathy.

Kann, Thoma and Garvin had headed straight for the rear wall and their habitual long table where they were close to the fire and could see everything coming and going. It was a good habit for desperate men, as one might say.

"Ale, the man said. What about wine? Or even strong liquor." Thoma shook his head in disgust.

Bibbs followed along at a relaxed pace.

"Ye shall have all you can hold, trooper, or I perhaps have failed to understand our master's temperament after all." Garvin was looking around, and his eye fell on a pale oblong box made of some soft, light wood, perhaps poplar.

It was always there, on the shelf over the hearth.

There was a catch on the side and it opened up to the game with its dark and light triangles, a word he would have cheerfully acknowledged that he couldn't even spell. He got up and ambled lazily over.

"'Gammon, anyone?"

Kann pulled an adjacent bench closer, on the opposite side, and having put his back to the table, lifted his aching feet to the seat.

"Oh, damn." He sighed, putting his elbows up and crossing his hands across his stomach. "Home at last."

It was the morning of the third day, just as the skipper had foretold, and none too soon for one such as Kann. Holy, Mother of Aphrodite—he hadn't been seasick or anything, but three days and three nights on a ship were almost worse than three days and three nights on horseback. As for three days and three nights on foot, that was another thing entirely.

Which, to be fair, he had never actually done. It wasn't a fair comparison, but you had to have something.

There was always something, wasn't there?

"Mother must be about here somewhere. It's awful early in the day for her to retire." Lowren turned his back and strode off.

Just outside the main arch lay the stairs to the upper chambers.

The wooden keep was typical, a stout outer wall, and a tower with a small footprint but built to a commanding height for strength and security. One or two more men wandered in, with the party's horses all cleaned and combed and pastured. One would think they had the tack sorted out and hung up.

Kann pursed his lips and grimaced. Some of the younger ones were so eager to avoid him, they'd be going around to the back door of the kitchen. But he'd been away for a few days and they tended to slack off when the Serjeant at Arms wasn't around. He'd been a bit shocked, upon arrival, by the state of one or two things. His mind reeled with exhaustion sometimes.

Not for the first time, he wondered aloud if he was getting older.

There were grins and nods as the other men sagged at their seats.

They listened to Lowren's footsteps going up the old oaken treads and then it went quiet again when he came to the first upper floor level.

"Mother? Mother?"

They heard him moving around up above.

"You have to admire that, eh, gentlemen. Lowren's never been afraid to be seen hugging his mother." Garvin bit his lip. "I suppose we could have found worse."

Thoma's eyes were drooping. He'd had the night shift as watchman on the forepeak of the ship. With land looming off somewhere in the darkness ahead, he'd been tense with the expectation of running aground. There was no way in Hades that he could have ever fallen asleep. Far better to stay awake and suffer, knowing there was a reward ultimately in sight. As it happened, he'd spotted land in plenty of time and the helm had steered for port with little or no fanfare. They'd only been a few degrees off.

His lean and lugubrious face broke into an uncontrollable yawn just as the pair of swinging doors from the kitchen to the great room opened and a small procession emerged. It was strange to have to fight your own face like that, or so thought Thoma.

He'd fought everything else over the years.

"Ah."

There were two young girls in the lead, bearing flat trays with mugs and larger steins for those that would use them. The next girl carried two carafes, presumably with ale aplenty inside of them. Behind that came the cook, rather unusually for her. Perhaps she was bored and wanted the news, thought Thoma.

He grinned as the first girl, Senia or whatever, (he thought that was right) made a beeline right for him.

"You know me too well, my dear." She shyly plonked a stein down in front of him, and handed over a small piece of linen from a stack held under her left arm, hand-embroidered in the arms of Lowren and all of those Lemnian kings before him.

"Enjoy, sir." She curtsied and side-stepped, seeking out Garvin, who sure looked like he could use a drink about now.

Kannn had somehow contrived to be served first and he sipped appreciatively.

"Well. That helps."

The next maiden was a bit more buxom. Thoma had always appreciated the view of a nice cleavage. This one was worth keeping an eye on. She leaned over, pouring out the cool, foamy amber fluid. She may have been aware of his scrutiny, and he studied the reaction closely. While it was her everyday costume, she seemed to present with a certain flair when he was around.

A man could always dream, after all.

"Enjoy, Thoma." Her eyes were downcast, demure, and yet there was something in her voice.

He raised the cool mug.

Not a superstitious man, still, there were times.

"To Neptune, and thanks for the fair weather."

Her eyes came up and she smiled.

The head of foam rolled down the sides. In a moment, his beard and mustache would smell like that. It was the sort of smell you could go to bed with, as he had always said.

"Thank you, thank you kindly."

The other girls and boys put the platters down along with some knives, some salt. There was a loaf of the sweet, dark Lemnian bread, some butter and some cheese, and this and that and the other thing.

***

"Hello, Mother."

"Lowren." She had been standing in front of the hall mirror, just at the top of the stairs and a prized household possession.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all." He stood there grinning.

Her eyes lit up and she turned her face. Lowren bent in close and gave her a kiss on each cheek. She pushed him back and took a long look. He could call upon ten thousand warriors and yet he would always be her little boy. There was just no shaking her.

He was surprised by how thin she was becoming. They'd been gone a little over two weeks and perhaps that was the difference. She was all new to him, after the jumbled impressions of the sea, and lands far and wide. He hadn't seen her this clearly in a while.

"So. Is it true that Vaeomon will come in with us?" Vaeomon was King of the Sicurri, who roamed the far distant steppes to the north and the east of the great sea.

The Sicurri consisted of fifty thousand households, according to their King.

"Yes, that's what he said, Mother." Lowren had conducted several secret embassies, leading them in person in order to demonstrate the seriousness of his intentions.

It would also speed up negotiations, which were always necessarily slow, with important documents going back and forth by dispatch for scrutiny and counter-suggestions.

With his fellow barbarians becoming rather wary of written treaties signed by people who seemed to be remarkably well-equipped with the forked tongues of serpents, a face-to-face meeting was always better. They had cut their thumbs and mingled their blood, and performed other ceremonies of a rather unsettling nature.

"Speaking of which, where's the mail?"

"I put it in your chamber, on the desk." Sylphie looked at her very tall son, the eldest.

Her second-born had died courageously, as she had always expected he would, at the battle of Salamandria. In order to win his spurs and to set himself off from his older and more illustrious brother, Normanric had taken a band of men at arms, The Company as he called it, and gone off to serve the King of the Jungthurgi, a kin-tribe related to their own. Normanric was swept away by plague on distant campaign against one of the Great Khan's possessions to the distant east. It was the beginning of the end, and after Salamandria, the Jungthurgi had ceased to exist as an independent nation. Her second son had died trying to prevent that. It was something she told herself often, and now the future looked grim indeed. And yet Lowren—Lowren was different.

Lowren was special, in that men loved him and looked up to him, and yet he seemed so unaware of his great gift.

A mother couldn't say such things to her children. They might learn it on their own, or perhaps never. But you could never really tell them.

Grief always came with such thoughts. For the sake of others she always hid it as best she could.

"Thank you. Was there anything that looked particularly important?"

"Just the usual posts, dear."

He grinned on hearing it. She was the only one in the kingdom who could get away with calling him that. He had never thought to try to get her to call him anything else, although sire or King would be nice once in a while. The truth was that he always called her Mother and wouldn't think of calling her Sylphie in that informal and very sophisticated way that he had heard some people's children had.

Lowren, his own belly rumbling somewhat, as thirsty as any other man, went off to grab the letters and see if there was anything particularly urgent.

A day or two of rest, and then they must be off again.

Time was short and there was much to do.

Chapter Eight

The safest place for the more confidential dispatches was right at his side. Lowren had a man detailed to carry his official pouch, which he took pretty much everywhere on business. The hunt, taking place on a weekend, was state business of a kind, mostly because he was a king.

This was a slightly-rueful, slightly humorous thought.

Otherwise, they were just a bunch of people on the move.

Any other important landowner or merchant probably had similar arrangements. Gem merchants, as he well knew, kept their stock chained to their wrists much of the time, certainly when away from home. Lowren had taken a small party of a dozen men, mostly green troops and one or two more seasoned junior men, and ridden north. For one thing, nothing was likely to happen quickly. The Khan would almost certainly have a major campaign planned for the spring. Eleanora would need time to think about it. She had allies of her own. According to her, and according to his own sources as well, Windermere had relatively friendly trading relations with the Empire of the South, its capital Nephrosis asleep on the baking shores of the Great Sea. His Imperial Majesty, Kullin, could probably see which way the wind was blowing as well as anyone. In the past, his policy had been to divide and conquer. In some cases, it had been sufficient simply to divide. In the face of the Khan's potential threat he was now preaching the benefits of peace and security. His ambassadors were actively seeking allies on all flanks, and in some instances, finding it a bit of a hard sell.

There was always haggling, and the Emperor would pay dearly for whatever alliances he could scrape up.

So it seemed that it was coming. Lowren had been seeking out the rulers of neighboring kingdoms, trying to get a feel for what they might do in any conflict involving the Great Khan.

While most vowed they would fight any incursion, none of them were strong enough to repel even a fraction of the Khan's forces if he should come against them. Some of the more mobile—often the most recent arrivals, or the newest kingdoms, having arisen by the sword and arm of an ambitious leader, would simply depart. The consensus so far was that the more sedentary farming tribes would probably stand and fall beside their neighbors in spite of some long-standing disputes. It didn't always pay to admit to your true intentions, either—alliances, bought and paid-for, had been betrayed before, often on the morning of battle.

The Khan had gold in abundance. This was always a factor when money was tight and the people were hungry. On the west side of the Great Sea, times had been relatively good. On the eastern steppes, they had an ongoing drought, going back three or four years now. Those peoples were a lot closer to the threat.

The Khan would have two major options—assuming he couldn't buy off enough neighbors. The first option was the two-pronged method. He could attack his neighbors to the northwest and eventually, once success had been achieved, those further west of the Great Sea; while the bulk of his forces followed a more logical route to the south. There was something to be said for a campaign of encirclement, using the Khan's far superior forces. Or, he could concentrate all efforts and strike due south from the western provinces of his Empire, along the eastern shores and promontories of the Great Sea. There were a couple of small buffer states along the route. These small nations had been tolerated by both empires for any number of sound political, economic and defensive reasons. Supported by a massive fleet, the Khan would march through the bulk of them in about a week. Whoever didn't grab them first would have a strategic disadvantage. For one thing, it brought the attacker a few hundred miles closer to the frontier. The Emperor was most likely itching to grab them first, but as yet restrained by public opinion. This was surprisingly important when one went coalition-building. The small, commercial city-states, scattered up and down the coast of the Great Sea, and their hinterlands, were rich in ships, wine, wool and other manufactures. They had everything that an army on the march could use. They were also populous, which offered more manpower for the Khan's galleys. This looked like the most attractive prospect to Lowren's mind, but then the Great Khan knew things he obviously did not—one also couldn't rule out a dual campaign, once the lightness of the opposition of the more nomadic northern tribes was taken into account.

The Khan had lavished much time, gold and attention on those galleys.

After being at sea for three days, and a couple of days of rest, one would have thought the saddle more comfortable, but it wasn't necessarily so. For the younger ones, of course it was a pleasing adventure, taken in the company of men they admired.

The foothills were to their left, off in the west, and they rode across a savannah-like grassland, interspersed with oaks, sumac, and meandering lines of brush that followed watercourses or sloughs. The plains wouldn't be much of a barrier to an army as well-prepared and well equipped as the Great Khan's. There were two or three big rivers along the northern coast, and hundreds, perhaps thousands of smaller ones. Even these could be crossed given time and a little military engineering. This was especially true in the case of light or non-existent opposition. Lowren's lands were extensive, with some lands, the northern marches, held by others in fief to him. In a sense, he was making a reconnaissance of his own territory. He might like to get to know it a little better. He was wondering just how accurate some of his official maps might actually be. The farther from home one got, the worse the maps seemed to get. They were mostly compiled from travelers, merchants and the local authorities' research.

An official survey had never been made. He'd only recently attempted a census, the results which seemed to bring more questions than answers. Ten thousand families, with an average of one warrior per household, bearing in mind men of non-military age and households headed by women.

A small stream of wagons followed behind, bringing provisions and servants, even a few of the household dogs, who couldn't be expected to walk the entire distance. The riders had quickly pulled ahead once they got out of the forest and onto the hard, dry turf of the prairie. The occasional faint bark from behind indicated they couldn't be all that far behind.

"Sire."

"Hmn."

"Sire."

"Ah, yes, Bibbs?"

Riding along at his side, Bibbs lowered his brow and made significant facial gestures, and Lowren pulled his bemused gaze away and looked properly out in front for the first time in what seemed like ages.

"Ahem." Bibbs cleared his throat softly, making a cautious hand gesture with the right hand, and holding the rest of the party up.

A herd of the small, red-bristled wild pigs was just on a small rise ahead of them. They were perhaps three or four hundred yards away. Bibbs had thought he heard something up there. It was only when he caught distant sight of two or three of the distinctive hump backs moving through the tops of the long grass that he knew they were onto something. There was a light breeze and that was probably helping to mask the riders' approach as the ripe stalks swayed in the wind.

With a glance and a quick nod, Lowren had the bow off of his shoulder and an arrow notched to the string.

He looked around at Trooper Noam, who was waiting for a signal. Lowren nodded and pointed at a hummock a hundred yards to the right of were the animals had last been seen. Noam hastily unlimbered the bow. Normally the King had first right, but this was no time to contradict. Lowren was probably hoping to bag a few of them. Another straight look into a man's eyes, a simple hand signal, and Garvin was walking his horse quietly off to the left, taking Bibbs with him. Lowren had brought a few of the younger men along to get some experience. It gave him a chance to get to know them and see how they were shaping up, at least in terms of what were some pretty raw recruits.

As a general, you generally had to know everything insofar as that was possible. They were sitting very quietly, horses alert but under proper control. That part of their training seemed to be coming along well, although they weren't quite ready for field maneuvers. He'd always thought hunting excellent training for light mounted troops. It taught a kind of natural measurement, including the coordination of several parties, and involved the judgment of time, speed and distance over different types of ground.

"Spread out and walk your horses." The troopers had their bows at the ready. "Slowly. You will stay line abreast, about fifty yards apart. They're probably grubbing up roots, or they may have a berry patch up there."

There were maybe more than just two or three.

Lowren signaled that they were to draw to almost full extent, right up to the cheekbone. This necessarily involved dropping the reins, something the mounts were at least trained for. The horses would be guided by knee pressure only. Hopefully the men could handle it, but they should now be able to shoot powerfully, well-aimed, and on the instant.

He waved them in closer, keeping his voice low.

"Okay, lads, I'm staying right here. Off you go. Just ride up real slow and try not to hit any of us, right?"

There were excited nods and eager expressions as the men tapped their heels against their mounts. The animals picked up a gentle walk. They fanned out and moved upslope.

The animals' ears pricked up. Most of the men had some hunting experience—not always on a horse. Some of them came from very poor households where only a father and possibly one or two older brothers might ride once in a while. A military career was sometimes the only career available. It was better than being a field hand on an older brother's manor, and living in a ramshackle cruck house for what would a life that was nasty, brutish, poor and oftentimes rather short as well.

The animals had varying degrees of learning and tractability. The serjeants did the best they could to match man and mount in some credible manner. After that, it was up to the troopers themselves. Man and horse trained together, to the extent that lending or exchanging horses was frowned upon. It could be done, as long as the serjeant approved of it in writing.

Having a horse of their own was one of the attractions of service. That's what Lowren had always thought. They were allowed to use their personal mounts when they visited home, and on private business on their days off-duty. The policy had paid off, that and having some good, attractive mounts when the teams toured the villages on recruiting drives. After seeing the troops of Windermere up close, he was wondering what he could do in terms of proper uniforms for his own men. If nothing else, a short cloak of a distinctive color and some sort of crest for the helmets would give them a sense of comradeship, and help in identification in the heat of battle.

Whatever it was, it had better be quick, slick and simple.

It was a question of not enough time, not enough resources.

***

On the way there, and especially in the immediate vicinity of the country house, as his mother called it without ever having been there, they kept a sharp eye on the trails. A careful examination of the ground revealed no recent prints from hooves, men's feet or even any really big canids. The native snow-dogs were more prevalent here out on the plains. They found the gate still tied shut. The knot was special and distinctive. The majority of the party waited fifty yards back. Lowren had ordered a couple of the greenest men to ride up, open the gate and go in.

Three minutes later, one came back to the gate, all flushed with the success of his mission.

"It's all clear."

On a nod, they spurred up and went on in. His compound was surrounded by oak palisades, not meant to withstand serious siege but the walls sent a certain message to travelers and the odd party of roving bandits.

It wasn't exactly unheard-of for a certain sort of person to use a remote summer place and then somehow burn it down. That sort rarely left a note or made apology.

With their small train of pack animals and the three dead swine for their dinner, they had arrived at the camp a couple of hours before sundown. Lowren kept the place as a hunting lodge, which was fairly substantial compared to the tents and even small cabins mounted on wagons favored by some other nations. A fairly humble dwelling, it was a hundred feet long and two and a half stories, all wooden walls, heavy oak timbers for the frame and maple planks prevailing on the exterior. Oaks, maples, beeches, hardwoods were common enough. Some of the wood for the house had been taken from the clearing it stood in. There was nothing decorative about it and the overhanging upper story, tall, narrow windows and thick, iron-strapped doors all conveyed messages of their own. And yet when whoever was occupying it went away, there really wasn't much point in locking it, and so they never did. They just tied the doors shut and rode away. Lowren had loaned it to any number of folks, nobles, a foreign diplomat or two, over the years. Lowren's lands were located on the northern fringes of the Juniper Mountains, rolling down into the steppes. His north-eastern boundary was the Juniper River, which was not a particularly large river. It rose in the mountains far to the west and drained a quite a hinterland. The crest of the ridge-line to the south was the agreed-upon boundary with Windermere. With them being stable and peaceful, he'd always thought it a lucky thing to have that mountain barrier, just in case as it were. There was a point where the boundary with Windermere ended and then there was nobody there, just mountains. He had no great ambitions in that direction. Let the small bands of skin-clad native hunters have it, he had concluded after no great thought.

His people, mostly farmers and hunters, preferred to clear lots lower down in the valleys, in forested bottomlands where the soil was deep and black. The land, when his grandfather came, had been an enclave of unspoiled wildness.

In winter, he hunted elk and bear from another lodge, one up in the hills fifteen miles to the northeast of this location. It was his only royal reserve, all other lands being open to the common weal. Whenever a group of venturesome souls went off five or ten miles, started clearing the forest and a new hamlet sprung up, he would make them as many gifts as he could—more policy. It was not exactly cheap either. It had to be done, and ultimately, it would pay off for sovereign and people together.

Lowren sometimes thought he might be kidding himself, but he might one day find a more equitable method of governing his people. It was an inherited system and he wasn't responsible for all of its faults—or was he?

Again, his attention had been brought to the present by the others.

"Whoa." The party dismounted, stretching their legs and muttering quietly amongst themselves.

The younger ones had never been there before. While his discipline was relaxed, they knew enough not to go running around like little boys.

Bibbs, familiar with the place from previous visits, opened up the doors to the stables and then went with Lowren to the door of the main house. The pair went in for a quick inspection and found the place livable if a bit dank and musty-smelling inside. There was kindling and a bundle of birch-bark beside the hearth, and water in the bucket. Bibb made a mental note to have that properly rinsed out before anyone took a drink.

They came back out quickly enough. Lowren stood in the shade, on the low, wide veranda, waiting for someone to unload a cask, and Garvin went among the men giving good-natured orders to the newest ones and suggestions to those more capable of listening properly. He soon had them disposed. One or two others looked on in amusement.

Garvin took the hunters under his wing.

"All right, lads." The lucky troopers were responsible for untying their dead animals, getting them down off the backs of the horses, and then putting them up on the big outdoor table.

Not far from this was a horizontal pole, one supported about eight feet up by trestles, with a pair of benches on each side.

There were chains and hooks and bits of soft iron wire hanging along its length.

"All righty, then. You three. Here's what we're going to do."

He was gratified to see that none of them turned too green at the thought of draining, cleaning up and skinning out their own meat.

"Here boy, I'll show you step by step, and each of you will get some help. It pays to listen when I speak, incidentally."

Garvin got up on one of the benches and took down some of the wire.

"Okay, this goes around the hind legs, tied together as tightly as you can. See?" He looked around the area of the pole and found a short piece of iron rod, a half inch in diameter. "We keep this, one or two of 'em, around for the tightening of aforesaid wire."

He had picked one of the smaller animals to work on.

He showed them how to stick it into the braids of wire he had made. He twisted it and twisted it until the wire bit through the flesh and the blood flowed fresh and hot.

"You don't want to break the wire."

It was biting into the bone now and it looked safe enough to support the weight.

He had five or six feet of wire, several strands of it, now tied to the young hog's hind legs.

He stood back and took a deep breath.

"What we do here, lads. I lift the thing up as high as I can get it—"

"And one of us ties it up."

"That's right. Here we go then."

One of them had a question.

"What about my arrow, sir?"

"Aw, don't you worry about that. They come right out when they're properly cooked."

The others laughed although the one that asked the question looked as if he didn't quite believe it.

"We'll get to that later, boy."

The dummy probably wanted it for a souvenir, which said much about their thinking at that age.

Garvin grabbed the hog by the head, leaning forwards as he did so, and then turned away from it. He straightened up, spun around and gave a good heave, finally leaning forwards under the weight.

"Not too bad." He grunted and staggered over on bent knees and with short, careful steps.

It wasn't much over his own weight, he reckoned.

A couple of the boys were right with him, trying to help support the weight but not helping much.

He went in between the benches and under the long pole. The boys hopped up onto the benches.

They were on both sides of him. They each grabbed a leg and took some of the weight. He stopped and took a breath. Now he gave a good shove and the thing went up a few inches under their combined impetus.

"Tie her off, boy."

"Yes, sir." The last kid's sticky red hands flew, and then Garvin gratefully let go, albeit cautiously.

The wire took the weight with no discernable problems. The hog hung upside down, swaying slightly.

He grabbed the nearest trooper.

"There you go. Now slice its throat and then you men can do the other ones." They all stood there looking sheepish. "I want you to wait about a half an hour, right? Basically, after that you make a big long slit. Starting at the breast, you go from the breastbone right down to the pecker, the cunt or the asshole. Do not cut through the genitals or the asshole. Use a real sharp blade. Do not cut too deeply. A half an inch, maybe even less, that should be plenty, and then you carefully go through the second layer, without cutting into the intestines and all the shit, get it? We don't want to spoil our King's dinner, or our own for that matter. Then you pull all the guts out. Save all that because some of it's good eating. After that, come and get me and I'll show you what comes next."

They were only going to be given so many options. He turned away decisively.

So.

That is the way it is done, boys.

His hands were pretty bloody, and he hadn't done his tunic much good either.

He strolled away to let them figure it out and have a few minutes away from the boss.

They would have much to talk about.

Chapter Nine

Vall, Ambassador of the Great Khan, had arrived in Windermere with barely enough warning to have proper quarters prepared. The Khan's official couriers had only arrived four days previously to announce Vall's imminent arrival. Members of the party were to be installed in the largest apartments in the castle excepting her own and Theo's. The higher-ranking were located in the southeast tower and up several flights of stairs. The foreign servants had been scattered where they could be fit in.

It was the best they could do for an honored guest. Vall was a scion of a very old family. Vall held a province or two in his own right as one of the highest-ranking vassals of the Khan. He was the most important guest they had ever had, in that sense, in a world where virtually all ambassadors and prelates were of lesser or greater noble rank.

His arrival had been a diplomatic success, and more privately, a kind of confirmation.

Maidens, as many of the prettiest girls as they could scrape up on short notice, lined both sides of the steps to the keep. The tallest ones were at the bottom of the steps, the smallest at the top. Fitted with long, diaphanous white gowns, they had garlands of red roses in their hair and held bouquets of wildflowers, running riot now that the season had climaxed on the brink of autumn. Her maidens and common seamstresses had worked overtime to produce the gowns in the short time allotted. The children's heads were all turned to face the Ambassador and his party as they dismounted from the enclosed carriages that Eleanora affected for all important state occasions. Their high, sweet voices chanted a traditional song of welcome. Drawn by matched teams of four dappled grey stallions, the road between the docks and the castle had been patched. Holes and ruts were filled in, in order to impress the dignitary and perhaps even make his ride a little smoother.

The fact that it was also a military road would not be overlooked by Vall, whom she was certain was a perceptive and capable fellow, no matter what he looked like.

Everything had been perfectly choreographed so far. Her own ministers, accompanied by Theo, had met Vall and his party dockside. The ambassador disembarked from the stately galley with his impressively-attired attendants. There were four ships in all, his and three more overtly military vessels. The message was not lost on her, for the word was that they towered above most of her own vessels. The procession proceeded through a couple of smaller riverside towns and then came the stunning first view of Windermere Castle. With something like a hundred and forty hair-dressers, barbers, food and wine-tasters, a personal meat-carver, masseurs and masseuses in Vall's party, her chamberlain had been forced to make do. Her own household staff were scattered all up and down the town, with the younger males sleeping all lined up in rows, on cots. They were in the long rooms above the royal stables—a fact which had necessitated some cleaning and burning as it was dubbed.

With Lowren's recent example still foremost in their minds, security was tight but as unobtrusive as possible. For the duration of the official visit, some of her troops were sleeping in tents in the yard between the inner and outer walls.

As soon as Ambassador Vall left, hopefully soon but one couldn't simply shove him out the door again, repairs and new construction would begin on the town and keep's fortifications. There was precious little time before spring and the season for campaigning would commence. With new earthen outer-works, and outlying bastions, their plans drawn up long beforehand, much could be done before the freeze. Much might also be done after the spring thaw, when the land tended to soften while sea ice still made navigation dangerous if not impossible. Work would go on until the battle was actually joined.

Vall's presence was not a good sign. He was a little more important than Windermere usually rated. She had no illusions about her status in the councils of kings and khans and emperors.

While the Great Khan was paying her rather more attention than her small but prosperous kingdom might generally rate in strategic terms, these were uncertain times. The attention was most definitely unwelcome, but what could one do about it? She could hardly refuse to consult with her neighbor and quite frankly, greatest trading partner. As such things were labeled. Both nations regulated trade via the mechanism of duties on all major commodities. Such trade had always been mutually beneficial in the past.

We must have something he wants, she realized. There was a sick feeling in her belly, mostly because no one had the slightest idea of what that might entail, outside of outright submission and no doubt a costly tribute. All of that would be wrapped up in the fog of a very uncertain future, with the Khan's guiding hand in the selection or appointment for virtually every office. The technique was well-known, and he had a track record which she and her counselors had examined with great care. The Khan was raising the stakes. That much seemed obvious.

Troops lined the road rising up from the town, four thousand of them in all, many hastily drawn from nearby garrison towns, all liveried in her household colors. They stood, with drawn swords presented, straight up the bridge of the nose, eyes looking straight ahead.

Regimental officers saluted in turn from atop their mounts as the cavalcade drove by, with color-boys holding all flags butt to the ground and perfectly vertical.

The only thing that might have spoiled the scene was the complete lack of any breeze at all, the resulting clouds of tiny black insects, and the sky, which had the curiously leaden-blue color that presaged a late-afternoon storm. Bulky thunderheads loomed to the west, making Windermere stand out in stark contrast with her hard vertical lines and pale stonework. As if to save the weather's reputation, an errant shaft of golden sunshine came slanting down just as the first carriage pulled up. For a moment there it was sublime. Vall's door was opened by a waiting attendant, and he got out, helping a female companion and then sneaking a quick peek around before his face turned and lifted to confront Eleanora.

She stood three steps up from the bottom with outstretched hands.

"My Lord Vall. On behalf of ministers and state, and the right good and honorable citizens of Windermere, I bid thee greetings." She smiled, and bowed her head.

The slightest bending of the knees conveyed the feminine version of a royal greeting to persons of importance. There weren't very many of those who rated it, but any Ambassador of the Khan would have expected no less and he graciously tipped his head.

He put his foot on the bottom step.

"My Lord and Master, the Khan sends his greetings and felicitations. This is La-Eisha, first among my concubines." Almond-shaped eyes stared at the Queen in unfeigned admiration of the most juvenile nature.

Vall looked around, a small, tired, extremely competent and as word had it, rather vain little man with the power to treat with kingdoms. Even under the traditional metal skull-cap, he looked prematurely bald, with curious, pale, bleached-looking eyebrows.

"It looks like we're in for a spot of rain, Majesty."

With a wry grin at the Ambassador's unexpectedly mild wit, (but what else did we expect?) and now that Theodelinda was hurrying from her carriage to assist, Eleanora did her royal curtsy again, and then turned to lead the party inside.

Feeling self-conscious and foolish, but with nary a trace of it on her calm features, she took the arm on the opposite side of the whore and conducted Ambassador Vall into the calm, measured quiet of her home.

One step at a time, and they must all try not to say anything to provoke him.

This visit was rather sudden and she wondered why he was here at all. The two countries had trade consuls in all major ports and cities on a reciprocal basis. Ostensibly, Talonna, the previous ambassador, had been relieved for reasons of ill health. Not that the former ambassador's health issues couldn't have been faked, but her own impression was that Talonna was a sick man and never should have been sent out in the first place. The whole episode was causing her to question and second-guess almost anything any foreign power or potentate did, or said, wrote, or reportedly did or said or wrote.

***

After the usual round of state dinners, a festival of flowers and music, and other public affairs during which Lord Vall had been feted and lionized extensively, the time had finally come for a frank, face to face talk. There would be the minimum of attendants. It was early afternoon, when the palace could be strangely quiet. Breakfast was over, morning Court sessions had been cancelled, and the staff members were off in their own strange little worlds. How everyone could just disappear like that, and in such a short time, had always been one of the great mysteries of the queen's life. She was more appreciative than curious and so she had never asked.

Lord Vall had brought only his personal secretary to take notes and have charge of any documents he might wish to consult. For Lord Vall to carry his owned damned papers would be an imposition upon his dignity, and one of the highest order. Any rational person could see that.

He at least had the grace to leave his concubines behind.

Eleanora had Lord Pell, her own Minister of Commerce, and Gilbert, her private secretary, to make a full and accurate record of the proceedings. Eleanora had the feeling this was a vital consideration when dealing with just such a one as Vall, and not incidentally, his Lord and Master Jumalak.

Theo and two beefy soldiers would be watching from hidden niches through small peepholes.

Presumably Lord Vall was not here to assassinate her, but one never knew. Such things had happened, as they all knew.

"Ah. At last. Now we can speak our minds." Lord Vall looked like he had just swallowed a canary, or perhaps thought he was about to. "Thank you for all of the wonderful entertainment and hospitality, but we must, needs be, get down to a little work."

He had big, dark, expressive eyes and some rather effeminate mannerisms to go with them. The whole act was a kind of unspoken pantomime, she decided. Don't be fooled by the fool act.

"Yes, it's good to be away from the madding crowd. This is our opportunity to finally get to know one another a little better, as people first, and those charged with the governing of a great people second." Eleanora sat in a comfortable chair beside a crackling fire in one of the more intimate chambers in the part of the palace reserved for public reception. "We can never really forget, can we? I do my best to enjoy my people, and I like to think I give them something precious in return for my good fortune. I call it good government."

She smiled, and it was like a cobra spotting lunch.

"So. Lord Vall. What can I do for you?"

The Minister of Commerce quickly lifted a scented handkerchief and stifled a sudden, dry little cough.

"Ah-ha." Vall's liquid eyes took in the Minister, smiling and sitting a little straighter. "Well! You did warn me about her Majesty, didn't you?"

None of the Khan's ambassadors had been entirely without charm. That was part of the job, to appear nice at all times.

Pell kept his eyes downcast, only coming back with a little shrug. But if truth be told, his hearing wasn't the best these days and he really had to work to follow along sometimes. His useful days were becoming rather numbered. He was wondering if he would be able to adequately serve the Queen in this sort of thing.

Vall beamed at the Minister of Commerce, a ruddy old gentleman, quick with an abacus or a tariff for that matter, but the sort of fuddy-duddy who would not, must not, could not say shit if he had a mouthful.

A fine flush began to creep up Lord Pell's neck under Vall's unabashed scrutiny, and he avoided a quick glance from Her Majesty.

When Eleanora spoke, it was with precision.

"Yes. Ha-ha. That's quite all right. Lord Pell did well to prepare you in advance for a conversation with me. Or my cousin Theodelinda, for that matter. We speak our minds when we can. When we have to. When we must. For she speaks for all of us in so many things...what is it exactly that we can do for our great Lord and Master, Jumalak, the Great Khan of the Hordes?"

This time it was Vall's turn to blush.

"Well. It really isn't like that." He laid a special emphasis on the last word but she wasn't buying it.

He began again.

"It's really more a matter of certain, ah, clarifications."

"Ah."

Even Pell got into the act. There was something frosty in the tone—very few men could have projected it so well, so unmistakably.

"Oh."

Eleanora had the sudden urge to reach over and pat him on the arm or something. He really was a dear sometimes.

Lord Vall's gaze switched to Lord Pell who returned a wintry smile, pale blue eyes gleaming at that ingenuously open visage.

"We've never doubted your, er, frankness, nor the Great Khan's, ah, sincerity, Lord Vall."

The Ambassador's jaw dropped slightly. This was beginning to look like a tough reception.

"And you're right, Your Eminence—I did try and warn you."

Vall nodded thoughtfully, finally tearing himself away from Pell, whom he had met previously. At one time the fellow had been a member of a trade delegation to the capital and some other major cities of the Great Khan.

At the time, he seemed competent enough, nothing more. He was quite a bit younger then, seven or eight years Vall recalled. But as he now saw him, perhaps there was more—much more, lurking behind a carefully-contrived surface. Competent back then—possibly still competent even in his old age.

Eleanora sat there, strongly tempted to cross her arms, which she could not do as the wooden arms of this particular chair wouldn't allow it, being too high and too close in to her sides. It was all she could do to clutch the front corners of the arms in white-knuckled impatience and tap her little foot where the gentleman, seated directly across from her on a low couch, could clearly and plainly see it peeking out from under her stiff silk brocade.

If one must bluff, then at least look the part.

"Very well, then. And it is good to be able to speak plainly. My compliments to the Queen, and I mean no disrespect or offense—but I can see that she is neither a fool, nor does she suffer fools gladly. This may save us a little beating about the bush as people say—"

"Yes?"

She waved Lord Pell off. Hopefully Vall would get to it.

"The Great Khan offers his greetings and salutations—"

"Aw, for crying out loud—"

"Yes, yes. I'm sorry, it's just that this is all so very difficult." Vall was sweating now, something he was most distinctly unused to.

He had gotten a little too accustomed to watching other people sweat.

It was devilishly hot in this room. He smiled, nodding when he realized it could be deliberate. It certainly could be...

He reached for the water carafe. The Queen herself, and her minister, seemed cool and affable enough as they exchanged glances.

Vall had heard of a monarch, eons ago, with ice packed into an overstuffed conference chair and a drain going through the floor. That king had a wonderful flue system and had ducted the heat under the floors of his palace. It was perhaps more myth than history, not that such systems weren't built of course. They were just extremely expensive.

Lord Vall took a deep breath, and waved away an offer of certain documents proffered by his man.

"My Lord would like certain assurances."

"Of what?"

"Lord Pell."

Queen Eleanora gave the Minister of Commerce a significant look. His brow lowered, his jaw worked this way and that, and he lowered his forehead, a very bleak look on his face as he regarded Lord Vall.

There was something he wanted to say very, very badly.

"What is it exactly, that our good friend and colleague across the sea, our brother the Great Khan Jumalak requires?"

She nodded as the barely-chastened Lord Vall took the documents now, the Ambassador's secretary leaving their chair to scuttle across on bended knee and supply them with copies for their own eyes.

"Well. Bearing in mind the distinct possibility of peace being lost in the region—"

Pell snorted at that, and she held up a hand again, with no real hint of impatience. It was just a command.

"...and the likelihood that the Emperor Kullin, will continue to adhere to certain aggressive and provocative postures in the affairs of others...namely, and to wit, dominating by threats and belligerence his smaller neighbors, who are the mutual friends of both of our nations..."

"You mean, like Sinopus?" Lord Pell nailed him with that one, or so he thought.

"Ah—no, not exactly in that way." They were sort of bound to bring that up.

Vall allowed the silence to sink in. Sinopus was a threat to them in the psychological sense, and it would take a fool not to see it.

"Does the Great Khan fear that the Emperor will initiate aggressive war against the Horde? Then surely this is not the place for negotiation, Lord Vall. You would be better served to speak to him a little more directly about that." She considered his problem with a formal air. "One thing I have learned over the years, is not to butt my nose in where it is not welcome. However, that is not to say that we don't have trade and customs agreements in place with the Empire. It is common knowledge that we do."

She was speaking for the sake of not having dead silence in the room, she was speaking to gain a little breathing space for all of them. While they had some idea, it was up to Vall to state a case.

"Perhaps we might intercede on the Great Khan's behalf."

His reluctance, his very presence, indicated this might be something out of the everyday routine.

Eleanora beckoned, and her secretary, tense with the atmosphere in there and the need not to draw attention to oneself, started out of a head-down trance of transcription and listening intently.

"Yes? Majesty?"

"Water."

The secretary bobbed up to pour from Eleanora's pitcher.

Lord Vall, looking a bit bedraggled by this time, sipped at his own water while they all took a moment to regroup mentally. None of them wanted this to degenerate into a slug-fest.

It was Eleanora who spoke first.

When she did, it was as flat, confident and neutral in tone as she could make it.

"I will personally give to the Great Khan our assurances, Lord Vall. It goes something like this. In any conflict between the Horde and the Empire, it is our intention to remain neutral, and to maintain our sovereignty. It is our intention not to get sucked into fights that are not our concern and not to any single one's benefit—not at any price. Furthermore. It is our intention to work actively with our neighbors in the advance of collective security, and peaceful commerce, and the self-determination of peoples. We believe that whatever the provocation, whatever the cause, all international disputes should and will be worked out by fair, open and peaceful negotiation sanctioned by all parties."

"Ah, well—yes, of course—of course..."

Yes, of course, they would have to say something like that. It was an official position, one most carefully stated for the record. She would no doubt release the gist of it immediately, the minute the meeting was over.

Vall was visibly sweating now, and yet a look of wry humor crossed his face. He was beginning to see why Eleanora had such a reputation. He was beginning to understand that a mere woman could be every inch able, even worthy to govern in her own right. The success of her kingdom, flourishing insofar as he had been able to see, was no mere fluke. These westerners were very different, of course.

No reputable Hordesman would stand it for a second.

"And?"

You had to admire her in that moment—the Great Khan could swallow her whole if he so chose, probably in no time at all if he focused exclusively on Windermere. A thousand ships could be here in two weeks, a month at most, even if they had to row all the way. There was a fine port just a few miles from the capital, and there were negligible forces to oppose the Khan. It was an interesting judgment call, for if Windermere was valuable, it was not entirely vital to the plan as he had half-guessed it. He understood only so much of what the Great Khan had in mind. He was only going to be told so much and have only so much to go on. In short, he was a diplomat, and yes, a spy of sorts, reporting back his impressions, giving long accounts of what he had seen and heard. He was obviously not going to be the only spy or person with an agenda hereabouts, but his impressions had confirmed in some very thorough briefings before departure. Clearly they were all doing their homework. As someone in the service once said, what you don't know can't be wrested from you under torture.

But he was no general, no admiral, and therefore not privy to all of that sort of information. Perhaps that was best, in that it made his job so much simpler, but it placed him in a terribly awkward position sometimes.

It's not that he couldn't put himself in their places, in fact that was a requirement. He had a mission to perform, statements to make and it wasn't personal in any way. Not to one such as Vall. It was better than kings talking it out face-to-face sometimes—that would end in bloodshed as often as not, or Lord Vall didn't know kings. He put all of this in a friendly, even casual tone, just laying out the groundwork for what might be a working agreement. If they were amenable. It was all in how you put it, sometimes.

It wouldn't do to be rude, after all. Luckily, the laws of diplomacy had been long-established, and few of the more sophisticated rulers took men like him too personally. If only they were taking him seriously, that was all that mattered.

When he called them assurances, he meant exactly that, he told them. Just assurances against the uncertain times that lay ahead...

It was all just a game, when you analyzed it. And yet, at the same time, Lord Vall was very conscious that he was a guest in her house.

The entire diplomatic party was in their power, and perhaps that was just. It made the risks apparent to all.

"It's just that we were hoping for something...a little more." He faltered, the papers wavering in his hand, as he was no longer a young man himself, and there was the odd little tremor to contend with.

Her eyes dropped to the first page and she began to read.

Her eyebrows began to climb and then those formidable eyes came up and for the first time in a very long time, Lord Vall knew the thrill of fear.

But they'd always known she was going to hate it.

In Lord Vall's opinion, a benign protectorate was the best they could hope for under the circumstances.

True neutrality was going to be an illusory goal for Windermere, or so Lord Vall assured them.

Chapter Ten

Lowren's hunting lodge was located near what was called an outlier, a place where a portion of the long escarpment above the plains had broken away. As the land settled, the slot between the two got wider. This created a narrow canyon, open at both ends, separating what was a small table-top mountain from its parent. Standing five or six hundred feet above the surrounding plain, its crags were heavily forested and its eroded limestone fissures issued forth a hundred streams and rivulets. The canyon itself was a wonderful place to hunt on foot with the bow. It was within easy riding distance of the lodge, and the dogs would either hunt alongside the men or be held by boys looking after the horses while the party scoured the canyon and side-ravines on foot.

Caves along both rims, where the ground sloped up to the base of fairly substantial cliffs sheltered the occasional bear. The forest was full of small varmints which were good for the pot, although deer were scarce this week for some reason. There were plenty of deer trails and plenty of deer tracks. There were signs of recent browsing and plenty of fresh droppings—just no deer.

However, a group of the younger warriors had come up with an elk, and Bastian had, according to the story, ridden up alongside at a full gallop as it bounded away. Taking the thing completely by surprise, the youngster killed it with a single shot to the heart. Lowren had given the trooper a thin gold necklace that he had personally worn many times. To the lad, it meant a lot and to Lowren, it was just one small slice of a treasury that dated back to the reign of his father, a most prudent man and a bit of a miser. Lowren saw the value in that now. All liberality stems from economy—just one of many maxims of government the old fellow had passed on to two attentive if highly-spirited sons. The smell of the elk roasting had been something to be experienced, notwithstanding the home cooking at his own house or the more sophisticated or even just unfamiliar dishes he had experienced in his recent travels.

There were tall pines and massive oaks, sheltering the lodge from strong winds and providing acorns in the case of the quercus genus to attract large numbers of deer, in season and upon occasion.

It was too early for any major threads of migration that would stretch on for miles after an initial trickle had swelled into flood proportions.

In the meantime, no matter what sort of a time the men were having, and they were surely enjoying themselves, but Lowren was a bit bored. He was feeling away from events and cut off from information. If they weren't here to take meat, specifically venison for the winter supply, then he at least might as well be elsewhere. He had too much to think about, too much to worry about, and too much to do rather than stick around the lodge. He had spent too much time here in the past, he decided. When I should have been learning, studying—and building up a more professional little army.

While he was still young. He was now an only son, and if he fell, who would be there to look after his mother? What about those who could not fight, and who would be defenseless if their king and too many of his men fell in a war they all saw coming and none save one really wanted if they were honest with themselves?

This wasn't about patriotism, something he had a kind of contempt for. All wars are ultimately fought for economic reasons, in Lowren's personal opinion.

The questions were many and the answers few.

Men being what they were, they would flock to his colors, and this humbled him in some ways. But wasn't it better than packing it all up on carts and heading west?

He could not imagine himself as a vassal or his people as slaves of the Horde. The mere thought brought anger—was this patriotism? Or was it the human heart, the human condition, and its own stubborn notions of justice?

To flee would ultimately be futile, he was convinced of that.

Sooner or later, they would run hard up against some other nation and their enlightened self-interest—although there were kindred tribes, there hadn't been much contact in recent years. No one alive today could quite say, just where the Molimni, for example, might be sought, or how long it might take a man to ride there. They might welcome some new allies, or be threatened by the imminent arrival of a new nation in a land they had made their own. Certainly their neighbors would be watching closely, with a few concerns of their own. So much of statecraft involved a balancing act.

Then there were the times when his thoughts turned to Eleanora. There was the sovereign, and then there was the person. There was the question of which way she would jump.

After consulting with all and sundry, it was believed that the Queen of Windermere was about thirty-two, certainly no more than thirty-five years of age. The vanity of women being what it was, and the vanity of queens being what that was, no one was really sure and no one had ever come up with a really good way of asking. It was a kind of state secret, he thought with a grin, not that he didn't like her all the more for it.

After seeing her in the flesh, Lowren figured she was two or three years older than he, no more than that. It was an odd thought, but brides had been offered to Lowren before and he had always disengaged himself from such negotiations as inoffensively as he possibly could. He just wasn't ready, perhaps.

Or perhaps not!

Eleanora had the most disturbing eyes—one look and you knew you had met your equal. Not that that really changed anything.

If only.

Even kings had their forlorn dreams of a sort.

***

The bard, clad in faded and baggy, weather-beaten finery that had seen better days, with the dust of the road still on his shoes, strummed his lute and sang forlornly for his supper.

With deadly malice and unerring aim

The slender bolt, its point touched with flame

Into the thatch, so carelessly flown

The hand is revealed, the face still unknown

And the raging flames by the strong winds are blown

Out of the smoke, straight through the pyre

An apparition, he steps from the fire

His armour bright, the blade strong and bright...

Lo and behold, from his ashes and his dust

The Conqueror arises, as surely one must—

Surely he knows thee, and the flavour of your mind

For you always come back, and when it is time

He will make short work, of you and your kind.

"Yeah!" One or two of them were indulging in a liquid lunch.

A small grin stole over his face. He was just warming them up for a longer show later in the day.

He broke off and bobbed his head at a few polite murmurs from the few loungers in the room.

The bard cleared his throat in modest fashion before speaking.

"Thank you, thank you. Thank you very much."

"Where's Bibbs?" Lowren strode into the hall, where a few loungers and tankards and the smell of ale attested to their fairly simple plans for the days ahead.

He nodded at one or two newcomers.

"Ah, sire. I believe he's off with some of the lads."

Lowren nodded at the unfamiliar young face. Another spoke up, a pudgy beardless fellow. It really wasn't necessary to get up when Lowren entered the room, and as if sensing that, the fellow froze for a second and then lowered himself back into the seat from what was looking like an awkward position.

"They're following the tracks of some wild cattle. At least that's what they said, sire."

Lowren nodded and sought out Garvin, having heard his voice and a snippet of talk from the storerooms at the rear of the hall, where the back of the main hearth dominated the kitchen and washing areas.

"Garvin. We shall have to leave Bibbs and the others a note."

"Absolutely, sire."

Lowren made up his mind quickly in some situations, and took much time at others.

This was one of those times when the decision to leave, having eaten at him all day, must be acted upon at once. In truth, the capture of some stray cows would be good work and almost a kind of military exercise. Bibbs could learn about command and handling kids, and the young men could be alone, out of sight of both their own nominal serjeants and their hopefully not-so-nominal sovereign.

"Are we going somewhere, sire?"

"Yes. We'll need good horses. Four or five men will be plenty." There were one or two dogs lying about, but they were content enough.

There was a small contingent of household servants to look after them—and Bibbs and the other men if it came right down to it.

Lowren grinned, gnawing at a lip. Odds were they'd have an impromptu and slightly-guilty little party as soon as the reality of their abandonment sank in. Couldn't blame them, really. He might have done the same thing in their place.

The young men, all ears around the king, possibly the very troopers in question, looked at each other and back to the conversation. They put their mugs and cups down with solid thunks.

"I'll just go pack your things, sire." Garvin stared at a trooper, one in particular, and the lad stepped right up from the bench and came over.

"Sire."

Lowren glanced at him, nodded, and then strode out the door.

"Come with me, and I sure hope your hands are all nice and clean." Garvin was only half-kidding.

Lowren's hunting garb was as humble as the next man's and about as grubby, after a week of riding tall-grass prairie, bordering on dry scrub-steppe, and then there was the muck and heavy brush up in the hills, over in the back and beyond.

He practically slid to a halt on his heels. He turned and gave the others a serious look. He picked them off, one by one with a pointed finger.

"You. You. You...and You. Pack your things. If I know Lowren, we'll be gone within a half an hour."

That left enough manpower to look after things.

A thin, lonely hand went up. The boy was pale and a bit narrow in the shoulders. Quite tall, they were sort of wondering when he'd begin to fill out.

"Uh...sir?"

"Ah, yeah. Stott. You too."

Stott leapt to his feet, looking relieved and slightly-apprehensive at the same time.

Other than that, there had to be some paper, a bloody quill and some ink around the place somewhere. It was a royal residence, after all.

Now, what would Garvin put in a note to Bibbs, other than the obvious. He strode from the room with his new side-kick right at his heels.

He looked around Lowren's sparsely furnished bedroom, big enough and with wide, heavily-shuttered windows and its own big fireplace.

"All right, bag it all up. Carefully—"

"Right, serjeant." The fellow was willing enough, anyways, and if he was lacking in skill, that could be rectified by a little coaching.

"Fold it, fold it lad."

Garvin found what he was looking for in Lowren's small desk, a relic from the past and looking distinctly shabby, sitting there rather forlornly, tilting slightly back towards the wall, with the bottoms of the back legs soft and a bit shorter now from the dry-rot.

"Ah, yes." He sat down, pulled out a sheet of paper and inked a quill that didn't look like it needed sharpening too badly.

It took a moment and then he had it. The surface rocked slightly under the weight of his elbows. Lowren really ought to do something about that, he thought.

Dear Trooper Bibbs,

You are in charge of the men here and the old woman has charge of the kitchen and household. Don't mess with her. Don't screw it up and don't let any of these younger fellows kill themselves. Come home when you run out of food...or ale, or stories or whatever.

No, that wouldn't do. He crumpled it up.

He looked at the blushing trooper as the boy packed Lowren's spare tunic, a loose flowing cotton shirt, and one or two slightly more intimate items of clothing. Here he was, putting the king's hose and underclothes in a bag that smelled distinctly like it belonged to any regular, everyday, mortal human being. The kid had this awed look on his face and Garvin bit back unnecessary comment.

"What in the hell am I supposed to tell Bibbs?"

The boy just shook his head, which was just as well perhaps.

"Tell him we went home?"

Garvin raised an eyebrow.

It just might do.

The boy's eyes slid around.

"Brevity is king."

Garvin laughed aloud.

Gods. If he knew their King, the man probably had half their horses saddled for them already and a bag of oats slung across the pommel of each.

He had yet to find one or two things, including that damned dispatch case.

Chapter Eleven

Summer was over. The nights were getting colder and longer with every passing day. So far there had been no frost, but the harvest was over and people were looking forward to the midwinter festival.

Fires blazed in the hearths at each end of the Great Hall. Traditionally, the master of the house, the king in this case, sat with his most honored guests on one side of a long table set upon a dais. In the case of Lowren, it was only set up about a foot or so from the main level. For one thing, it was a relatively small hall, only seating a limited number of guests. It took more than enough wood to keep the place heated, and they only had so many men to chop it...

For another, Lowren had always despised the stiff and formal household organizations, which he had really only heard about, of certain other sovereigns. It just seemed unmanly. He knew they had a different culture, with different traditions, but even so, he was glad not to have to do it. Greater power and perhaps even legitimacy—the Empire of the South went back a thousand years, might dictate a higher degree of ritual and separation of the crown and the governed. Lowren hoped such things would never come to pass in his own little kingdom. So far he didn't have an heir or successor, and how his kingdom might be ruled after his passing was a question he didn't much like sometimes.

That would be someone else's problem—the best answer a man could give sometimes.

He might have been kidding himself, but the men, and their women, and their children, growing more numerous every day it seemed sometimes, were his friends. They were not so much subjects as loyal followers. There was little to hold them here except a kind of love. Any one of them, any family or band, at any time, could simply pack their few simple belongings. They could mount their horses and ride off. In many cases the mount or mounts would represent a gift from Lowren, for once freely given it could never be taken back.

It took more than a horse, a robe, a badge to hold a man. It took more than a handful of gold and a badge of honor and service. They had their wives and children to think of as well. He had never kidded himself that they had things any easier or that their lives were any more simple than his own. Life held its little complications for every person who had ever been born.

"Lowren."

He looked up from his cup, to see Kann with darts in his hand.

"Ah, no thank you."

"All right, someone else then?" Kann looked around hopefully.

There were no takers, for Kann was a good player and a thirsty one. The younger ones were perhaps getting a little tired of losing a penny a game and walking away with sore heads and an empty purse after yet another marathon session.

Kann turned away reluctantly, and so did Lowren, but not before catching a quick glance exchanged between Kann and his mother.

Yes, his friends, and his mother, could sense his mood. They could leave him alone, or try to engage his interest, without feeling that they had to bend and scrape and fawn over him. His mother had the good sense not to fuss over him too publicly, and he recalled with some mixed feelings just how that had been achieved. But his father had died when he was only fourteen and his brother Normanric had been just twelve. In order to achieve manhood, he had had to work very hard before he could achieve some mastery of self.

His father had achieved the rarest of fates for a barbarian chief, to have died at home, and in his own bed, surrounded by those he cared most about.

Lowren had to admit that there had been many good times in that hall, and not too many really sad ones. His father's passing, and then when the news came about Normanric. Everything else tended to fade away into insignificance, especially over time.

There were times when it was best to be grateful, and not worry too much about the future.

This was not one of them.

At some point Mother had little choice but to accept that he was the master in this house, which she had after a time. Which was all to her credit, really. It might be more accurate to say he was master in his kingdom—and that the household was more properly hers. It was an arrangement they could live with and one that worked very well.

When the time came, she had cheerfully relinquished any claims to any real power. Not that she didn't make herself useful in the larger, political sense—she was worth any ten ministers he'd ever heard of.

He owed his parents a lot, when he thought about it. He regretted not having told his father how he felt. There was only so much time, and it was never a really good time, but it was a mistake he would not repeat with Sylphie.

His metamorphosis had sort of happened in an instant. He was seventeen when Olaf the Magnificent died. Lowren had been convinced of his own manhood and perhaps his own infallibility.

He grinned, remembering her in her anger, and some of the things she had said. They'd had a terrible row that day, when he was eighteen and claimed his birthright from a half-drunken stupor. She'd been fairly honest with him. He smiled again, this one fuller and longer lasting.

I really wasn't much good until I decided to take charge of myself, he thought.

I owe her that much and probably a whole lot more.

You want to be king, learn how to stand up against your mother! Especially a mother like Sylphie.

He glanced over and for some reason she was looking at him just then. She looked away just as casually, lost in her own thoughts.

Lowren sighed. He wasn't in the mood for darts, but his belly was full, and sooner or later someone would start singing or strum the lute or something. His mug was looking awfully empty.

When you become insincere, then all true honesty, the basis for friendship or any kind of human relationship is gone.

Where in the Hades that one came from was another question.

Behind every great man was a women, sometimes quite a number of them, he thought.

He looked around, for it was a busy night. All of the tables, simple plank constructions set on X-shaped trestles were occupied. There were empty seats but not many. For the most part, the folks were ignoring him, although he caught a child's curious glance and held it for an oddly revealing moment.

Don't worry, kid—I'm just as scared of you as you are of me.

A sour thought, but strangely true.

Life wasn't funny anymore. When did that happen?

It had been some time in the making, he reckoned...

"Lowren."

"Huh?"

He must have been lost again.

"Yes, mother?"

She was standing in the middle of the empty space between the dais and the front row of tables, where song, poetry, and various exhibitions occurred from time to time.

Was there going to be some sort of organized entertainment? He must have missed something.

He stared at her, but she was looking at the kitchen entrance.

He looked around stupidly, for all eyes were turned to him and to her. Even as he rapidly refocused on the here and now, people at the back got up from their benches and seats, moving up to fill in empty spaces on the nearer benches. Everyone, big, small, old and young, had turned to face in his direction.

He smiled, biting his lip.

"Mother...?"

She turned and smiled sweetly.

"Yes, dear. What?"

His mind raced as a couple or three sturdy lads came out of the kitchen entrance rolling a cask, and then his heart skipped a beat. That was a lot of beer, even for this crowd.

"What's going on, mother?" Serving girls came out of the kitchen, bearing clean mugs and tankards for those that didn't already have them. "It's not my birthday—I know that for a fact."

His voice held a note of doubt as he went over the situation.

Nope—I'm still only twenty-nine—and a half.

"Gentlemen...?"

"Sire."

Not much of an answer, but it was their show.

The young men brought the oaken keg of ale he presumed, for they produced and consumed a hundred barrels of it a month around there, and rolled it to a stop beside Sylphie.

A third fellow following along had a tool, and he fumbled, back to Lowren as he tried to tap into the cask. The mystery was written all over Lowren, as he tried and failed to catch Sylphie's eye. She was absorbed in the fellow's efforts, the king's view spoiled by the other two bodies as they hustled in with suggestions and assistance which appeared not entirely welcome.

"Holy. It's just a simple keg." Rising in some impatience, heaving a deep sigh at his mother's conspiratorial and rather gloating smile, Lowren came down off the dais on slightly-wobbly legs.

He rounded the polished hardwood railing which kept dancers and tumblers and jugglers from flipping out of bounds and knocking the royal table and all of its accoutrements off of its perch.

He stepped up to the lads, and put his arm on the shoulder of the one with the tap.

"Here. Allow me."

"Sire." The fellow stepped back quickly, and Lowren accepted the tap rather absently as it appeared the tightly-fitted small boards of the flat round top, oak as was the rest of the keg, were damaged or had been knocked askew somehow in handling.

"I say, you've been awfully rough with that." Lowren's voice was still pleasant, as there was some thing going on and his mother was obviously enjoying this.

The tap fell to his side and he stuck a finger into a suspiciously dark gap and pulled. If air had gotten in, or water, bugs or something, the ale or whatever it was would be ruined. Just as it struck him that he should be able to tell by smell, especially if it was punctured, his mother spoke.

"Huh. I wonder if it's a barrel of gold or something."

It was such an inane remark that his jaw dropped and he stepped back, looking first at her, and then at the barrel to see if there were any official stamps, or any marks whatsoever.

"What—"

Right about then the top began pushing up of its own volition against his unsuspecting hand and for a half a second he pushed back.

Pulling his hand away as if it was on fire, he went rigid. He let out a quick exclamation which his friends later would describe as girlish. Lowren dropped the tap, took a right smart step backwards, almost knocking over one or two of the lads there and tried to get some grasp on the reality of the apparition before him.

***

"Theodelinda!"

He stood speechless.

It got worse, even.

"If I were to walk for a thousand years, and to sleep for a million days, the shadow of my one true love would never leave me. If I were to fall into the deepest pit of forever, the memory of your love would never leave me...for I shall never let it go."

"Oh, please." Everyone in the room was laughing at him, which was fair enough, he supposed.

She stopped, giving Lowren an impish grin. She cocked her head, putting her hands on her hips.

"On behalf of the people of Windermere and Queen Eleanora, to you, Majesty, and to your Queen Mother, Sylphie, and to all of the wonderful people of Lemnia, I bring greetings."

His jaw dropped as his mother howled, putting her hands on her firm little belly, doubling over at the look on her son's face. Straightening up, she wiped moisture from her eyes. On entering the hall he'd half-noticed Sylphie's gown, it was one of her best and that should have been a clue.

"Gotcha, didn't she?" Sylphie spun away, whirling on her silk-slippered heels as Lowren stared into the face of Theodelinda, as if any real questions hadn't already been answered.

His mother was ecstatic, Lowren still stunned.

He firmly closed his mouth.

"Are you here to recite poetry?"

Her mouth moved but her response was drowned out by the reaction of the crowd, until now just as mystified as Lowren. Now that the joke had been revealed—and it was surely a joke on him, they were all going wild.

It was going to take a while for the noise in the hall to drop, and for the moment Lowren was content to let it go.

He stepped close to the barrel, and grasping both of her hands, she allowed him to gently lift her vertically until she bent at the knees and lifted her feet. The kitchen lads scurried forwards and took the barrel away again. Lowren gave them a look but they retreated only a short distance, grinning like fools.

Of course, they had to be in on it.

She straightened her legs and he let her lightly down again. Standing before him, she turned to wave at the people, blowing all of them kisses and letting them get a good look at her.

He took a good look too, for the figure was trim and yet curved in all the right places.

His mother, just off to one side, was clapping. Everyone else was standing up, and clapping and cheering the winsome young woman who had come out of the barrel. While they had all heard the story of his arrival in Windermere, for the most part they had no idea of who she was.

He flushed a little in embarrassment.

"Ladies and gentlemen."

Mothers hushed their children and men put their hands on the table and people slowly began to sit down again.

Sylphie was finished clapping and now moving towards them.

"Would you care to join us?"

With as much dignity as he could muster, holding her small right hand high, Lowren led the lady, clad in soft, pale suede boots and a simple cotton gown that still showed a few wrinkles from her short confinement, to the head table. She had a garland of flowers in her hair, she smelled wonderful, and there was a simple gold pendant around her neck.

She wasn't exactly hard on the eyes, either. He wondered what her cousin might look like in such informal garb. Her usual attire did much to hide the real person in there.

"Well, now, what are we going to do...?"

Guests quickly moved, not exactly stupid any one of them, and he seated Theodelinda at his right side.

With a rueful grin, his mother took the seat to his left.

"Well. I guess I am no longer the center of attention around here." This brought a few fresh laughs from those close enough to hear it.

Even Lowren grinned.

He leaned over, trying not to be too obviously angry with her in front of all these people.

"Mother."

"I know, Lowren. I know."

There was just no saying it, although the thought was a familiar one.

To be fair, he hadn't thought it in quite some time.

Mother. Sometimes you piss me off.

She sat there smiling serenely, waving as humbly as she could to the appreciative onlookers and enjoying her little triumph. There were remarks and catcalls which Lowren studiously ignored.

He was pretty certain that he was blushing.

Lowren raised an arm, turning back and forth, giving a rueful series of nods for the people to enjoy, acknowledging that he had been well and truly had, and the waves of laughter peaked again.

Finally he lowered himself into his chair. While it was a positive sign, and definitely a big surprise to see them make such an open declaration of their interest, the fact was that Lowren still didn't know what it was about.

That became even more apparent when his mother gave his left shoulder a sudden squeeze and rose to address the assembly.

She had a little handful of crib-notes and everything.

Chapter Twelve

"Ladies and gentlemen." Some of the noise died away.

There were hurried whispers and the guests took turns shushing their neighbors and each other.

The stares continued unabated.

It was all Lowren could do to maintain a look of pleased anticipation and wait for quiet to descend. Finally, upon a look from Sylphie, he raised a hand and the place went silent.

His mother had something to say. Well, thankfully it wasn't him. He was at a bit of a loss socially, as to how to handle this. He grinned. This is what we did to Eleanora.

Might as well be a good sport about it—

"I know you are all just as surprised and delighted as we were—" Sylphie's voice cracked a bit and she had always been kind of a slow reader.

"Oh, Gods."

His voice was low, but there were one or two chuckles from the front row, where he suddenly comprehended that the chief conspirators had taken seats. They sat their admiring their handiwork, nodding at the chieftain as he glowered in mock anger. He lowered his brows, stared sternly, worked his jaw back and forth and they collapsed in giggles.

Finally he must relent, possibly even listen.

All of this must have a point, as someone very wise once said.

If truth be told, he was a mite relieved to see Theodelinda, for surely she wouldn't have come all that way for nothing. He'd been waiting for some sort of response.

If only his mother could speak, something he had always taken for granted in himself, not even realizing what a special gift it was. She was maundering on and on and on, and he bit back any signs of rising impatience. Sylphie had butchered every joke she had ever attempted, a fact which had never discouraged her from trying again.

Get to the point, mother.

"...and, as some of you may know and many of you might have heard, and for those of you who have not, Theodelinda is cousin to Queen Eleanora of Winderemere. That's one of our neighbors to the south, in the wonderful country of Windermere. She's not married and not betrothed to anybody, at least not so far as we know...? That's right, isn't it, Theodelinda, my dear?" There was a rising inflection on the end of the question as she turned her body to look over Lowren's head at the person in question.

She was rewarded by a quick head-shake from the Princess herself as Lowren's jaw dropped in spite of much training over the years and he wondered just what in the hell these terribly headstrong women were planning.

For surely they were up to something, even as the mental picture of a laughing Eleanora hovered front and center in the chaotic midst of his busy little mind.

***

"Oh, blast and damnation." He kept it under his breath.

And again, the cups were filled and yet another toast was raised. Generally, Lowren preferred quiet drinking although he rarely did it alone. But the place was a madhouse tonight. By his personal reckoning they had already eaten at least three times. Lowren had never been interested in hospitality, per se. It was a necessary evil, and he could enjoy it from time to time as one might. Sylphie was in charge of protocol insofar as it went around here, making people comfortable and all of that.

Hopefully she knew what she was doing in this particular instance.

Just when he'd been looking forward to an early night.

***

There were times when Lowren could cheerfully admit that he and his people were barbarians in fact as well as name. There were other times when he would have bristled with indignation and put his hand on his hilt. He would have demanded a retraction instantly, on pain of death, of any man who dared put forth such an assertion.

People were grabbing at him from behind.

He was beginning to wonder if he had maybe had one ale too many, and he almost scowled and said something. It was his mother and Theodelinda, taking an arm each and trying to convince him to get up.

"Oh. Sorry. Are we going somewhere?"

"Come, Lowren. We must talk to Theodelinda, or she will begin to feel unappreciated."

"Oh. Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?" Lowren became aware that he was rather loose in the legs and slurring his words. "Oops. Sorry. Theo. Delinda."

That didn't sound very good. He made some movements as if to free himself.

They let go, and he pushed himself up.

This wouldn't do. Although the little voice in his head was unwelcome at times, there were times when you just had to listen.

Air, that's what he needed.

Thank you, father. For all that kingly advice over the years.

It was good advice and there were times when you should take it—your own advice, that is.

"Sorry, Theodelinda. I hope you are enjoying the festivities." His head swam a bit and the air was much warmer and a lot smokier only a couple feet above where he had been sitting.

He stood there as Sylphie took charge of their guest. Lowren, feeling a bit foolish, followed along. Going by noise alone, no one would miss them.

They weren't holding much back, were they?

At first he sort of wondered where, but his mother had thought of everything and it appeared that a small room near the front of the hall had been cleared. Spare chairs, empty barrels, a few weapons and shields, or something was kept in there as he recalled, stuff the moths wouldn't hurt but the rain and dampness would.

There was a pretty good rug on the floor, and the place had been neatly swept out. There were several of Sylphie's precious oil lamps burning in the corners on small stone tables.

There were a half a dozen of their better chairs in a semi-circle, a table sagging under the weight of flowers in water, and the usual crystalline service set on a silver tray. He spared a brief thought for Theodelinda's traveling party—there was no way she would have ever ridden alone. Quite a number must have been involved in the deception. They had to be around there somewhere.

They would be in the village, he reckoned, except for one or two of her most trusted maidens.

They paused just inside the room as Sylphie spoke to a servant and a couple of his men who just happened to be stationed outside the door.

"Again, Theodelinda. I really am sorry." He'd had a long day, and it was hard work sometimes. "I really wasn't expecting such, ah—such illustrious company."

She nodded judiciously at the choice of words. A minute or two of fresher air would no doubt help. It had become quite a fugue in the great room, with at least a hundred guests, possibly a few more than that, and of course they had all of the fires and braziers going at this time of the year.

A person was sort of cooked on one side and frozen on the other, and this only a few feet away from the fire. The smaller room was almost cozy, with all the lamps going and the embroidered hangings blocking out the damp wooden walls.

Lowren held her chair, and then his mother's as she proudly eyed Theodelinda. Lowren at one time might have had two minds about his mother sitting in. Quite frankly, this time around he was going to need her help.

Theodelinda was no rival king, strong of arm, feeble of mind and long on ambition. This was no dispute about a boundary, a perennial spring, a pasture somewhere, nor was it about a slain kinsmen, nor two, nor a blood-feud, with relatives on both sides of the dispute.

Anything could be solved with a little thought. It was what he had always believed.

"Well." Thankfully he had put Theo in the middle, a bit hard on her if she turned to look at Sylphie, but it was better than him doing it all the time. Sylphie was not going to be ignored.

Lowren sat on the left side, and he put his hands together and went through a little knuckle-cracking routine. It was an unconscious habit going back many years, to when he was just finding his strength.

It wasn't that long ago, either—when mere strength and agility was enough to get what you wanted.

"So. My Queen, that is to say my cousin Eleanora, would like you to know that she is favorably disposed to further discussions with you and your people, your Majesty, Lowren of Lemnia."

She grinned at Sylphie, looking proud and a little scared by these words. Sylphie knew a pivotal moment when she saw one. Other tribes would come in with them now. As Lowren described it, Windermere Castle was an important element in the overall strategy—which was bloody stalemate at best. Their ships and grain were essential to his plan.

This was what had always impressed Sylphie about her son. He didn't promise victory, only survival for most of the people, and only in the long run, and only if they all stood together at times of crisis. He didn't talk in terms of punishing the enemy, or conquering foreign lands. He didn't drag up old claims and grudges, being content with what he had. He was not bent on revenge for past injuries. The Windermere treaty would be a cornerstone of this policy, rather enlightened even for this day and age.

Sylphie thought it was just this sort of honest assessment, plus his very presence, which had been enough to convince Eleanora.

"Discussions?" Lowren was a little disappointed, although he tried not to show it.

"She feels we can work things out, and come to some sort of mutually-agreeable arrangement."

"Oh, incidentally, Lowren." Sylphie patted his left forearm. "She really did bring a barrel of gold, just a little earnest money. We can pay the troops, pay the smiths and armorers, the ship-builders...anything we need."

Lowren nodded thoughtfully, alcohol fumes rapidly evaporating now. A barrel of gold could simply be a brush-off, a salve to their consciences rather than a serious attempt to bind their fortunes in war. He had a fleet of forty or in a pinch, fifty long ships. He had a half-dozen more building. Those were at an early stage, with barely the keel laid and some of their planks cut.

They had enough seasoned logs picked out for the masts.

The gold would be very welcome indeed. Winter was six or seven months long, and the shipwrights, fitters and carpenters of all types, could probably use the work.

"Very well." His head was clearing rapidly. "Ah...so what's the catch."

His mother gave him a sharp look but this was his kingdom now and she didn't know everything.

He ignored his mother for the moment, searching Theodelinda's eyes very carefully.

It was like both of them knew what he was thinking. It was like they were going to let him have a bit of his manly dignity back...

A wry grin went over Theodelinda's face before she tore herself away, and she gave Sylphie another quick glance before her face became serious.

"Well, Lowren. You might not get everything you want. But, you will get much of what you need. Some, but not all of what you require must needs be paid for. Some of it will be our own little contribution. As for some of our friends, our allies and trading partners, it is our impression that the great majority of them will be cautiously pleased."

It had been a few weeks. They'd certainly had time to consult with at least some of their friends.

He grinned right back.

"Then I too, am cautiously pleased."

"There's just one more thing, Lowren." Syphie was sticking her oar in—and clearly favoring Theodelinda and pushing her own point of view in some way.

He looked at his mother.

"Oh, oh. Yes. There's plenty more—all of which can be worked out in fine detail. And we must not lose any time—" Something about the look on Sylphie's face stopped Lowren dead in his tracks.

"No, this is a more personal matter."

"Oh, really?" His mind was fully alert now.

There it was again, the image of Eleanora, laughing and holding his hand and looking like nothing he had ever quite seen before. Perhaps that might even happen, he thought in a strangely bitter mental aside.

"What do you mean, personal?"

"It's a bit awkward, acting on my own accord in this matter, and as an ambassador on official business from Windermere at one and the same time. But we're interested in a match, a suitable husband for one of the Queen's ladies."

Lowren sat up. It was just the thing to cement a union or alliance between the two states. Gold, a marriage of state, and at least some kind of a semi-official visit from Windermere. It might be just enough to tip the balance in one or two other rather delicate negotiations. He had good relationships with the Carducci for example, and yet they were distinctly skittish in the talks he'd held so far with them. They were a lot closer to the Khan's territory, a factor that probably carried more weight than the sword of Lowren and a few thousand riders who may or may not be there when needed.

"Of course. I'm sure that would be wonderful, ah. Who exactly needs the husband, and what sort of a man was she looking for?"

His mother stifled an ominous-sounding giggle.

His mind became a bit rattled—the thought of one of Eleanora's fine young maidens with one of his farmers, one of his troopers, marrying one of them, was a bit far-fetched on second examination. Not that some of them didn't have extensive holdings in land and horses and such. It was a question of expectations of the one side and a distinct lack of social sophistication on the other.

On the other hand, a fine lady had been the making of a good man on more than one occasion.

"Well—"

He waited.

"Well..."

He grinned a wry grin.

He stared into those guilty eyes.

This was getting interesting.

"Well, who then?"

She looked at Sylphie.

Sylphie shrugged. Sooner or later, it must come out.

"Well, I sort of liked that Kann character. You know—the serjeant, the one that was with you in Ellie's apartments."

He stared and stared, mouth open, and then it was time to shut it.

He sank backwards in his chair.

His hands slowly came up to his face.

Now it was his turn to say, 'well.'

"Well." He took a deep breath.

He began again.

"Well. I cannot order him to marry—but, ah...if he is, ah, amenable, well then..."

The look on Theodelinda's face convinced him that all of this was useless for some unknown reason. His mother's face was red with repressed mirth.

A question hit him right out of nowhere.

"So, uh. How did you get in here? I mean here, sort of. When did you arrive?"

"She's been here for a few days, dear. They arrived while you were out on your hunt."

"Ah...right."

He clamped his mouth shut and then decided. He gave a quick little sigh. He sat up, hands on the arms of his chair. But this was negotiating, and not just a quick little present and please-leave-us-alone, which he had run into once or twice before.

He had many questions, none of which he cared to ask right then.

"If that's what you, ah, both want, then so be it."

There wasn't much more to be said, was there? And if so, then let them say it.

He was getting a bit tired of making a fool of himself all the time.

Chapter Thirteen

It was just one more in a series of conferences at senior level.

The Khan himself presided. They were deep in the bowels of his sprawling complex of palaces, pavilions, porticoes, and audience halls, which covered thousands of acres along the northern part of the Bay of Artesphihan.

"When the enemy begins moving their ships and their men around, then it means war." Jumalak turned away from the thirty-cubit map table and found himself a chair on the elevated platform behind him. "But this—this wedding-match between the Royal House of Windermere and—and—this Lowren, or his vassal Kann rather. He must be an interesting fellow, and yet we know virtually nothing about him. Quite frankly, I don't know what to make of it."

Verescens, the most senior of his generals, and the best planner of campaigns Jumalak had ever seen, cleared his throat deferentially. While the Great Khan took his soldiers and his officers, his talent where he found it and had a score of races represented in this room, Verescens was unusual in that he was a barbarian, and had come to him illiterate and untutored in the military arts.

It was the sheer physical endurance of the fellow that had first attracted the notice of his officers, and once given military command, a body of light horse at first, Verescens had quickly proven his worth.

And he had learned much over the intervening thirty years.

Verescens was tactful and reserved where others were ingratiating, fawning and drooling over the Great One like fools. It was bad enough when they wanted something but absolutely intolerable when making something as simple as a report.

It was said he had taught himself to read, and then set himself the task of reading every treatise on the art of war ever written. Slowly but surely he had risen to the top of his profession.

There was more than one reason Jumalak didn't just tolerate Verescens, he valued him and even thought of him as a friend. Jumalak had taken a hand in his career at an early stage, and provided dowries for his daughters. He'd found places for his sons in the army, navy, any service they wanted. The oldest son governed a small but turbulent province for Jumalak, in the mountains to the south and east of his more agriculturally productive provinces. There were some small mines producing gold and silver and the son administered the area about as well as anyone might expect. Any small indiscretions could be ignored or covered up, a small price to pay for the loyalty of one such as Verescens. The territory was unsettled at best, and the boy ruled the natives with a strong hand.

"It means something, oh, Great One. Alliances are forming up. Yet we know war is inevitable, and some of them possibly don't. They cannot really be sure, can they? And so their efforts will be half-hearted. We shall let them fool themselves as long as possible. Queen Eleanora gains a few thousand auxiliary troops, but assuming that is her only reason may be inaccurate. She now has a buffer state on her northern flank, but that is not a big change. The Lemni were already there. Yet, according to all sources, she does not plan offensive warfare, claiming strict neutrality as she does. This implies in the most manifest way, that she would not—or at least one would hope she would not—send troops, arms or ships, or any other form of assistance, to enemy combatants..." In a sense, he was talking for the sake of hearing himself talk, thought Verescens.

They always said that, of course. It so very often failed to happen, as neutral states would still try to maintain their commerce in the face of war. Not to take sides was contrary to human nature.

There were many different forms of aid.

"Or us." This was no trivial matter, for if peaceful trade with Windermere was both lucrative and desirable in terms of the raw economics of the state he was building, in war secure supplies of grain, meat and other products were vital.

"Or us, oh, Great One."

He not only had to feed the troops, but the populace of a great city, many of them in fact.

Simply to deny those resources to the enemy was a consideration as well. The Great Khan was prepared to expend considerable resources in order to do just that.

"So. They are arming and combining against us, then." With their friendly relations with the Empire of the South, and their relative geographical nearness to it, this was a reasonable conclusion.

The period of great expansion of the Empire had virtually ceased over a century ago. Since then they had lost one or two small vassal states, with only half-hearted efforts made to recover them. Those efforts had failed at great cost in men and money by all reports, in no small part due to military incompetence and official corruption.

The Khan believed such corruption stemmed from the top and worked its way down. Otherwise it would hardly be tolerated—not in any honest and frugal, proper and honorable sort of bureaucracy. It had to be winked at by the more powerful members or it would never get off the ground.

He, and all of his ministers in fact, had worked very hard to eliminate such practices.

"So it would appear." Verescens wandered around the perimeter of the table, stepping in close to examine various details, upside-down admittedly from that side of the table. He looked at the northern coast between Sinopus and the lands of the barbarians in between there and Windermere. The Heloi, another barbarian tribe, were slotted in below Windermere and then there was a sort of lawless buffer zone where the Empire held nominal sovereignty along a strip of coast. The sun-baked interior was dominated by the unlettered and possibly even unwashed peoples of the desert. As agreed, this thin veneer along the coast would be a desirable place to land troops, in the event of a two-pronged attack on the Empire. Their western outpost of Kthmarra, with a considerable garrison, would be cut off. The only problem was the neutrals and combatants left on your right flank and in your rear. The attack would split any alliance in two, and bring in much booty as the region produced dates, figs, and olives. There were small but well-garrisoned trading towns about every forty or fifty miles along the coastal strip. In the interior, for about a day's journey inwards, there were small forts. After that, nothing but desert and somewhere over on the other side of that, reportedly lay the Zagyges, a tall, slender black race who spoke a language known to no civilized man.

He eyed the scale of distance.

The massive red shape of the Empire of the South encompassed something like a million square miles, with small seas and vast freshwater lakes encapsulated within its borders. The Khan's rather more recently-established empire was only half the size in terms of area, but had a population almost comparable. Both had iron and copper mines, gold, fish, and grain in abundance. On paper, they were almost evenly matched, with a slight preponderance, at least in numbers, in favor of the Empire of the South. This preponderance would be negated by concentration of forces at the point of attack. This attack would consist of soldiers with superior training, superior tactics, superior strategy—especially naval strategy, which would come as a surprise to the enemy. As much as anything, the campaign was to be fast-paced, and relying on the shock and awe rendered by a combined-arms assault coming from many points of the compass.

He practically had it memorized by this time. The map's view of the Empire came to him at odd times. It was difficult to shake all the endless details, not even in his leisure hours. The campaign had come to dominate his life. The map was showing up in his dreams. He suspected it ever would, that he could never escape it, and that was something that few could ever really understand.

His master's voice came.

"I see now that the capture of Sinopus was a mistake in the larger and longer-term strategic picture."

Well, I did try to tell you.

He could never really come out and say that, of course. Deference was an adaptation he had made second nature long ago, for Verescens had originally been just another barbarian mercenary. Such skills had made his career meteoric while less subtle men had been disposed-of or forgotten and never called upon again.

What a long way we have come, he thought.

"In what way, oh, Great Khan?"

"It was too much, too soon. Unfortunately I never could pass up any real opportunity." It had probably been just enough to set the others thinking.

The taking of Sinopus had revealed some part of his intentions before it was really necessary. As to what the enemy might make of it, that varied from place to place—which was an assumption fraught with imponderables.

He saw that now.

Sinopus could have been taken later, in early spring, using the exact same strategy of bribing the nobles, fomenting riot and unrest, and then offering a protectorate that quickly turned into political and economic dominance—all for the good of the people of Sinopus. Their fleet might have been waiting, poised to strike at the first signs of break-up. They had chosen to do it another way.

A ferret of a man, the bastard son of the former khan now kept the throne warm for them, in spite of the obvious risks. Such fools were everywhere, thought Verescens with contempt. His time would come all too soon.

There were other considerations, but then there were always other considerations.

Having taken the place, the bulk of the troops had been withdrawn, leaving a substantial garrison. The rest could now be used elsewhere when spring rolled around. They would be in place, ready and waiting just a few miles from their start-lines.

The small city state, situated at the northeastern corner of the Great Sea, had been taken by bluff as much as by subterfuge.

Verescens nodded, grinning slightly, reassuring his master that was all a bit of a joke, really.

"Yes, they've really got the wind up now, haven't they?"

Their information, and there was an awful lot of it, was a multi-year compilation from many different sources, diplomatic, covert and public. Sometimes it came right from the mouths of the foreign kings and queens themselves. The number and types of forces that might be arrayed against the Khan, in certain cases as Verescens was fond of calling them—a word that simply did not exist in his native tongue, was known with a fair degree of accuracy.

"According to Lowren, he can call upon ten thousand mounted warriors, and in any paper calculation, he can round up a considerable number of volunteer infantry."

"What's your point, Master-General Verescens?"

Verescens nodded at the use of the title, for the Khan and he were not the only ones in the room.

"For one thing, they are just paper calculations, relying only on some rather amateur census numbers. While I am sure that Lowren is not a fool, and that he has some rational appraisal of their abilities, I strongly doubt if they're half as good as our regular troops." In most circumstances, he was thinking, but the Great One knows that too.

Most of our troops. The most highly-trained would jump off and lead the attacks on several fronts. The most newly-levied would still be training, or at best on garrison duty, patrolling the roads for thousands of miles, protecting official convoys. The list went on, and the need for large numbers of what were essentially just warm bodies, was still pressing even in the event of a quick campaign in the face of a demoralized enemy.

As for the speed at which the Hordesmen could gobble up territory, that was all guesswork.

This put it essentially in the laps of the gods.

They stood in a thin circle, officers in a rainbow of colors and uniforms, eyes and ears agog as their greatest general and the Khan went through yet another map exercise for the benefit of senior commanders. Each raised points, and each raised objections, their words going back and forth as the stalked about the table, here, there, back and forth. Others put in questions and comments, and these were dealt with one at a time, as thoroughly as possible. They took turns playing the demon's advocate. Most of the points were well known but bore repeating. Their troops would come from a thousand different clans, tribes, nations, and the Khan's own regular military services. There was a good representative group there today—all regulars, no auxiliaries or barbaric chieftains had been invited. Theirs was but to accept their pay and do what was asked of them; and to observe certain proprieties when in contact with the Khan's own people or when crossing his territories.

"I think he is overestimating his own abilities. Even if he could put that many men and horses into the field at any one time, which I doubt, they will very quickly melt away." This was especially true in the case of summer campaigns, and ever more so in the event of a summer siege, where the attackers had no amenities in terms of sanitation, cooking and housing the troops.

They had gone so far as to compose Tables of Attrition, for their own troops and the enemies they expected to encounter. The Horde were fairly competent in all aspects of war and were becoming quite professional in analyzing their victories and defeats.

It was something new in the art of war. Verescens thought it was a bit much but had never said so. There was something to be said for planning, after all. Logistics was everything, something a good general never forgot.

"In my very humble assessment, this represents a negligible force in any conceivable, set-piece battle. This does not take into account engagements on terrain and under conditions which might not be of our own choosing, oh, mighty Khan."

There was little doubt ten thousand Lemnian troops could do a lot of damage. They might wipe out small or badly-handled detachments of regular Hordesmen, somewhere off on their own and without support.

"Very well."

"Yes, oh, Great One. But this is not actually my point."

There was a long sigh from the assembly, on their feet for at least a couple of hours at this point and no end in sight. They were going to war, and would acquit themselves with great honor and gallantry when the time came. Other than that, most of them followed orders, with great enthusiasm in some cases and with some degree of reluctance in others. All they asked was to be pointed at an enemy. Their training and discipline would take care of the rest.

They fully expected to win and their units had the captured enemy standards to prove it. They had lost battles and for the most part survived the experience—there were the dead and maimed, of course, in any battle.

There, but for the grace of the gods go I...

"Go on." There was the fine glint of humor in Jumalak's eyes, for the rather more ordinary generals all knew that Verescens had never lost a battle save one—which he had once said was more than enough for him.

"Lowren."

"Lowren has lost a few battles over the years."

"Lowren and Eleanora...together now, somehow, in a way or manner, which we do not fully understand. She is great friends with the Heloi, and even Lowren has been making the rounds of his neighbor's courts."

"And this troubles you?" If his general could be somewhat maddeningly intuitive at times, his master was never very far behind him.

The Khan strolled over and took his seat again.

"Oh, Great One. It is just that other than the Emperor himself...those two are the only ones to demonstrate any real imagination in the governing of their own kingdoms. Lowren's division of his forces at the Battle of the Otrapopa River was dead against all military doctrine—and it was also brilliant, and quite frankly resulted in the massacre and dispersal of the Ju'upiano."

The Lemni were known for mounted bowmen and intrepid infantry, untrained in large formations and yet highly-skilled in the arts of various weapons. According to reports, they would go into battle with swords, small bucklers, long-bows, crossbows, pikes, spears, slings, everything in the barbarian military inventory save the use of poisoned arrows. Every second archer, especially the crossbowmen, had a boy, or pavisor, to carry a pavis, a tall, square-cut wooden shield propped up with another big stake. The kid or perhaps a lesser-skilled adult would be loading spare bows just as fast as he could while the senior archer sniped away.

They would poison a well or burn a village in a heartbeat he expected, to deny it to an immediate enemy force.

To give them proper credit, they didn't seem to engage in the mass executions of prisoners, and yet they weren't above burning the crops and driving off all stock, or killing any suspicious males of military age that they came across—it was said they detested their own deserters as well. In a vague sense the Khan wondered why the Lemni would even come into the equation. The concern over Windermere was another matter, as everyone agreed on the economic basis for that aspect of their plan. The Lemni were subsistence farmers, herdsmen and fishermen. Any surplus they had from year to year barely met the combined needs of trade, a primitive kind of nation-building (they had to give Lowren full credit for that) and the most minimal taxation.

There would be precious little left over for military preparations.

And yet in war, the very smallest detail often matters the most—for want of a nail a shoe was lot, and so on, and so forth.

After some thought, the Great Khan took a good breath and sat up straighter in his chair.

"Very well. Thank you, gentlemen. You are dismissed."

A rumble of grateful conversation lifted from the crowd of generals and admirals in the room and then the Khan was left alone with Verescens. The filtered out, still muttering over what they had seen and heard and of course their own role in it.

They were wondering how they would fare.

The general, used to the routine, waited for the last one to leave. The stone-faced guards closed the doors to the war room again. The two white-clad men froze into their unnatural position, spears held at the ready.

"So, General. What do you think? What should we do?"

"About what, oh, Khan?"

"About Lowren and Eleanora—and this Theodelinda person, and whoever she plans to marry."

"My personal suggestion, uttered with the deepest respect, my master, is that we should do nothing."

"Nothing!"

Verescens nodded gravely, then bowed deeply in spite of slightly-arthritic knees and an aching lower back.

"We can't do that." His lord and master smiled his most charming smile. "Can we?"

"Certainly we can. We can simply ignore it, in fact that is our wisest course."

"And why do you say that?"

"Because I fear this Lowren—and I think I fear this Queen even more, oh, Great One."

Jumalak thought about it. Why give them any more credit than they had before?

Don't give them the satisfaction, in other words.

"We might observe them closely, oh, Khan."

"Because she's giving her own cousin to this henchman of Lowren's?"

His face went hard, as if suddenly petrified by the dry desert wind. A pleasing picture entered his mind. A captive Theodelinda was a tempting bargaining chip. He had a few henchmen of his own, and some of them would truly appreciate such an honorable gift.

"Something like that. The problem is that I don't understand their thinking, oh, Great One. More than anything I don't like surprises from our enemies, and just when we are so close to being finally ready."

Jumalak fell silent. He could reinforce Sinopus, and probably would in spite of Verescens' insistence that it wasn't decisively important. It wasn't the general's city, or his empire for that matter, to lose.

But to just sit there and do nothing, in the face of what might be a carefully-calculated insult, was intolerable to one of his disposition.

As to what other moves they might make, Jumalak really couldn't see anything on the board that hadn't already been foreseen, taken into account, and ultimately provided-for.

The waiting was always going to be the worst.

And, as Verescens had put it in his own humble, forcible eloquence—I do not like surprises.

"Verescens."

"Yes, oh, Khan?"

"When does the northern part of the Great Sea freeze, anyways?"

Chapter Fourteen

Jumalak was pleased to be able to reinforce Sinopus before the big freeze-up made further movements by sea impossible.

His spies were everywhere. Their reports were interesting if not entirely unexpected as to contents.

Kings and princes and lesser khans, queens and the meanest tribes with any vestige of pride or liberty remaining to them were in ferment. Couriers, post riders, diplomats and ambassadors went back and forth. Spies were said to be everywhere, and more than one man or woman had already lost their lives on mere accusation. Fears and feelings were running all too high. The truth was that nothing much had happened since Sinopus fell under the sway of the Great One.

The Heloi had signed a defensive pact with Windermere, and stated their neutrality in any conflict in the region that did not directly affect their long-established and equally well-known interests.

The Sicurri were encamped on the northeastern borders of Lowren's Lemnian kingdom. They moved about every ten or fifteen years, and this was about the southern end of their range. The vassal tribes and related bodies of barbarians were surprisingly peaceful. Their normal pattern of raiding back and forth amongst themselves, especially in winter, was somehow held in abeyance.

The enemy had their spies as well. The problem with barbarians was their propensity for selling their swords to the highest bidder. There had been cases of defections, where a band of light, mounted auxiliaries had taken their pay, and ridden off. This was the unfortunate result of minor corruption among some of his officials, who had been rather summarily punished for the indiscretion.

It was too late, of course, but it sent a certain message to other officials.

To let their pay get too far into arrears was their first mistake, Jumalak considered. But to pay it all off in one go was another—they were all up to date and they had an end date in their articles of service. If they chose not to re-up, there was little he could do about it without it being noticed. Simply to make up the numbers, they would be relying heavily on native troops, and tributary bands sent by minor kings, and then there were the professional mercenaries. Not all of them were illiterate barbarians, either. They could and did send letters home.

At this point in time, any sort of notice was unfavorable. All the Khan's officers could do was to smile, wave goodbye, and chalk it up to experience. It was always unwise to send barbarian troops into battle against their brothers and cousins. The usual remedy was to put them up against some other foe, a blood enemy if possible or merely a foreign race they had never heard of.

With no moral objections either way, not going up against their own tribesmen, they usually acquitted themselves well enough. The lure of plunder and adventure, beauteous slaves and a fistful of gold pieces was plenty of motivation for the typical barbarian auxiliary soldier. The money was one thing and making a name for oneself as a warrior was another.

The trouble was that the ones that went home would talk—and his own rather burgeoning nation was abuzz with talk. Talk of troop movements, talk of ships building. Talk of press-gangs going through remote fishing ports with writs of assistance, forcing men into service. Men who had no choice but to work for a living, forced to abandon their homes and family to man the galleys and supply ships, in a fleet that had doubled and then tripled in size over the course of two or three years.

As for the wedding of Theodelinda and Kann, who they had labeled a 'Master-General,' a ludicrous bastardization of the term, it apparently had happened and there didn't seem to be any subterfuge involved. Jumalak was treating it as a joke.

It was said the couple were very much in love and that they were living fifteen miles from Lowren's capital of Lemnis, a few miles back from the sea, on the high road to Windermere.

Jumalak was living on milk and rice these days, so nervous he was about the spring thaw.

It was vital to be the first into action.

The closer the day came, the more objections he could think of. Endlessly changing the plan would only sow confusion and cause foreseeable headaches a little further down the road.

The plan was set, the forces were in position or garrisoned not far from their start-lines. The training of secondary levies was approaching its peak.

It was to be the largest combined-arms operation in history, with ships, men, horses and siege train designed for maximum mobility and the ultimate in controllability.

Some of it was experimental, and he was on tenterhooks as to how it would all turn out.

In the meantime, he worried, fussed, fretted and watched as best he could—and he waited.

***

The worst part of winter wasn't winter at all. It was the lead-up, late autumn, when the sky was persistently grey, when the days were getting shorter and shorter, and the world existed in a barren five or six colors. There was grey of the sky, setting the tone with its luminous bleakness, and then there was white, and then there was black. There was the blue of the sky on those rare occasions when it could be seen. There were tiny bits of green, moss and the erratic blades of hardy native grass poking out from beneath the dead leaves, and then there was the color brown.

In the beginning, all of the world was brown, and, the moon shining through the mist hanging over the hot springs and their attendant swamps, and the stars at night, were the only cheerful things not of human manufacture.

When the snow finally fell, and when it stayed around a while, the world was a brighter place and extended travel again became possible over mud now frozen. Impassable rivers became highways through the black and howling wilderness.

The yellow glow in behind many a small, grimy, steamy window was the only visible reminder of human existence, and with the dim shadows moving around behind them, a welcome beacon for anyone caught on the road when the night came down and obliterated the dismal prospects of day.

Winter that year was long and cold with unusually heavy snowfall right up until the bitter end. Then there came the weeks when the lakes were still frozen, but the rivers and streams foamed white and green with melting snow, and after that, all of the land was mud. Cubs and fawns suckled and took their first tentative steps. The birds of spring returned to join their brethren of the wintering populations, and reptiles climbed up out of the mud again to bask on rocks and logs in their backwater sloughs. In rivers and streams, oxbow lakes scatted up and down the lengths of the great rivers, schools of fish fought to spawn and continue their race for another season.

The first green sprouts came up, and the small red ends of the tree branches began to swell, and enlarge, and to finally crack open. The winds picked up, warm enough that men, lungs tired and sooty after a long season indoors, would gasp and sweat and curse just walking a few yards on the soft ground getting to the barn.

In the meantime, the world, agog from end to end with the foreshadowing of great events, held its breath and wondered.

***

Jumalak was of average height, although of unnaturally-pale coloring for one of his race. He was of average build, and yet his erect bearing and superior posture had always made the most of the costume. With its narrowing black trousers, tight-fitting field grey vestments and under that, a white shirt with slightly billowing sleeves, and wide cuffs of three buttons, he looked fit, healthy and eager. And yet, he had found no more time for rest than anyone else. The Khan worked as hard as any junior officer, one had to give him that much. As for the jacket, the garment closely resembled that of the other uniformed officers in the room. It was the ornate headgear and more than anything the high, arching collar with the pointed corners sticking up about his ears that really distinguished him from any other person in the room. All of them were of noble birth. In a very real sense, Jumalak had no more right to the seat of power than any of them. It was not solely by force either, that he had gained such political and personal power that at times awed his most trusted advisors. Having learned much about political intrigue in the seraglio and ultimately the court of his father, Jumalak had achieved a cool and rapid assessment of character and abilities. This skill enabled him to collect the sort of men who would do his bidding, and well, and in perhaps too many cases, without a whole lot of questions. While Verescens could see the usefulness, he also saw the potential complications that such men could too often spawn. One could not be in the room with him and not feel the force of his personality, his dynamism, and what some had called his sick, dead eyes.

It was the power of that mind that was impressive.

In some strange and possibly unrequited fashion, Verescens had found a kind of liking for Jumalak, which was a strange bird indeed. The fact was, that Verescens worried about him sometimes. Jumalak could be refreshingly open and honest in spite of his power and position, and wasn't all guile. It was a glimpse of the genuine person underneath.

Jumalak was happy today, it was written all over him when most others looked worried or if nothing else, slightly nervy. The Horde had a lot riding on this adventure—which was how Verescens had seen it right from the start, as there was no real need for it.

In a private moment, Jumalak had even admitted as much, saying it was the hobby of kings to quarrel and to make war. He was only thirty-four years old, and he wasn't getting any younger.

The Horde was strong, stable and rich.

There would never be a better time, as the Khan had put it to an intimate little gathering of his most senior advisers.

To say the fellow carried it off well would be something of an understatement, and yet the Khan was subtle and sophisticated enough to realize that it helped immensely if the men immediately about him actually liked him.

Verescens had admitted a kind of personal affection for the Khan, and believed that he had always served his master very well because of it.

"All is ready, oh, Great Khan." Mastioch stood, hands clasped, head slightly bowed.

Verescens, standing beside his Lord and Master, nodded in agreement with the statement made by General Mastioch.

"Gentlemen." The Great Khan's golden voice rang out over the heads of the men there.

All of the orders had been cut and dispatched, and the first waves of troops were marching according to plan.

"The greatest battle in history has begun."

The Khan turned to his senior strategist. He rubbed his hands thoughtfully.

"Give the order, Master-General Verescens. The honor truly belongs to you."

"Thank you, oh, Most Enlightened One. A signal honor indeed." Verescens nodded at Mastioch, standing at attention before them. "You may proceed, General."

Mastioch, speechless apparently, almost overcome with the moment, made his formal salute, turned and quickly left the map room. He had an oddly jerky gait as he went. Their coterie of gaudy and rather rigid-looking staff officers stood waiting in hushed attention, all eyes on them.

While they expected to win in the end, every man there knew there would be losses and defeats. There would be disasters and incompetence. Heads would be lost on the single toss of a coin, and those heads might not be confined to the enemy, as the Khan did not tolerate failure except after the most extraordinary of efforts.

This moment, important enough for the history books, was really more of a formality. All formal responsibility rested here, on this very spot.

The troops had left the start lines an hour before true dawn, and certain rather heavy contingents of the fleet had been at sea for days. A point had been reached and there was no recalling them now.

"At last." The Khan signaled for drink. "There is no stopping us now."

A previously tense and silent assembly of the most senior staff officers began to swell and murmur with talk that seemed more gratitude than anything else. It was the release of tension, after literally months, years in some cases, of planning, training, and exercises, followed by critique, analysis, and then more training and preparation.

The fortunes of war were so very uncertain, and yet fortune favored the bold—and the best, and those with the longer swords, the stronger bows, and the most arrows.

They were finally going to do it, after years of talk and preparation—and these men would be an honored, integral part of it. If they weren't already rich, and most of them were, they all certainly expected the shower of rewards to begin imminently.

Some of their first objectives would have already been taken by now; small border crossings, towns just inside enemy territory, that sort of thing.

"Yes, oh, Great Khan." Verescens took a long breath, as he wondered just for a moment if that really was a burst of adrenalin in the guts and why it might be there.

He really hadn't been looking after himself, not for months, and in the previous weeks, sleep had been a luxury he couldn't afford. His mouth felt tacky, his eyes were like radishes in their sockets and he couldn't recall the last time he had had a proper bowel movement.

He sighed expressively. His wives and children were becoming strangers to him, but there was no point in complaining.

"It couldn't have come a moment too soon, Great One."

Jumalak, feeling this was the best natural high he'd ever experienced, laughed aloud, slapping Verescens on the shoulder and giving a delighted glance at the nearest of the officers.

"That's the spirit." Jumalak cleared his throat. "Now you see why I love this great, big lummox."

They cracked up and Verescens smiled in spite of himself, shrugging in a theatrical manner and rolling his eyes. He clenched his jaws and went with it.

It wouldn't last long, but it was a good moment. In point of fact, he was a good head taller and fifty pounds heavier than their Khan.

"Ah. Let there be wine—"

And sure enough there was, brought in by a flurry of young men in their household hose and tunics, fancy enough at the best of times.

Verescens suppressed a grin.

While alcohol wouldn't have been Verescens' first choice right about then, there was something to be said for the camaraderie and the opportunity for the Great Khan to let his hair down for a moment and just be there. He was one of them, all engaged in the greatest military exercise this planet had ever seen. Verescens, with plenty of opportunity to observe the Great One up close and personal, had often wondered why he had ever wanted such a fate, or why he was so well-suited to it, and quite frankly, how he stood it.

In his own opinion, it really was a fate worse than death, where there was no one you could ever really trust, all statements were self-serving, all friendships false and all acquaintances grasping.

I would strangle myself with my own bowstring, thought Verescens, meeting the Khan's eyes in an oddly intuitive moment.

The Khan's face, with his sweeping mustaches and pointed black beard, his wide cheekbones and pinched cheeks, looked every inch the fearless leader. It was that superior intellect that had impressed him the most—that and the pathological need for dominance, usually by means of terror rather than persuasion. His tight-fitting golden skull-cap, conforming to every bump and contour of that long head, gleamed in the light of a hundred torches.

As for Verescens himself, he had only truly been happy at the head of a small but intrepid band of his own people, when poverty and danger were not hardships but the forging of a bond that could never be broken. He longed for those days; those days were long gone—a line from an old epic poem he had once recited before the hetman and his table in his own village, so very, very long ago.

The Great One eyed him curiously, allowing him a moment for whatever reason.

Jumalak gave an inquiring twitch of the head.

"A penny for your thoughts."

"And you shall have them, oh, Great One."

A few of the nearer officers chuckled on hearing it, still eying the map and each other in speculative fashion though.

The master nodded thoughtfully, the eyes came up and Verescens grinned.

"Yes, master!"

Jumalak smiled, almost colorless eyes probing, seeking, always studying those around him for any sign of defect, uncertainty, or evasiveness. Verescens examined him in return, just as frankly, perhaps one reason for his long survival in a position not known for job security or a long life expectancy judging by the fate of some of his predecessors.

He nodded, looking around at the others.

The Khan raised his glass.

"Here's looking at us, boys!"

A ripple of suppressed energy went through the assembly, now gathering in close, as close as they dared, in the hopes of being seen, of being rewarded and remembered, in the hopes of seeing some signs of approval or even affection.

Ultimately, they were not to be disappointed, thought the Master-General.

Verescens' line was right out of the Book of Protocols.

"Here is to our Lord and Master, Jumalak, the Great Khan of the Horde!"

"...yayyyyyyyyyy!!!"

The cheer that rang out in the great map room was something that hadn't been heard in quite a long time, and as they drank, a philosophic and rather somber Verescens was fairly certain that there would be more of them.

Not to say there weren't risks, because there were—and plenty of them.

There was just no way to foresee every possibility, to forestall every gambit, to win every battle.

The simple fact was that no one could foresee the future, and the fact that all the auguries were good comforted the highly-experienced Verescens not at all. Auguries were just chicken-guts, in the final analysis. It was an old proverb of his people.

The communications officer stepped forwards, fully briefed on what to expect today and what exactly he was supposed to say.

He clapped his hands.

"Your attention please, gentlemen."

The glasses were reluctantly lowered and the room grew silent.

"Reports will begin to trickle in within a day or two. These reports will be mostly routine, at first, reports of departures and deployments, and we cannot expect any real results for several days." He glanced back at Verescens and his sovereign, who nodded casually. "Some will find it expedient to return to their posts, your offices and departments, and that is to be expected. We await further developments. Suffice it to say that all is well so far."

There was a light and incongruous smattering of applause at this statement and Verescens suppressed a snort. There was nothing much happening that wasn't hundreds or even thousands of miles away and there was nothing to do but wait. It was like hanging on meat-hooks while you tried to eat, to piss, to shit and to sleep, he thought.

The communications officer, a captain on this shift, turned back to the semi-circle of bright and expectant faces. There were any number of races and creeds in that room, which said much for the swath the Great Khan's father had cut through the desert and the mountains a generation ago, not to mention Jumalak's own more recent acquisitions.

"In the meantime, while there is a tendency to relax, let's all stay on our toes and do our jobs. And pray to the gods that everything goes our way."

After another quick glance at an indulgent master, he bowed rather informally and quickly moved back to the periphery, where he had a large table of his own and a number of scurrying assistants. This was the locus of all messages coming in and out, written or oral, whether excruciatingly important or the most niggling of detail.

With the Khan giving no real cues, sooner or later someone had to be the first one to speak, the first one to drain their glass. And then, seeing that all was well with the Great One and that he was cheerfully ragging some of the more junior attendants, a bit pale around the gills as they might be, the talk eventually became a little more animated.

Chapter Fifteen

There was a faint glow on the northeastern horizon.

It was a moment pregnant with suppressed emotions. The tension was unbearable. It was also a moment of sublime beauty, to be remembered as long as one lived...

Dawn lay not far off. Lowren stood in the bow with a picked man or two, for the reefs lay on their port side—hopefully. It was only when they saw the creamy foam of the surf, which lay a good one and half miles out from the land, it was only then, when they knew they had succeeded. There were only the faintest of sounds from over there.

He turned to a sailor at his elbow.

"Good. Excellent. Send the signal." With constant trade all along the littoral of the Great Sea, the area was not just well-known but well-marked on their charts—just as Captain Rollo and other fleet captains had assured them.

Showing confidence in his captains and their navigation, Lowren had stationed the Cygnus at the head of the port column. She was a hundred and twenty feet long. Swift, long, low and lean, thirty warriors rode the ship. They were all armed to the teeth. Twenty more hand-picked men sat with oars ready to be fitted. There were a half a dozen sailors and boys, all busy and underfoot at the present moment. Under full sail and making good way, the ship breasted the waves with a lurch and a shudder, wind full at her back and stern-high much of the time as the helmsman sawed at his massive oar.

Lowren and a seaman made their way to the poop deck, a raised platform where the helmsman and captain rode, and where his own small party tended to congregate. It was out of the way of the soldiers and the oarsmen, although the small area seemed crowded at the best of times. The treads were narrow and the ladder steep.

They had been waiting for just such a moment. It was a risk, but a calculated one.

With the breakup complete, a strong northwest wind had blown all the ice far out to sea. Most harbors to the south and west would still be clogged—but Lemnia's small coastal ports, as well as that of Windermere and the Heloi had been clear for several days before the order was given. Sailing up the coast from Helois and Windermere, the combined fleets had gathered up the Lemni and especially their archers. He had a thousand archers dispersed throughout the fleet, one small part of his contribution.

The wind had shifted to the west and that would hold for a week at this season, according to all the almanacs.

Kann and Theodelinda were sort of entwined together, looking forward to the bows, as the captain caught Lowren's eye.

"Told you so." They were right on schedule.

Lowren, not quite trusting himself to speak, grinned and nodded.

The Cygnus led the port column, but now it was time to cut them loose. They were all volunteers in the ships that followed Lowren into battle.

The starboard column was composed of much larger vessels. With their two and three masts and tiers of sails, they still capable of keeping up with the Lemnian long ships, but packed with troops, siege engines and supplies. The bigger ships were from Windermere and the Heloi. The latter ships were manned by a rather husky breed of free men, fighting oarsmen who loved nothing better than swinging over on a rope, a boarding at sea and a pitched battle with hatchet, short pike or cutlass on enemy decks. While the Heloi didn't use shields aboard ship, their swords were long. It was said men standing on one ship had stabbed men standing on another—and who probably weren't all that expecting it at the time.

The Cygnus' first mate turned his hooded lantern to the stern. His hand worked the metal shutter and began flashing a dim yellow glow to the next ship in the left-hand column.

'We are breaking off. You are under your own command. Good luck. Cygnus.'

The flicker came quickly back.

'Stand by to take us off. The Black Duck.'

The response was a quick series of flashes, repeated here and there, all up and down the line as they located themselves, and then it was over. Lowren had two little ships trailing behind for that little detail. They would be coming in with the second wave. There were twelve ships in this initial assault. He had two more columns, a total of forty more ships, following two or three miles behind. They could follow up a successful attack, cover a withdrawal. They would be in a position to land on the flats below the town and invest it in a more conventional manner. An initial two-pronged assault had been ruled out. It just seemed too improbable in terms of timing and communications back and forth over several miles of disputed sea or land. Lowren had a fair degree of confidence in his plan.

If anyone could do it, these were the men to have with you.

The captain muttered low words.

"Ten degrees to starboard." This would take them to a lead point out front and in between the two leading columns, six ships in each, for the attack on Sinopus. "Tighten sail please."

The second instruction was for the mate, and he bundled off down the centre of the boat to make it happen. They were keeping their voices low, and the slop and lap of the waves drowned most of it out. Off to port, they could barely make out the sound of surf crashing on a beach. The boat pitched more noticeably with the wind more to the rear again. The ship was sheltered from the waves by a lee shore but the wind was still with her. There was a bare foot and a half of a rather confused chop now and that was about all.

Lowren felt the men's eyes on him. He nodded, and looked the nearest ones in the eye.

"Pass the word. Prepare to attack, gentlemen."

A low mutter went through the ship as the armor clinked and the boots and sandals shuffled in anticipation.

Lowren stared, fascinated, as a low headland seemed to reach out towards them from the northern shore. There was a line of hills backing it up, and then the shore turned right away to the northwest again. This harbor was unique along the windswept northern coastline. He could only hold his breath so long, and then the water magically got calmer as the captain spoke and the helm brought her around.

Off to port and behind them, the first of the pale and ghostly shapes of the fire-ships loomed, a long line of large fishing smacks and schooners from the express coastal trade. All were laden to the gills with pitch, dry kindling, and other combustible materials. Each of them had a good turn of speed, with a dinghy or small boat trailing along behind for the crew to escape...hopefully.

Theodelinda and Kann were holding on, trying to avoid a tumble into the helmsman.

"Whoa. Steady her up. Five degrees to port."

They waited.

There was a gasp, and Theodelinda was gripping both of their shoulders now.

Lowren licked his lips, trying to take it all in at once. The water calmed to a sheet of glass and ahead of them, outlined against the lights and pale towers, the seven hills of Sinopus rising above, he saw a forest of masts.

The bulk of the shipping was concentrated here, in the outer port. This was where the warships would be, unless they were building, undergoing refit, or being careened, scraped and re-caulked.

That didn't seem very likely, although it would have been a factor later in the season. According to sources, the major naval ships of Sinopus were tied up along the main pier, with skeleton crews and under guard against scuttling or sabotage. It would take only so much time for the Great Khan to find crews and train them.

He craned his head to the right. The only hint of the starboard column was a ragged saw-tooth impression of bleak, dark shapes against a dull grey horizon and the water, which appeared lighter than the sky in this light. They were to deploy to the left and right of the first ship to land. So far no other ships were edging out in front, not as far as he could make out. The second column was right where it was supposed to be.

"Two miles, sire. Ah—maybe a bit less."

The captain's voice carried the length of the ship. A quick mutter went through the men before their serjeants settled them down again.

"All right. I'd better get ready."

"Sire."

"No, Kann. You have your orders."

In the event of disaster there would be, must be, leadership that would be obeyed.

Kann didn't argue, knowing it would only irritate his king at a time when Lowren needed all his wits about him. That's not to say he didn't have a peculiar look on his face as they quickly grasped hands and Theo stepped in for a quick hero's-kiss.

"You've got a fine lady there, my friend, my brother."

Kann couldn't speak.

Lowren dropped carefully down the steeply-angled short ladder to the duckboards below the helm.

There were soldiers here too.

"Sire."

The one on the right handed him his helmet. The one on the left had his sword and buckler, with Lowren's arms, a golden eagle on a black field displayed. Everyone else looked ready and with their weapons and equipment in good order.

He heard a voice up above.

"One mile, sire. Our fire-ships are about to engage."

Lowren raised his voice.

"Gentlemen."

There was not a moment's hesitation.

"Sire!"

He didn't care who heard him now. With men slapping him on the arms, slapping him on the butt, slapping him on the back, he stumbled and lurched to the front of the ship with the two young soldiers right behind. A ragged babble came from off to the right and there was the sound of booms coming down and oars hitting the water. Men were shouting to the right and from up ahead now as someone up there on the battlements caught on.

"Ladder."

"All set to go, sire."

He grabbed a man.

"Out of the way, son."

The fellow snarled at him, but then saw who it was and hurriedly dropped his case.

"Sire!"

"It's all right, boy. You'll get your chance."

"Yes, Lowren!" The kid had tears in his eyes.

"Half a mile, sire!" The captain meant to be heard.

"Who are we?" His voice rang out into the night, and the first echo of it was coming back from the hard walls ahead of them, when the stunned troops around him recovered from the shock.

"We are the soldiers of Lemni!"

"Windermere! Windermere!"

Off in the distance came snatches of song and the clearly made out word Heloi!

Similar calls and battle-cries came from behind and all around them now as the men on the fire-ships, the bravest of the brave, gave it their all.

Torn on the wind, there were further shouts from the ships behind. There was a commotion off to the left, as the first fire-ship rammed itself into a fat merchantman and the two ships, one big and one ridiculously small, shuddered in a death grip. It would be an uneven battle.

The wind was gone and the captain was barking orders.

The men on the oars dropped them into the water and threw their backs into it. The mate and a trio of boys dropped the boom. The sail settled over the heads of a few oarsmen in the centre of the boat and the ship slowed as if confused.

There were curses and shouts all around now as they struggled to get the sail and mast stowed, or at least out of the way, the rowers trying to keep time as one of them shouted out a song of defiance and Lowren took one last look.

There was the captain, there was the helmsman clinging desperately to his rudder, white and pale in the face, with the predawn light making him seem bigger than he was in his oddly light clothing.

Theodelinda was staring up at the tall stone walls of Sinopus, practically hanging over their heads, clinging to the captain's arm, and Kann was in front of the mast now, directing someone on the ballista. They had it elevated and pointed at a guard tower just to port of their bow. A boy struck flint and steel expertly. He lit a brand and as it blazed up, touched it to the point of the projectile. They were all fully exposed now.

"Hey! Wake up in there!" Kann's eyes and teeth gleamed and the other man yanked the lanyard as the boy ducked away.

"Ten pieces for the lad! You have the honor, son!"

There was a loud spanking sound as the spring-catch was tripped and a heavy javelin hummed away, to twang off of the highest of the battlements.

Krump.

The second of the fire-ships hit home and grappling hooks were tossed, the ships were pulled in close, the ropes were tightened and tied off.

Men were yelling and screaming and jumping overboard already—it was a seaman's worst nightmare, a fire at sea. There were many slaves below decks, and many a man that had been impressed into service. More than one would fight half-heartedly, or so they felt reasonably assured...

Krump, krump.

Krump.

Orange blossomed and the harbor lit up on an instant. There were a few fires going now. Another blazing mob of ships were coming in...the shouting had become a continuous thing.

The harbor was unprotected by a chain. It had been dislodged by the Horde themselves, and the city's engineers had pronounced it unsalvageable before the spring. Spring had sprung, but they hadn't made any sort of a start on it, as spies had revealed. It was amazing, literally amazing what a few gold pieces and a little hate could do for a liberator. This was especially true if the right people knew you were coming and could keep a secret. The sort of people, who once bought, stayed bought. They had a plan to overcome any chains of course, but this was almost looking too easy.

An agonized glance revealed the hot and predatory shapes of more fire-vessels coming into view, the glare lighting up their sails and forepeaks and the small golden glow-worms in the mizzen-decks foreshadowing an ugly fate for any ship they managed to entangle. Even as he watched, the fires in the midsections flared higher. The shapes of men dropping into the boats were perhaps more sensed than actually seen...

"A hundred yards."

Something hissed past the gunwale and plunked into the cold, dark sea. Another hit the deck and someone jumped in their surprise.

There were heads bobbing around on the top of the wall.

"Archers! Loose."

Bows bent, they were ready and waiting for the order.

The men all around Lowren began emptying their quivers of arrows, swords in their scabbards and bucklers handily lined up along the inner gunwales in the front of the Cygnus.

The twang of the bowstrings and the thrum of arrows and quarrels filled the air in pulsing waves.

"Ladder—ladder." Four men dropped their bows and began shoving it upwards, desperately trying to clear the obstruction of the stem and its dragon-head decoration. "More men! More men!"

Lowren was almost blinded by something in his eyes, a suspicious moisture that spurted when he heard Kann and Theodelinda calling his name and the name of his country. He used his free left hand to guide the ladder past his head. They got it to the upright position as a total of six husky soldiers sweated and cursed and others yanked ropes and lines out of the way. They had it up vertical and one man looked at him...

"Go! Go! Go!" The captain was yelling and the men were cussing and with a crunch the ship ran aground a good twenty feet before the base of the walls. She only got a little further. The battlements were about twenty-four feet high along this part of the shoreline, fronted by a small beach of gravel and dead seaweed.

It was high tide and this was as close as they were going to get.

The bow sat with her nose on the gravel and the men, not unnaturally, were hesitant to let the ladder fall down. It would be impossible to recover.

"Ladder! Ladder! Damn it, I need the ladder."

Run hard ashore as they were, there was nothing for it but to let it drop...

The ladder fell forward, and Lowren could hear men's voices and running feet and the clink of weapons and steel up above as someone pounded him on the back. There were men on each side of the ladder, stabilizing it. It was a sublime moment when he realized the ship was almost silent and the men up above were shouting in pure consternation, looking out at the harbor and yelling their fool heads off. The ladder leaned crazily upwards, slanting slightly to the right but oh, well.

"I'm right here, sire!"

"Good for you, son. Good for you! Lowren comes! Lowren is coming! Prepare to die, you wretched foes, for Lowren himself now comes this way!"

Gripping his sword in his right hand, and with his small round buckler pulled hard on its strap as far as he could up the left arm, Lowren took the rung strongly in his left hand and carefully with the fingertips of his right hand. With the sword gleaming in front of his face in its rhythmic movement, Lowren, King of the Lemni began to climb.

Chapter Sixteen

The archers focused their efforts on the battlements at the head of the ladder, with the clinks and snaps of hard maple arrows hitting and throwing sparks from their steel heads as he came to the last few rungs. The ladder was a foot and a half short. If the boat had hit a little farther out, it would have been a damned difficult climb to get up and over. As it was, they were lucky.

The sounds of men shouting orders and observations from right up close, and the gleam of weapons was all he needed to see. He paused, hunkering there, and another volley of arrows smashed into the cold white stones of the crenellation he was aiming for. His ladder was just short, and there was no way for them to know it was there, if not for the ship below. They seemed rather reluctant to stick a head out and have a proper look...

A serjeant down below him told them to mind their targets and their king.

Someone up there screamed, mostly in fright, as an arrow bounced off the inside of the firing slot and went on, striking home somewhere off in the distance even as another volley was loosed upon it.

A glance to the right showed at least three ships, tucked right in against the walls, each a hundred feet apart, and Lowren picked out at least one man almost as high up a ladder as he was. Even as he watched, another ladder went up...shouts and cheers came on the light morning breeze.

There was a whole line of ships coming in and his heart exulted in the madness of their success so far.

He looked behind and saw the eager faces.

"Watch him! Don't hit the king!"

Lowren waved his sword, shrugged his buckler down into position, exhaled and sucked in cold, clean air. His powerful upper legs, all trembling in the knees as he was, forced him up over the edge and into the clear view of the man right there.

The man had his shield up, he had his head down, and yet he was still peeking around the corner of the big stones, trying to get another look at the ships and the situation below. He was also blinded by the glare of the now roaring fires off to his immediate right.

"Oh! Ah! Ye Gods." The fellow reared up and back as Lowren gave one final kick, hoping the ladder didn't fall and that he didn't follow it.

He was up on the wall and there was no going back now.

"Here I stand. I is I, Lowren, King of the Lemni!" He jumped at the dim paving stones below.

The man was backing up and heading to the left as fast as he could go. Beyond that, it was a long drop to the ground below.

The walkway was a good eight feet wide. Spinning in place, Lowren saw it with a corner of his awareness. He kept the wall as close to his left as he dared, shield up, even then hearing more feet drop over the wall fifty or a hundred yards further to the southeast. The man pulled and yanked and finally cleared his sword...

There was nothing for it but to keep shouting, keep shoving forwards, and begin a furious slashing attack even as the sound from the harbor side dropped and then it was just him and that other man.

There were others behind the enemy trooper, all madly shouting and clearing their weapons...

Lowren had him on height, weight and reach and the fellow was desperate to get away. The man had this sick look of desperation on his face as he weakly parried Lowren's blows. He slammed into the next soldier, who clearly hadn't been paying attention, and shrieking as Lowren ran him through. Another wild-eyed white face was shouting hoarse words and defending himself from a similar fate. Two more men of Lemni appeared at his side. The clang of steel rang out all around him. There was someone with a crossbow was on the top of the wall. They were giving a good account of himself, as man after man ahead of Lowren dropped before he could even really get to grips with them.

The screams of wounded and dying men pierced his consciousness and all was a scene of confusion.

His face and hands were wet with something slippery.

"Lowren! Lowren! To me! To me!"

"Here, sire!"

"At your back, sire! Keep going! Sire. Keep going."

His men were with him now, and the small number of troops defending this part of the wall were either dead, running, or heading for the guard towers and their stout doors. Bodies on the ground below attested either to their sheer panic or the fact that his men had simply thrown them headlong...

Lowren grabbed for the nearest man, the trooper's chest heaving with the exertion.

"There's no one to our left—have our troops locate the next ship to the right. We must link up and concentrate, right here."

"Yes, sire!" The man, a soldier vaguely familiar from training and parades, from the short but intense voyage itself, stepped over a half-dozen bodies, none of which were their own men and hurried off along the walkway, taking half a dozen men with him.

One or two of him men had been cut but looked capable of moving forwards. A fellow soldier was already dressing the forearm of another with clean cotton rags brought for just such a purpose.

"The rest of you."

"Sire!"

They all shouted at once.

Several had bloody swords and the rest looked eager enough.

"I need two men with axes." These had been issued to the stronger lads, especially those that knew how to use them.

Two of the group hurriedly sheathed their wet red swords and yanked the cords that held the axes to their shoulders.

"Sire!"

"Yes, sire! Here we are!"

"Take the door off that guard room and be quick about it."

If the enemy hadn't fled, if the enemy had any idea of what they were doing, if they had any kind of a serjeant in that guardroom, at any moment a flurry of crossbow quarrels would come flying out of the upper galleries. Not so much this tower, for they were at the top of the wall already, and there was no one on the parapet, which was twelve feet above their heads. It was those other towers, the ones studding an inner line of walls, one with a road separating them all around the perimeter of the city that concerned him.

A simple steel helmet and a coat of mail were no match for bows or crossbows, especially at such close range. It couldn't be more than fifty yards.

The ringing of axes barely made a dent in the great roar, as of a rushing of winds coming from the harbor. The alien noise, if anything, would add to the confusion, and running soldiers were a notoriously contagious sight. It would take the few enemy troops that escaped some time to regroup and even report. It wouldn't take long, but he had a half a minute. Lowren strode over to the nearest gap in the crenellations and had a look out there.

While the ships nearest the city and its seawall were still not involved, and with prompt action they might be saved, Lowren saw that all the fire ships and their immediate victims were fully engulfed. The lurid glare illuminated the small rowing boats as their crews made their exit. His impression was that all or most had gotten away, but it was impossible to properly count them. The excitement might have something to do with that.

The flames were coming up higher than the tallest tower of the lower level of fortifications. Even as the thought came, one ship in particular sent up a spectacular shower of sparks as a cargo of oil or bitumen took hold and the fire really set to with a will.

The wind was still north-westerly, but the ships of Sinopus and other neutral powers weren't targets anyway. The less damage there, the better.

The high inner walls and the towers overlooking this position must soon become a factor. He must get his men off the top of this wall. He strode back to encourage the men at the tower door, being very careful not to be clipped by a wildly swinging axe.

"Keep going." They could already see a bit of light through there.

If nothing else, the idiots should have doused any lights inside.

"Here's a bar, sire."

Lowren took the seven-foot bar and yelled at the axe-men to stand back.

A man threw his axe aside, and it fell clanging onto the roof tiles of shops and houses down below.

"Let me do it sire—"

Lowren handed him the crowbar, and with a lunge, the man embedded the point into a smashed bit of white wood beside the latch.

"I'll give you ten gold pieces if you can..."

The door scrunched and went swinging wildly to the left and the axe-man there jumped back, half pulling his sword out of the scabbard.

The man with the bar was standing there with a look on his face.

"Sire."

"Make it twenty—how tall are you, anyways?"

The man just laughed.

"We'll worry about that later, sire." The fellow reached out and gave the King a pat on the bicep.

He and his partner were in the door before even Lowren could think of some suitably-witty remark.

He followed, quick as a wink, but the quiet in there and the sight of their sides and backs, as they had their ears up against the opposite door, told its own story.

"That one just goes out the other side." The next guard tower was half a bow-shot away.

"It seems terribly quiet out there." The shorter one pointed at a heavy door on the inner or city side. "There's the stairs over there, sire."

"Where's the tower party?'

They were right there, six solidly-built young men clad in the most comprehensive armor that Windermere and the Heloi could provide. They each had a small but powerful crossbow, quivers of bolts on their hips, and short swords at their sides. More than anything, they knew how to shoot on the fly and when to go for the eyeballs.

"Sire! Tower party all present and accounted-for. Give us the word, sire!"

"All right lads, down you go."

One of the axe-men lifted the bolt from its cradle, yanked open the door and stood aside. The next phase began with shouts and the clank and clamor of swords, shields and men in armor. They crashed without hesitation down the circular stairway just as fast as they could go. Next came the two axe-men, one looking a bit sheepish when he realized he had thrown his axe away in his excitement.

Lowren gave him a look and indicated the door.

"Sorry, sire."

"You'll know better next time. Back up your partner and let's get on with it—"

The sounds of the fire in the harbor dropped off, but even then it didn't completely go away.

With another twenty or thirty men following down the stairs in single file, Lowren and the tower party continued their attack.

If everything went according to plan—and it never did exactly that, approximately thirty-six hundred of the Khan's finest troops were around there somewhere. In all likelihood they were spilling out of their barracks and billets and making their way at top speed, right for this very spot.

As for the people of Sinopus, now that the alarm had been given—and he could clearly hear the bells of the city ringing madly on the other side of those stone walls, hopefully they would quickly figure out which side they were on.

Otherwise, Lowren and his own little band would be looking at a very long day.

Chapter Seventeen

They had borrowed the Great Hall of Assembly, dedicated to the municipal government of Sinopus and its narrow hinterland. Lowren would have preferred a much smaller group, but they could hardly ignore the indignant shouts of the people of Sinopus, either.

He'd never seen so many people in his entire life, not all at one time, not all under one roof that is. Maybe on a field of battle somewhere, but this was a mob. The noise was horrendous. It was an impressive place. He'd never seen anything like it. Although Eleanora's city was beautiful, it was much smaller and there were no buildings like this one. The walls were polished slabs of a shiny black stone, and the ceiling a hundred feet high with generous clerestory windows on all sides.

King Lowren, Princess Theodelinda and Barreth, Admiral and commander of the Heloian contingent, sat impassively behind a polished maple slab in high-backed wing chairs embroidered in the arms of Sinopus. Behind each chair stood a magistrate of the small but bustling state, clad in the blue robe of their office. They would give whatever happened here today a legal sanction, and draw up any documents required. They would ultimately be putting their names on there too, but to the victors belonged the spoils, and the honors, of war.

At least they were getting their city back, and it didn't pay to be too pushy or too smug sometimes.

For the moment, they weren't exactly supplicants, neither were they fully in control—not yet.

Some of their suggestions as to protocols had been accepted, and for that they must be grateful.

There was some symbolism involved.

A few days had gone by, and the men still holding out in the citadel had been given an offer.

They'd also had a little time to think on it; surrender with honor or fight to the last man.

Lowren wore a gilt breastplate, an ancient relic from one of his father's wars, his habitual kilt, a white shirt, and a dark green cloak thrown back from his shoulders. For this occasion he wore the sturdy sandals of an everyday trooper. He wore no helmet. His hair was combed out and squeaky clean after a good hot Sinopean steam-bath. The king was properly shaven as was his wont. His sword lay on the table in front of them by prior agreement amongst themselves. He had been the first on the battlements and the plan was essentially his.

The diminutive Admiral Barreth, with his short grey beard and emphatic manner, wore a purple robe of state over his naval uniform. He was a parliamentarian and a counselor in his spare time as he put it, and Theo wore polished chain-mail from head to toe, with her long hands bare and without a weapon. She wore golden spurs, which Lowren thought was a nice touch. One could sense the fine hand of her cousin in there somewhere, almost as if she were present herself.

In the exact centre of the table were a carafe of water in a crystalline decanter and a circle of clean glasses upside down on the tray all around it. There were the usual papers and quills and inkpots common to all such affairs, albeit seldom used. There were bouquets of flowers set on benches behind them, screening them to some extent from view of the men there. They were of symbolic value. In Lowren's experience, people could get quite thirsty under such circumstances. He had seen men doodle and otherwise make small but useless notes at the negotiating table, desperately playing for time when it had long since run out.

The longer the siege, the thirstier people got, as it seemed to him. No, it was the mob of unwashed humanity that was different this time. They surrounded the little party on three sides, going up in tiers of elevated seating. In his own lands, or on his own battlefield rather, he never would have allowed it, as such events tended towards hot passions. Things could rapidly get out of hand just when they could have been resolved. The mob could be terribly fickle. Lowren had lost a few battles, none really badly, and had eventually settled every war he had ever been in—to the relative satisfaction of all parties concerned. It would be this way with the Horde, he was convinced. They were here to stay, but then so was he—and so were his new allies. The Horde would learn that lesson, just as they all must. Just as Lowren himself must have had, as he reflected on matters at hand, and it reflected no credit on him to humble a man already defeated.

We must have learned that somewhere, and let us hope the Khan does as well.

Hence the ceremonial aspect of all of this...if it wasn't for kings and philosophers, the world would never have gotten this far.

It was something his father had once told him. Appearances were important, he had reluctantly concluded, once upon a time. Never more so than with kings.

There was a flat central area with an aisle up the middle directly in front of the table.

They had row upon row of desks, more like pews really. They came in short blocks so people could come and go. It was a representative assembly. There were curving little bench seats attached to the desks. The seats were all occupied, in fact it was jammed. The people were mostly leaning forward to catch the action. The faces were beaming, still showing fury or emotion. Some were just curious, but none were reflecting the calm impassivity of the conquerors. There were all ages, and sexes, and conditions of life represented here and Lowren could see the value in it, for Sinope was what they called a democracy.

They weren't even to be given a governor. This was sort of unprecedented.

Sinope was a long reach for any one of them, considering their limited resources. Since none of the three conquering states had the power, the ability or the desire to govern the place, to avoid dissension and confusion, the people of Sinopus were to be set free again. The three powers would settle for favored-nation status, reduced fees for port privileges, and other commercial and diplomatic concessions, concessions that both recognized and re-granted Sinope and her citizens their hard-won sovereignty.

Reduced fees for port privileges, the thought made Lowren smile. His people traded to Sinope, but that was what war was ultimately about, nine times out of ten.

Let the Khan or some other idiot make it about religion, he thought.

It was being presented as a friendly rescue, an intervention, upon the pressing solicitations of certain public-spirited but forever to be un-named 'citizens of Sinopus.'

They were asking help to restore order...

It was a finely-calculated thing and Lowren had to give full credit to his senior partners in this well-brokered political and military deal.

It was a lesson in statecraft and one well worth observing.

Each allied nation had its flag, prominently displayed, slightly behind and flanking the flag of Sinopus, and each had their color guard, and each had a contingent of troops. Small detachments were lined up behind the trio, with others lined up against the back wall to observe, to intimidate, and to keep order if necessary. They had found a few soldiers and men of Sinopus. Once released from gaol, they had been rapidly adopted and re-equipped. It was this small crew, presumably more loyal to Sinopus than to their benefactors, who lined the back wall of the hall, ready to step forth and symbolically take their rightful places again. Their uniforms were a bit of a hodge-podge, but there they stood.

Lowren had to give it this much, it was a kind of political theatre. A half an hour and they would be done here.

"All right. We seem to be ready now."

The secretaries, done shuffling papers, backed off and made themselves scarce by the side wall, where they could be ready to scoot forwards and shuffle them some more.

Theo nodded firmly.

"I'm getting hungry."

Lowren chuckled but Barreth just looked patient—and possibly ready to go home.

Lowren leaned forwards and looked to Barreth on the far right of the table.

The gentleman spoke.

"Yes, let's get this dog-and-pony-show over with."

Some of the most honored, or perhaps merely the rich of the city of Sinopus occupied the front rows. The one on the end got up on a nod from a man in what was to him an unfamiliar uniform, that of one of the Windermere sea-captains. He went to the fifteen-foot tall doors. Two troops of the Heloi, standing there with naked swords held vertically at all times in their right hands, whirled in perfect form and opened them up for him.

His voice, muffled slightly by being directed outwards, came to the ears of the now-hushed assembly. There were vague echoes from the outer hallway.

A line of Hordesmen entered the room in single file, looking stunned.

The voices all around them rose in anger, and fascination, and the room was abuzz. They were all shouting at once. People said some very nasty things as the representatives of the Horde followed the noble of Sinope up to the head table. Lowren felt little hate for them. The people coming up the aisle did their best to studiously ignore it. They stood before the table and then nodded. One man bowed.

The noble of Sinopus took his elbow in an oddly friendly manner.

He indicated a chair. He stepped back, went around the escort, and then quietly took his seat again on the end of the front row.

The one man, forehead already glazed with sweat, took a seat and the others, looking slightly abashed by all the attention, stood behind him, sidling out left and right in a row. The funny thing was, the room wasn't all that warm, thought Lowren.

The troops of the Horde, completely unarmed as agreed, glared over the heads of the negotiating party and tried not to say anything stupid.

It was over.

They had agreed they would not stand, but otherwise the ceremony would be as brief and as painless as possible. They had accomplished all of their objectives. Nothing more than this was necessary.

"I am Lowren, King of the Lemni. In the centre is Theodelinda, a cousin and representative of Queen Eleanora of Windemere, and on her right is Barreth, Naval Master-General of the Heloi. She has and he has, and I have, full authority to treat with you or any authorized representative of the Horde. What say you?"

"My name is Captain Arkoz. I have full authority to solicit terms."

"Terms." Barreth nodded. "Very well."

He gave a side-long glance at Theo and Lowren.

"We will never surrender. We will fight to the last man and crossbow bolt...to the last arrow." Barreth surprised everyone with that one, face lighting up at the reaction.

The crowd roared as Arkoz' face flushed and his men's heads sort of sank into their shoulders, faces red and yet still defiant. One or two of them looked around and glared at their former subjects, however short a time it had been.

"With all due respect..." Theo held up a hand. "We appreciate this gesture, as it's always better to avoid unnecessary bloodshed."

She kept her hand up and they all just sat quietly for a moment. She really was masterful, thought Lowren. Barreth was still smiling, with a few thoughts of his own no doubt.

Theo's eyes were locked on Arkoz. Finally, after a time, the place quieted.

"We would like to hear your terms." Arkoz had some dignity left, and it was apparent he was here under some protest—but his commander couldn't face the moment or something.

It was said he was ill, and perhaps that was true. He might have been wounded, but so far they weren't saying too much about their situation up there.

"We appreciate the fact that we will not have to subject the citadel—and the city, to the prolonged dangers and sacrifice, all the rigors of a siege. For that reason, we are prepared to be rather generous." Her voice was firm and confident, carrying well in the large room.

The man Arkoz swallowed.

This was hard to take coming from anyone, let alone a woman. The contingent from Windermere was considerable, not to mention the tonnage in terms of ships, and then there was the gold of course. Barreth was grinning like a cat.

"I should still like to hear your terms, ah...Madame."

She bit her lip and kept her temper. Let him have his moment, she decided. He can tell his grandchildren about it—the only real satisfaction he was ever likely to get. The Khan was notoriously hard on losers and fools or even just the incompetent. If asked, she would have given an honest answer: they didn't really stand a chance, not with a perfectly-timed surprise attack, a good plan, and plenty of help on the inside. The men of the Horde had acquitted themselves well enough under such circumstances. She doubted the Great One would be so charitable to men who were worthy of some respect.

Theo looked into the eyes of a young Hordesman standing directly behind Arkoz.

She had no doubt he would have slit her throat in that moment, the anger and the pain were so intense.

She nodded.

"You will be well treated. You may keep your personal swords. You may keep your personal arms and effects, but the battle flags and any unit colors are ours. You will open the doors to the citadel and remain in it while our men secure the premises. You will offer no resistance. You will pile all bows, arrows, crossbows and bolts, in the central courtyard. That includes all spears, pikes, mauls, bills and maces. All arbalests, mangonels, ballistae shall be rendered inoperable. You will put out all fires and render them safe. You will undertake not to cause further damage or destruction to the structure or its contents. Do you have a question?"

Arkoz was nodding, as none of this was entirely unexpected.

"There's more."

"Yes, Arkoz. You will undertake not to loot, or pillage, or attempt to remove anything other than the private property of your soldiers. They may take their pay with them, and no more, for surely that all came with you. The military chest, what remains of it, is ours."

A considerable column of smoke had been seen coming from the central courtyard of the keep. Whatever it was, it had been burning since the evening before.

"You have destroyed much of your equipment."

"Yes."

"And your documents."

He said nothing, just watched her.

"You have prisoners?"

"Ah—yes."

"How many?"

"We have a hundred and fourteen civilians, maybe a few more. Four or five of your men. Most of them are hostages and prisoners, one or two camp followers. For the most part they will probably wish to stay here. There are one or two others. What will be their fate?"

"If they stay here, they will be dealt with, according to the law, by their fellow-citizens."

Deserters, spies, or just folks caught in the middle. It was no skin off their noses. It was best not to even inquire, sometimes.

Lowren spoke up now, and the Heloi general looked like he had something to say as well.

"They can go with you—if you would be so kind as to take them."

A wry smile escaped Theodelinda and even Arkoz seemed impressed. He seemed to relax, settling in the chair and shoulders slumping.

"Yes—I am sure that would be best." He looked into Barreth's eyes. "Yes?"

"You will be taken, in small groups, to the nearest convenient point of land belonging to the Great One—and I have no doubt that he is indeed great." Not to outdone, and with his own government to pacify when he returned, Barreth was going to put in his two pence worth. "You will be given an adequate number of pack animals, enough food, and sufficient medical supplies for your wounded. And you can walk from there."

He went on for their benefit and that of the written record.

It was all open country. They could follow the sea-coast, and the primitive fish-eaters who inhabited the area would be well advised to avoid disciplined troops armed with the famous short swords of the Horde. They still had twenty-five hundred men.

The thoughts went visibly through the captain's mind. All that was asked was their parole—and the surrender of the citadel.

"Very well."

There was a long silence as some of the young men behind Arkoz wept, and Lowren took the time to examine them carefully.

These were not mindless thralls under the spell of some mad magician. While any man's birth might be an accident of history or geography, the Khan had something—and it was enough to hold and bind men like this to him for whatever reason. Something like thirty-six hundred men had taken a city of fifteen or twenty thousand, that's how Lowren saw it. Sinopus was the Pearl of the North for a reason, and that reason was its wealth. That wealth had paid for a couple of thousand professional soldiers and plenty of fortifications.

Lowren nodded thoughtfully.

"On our behalf, please give our compliments to your master. There are no further impediments to peace here, and I assure you that you will be well-treated. The Lemni are not known for treachery. I give you my word, not just as a king, but as a man, that you are safe enough once you have given your word—and your hand."

Arkoz had water in his eyes as well, and yet none had any doubt that this was a brave man, perhaps a man who understood the notion of honor as well as anyone.

Captain Arkoz nodded.

"Your word will be sufficient."

He turned and looked at the men behind him, but none would meet his eye.

He turned back to the table.

"Very well then. How do we proceed?"

There were endless details, but the thing was essentially done and victory had been achieved. The hall itself was deadly quiet, so quiet that all had dropped away, leaving just the few of them. Lowren listened along, as they went back and forth, but after a while his mind wandered back to his homeland, and the recurring thoughts of Eleanora. He kept one ear on Theodelinda, with her mind like a bear-trap, and as much as anything, Admiral Barreth, who had a wealth of experience going back at least three decades of naval warfare (and their peace settlements and truces, which was all this really was) on behalf of the Heloi.

After a while, they all stood and shook hands like ladies and gentlemen, and then the Hordesmen went away again to present it to their commander.

Chapter Eighteen

It was very quiet, with not much happening or expected to happen at this time of the night. There were faint voices in the corridor outside. The twelve foot doors at the end of the chamber opened. The skylights had all been cranked open as the hot desert winds had been whipping up from the southeast, all day long as they normally would this time of year. The room had barely cooled since the noon-day.

A man stepped hurriedly into the map room, heels snapping against the hard black tiles. He had an exhausted looking rider with him, a fellow who hung back by the door on a wave from the officer.

They turned to see who it was, at this late hour. He stepped forwards. The officer prostrated himself on the ground, not rising until Jumalak cleared his throat.

"Please. Presumably this is important."

The man got up creakily, as the floor was hard and he had banged his knee.

"My Lord and Master."

"What is it?"

Something about the general's manner struck both Jumalak and Verescens.

"Speak. Out with it."

The man trembled visibly.

"Lords! Sinopus has fallen."

"What?" Jumalak was stricken.

Verescens' eyebrows rose.

"Shit."

"It's true, I am afraid." The messenger, for all of his rank, was desperately unhappy to be the bearer of bad news.

He held a flimsy piece of paper in his hand. The communications officer rose from behind his desk. He stood there looking hapless, eyes round as saucers, and one of his boys strode over to take the dispatch. Jumalak gave a flick of his wrist and the boy snatched it and pelted the twenty yards to the communications clearing desk.

After a hurried consultation with the code-books, they found certain key words, the proper ones for the putative date on the document, in a careful examination of the hand-written dispatch.

"It's legitimate, oh, Great One." It was their best guess.

That was all that could be said for it.

"All right, all right." Verescens had sort of expected the unexpected.

What a futile axiom that was.

"Well. Hmn."

This observation mostly applied to other sectors of their campaign and there had indeed been surprises. The taking of Sinopus had happened months ago and they all thought it completely secure. Other attacks had failed, for reasons that were sometimes hard to analyze.

For the most part, they had been the victim of their own failures to properly acquire and assess information on the targets. The Emperor was perhaps not the most valiant of foes, but he was turning out to be a canny general and his deviousness stemmed from decades of experience including war in all seasons and in all terrains. His navy was bottled up for the time being, and yet they were tying down the heaviest of the Horde's own battle-fleet units.

"I suppose you did try to warn us, Verescens."

"Hah." The sea wasn't his forte, but the admirals he had consulted were arguably the best the Horde could provide.

Verescens wasn't all that eager to criticize where his knowledge was so evidently lacking.

The Emperor of the South had thrown large garrisons into the most strategic towns along their respective frontier. These tended to be the places with the best road networks, and their schedule was already off as a consequence. There was an unfortunate tendency to get sucked into a long siege when it would have been better to bypass such strongholds. The coastal fortress of the Massagetaii, a kind of republican oligarchy, was a case in point. As long as it stood, it would be a threat in their rear or their flank. And yet it could have been bypassed.

"Sinopus has fallen." Jumalak marveled anew. "When?"

How in the hell did that happen, in other words?

"Ten or twelve days ago by our report, oh, Great Khan." The general, Verescens couldn't think of his name, was at his most obsequious.

"Very well. Be gone with you—and see if you can find out more." Verescens hoped this wouldn't be countermanded.

The general groveled in a generally backwards direction towards the door.

Going by the look on Jumalak's face, this might have saved the man's life.

"It's not his fault." The Great One's tone was mildly appraising, and he stared into Verescen's eyes for a second.

"No, Master. It is our own."

Jumalak nodded shortly.

"We need to know more, Great One."

"Yes, try and find out what you can." Jumalak studied the paper as the communications officer, a young captain on the night shift, flushed under his gaze.

"Don't worry, it's not your fault." Verescens might have been talking to a wall, but then the officer's eyes came around and he saw the gratitude there.

He bit back a futile grin.

Jumalak handed off the paper, silent, chin up, and he moved majestically forwards, went to the left around the corner of the table and paused to examine Sinopus and its relationship to the rest of the board.

"Hmn."

"Easy come, easy go, oh, Great One."

"I'm not so sure."

Verescens read the paper, nodding as the points hit home.

"So what do you think."

All Verescens had to go on was the information provided—and right slender it was, too.

The town of Sinopus, belonging by right of its legal surrender to representatives of the Great Khan Jumalak of the Horde, had fallen to naval assault after a siege of six days, in which over a thousand men of the Khan's had given their lives or else been grievously wounded.

The survivors had been put ashore after a parley with the victors. They were encamped, with good water and some food and supplies. They were recruiting their strength and making preparations for the march back to the capital or wherever they were ordered to go.

As best Verescens as could make out, the letter had been sent thirteen days ago, which might make the fall of Sinopus at least a few days before that. The messengers would have ridden flat-out all the way. The name of a bay and a village were mentioned, but it wasn't on any of their maps.

He wondered how they had done it, of course. But that was almost self-evident. On the land side, Sinopus was over a thousand miles from enemy territories. They never could have supplied a land campaign, and surely they would have heard about it long beforehand. The Horde had spies and merchants, ambassadors to all the tribes between here and there. The tribes were all peaceful on the face of it.

What was startling was that the enemy had attacked two days before their own invasion had begun.

"Verescens."

"Oh, Great One."

"Talk to us."

"This must have taken an extreme effort by their little alliance."

"Yes. Go on."

Verescens found himself, unconscious of how he had gotten there, standing by the big map table at Jumalak's side.

"It took a lot of ships. Ships to take the port, ships to transport our men to land according to this bargain they have struck—"

"And..."

"I wonder where all those ships are now, oh, Great Khan."

Jumalak bit his lip.

That was a very good question.

"Well, for one thing, Master-General Verescens. They'll be jamming men and grain into Sinopus as fast as they can." They would be preparing for a long siege...one would think. It was exactly what the Horde had been doing, in fact.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

Verescens turned to regard his Khan, who, to be fair, was not a fool by any means.

"Yes, master—maybe."

Jumalak's mouth opened and he breathed quietly, and then his eyes fell to the map.

"You mean you don't know—my friend, my teacher, my mentor?"

"No, oh, Great One." Verescens stood staring down at the map, trying to read their minds from across a thousand miles or more, and many days behind the times. "I simply don't know."

Verescens clasped his hands, and brought the knuckle of his right forefinger up to his lips.

He chewed away on it.

It probably changed everything, but for the life of him he couldn't quite see how. If nothing else, it sent a certain message. It was also the tactics of surprise. But surprise for its own sake was little or nothing without some tactical and strategic advantage. The enemy had simply taken a page out of the Horde's book. They had denied the Horde the use of Sinopus, which implied that they fully understood its significance in the overall strategy. Someone over there had a pretty good mind.

"Great One."

Verescens reached and took a small counter in the shape of one of their medium-sized war ships. They had an impressive number in reserve, in their home port of Artesphihan. They were there for the defense of the port and capital, and presented an overwhelming obstacle to any would-be invader. This had always implied the Emperor, in the past. His ships plied the Great Sea and adjoining waterways, and his naval forces were formidable enough. For the most part, the Emperor appeared to be holding his own ships back, waiting to respond to threats and attacks. His whole strategy was one of an economical defense—trading land and blood for time on some fronts, and using the smallest possible naval units in defending key installations. He was hoarding his resources for some later, perhaps decisive encounter.

But the Emperor had no wish to war in the first place, and was—at least so far—relying on a purely defensive strategy. This is just what the Horde would have wished for. It was the allies that had revealed themselves to be an unknown quantity.

He put the little ship down on the board, a few miles off the coast, just south of Sinopus. There were already a large number of naval units engaged in the supply and support of operations along the eastern coast of the Great Sea.

The invasion of the coastal strip south of the Heloi had taken place at the same time as the land attack on the nearest side of the sea. The Heloian land army was negligible. Both operations required a large number of heavy units. While a bare fifty thousand men had been landed in the southwestern attack, they required a disproportionate number of both warships and supply vessels to maintain them in the position.

The number of ships of either type remaining in reserve was looking smaller every day.

Verescens took two more of the crude but colorful wooden game pieces as he thought of them, and placed them by the other one just off Sinopus.

"This would be a minimum. We have to keep an eye on them, Master. And yet they are terribly vulnerable to a superior fleet, of especially the Heloi. Windermere, not so much—as for Lowren's little ships, they have their uses, no doubt. But I don't think they are heavy enough to take on our major naval units except under the most favorable circumstances of wind, and most likely, vastly superior numbers..."

"What about Windermere?"

"They have excellent transports, and a small number of proper warships, all two and three-masters." The ships of Windermere were the most seaworthy of them all, he added. "Their problem is that they are rather more suited to peacetime use—chasing smugglers and enforcing maritime law."

The Heloi relied on single-masted galleys, but then they had the seamen to man them. The Heloi loved nothing better than to ram and board, the Windermere ships tended to stand off and bombard with all sorts of missile weapons, rock-throwing catapults and then there was their use of fire-tipped javelins.

Jumalak moved around Verescens, as another senior officer entered the room and came over. He saluted in a quick and informal fashion, and took a good look at the men and the map.

"So you've heard, Rottewald."

"Yes, oh, Great One." The fellow chewed a lip and eyed Verescens.

"Do we know where the enemy fleet...or fleets are now, sir?"

"No."

Verescens rubbed his pointed beard in an absent manner as he studied the board.

"In the south..." Verescens was thinking out loud, but it was not unwelcome.

Jumalak was rather stumped by this one.

"...in the south, the campaigning season is much longer. But up north—where we get at least some of our supplies, and where many of our troops are stationed, the season is much shorter..."

"And?"

He bit his lip. The Great Sea was almost two thousand miles from north to south, and the southern arm, off to the east, went six hundred or so miles further south than that.

"I don't know, Master. And that worries me to no end—"

Rottewald had a thought.

"With enough supplies in Sinopus, they could support a large incursion of horse into our northern provinces."

Rottewald had a point. Reports from the lands north of the Great Sea had been greatly reduced since the fall of Sinopus. With sufficient gold, and a recent impressive victory, it was certainly possible that the more remote northern tribes would come in on the enemy's side. There was no incentive for them to declare themselves, except by attack. Otherwise they would await events.

They might be barbarians, but they were rarely complete fools.

As for Verescens, he rather doubted, at least for this season, major land attacks from the north. It was just too early for that. The attack on Sinopus, successful as it was, was merely a feint. The real center of operations was to the south. If the Empire fell, or if its power was seriously reduced, then the balance would shift across the whole region. The smaller powers could see that very well.

He knew what he would do if he was the enemy.

The real question was how to prevent them.

***

As the campaign wore on and spring turned into summer, the enemy's strategy became clearer.

"Damn it!" Jumalak was furious, furious at his military and naval commanders, was mostly angry with himself.

Yet he and Verescens, and all of the other generals, were hard-pressed to come up with ideas as to what to do about it.

Strong forces had been raiding their sea-borne supply lines. Reports indicated a combined fleet from a total of four or five nations, for the coastal republics had committed themselves finally to oppose Jumalak and risk annihilation—what fools they had seemed at the time. Events had not borne this out.

The Horde, relative newcomers to the sea, seemed to have made every mistake in the book. It was common talk in the streets and taverns.

As was so often the case, public opinion wasn't being strictly fair, as Admiral of the Fleet Apodasius explained. The combined enemy fleets were choosing their targets judiciously. They never attacked without some advantage of numbers, wind, or weather. They struck swiftly, taking one small ship or a squadron of supply ships in one place. Then they disappeared, only to reappear hundreds of miles away. The ships of the Horde, attempting to cross the Great Sea for the southwestern front, were constantly tacking into the prevailing southwest winds, and the fact that their enemy was based on that upwind shore was to give up any advantage. Until they had actually acquired some experience in naval warfare, it had been difficult to assess the hazard properly. The navy, while not yet pressing for withdrawal from the Kthmarra front, was expressing deep concerns about resupply and defending the attackers from further surprises. This was especially true over the winter months and the storm season leading up to it. It had been all too apparent that Kthmarra had been extensively-refortified and no doubt stuffed to the rafters with wine, oil and provisions.

"Suggestions, anyone?"

There were murmurs but no clear voices rose above the muddle.

One thing seemed clear, there was to be no overwhelming victory this year. It was as Verescens had always feared it would be, a war dragging on most likely for years.

Yet the situation was still militarily advantageous to the Horde. Their ships far outnumbered those of the enemy. They had gobbled up great swathes of territory, especially along their common border with the Empire in the southeast. The petty coastal states had been chastised, and their governments dismantled, although Massagetaiia still held out. Their small battle fleet had been destroyed and they could eventually be starved into submission.

It was hard to suggest anything different from what they were doing now.

"We must hold what we have taken." Jumalak looked up and around at the faces, grimmer now that they had seen loss, failure, and the cost of war.

They had already lost two or three hundred thousand men, and ships carrying reinforcements were ships that were not carrying their proper allotment of food and fodder.

Several generals had already spoken at some length on the subject of consolidating their gains and planning something just a little bit different for next season.

Verescens sighed, deeply. What was truly vulnerable was their land force at Kthmarra. It was ensconced on an extensive beachhead. This was a large proportion of their forces, including the siege train for the attempt to take Kthmarra, stuck way off at the southwestern end of the Great Sea.

He had this terrible feeling that if they knew exactly what the enemy fleets were doing, they wouldn't like it one little bit. So far they did not have a consensus.

All the really important decisions were being taken in other places.

Chapter Nineteen

Commander of the Horde's forces in the Kthmarra campaign was General Aabdicus. Following standard practice, he had landed his forces from a large fleet of transports and warships on the coast seven or eight miles from the city.

His fleet was anchored offshore. The fleet had sufficient reserves of manpower and weapons to defend itself and the beachhead from seaborne assault. It was also, in the last resort, a means of retreat. The fortunes of war being what they were, sailing into the heavily-defended port of Kthmarra was seen as too bold from the onset. They had simply landed a few miles away. The Hordesmen had again followed standard practice, throwing up first a breastworks and then a properly-constituted camp, laid out in rows, with streets, gates and small guard towers on the corners.

With a fifty thousand men at his disposal, General Aabdicus had moved on from there to circumvallate the city and fortress of Kthmarra. It was now cut off from its extensive hinterland to the south and west. Further up the coast, the territory of the Empire of the South ended abruptly and then there was a barren, cliff-lined stretch of land that pretty much all civilized peoples were content to leave to the Iazyges.

His estimate of the garrison were about twenty-four thousand, plus any number of able-bodied males in a city of about a hundred thousand or so it was said. The investing force included five thousand cavalry, and the garrison had more than double that. It was interesting that they hadn't done more with it so far.

Historically, its sea port and its commercial captains had dominated this end of the Great Sea for centuries, before the place fell into desuetude, eventually to catch the notice of the Emperor Kullin's ancestors.

The garrison commander, confronted by a superior force, and yet one that was a long way from home and succor, wisely decided not to risk a set-piece battle on the plain. He withdrew all forces into the city and was prepared to withstand siege.

If nothing else, the men of the garrison had a lot of horsemeat to look forward to.

This was how the situation stood even as the Khan and his advisors wondered not only what to do next, but what the other side was going to do next.

With not much time until the season for attacking at least was over, it was anybody's guess—and anybody's move.

At most, there were six or seven weeks left in the season, by their own reckoning, and there was much that could happen in that time.

***

The Lemni had originally come from far to the east. The sagas and traditions seemed to indicate that they had adopted the horse and the bow at about the same time. The Lemni had always used boats, of course. They had first come to the notice of the more civilized lands of the south and west because of their coastal raids, which emanated from the mouths of the largest rivers along the fringes of the Great Sea. Those early ships, with short, skinny little masts, no keels to speak of, and their simple lateen sails were not much more than seagoing canoes. Long before the rise of the Horde, they had broken out of the narrows separating the two major arms of the Great Sea. This had happened in more than one wave of migration. The band that eventually became the Lemni was no different. Those ships of old may have been smaller and cruder, but they weren't that much different from the ships Lowren now led.

They had never been entirely without ships. Ships to trade, ships to fish and ships to make war, were all a part and parcel of their cultural framework. But Lowren and his captains were learning much from the greater vessels, the level of skill and equipment, and from listening to the captains and the admirals of the fleets of Windermere and the Heloi.

When operating alone or on their own, the Lemni and the other groups handled their ships in their traditional manner, and his own ships were built for little more than raiding. The Heloian vessels, on the other hand, were built specifically for ship-to-ship warfare in a way that he had no experience with. With his limited resources, he might have never had a chance to learn or to even see it in action.

With the enemy fleet exposed in shallow water and with their troops encamped within their bastions for the most part, foraging or raiding parties aside, all of the choices were up to the attackers. What was most striking was that the naval commanders of the Horde didn't seem to see the danger.

With the example of Sinopus, and not all that long ago, they should have at least been more alert to the possibility of fire-ships. Enemy ships went back and forth to the eastern ports, but steered clear of the more populated coastal seas of the Empire of the South, where presumably they were more apt to be challenged.

Enemy ships patrolled regularly eighty or a hundred miles up the northward-curving west coast from Kthmarra.

The impression on the part of the allies was that they were fearful of a surprise attack from east or west.

With a little consultation, a plan had quickly come together. The Lemni ships were to come down from the north. They would travel close inshore by night, and lay up under cover by day. The coast was mapped well enough and they had experienced pilots on loan from various interested parties. They were dispersed and laid up during daytime in marshes, up some long, winding bays, and in river mouths for the journey, right up until the point of concentration. This had occurred the previous evening, just as planned.

Lowren and the ships of Lemnia had been given an important and honorable role, but it looked as if all the glory would go to the Heloi. As for the ships of Windermere, they were to stand off the coast a few miles, prepared to engage any ships that attempted to interfere. In the face of a superior force, they would fall back on the Heloi war-galleys and cover the withdrawal of the Lemni...

Rounding the point of the Kthmarra Peninsula just after midnight, they had been creeping along in what silence they could generate, waiting to catch a glimpse of their quarry.

Sometimes just breathing properly was the key to military success.

***

The pallid light of dawn grew steadily. Looking back, there were multiple v-trails, their own as well as the wakes coming off all the boats, and every stroking oar added its own new flourish. The rows of wavelets followed them up the beach, crashing along in their own small way, unwelcome heralds of their coming.

The ships rocked and the incoming tide swelled the sea under their keels.

Just as predicted, a heavy fog hung off the mouth of the bay, over the colder waters of the Great Sea proper. This seasonal fog would usually take until mid-morning to burn off. On some days in late autumn, when the sun didn't come out at all, that dismal mist wouldn't lift all day. In those cases, the nights were usually clearer. Generally speaking, those were calm days whether day or night. Until winter, most traffic would be doing just what they were doing, staying close inshore.

There was very little fog on the bay itself, sheltered as it was by the headland of Kthmarra and the hills on the south side, above the bay of the same name. Being shallower, the water was perhaps a little warmer and there was shelter from the cold winds coming down over the ridges and hills.

The boats edged through the water, which was calm and glassy. Men stood on a small perch, high on the bows, but their best information was that the bottom dropped off quickly along this shore. At this time of day, there was no way they were going to see shoals or a big rock before they were on it. Twenty or thirty feet of water would be more than enough.

The figure at his side turned, a look of exultation on his dark, wide face. He had small, very bright blue eyes and the most engaging grin a relatively toothless man could have. Pointed mustaches, black and grey now that he was in his forties, framed a wide yet expressive mouth.

"Vaeomon." The small contingent of Sicurri aboard Cygnus were an impressive sight in their padded black leather strip-armor, polished black leggings, and all armed with a medley of personal weapons. "Is everybody happy?"

Vaeomon nodded.

"Yes—very much so."

Their beastly little black bows were much in evidence.

Lowren himself wore his habitual sea-going rig of helmet, fit snugly to his head but not strapped on. This was for safety in any sea-borne operation. He wore a breastplate, which would be easier to remove compared to the more usual shirt of mail if he should fall in the water. That had two simple buckles on the left side.

He wore a Heloi leather strip kilt this time, his sandals were tied properly and his sword was girded at his side.

"It is an honor to be here, Lowren. Very impressive. Thank you for thinking of us." Vaeomon turned and interpreted for his fellows.

One of the Sicurri chieftain's hulking sons, unable to speak the dialect, slapped Lowren on the shoulder, giving him an earnest look. His brother stood there grinning and nodding. They seemed to listen well, as if straining to catch his inflections. Then again, some of the words must have been unfamiliar. That was certainly true aboard the boat.

The Sicurri were not quite virgins to the sea, but their imaginations had been fired upon seeing the ships of the Heloi and especially Winderere up close. The small ships of the Lemni didn't stand up very well in comparison. Lowren knew that well enough. With the taps now turned open on a river of gold from a suddenly more attentive Emperor Kullin, there was the possibility of putting some of his new knowledge into practice. The Sicurri found the gold as welcome as he did, for they all had to be fed after all, and so did their families back home.

Assuring the Sicurri that this would be the place of most danger—and thereby the most honor, was a fairly convincing argument once they'd seen his boats. But the Heloi didn't want or need them aboard, and speaking more privately, they probably wouldn't have them at any price. Even the Sicurri had agreed they would be useless aboard the ships of Windermere, with the blue-water mission they had been assigned.

More than anything, the Sicurri were part of the alliance and wouldn't be kept out of any good fight once they'd made some new friends. They had given their word and their oaths upon it. But the lure of gold and greater power over their own destinies would no doubt have played a prominent role in their thinking. Coming from the same forested steppes as the Lemni, they'd had long canoes and sailing barks of their own, at least historically speaking. The Sicurri, a related nation, had been encamped on the borders of Lemnia for over a quarter of a century. Lowren and Vaeomon had engaged in a few long talks over the years and seemed to get on pretty well. Vaeomon didn't have any daughters, or the two nations might have been connected by marriage before now.

"You've got to promise not to hog all of them Hordesmen to yourself, Lowren."

"Not at all, not at all. There's more than enough to go around."

They spoke in hushed voices. All of the oars were muffled, wrapped in rags at the steel pivots, each of which had been well and truly greased. The sound of breathing around them was like that of some gigantic and unknown animal.

Lowren shivered against the chill, and the gloom, and the sight of the Horde's fleet dully illuminated against the false glow of the pre-dawn hours. A thin ribbon of cloud on the eastern horizon glowed salmon pink, backlit by the sunrise.

A man on his left handed him a horn as the sailors called it, and he drank some of the resinous stuff, a dry and very rough red. A quick shudder went over his body. With a nod, he indicated that Vaeomon must have a drink too.

Sniffing suspiciously, eyebrows raised, he took a gulp.

"Wow."

"You can say that again—but please don't."

Vaeomon passed it off to the boys. They appreciated the gesture judging by the reaction.

The Sicurri chattered quietly amongst themselves as the joke was shared. There were eight or ten of them on the aft section duckboards. Things clicked and rustled as they unlimbered their weapons and notched arrows to bowstrings.

With their low draft, and their masts and rigging removed, the Lemni ships were little better than large rowing boats—and that was exactly the intention of their design. Hugging the shore as they were, the barren hills above would screen them with their dark backdrop. They were three hundred yards out, practically invisible. The shoreline was undulating, going back and forth due to small bays and projecting headlands. They were coming from the west and the sun was in the east. The Lemni ships were all dark planks, heavily oiled on the inside and thoroughly caulked on the bottoms. It was only the wet wood above water that could give them away with the odd glimmer. There was enough noise up on the land. They could hear the calls of men, the neighing of horses. The crowing of cocks and the sounds of hoofs and wagons came distinctly on the breeze, setting off from shore as it did.

Whether the Horde would attack Kthmarra today was an unknown. A major attempt before the end of the season was expected as a matter of course. But there would be some kind of military operations set for the day, and like all such encampments, the place could never really sleep. Simple routine would keep the battle going, insofar as sieges were, typically, long periods of total boredom punctuated by the occasional big push or brainstorm on the part of the commanding generals.

The mental state of the attackers was one of man and material superiority. Their troops all knew they were backed up by a big fleet and an endless supply chain. Their transports were still successfully running between Kthmarra and Artesphihan, and numerous other ports.

His own force was considerable, without being unmanageable in terms of a quick raid.

The real question was how quickly they could get off under while under attack from the rear.

While the incentives were obvious, they all knew they were going to take some dead and wounded.

Fifty-two ships, forty rowers per ship. Each ship with thirty or more well-equipped troopers along for the ride. With their cargo of small incendiaries, they were stuffed to the gills with men, weapons and equipment. Even then, they drew a bare eighteen inches or maybe two feet of water. On some kind of inspiration, a suggestion from one of their naval engineers, they had installed additional oar positions before and after the regular stations. The joke was that they could get out of trouble just as fast as they could get into it.

This morning there was to be trouble.

Lowren leaned over to the kid.

"From quiet contemplation comes chaos."

The lad looked up.

"Aye. I'll remember that, sire."

Straightening, Lowren and the older ones grinned.

They were in a large bay, with highlands directly to the southwest, where the prevailing winds blew from most regularly, and especially at this season. One would have thought, in fact many a captain had argued, often over a glass or two of something, that it would have made more sense for the winds to come from the northwest, this late in the season, for that was where winter ultimately came from.

People said the world tilted over on its axis, and that it took a while for the air and the winds to catch up as the world slowly toppled...this was what the philosophers called a theory.

But, just as no man could swear what lay a few short miles over the horizon, and the west was truly unknown, no one would ever be quite able to account for the weather. In this case, it was sufficient to know what it was, what it was likely to be, and to use it wisely.

The King of the Lemni had committed every ship available for his part in what was more of a grand raid as much as anything else.

Vaeomon hissed, more fearful now that strong voices could be heard from their immediate right. Plunder was one thing, glory and a name were another, but the enemy had tens of thousands of troops right over there—and their full fleet lay but a mile or so off the port bow.

"Can they see us?"

"Yes—most likely." Lowren and the small party of Sicurri nobles were on the deck just ahead of the poop aboard Cygnus. "To them we're just another supply column—albeit one coming the wrong way."

They stared at the shoreline, and beyond that the anonymous pale bulk of the Horde's fortress. The dawn light and shadow revealed that it was all earthen embankments, log revetments, stone bastions, formidable outer-works, stout low towers at the corners and the gates, with the contrasting materials of one type and another visible even from here.

As the light grew, men and guards with weapons on their backs stood watching along the shoreline, their tall spears just thin pale streaks, barely visible against the low straggling underbrush behind and up-slope.

With a strange smile on his face, Lowren looked right back.

Some wag on the boat behind them gave a long, and very loud wolf whistle.

It was like everyone froze on deck, except the rowers, who chuckled and muttered, even the more so when the faint sound of laughter and what must have undoubtedly been a rude response came from the people on the beach. They relaxed, and breathed again.

"Perfect."

Captain Rollo spoke in a low tone.

"Here come the Heloi."

Mouth open, heart picking up to almost an uncomfortable level, Lowren turned, just in time to see the spectacle of the Grand Fleet's deployment.

***

It wasn't much at first. It was just a couple of galleys, bristling with masts and sweeps, and behind them, up through the fog stuck the flags and pennants of those following.

The heavy bank of fog across the mouth of Kthmarra Bay ensured that little could be seen, but the first three or four ships were out in the clear as the men in the long ship Cygnus began to talk and mutter amongst themselves.

"Slow, slow."

The boat was perceptibly picking up speed as the rowers in some unspoken agreement leaned into it ever harder. The bow went down as soldiers crowded forwards...

"Stick to the cadence, lads." The captain addressed Lowren. "Their timing is good, sire."

Presumably he referred to the Heloi.

There was a slight jerk and then they were all on their stroke again. A man at the front set the pace with a series of low grunts.

"Huh."

"Huh."

"Huh."

Cygnus skimmed the waves. The helmsman was intent upon his mark and his purpose.

The others watched in breathless quiet as more ghostly ships came out of the fog-bank, bearing down on the long, straggling line of vessels anchored against the vast, curving sweep of the Kthmarra peninsula. They were still a good two miles off, but under sail and oar. Their speed was remarkable.

The captain spoke, startling them with its loudness and cutting through their sick fascination with events to the northeast.

"All right boys. Put your backs into her."

Voices, perhaps clustered round a stove or breakfast fire in a brazier on deck, came from the first of the anchored ships hard on their left as they steered for the main landing stage.

In spite of the Cygnus being the flagship and the presence of their sovereign, at least two other lean shapes were close in on the right, cutting a tighter starboard curve. Really moving, they kept stroking madly and soon swept out in front.

Lowren laughed at the sheer impudence of it and now the people on shore were really waking up.

Someone off to their stern port quarter was shouting at the tops of his lungs, a solitary enemy sailor aboard a ship out there, and sounding terribly futile as the rest of the fleet was seemingly caught dead unawares...

"Pull, lads, pull."

Pull.

Pull.

Pull.

They were only three or four hundred feet out from their beach now, with small wavelets lapping on the fine golden gravel. There were landing stages and piers straggling out into the sea. They angled steadily inwards, and with a glance over his shoulder, the captain made sure there was no one else there.

"Hard a starboard."

"Yes, put us in, put us in, sir." Lowren's heart was beating hard, up about his throat somewhere...

Men were running down to the beach, and at least some of them had weapons. Even as Lowren watched, clutching his sword, even as the first Lemni arrows were launched into the soft morning air, one of the more intelligent enemy soldiers, a man in a shiny silver helmet and a long blue cloak with grey epaulettes, turned and pelted off up the hill, creamy sand spurting up from the soles of his boots as he did so.

The puff of dust that came when a half-pound of steel and hardwood punctured a man right in the middle of the chest was always going to be a little bit surreal.

The shock of the dying man's nearest companions was considerable, and yet they still looked on in complete disbelief even as more arrows landed among them.

Men on shore started screaming and pointing and running about in all directions.

"Well. That's torn it." Vaeomon's accent and the flat, unemotional tone cracked up the small party around him. "We are in a lot of trouble now."

The rest of the men up and down the shore remained in straggling little groups, as if not quite sure of what they were seeing.

"They're ready to unload for us, sire."

"Yes, good lad. Now stick with our group, all right?"

Vaeomon's two sons, Berchtold with a large axe and the younger one, Jaellyk, holding a short pike with their animal-headed flag just below the point, were poised and looking rather eager for action.

"All righty then, brace yourselves. Oarsmen, remain at your stations—I repeat, oarsmen, remain at your stations!" Captain Rollo had no intention of losing them the instant he hit the beach.

"Ah. Here we are."

The prow of the dragon-headed ship Cygnus ground to a halt on rippled sand, in about two and a half feet of water.

Two young enemy soldiers waded out as if to grab the bow or something, but stopped abruptly on taking a closer look...their mouths opened and they stood there.

The sight of angry, shouting men jumping out in large numbers, brandishing swords and spears was a bit too much for them to take in all at once.

The boat was still forty feet out, and while there were tents and shacks and quite a few people about, it seemed there wasn't much to oppose them. Men on the ships behind and beside them now engaged with their ballistas. The hum and whap of heavy darts came to their ears as various voices barked orders, trying to keep the boats from grounding. They needed to be able to withdraw on a moment's notice. Lowren and his party ducked in reflex as their own men took the first shot, sending enemy soldiers flying back up the beach if nothing else. There was a quick tangle all about them as the small reserve party of oarsmen switched seats, facing in the opposite direction now.

They would have the best seats in the house, as someone had said. Sooner or later, they would have to leave, as all such raids went. Time, and surprise, were of the essence.

Putting a hand on the gunwale, Lowren leapt out, with the splashes of other men all around him and then he was striding onto the beach, shouting his battle-cry and rallying the men.

For surely where the king was, the action would be hottest.

***

At the head of a long column of ships as they were, Lowren and his troops were at the left or southeastern end of the beachhead. It was a wonderful place for a landing. The Hordesmen had chosen it well.

There were two empty boats their left, their men streaming ashore, and the others were either all aground or grounding was imminent in a long wave to the right. More would come along in a second wave. Their prows were just rounding the end of the ship nearest to his right. A dull thud from the water came then, and it seemed as if the first of the Heloi had rammed her bronze nose, a vicious spike protruding just below the waterline, into a fat victim. It was too much all going on at once, to see everything happening at that moment. The crash of timbers and a mast scrawling madly at the sky as a boom fell drew the eye in a heartbeat. Burning javelins and smoke trails trailed across the sky as the bulk of the Heloi fleet entered the engagement with the full force of sail and oar.

"Yay!" Men all around were shouting, most of them not even sure why, only that their brothers were shouting and that so far things were going well.

The noise, more heavy crashes and thumping and the sheer clangor from the fleet side of things was gratifying indeed. It was a simple disruption, and half their mission would be accomplished.

The landing party had a job to do as well.

They were behind the enemy in their fortress, although it was but a half mile or so. The enemy's fortifications, surrounding Kthmarra in what must be a pretty thin line in places, was mostly inward-looking. While a few generals in history had continued a siege while under attack from without, those that had done so successfully had built fortifications with certain common elements. There were inner and outer walls along their line.

According to spies, the Horde's circumvallation was competent enough.

This strip of beach was where the Horde unloaded their ships, and stores and stockpiles, animal pens and store-houses were all around them. Two white cows and a small herd of sheep milled around them for a moment, terror in their eyes, and then, turning, made off to the southeast again.

Men ran by him with burning brands and this glazed look on their faces that said they were slightly out of control.

"To me! To me!" Lowren, King of the Barbarian Lemni, had to find his way through the fearful jumble of the rather disorganized dockside unloading area, and get some troops out in front where they could meet the expected counterattack.

Spies had assured them that there was an open space between the port and the gates. Otherwise, things were going to get very sticky.

To fight in the built-up dockside area would be all small units, hand-to-hand, every man for himself kind of battle where the king would lose all control.

"To me! To me! It is I, Lowren, King of the Lemni!"

Several enemy soldiers, hearing the commotion but ignorant of the language, came sliding around the corner of a building and were promptly engaged by the sons of Vaeomon, who stood proudly at Lowren's side as if daring anyone else to interfere. They rushed forwards to confront their panicked foes, spears not ready and yet useless before such behemoths.

"Good boy.'

Vaeomon remained at Lowren's side, not needing trophies or validation, but just observing and probably being observed in his turn.

One Hordesman was quickly dispatched, the other was messily cut but yielded his sword on command. Vaeomon's second son took proud charge of this prisoner. Leading him away with surprising tenderness, he immediately began dressing the wound. Other enemy troops turned and bolted at the sight of the beach parties, organized by their serjeants now. They came storming up through the scattered buildings in clearly superior numbers.

A wave of heat and smoke washed over them as the first shacks went up.

A man went running by and Lowren bellowed at him.

He came promptly back.

"Stave in these barrels." There were hundreds of them stacked up in flat-topped pyramidal heaps, with rows in between to walk through—or possibly to act as a break in case of fire. "Find out what's in them!"

"Sire!"

"And grab a couple of men to help you. Open all the animal pens."

"Yes, sire."

There was a mob of Lemni and a lot of shouting at the end of the small street they were in.

Vaeomon plucked at his sleeve.

"Come, Lowren. I believe we are needed."

Chapter Twenty

With a strong voice and his own pennant proudly carried along behind him, Lowren quickly established order. Several short blasts on the horn caught some of his men on the fly, but they broke off their pursuit and returned to the line he was forming.

There was a road leading a few hundred yards to the gate of the primary eastern bastion of the fortress. Choked with screaming men, wagons and teams, with drivers lashing their maddened animals furiously, it appeared the gate was still open over there.

Hundreds of heads lined the ramparts, which stood eight or ten feet above the ground, and the whole thing was on a rise which sat perhaps thirty feet above the level of the sea.

Barely visible through the open gates was a veritable sea of shining helmets and spear points sparkling in the morning sunshine.

Lowren turned to those closest.

"Right. The Sicurri shall have the place of honor." Every one of the men there today had been fully briefed on what they were to do and what they were to expect in this morning's little skirmish.

Of the oarsmen not on escape detail, or approximately half of his two thousand oarsmen, those not in the boats were lined up in three ranks on the right flank. Deployed from the northernmost ships, or the last ones to land, going up two hundred yards from the shore, that was one small division. They had their bows and two dozen arrows each. Lowren had backed them up with a hundred more experienced men-at-arms, which left him only fourteen hundred more. A good half of them were also guarding the boats and stopping them from broaching in the light surf.

This left him about seven hundred men.

In the center of the line were the Sicurri, just to his right with a hundred and fifty honored and heavily-armed guests, and that left Lowren on the left wing. He'd reinforced the tip of the line with a couple of hundred men, or two companies as he called them. Between him and the end of the line, it was three ranks, with four or five feet between their shoulders. This allowed archery as well as swordplay, and if a man fell, the next one simply stepped into his place. Where possible, someone in the reserve ranks would pull killed and wounded out of the way. He had serjeants for every twenty or thirty men, and a captain for each division.

As things stood presently, the sun was well up and enemy ships were burning merrily out in the harbor. That battle was just beginning and it might go on for half the day. Enemy ships were hurriedly lifting sails and trying to escape. It looked, by the hazy reports just coming in, that the Heloi had cut the line of anchored ships in half and were busily destroying all those that hadn't been fortunate enough to escape.

Lowren marveled.

"I have this crazy feeling we've been here too long already."

Stacks and warehouses full of vital military supplies were blazing a hundred yards behind Lowren's deliberately curved line. He had his left flank thrown well forward where the enemy would either have to deal with it or go round, for which he had an immediate response anyways. The tip of this left wing was heavy with archers. These men had certain very specific instructions. Hand-picked for reliability and experience, hopefully all would be well.

"Are they coming? When are they coming?"

Vaeomon and Lowren conferred, before things got too busy.

"Well, they'd better come soon, or they're going to miss their chance—" The plan called for them to be on land for a half an hour at best—forever laying their bones there only in a worst case scenario.

While time passed quickly in battle, it was like the sun was higher every time he looked at it.

The black, milling cluster at the gate, a seething mass of what looked like busy ants from this distance suddenly split and heaved aside. There were pale faces visible now, where before all backs were turned.

Like something foul growing, the mass got wider, spreading out, and then there was a new color appearing in the middle of the mess, all grey and white and glistening with tiny brass buttons.

Pikemen, and crossbows by the look of it. Someone over there had taken charge...

"I think they're coming now, sire."

Vaeomon laughed, and gave the kid, whom Lowren had recently dubbed Ube, which was short for ubiquitous, a stout blow on the back.

"Well. How do you like that?" Vaeomon grinned in delight. "The nerve of some people's kids."

"I'm an orphan, sir."

Lowren just bit his lip.

"You're going to love this part, Vaeomon."

"Trooper, be ready on that horn."

It looked like the enemy, well-equipped with horses as they were, were deploying pretty much as any half-trained captain would have expected. This was an easy battle to read. The enemy senior commanders would never commit the bulk of their troops. They would be expecting a sally from within the walls of Kthmarra, timed to coincide with the one from without.

That could still happen, thought Lowren, although it wasn't strictly necessary.

"They're going to try and sweep around us on the left flank. They'll try and cut us off from the boats." Vaeomon nodded in comprehension at Lowren's explanation. "Boys. Pass the word."

In Lowren's estimation the horses would have been better employed along the beach, but lancers liked speed above all else. The ground was harder up above and they were further from the ballistas and the crossbowmen on the ships.

"Here."

Two hefty troopers stepped in close. Holding one of their shields on two sides, they made a quick platform for Lowren. With a hand on each of their shoulders, he mounted and carefully straightened up.

The king peered at the enemy formations. He dropped lightly down again. The ubiquitous kid was right there.

"Pass the word. When you hear the horn, left wheel."

The kid ran up the line to the left, carrying the instructions. He nipped right back and passed it to the right flank as Vaeomon yelled at his people.

"All right, who's got the horn?"

A soldier stepped up with alacrity.

"Here, sire."

"Good, mind you stay right with me." Lowren preferred the fellow at his left shoulder as opposed the right.

What they were about to attempt was a simple military evolution, admittedly complicated by the burning buildings, the fires, the smoke and confusion.

A great shout came from the Hordesmen as the cavalry wheeled to Lowren's left and spurred up to a gallop. Their massed infantry on the right flank, going all the way down to the beach, put their heads down and advanced at a measured, disciplined pace. He waited about a minute and a half, glad to see faces turned to him with calm looks and cocked weapons.

"Pass the word. Fire at will." Lowren's instructions were noisily carried up and down the line as the Sicurri all around him visibly braced themselves.

Like driven snow, the clouds of arrows flew. The enemy began to respond, and the men nearest him put up a quick wall of shields to protect their king and themselves. He ducked when appropriate and the first light flurry of enemy shafts caused few casualties.

The beauty lies in the details. It was a question of perfect timing and proper execution.

Lowren was betting his men could run a hundred yards faster than those horses could run five hundred or a thousand. They had the support of over a hundred ballistas, and this side of their fort had none, apparently. He hadn't seen anything from them so far...

And a thousand bowmen deployed in a long and over-extended line would quickly become thirty-six hundred fighting men, contracted into a very small area. Any neophyte general could see that there were nowhere near that many enemy horsemen—perhaps three hundred or four hundred at best.

That situation would not last for very long, and there were no doubt more forming up just inside the gates.

A man on a horse was a big target—and wounded horses quickly became uncontrollable.

The infantry was more worrisome, but then they would have to advance through the fires and smoke of burning stores and warehouses, and when they came out, it would be all too late to change their minds.

The horsemen were at full gallop, about to round the end of his line amidst a cloud of arrows.

He grabbed his signaler by the shoulder.

"Now. Do it now."

Sucking in a prodigious breath, the fellow put the horn to his dry, cracked lips and blew as if all of their lives depended on it.

***

It was a cold, quiet, drizzling day in October and it was not the first time fires had been lit this year. There was the subtle shift in routine, as well. This was a time of introspection, and a kind of mourning for the life of the planet. The birds were mostly gone, the trees and the plants dull and lifeless. The autumn festival had come and gone, and people were mostly marking time until the winter solstice and the rebirth and renewal of the land. A terrible sadness lay on her heart and she feared the worst of all sorts of things. She worried endlessly about things she could not control and events far, far away.

Eleanora was in their long, warmly-lit common room, quietly sewing with her ladies when word came.

A servant stood breathless at the door and babbled the news that he was coming.

Throwing the work in progress aside, her feet flew as servants and officials along the corridors stood aside in haste.

She stood trembling at the top of the steps of her palace, waiting for the carriage to arrive.

Word was that he had been wounded. A bolt from the enemy had caught him in the back at the last moment. His men had to jump back out of the boat to retrieve him. It was all they knew.

The thoughts of Lowren had been gnawing at her for days, ever since she'd heard. They knew so little, only that he was alive—at least at the time, when the messengers had departed.

The small procession wound its way up the drive, and she stamped per foot in impatience. And where were Theo and Kann? Why were they not travelling together? Surely the season of war was over, and those two were needed at home now.

A footman opened the door and she caught sight of the recumbent figure within. There was someone else in there, looking concerned and dressed in unusual civilian finery. Yet they were a commoner, going by the beard and the cut of the jacket. Her feet carried her unbidden and she leaned in the door.

"Lowren! Oh, Lowren, what have you done with yourself?"

His face was pale and bloodless, the sheets and bandages bloodstained.

"It's all right, fine lady...'tis merely a flesh wound....what house is this...?" His voice faltered and his head fell back on the pillows, greasy from his hair, which was unkempt and wild-looking. "Oh, Jupiter, god of all of time and fortune, I thank thee for the blessing of this good woman's company...in my time of dying. For surely my time has come..."

Her hand flew to her mouth.

"Why, he's delirious!|

The men on horseback and the driver dismounted. They were a dispirited lot, not a man-jack among them daring to meet her eyes. Sure and he was their chief, and they wouldn't let him out of their sight, but this was a disgrace.

"Where in the bloody hell did you think you were taking him?"

Eleanora was furious.

"This man is in no state to travel."

Six of his hulking fellows stood around looking sheepish as Eleanora barked orders and her own people hustled down the steps to take charge of the litter.

They lifted him out of the carriage, smelling badly of blood and sweat and pus and something else.

His precious bodily fluids were draining away from him, and she wondered if the leeches, her polite word for the medical profession, had been bleeding him too profusely.

Finally one of his companions found the courage to speak.

"We thought...we thought." Bibbs cleared his throat. "We thought it would be better if he was at home."

Her own servants took him up the stairs, his own men bringing up the rear in a kind of disgrace.

Eleanora fussed and fretted. On her insistence, he was brought into her private chambers.

Where better for a prince to die.

For that was how she thought of him. A prince and not a king. He was so young.

When they'd heard the news, it seemed so unreal.

Her servants, her private physician Hermodautes, and Dervent the priest attended at her side as Lowren was laid in her bed.

The man Garvin, and Bibbs, were there at her side.

The other fellows had been led aside to the great hall for a meal and some refreshment before rooms and possibly baths were found for them. Her anger glittered in her eyes.

"Please. This man needs rest." Hermodautes' command so closely mirrored the look on Eleanora's darkening visage that the pair of them turned with one last look at Lowren, propped up on the queen's own pillows.

They headed reluctantly for the door.

"Must...speak with the lady of the house..."

"Shush." Eleanora stepped forward and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling Lowren's forehead and trying to determine if he was running a fever.

The initial impression was one of cold and clamminess, which was not entirely unexpected as they'd just brought him in the door.

Lowren's eyes were wide and staring, more lucid now.

"Must speak to Queen Eleanora...private messages from afar..." He clutched at her wrist with a strong grip as Hermodautes tried to strip off the brown, tacky bandages which entirely wrapped his upper torso. "Urgent dispatches from the Front..."

"Hold still, young man."

Lowren's face came around, as if the words were all new to him, which they probably were.

Hermodautes was not intimidated by the human body, nor their pretensions to grandeur or even simple worthiness.

It was all the same to him, when his skills were called for. This was just one more maimed or wounded warrior.

Lowren pulled his head up again, earnestly beseeching the queen to listen. He pushed Hermodautes away.

"I must speak to the lady privately."

Falling back, Lowren blinked as if tears were welling up just on the inside.

"Water would be helpful, but just a little, Majesty." On a nod, he chewed his lip.

"Give us a moment, please."

Leaving the bandages loosened but still in place, Hermodautes straightened.

"I'll be just outside the door, if you need me—"

The queen nodded, as she poured out half a glass of water from the carafe on her side-board.

As Hermodautes closed the door, one last look revealed Lowren with his head back on the queen's own pillows. He appeared to be breathing calmly. His eyes were closed and yet he was still obviously conscious going by the way he was sort of moving his legs and wriggling around to get more comfortable.

***

Never at a loss for dignity or gravitas, Hermodautes stepped outside the door, a calm and patient look on his face.

Sensing the looks of Eleanora's two bodyguards, standing tall and steady on each side of the door, he turned and shrugged, as if to say, 'women.'

Can't live with them and can't live without them, and somehow queens were the worst.

It was nice work if you could get it, though.

His eyes widened slightly at a muffled squawk from the other side of the heavy door.

Ignoring the curious looks of the soldiers, he edged up to the door and put his ear up against it.

They were definitely talking, and he could discern Lowren's surprisingly strong voice and a more feminine voice that was unmistakably the queen.

He was so close to catching about every third word...

Other than that, he had nothing much to do but cool his heels until he was called for.

Chapter Twenty-One

"You toad!"

Lowren, as soon as she leaned over to listen to his strained whisper, quavering as if with his dying breath, had grabbed her around the neck and she had little choice but to half fall and half crawl onto the bed in an attempt to avoid falling on her face.

"Unhand me, you big brute! Why! You big meanie."

"Heh."

She stared, open-mouthed into those mischievous hazel eyes, with their little flecks of amber and the sardonic lines of humor at the corners.

"You brat." It was the second time he'd fooled her.

"Careful, my lady, my queen. I really am wounded, you know. Ah." Lowren carefully adjusted his left arm under her shoulder, now lying on his left side.

The doctors would do what they could, but he might never sleep on his right side again. He was lucky it was the right side, otherwise he'd be a dead man right now. He might not even be ready the following spring, for such wounds healed slowly if at all.

It was an amazing moment.

They were face to face, although he was still under the sheets and she was on top.

He brought his right hand up to her hip. He let it rest there lightly.

"Was there something you wanted to tell me, Lowren?" She searched his face.

"Yes. Majesty." Pulling her in close, he put his lips on hers as the lady stared into his own questioning eyes and he carefully proceeded to do just that.

He was nothing if not thorough, thought Eleanora, as she happily wriggled in a little closer. She squeezed a little tighter and just let it all happen.

He pulled back for a breath, and a look full of long pent-up emotion. There was a wash of tears in his eyes.

"You..."

"Me, what...?

She sighed, eyes demure and downcast, and still not making any attempt to resist. Those clear eyes stabbed him with a sudden look.

"You may continue, good sir."

They smiled.

"Heh, heh, heh."

He would find the words, and so would she. It might take a while, for it was a lot to take in all at once.

It was enough to know, in that one very special moment in time, that the two lovers were together at last.

***

The season had finally turned snowy, white and cold. With his wound healing, soon it would be time for Lowren and his small group to complete their journey homeward. There were four or five inches of fresh, soft snow.

They followed the hoof-prints of her servants, sent out before dawn to sweep the snow away and lay a carpet at what was a well-known local shrine of sorts.

Both were heavily dressed for the cold. Eleanora and Lowren rode along a trail that led up from the valley of Winderemere into the rugged foothills of the Juniper Mountains.

Their breath and that of their ponies, high-spirited young animals glad to be out for a run, hung in the air. They were keeping the mounts to a slow walk, just enough to keep them warm but not break a sweat. Their voices were oddly muffled except when facing directly one another, and it was as if everything was swallowed up by a thick blanket of soft white snow.

Lowren straightened up in the saddle.

He gave her a look.

"Ah. Now I know where we're going."

She nodded, serious now after the sweet nothings and small talk of the first part of the journey.

The Blue Stone was on a high promontory, where once a colony of rattlers had existed, before the sea-going people that were the ancestors of her people destroyed them in their own colonization. The path led up, ever up and around.

There were one or two more turns and then they dismounted. Leaving the horses well back from the cliff, they approached the Blue Stone. The inscription was in an ancient tongue, and the translation was pure tradition—no on alive today could say whether it was proper or not.

It might just be gibberish.

Lowren approached the tall stone, tapering to a point, with a small pyramidal section on top as if to finish it off.

Pulling off his heavy fur mitt, he touched the stone.

"Hmn." It was almost warm compared to the surrounding air, which was chill with a brisk wind on the exposed lip of the escarpment.

That much of the legend was true, at least.

Not that the sun wouldn't warm it, thought Lowren, whereas the snow reflected back all that heat and light with its searing glare in the noonday sun.

Eleanora came up beside her lover.

Looking out over the valley and her city below, she took a breath and began to recite.

The strong man is gentle, for he has nothing to fear,

The coward is always cruel, and he dies a thousand deaths.

Beware the paths of glory

For in the end, all is vanity.

Before you there are two paths

One is easy and the other one is hard.

Choose wisely, for this shall be your fate.

"Great Jupiter! Is that really what it says?" Lowren was dumbfounded.

"According to legend, yes, Lowren...my love. That is what it says."

There was a long silence and Lowren touched the stone again, then put his mitt back on. He couldn't say if this one particular stone was any warmer than any other—the rocky ground under them was right there if one cared to make the comparison.

He shook his head, dismissing it. It was all true, of course.

"Interesting."

With a knowing smile, she pulled a silver flask from an inner pocket and turned away to where the ponies patiently waited.

The days were at their shortest, it was very cold, and they were looking at a long ride back down the mountain.

And it was good advice, if you could take it.

End

About the Author

Louis Shalako began writing for community newspapers and industrial magazines. His stories appear in publications including Perihelion Science Fiction, Bewildering Stories, Aurora Wolf, Ennea, Wonderwaan, Algernon, Nova Fantasia, and Danse Macabre. He lives in southern Ontario and writes full time.

> Louis Shalako <

