Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

Linchmere looked up, his mouth open and jaw slackened at her words.

Scrainwood put an edge in his voice. “Grand Duchess, speak to me . You freely accuse me of treason against the Southlands, but would not any other action consist of treason against my own nation? The news from Muroso is grim. Sebcia has fallen. Chytrine will have troops roaming into Sarengul, with Alosa and Nybal marshaling their forces on their mountain borders. She pours into Muroso. From there she has a choice, Oriosa or Saporicia, and I much prefer her fighting to the west than turning my nation into a long corridor to Alcida.”

The grand duchess turned back toward him. A smile curved her lips but never escaped to infect the rest of her face. “Your grasp of strategy is laudable, Highness. So, the question becomes, then, if you will move your troops north, to Valsina, then drive west to choke off Aurolani supply lines. A sharp stroke north and west would close the Sebcian border, leaving Alcidese, Saporician, and Loquelven troops to crush her host against the anvil of your troops and Bokagul.“

“Ha! And leave my troops caught between her retreating forces and the reinforcements streaming down from the north?” Scrainwood stood and shook his head. “I am not a fool, woman. I thought we had established that. What you suggest is the task to which heroes aspire. I have no such aspiration.”

“I would do it, Father.”

“What?” Scrainwood looked down at his son. “You would do what?”

“I would lead our troops to smash the Northern Empress.” His dark eyes brightened. “We have very good troops, Father. We could march north and have them poised, just as she said.”

“Have you heard nothing I said, Linchmere?” Scrainwood threw his arms wide. “There you are, intent on covering yourself with glory, without thinking for a moment of your nation. You want to be a hero? I have known heroes.”

He looked at Tatyana. “I remember your grandnephew, Kirill. I remember him being a hero, and a grand one he was. He fought so hard, and he wept when we fired Svarskya. And he fought hard at Fortress Draconis, but what did it get him? He was slain; in an instant he was smashed against a wall.

“Is that what you want, my son? Do you want some divot in a wall somewhere to run with your blood? Do you want your mask, gore-soaked and stained with your brains, brought to me by ragged refugees fleeing the horde Chytrine would send to punish me? Because that would be how I remembered you as Chytrine’s creatures hunted me. And all this just so you can be a hero?”

Linchmere looked down. “But Erlestoke is loved.”

“Erlestoke is dead!” The king snarled, balling his right fist and slamming it against his thigh. “Have you come to gloat over that, witch? The alliance you offered, marrying your Alexia off to my Erlestoke, now cannot be. Even if she were not maintaining this fraud of a marriage to Crow, would she take Linchmere here? Of course not. Have you any minor nobles who would take him? No, they would not. So, the future of my nation is doomed, but I choose not to hasten its death with some futile act of heroism.”

Linchmere lifted his chin. “How do you know it would be futile, Father? Our troops are good.”

“Yes, of course they are good, son, very good.” Scrainwood shook his head. “You are letting that little thief’s words get into your mind, but he knew nothing. Less than nothing, in fact. How good our people are has no significance. Chytrine has dragonels. You have seen such things at Fortress Draconis, I know you have. When you were younger they might have delighted you, but now you must know what they do. It is more than bowling a rock through ranks of lead soldiers. They tear people apart.“

In an instant Scrainwood found the past merging with the present. Again he stood in the throne room, but the old throne room, the one he had changed so he could forget. He stood there, his mother’s head in his hands. Her eyes stared up at him, her lips still working, as her blood dripped through his fingers. He tried to read her lips, wanting to know what her last words for him were, but he could not make them out.

He opened his hands and watched her head fall away. Her expression screwed up into one of pure rage, then her head hit the marble floor. It exploded as if it were rotten fruit. He leaped back, surprised that he could only hear the sound of his boots scraping on stone.

Tatyana looked up matter-of-factly, neither concern nor curiosity on her face. “What is it, Highness?”

“Probably your doing, witch.” Scrainwood wiped his hands on his tunic, then glanced down at his son. “Leave us, now.”

The boy— what am I thinking, he is a man, has long been a man —stood. “Father, I have never asked you for anything but this. Let me lead our troops…”

“Ha!” The king curled a lip back in disgust. “That fool of a Norrington might think Oriosans noble and kind, and the sort to soften at such a heartfelt appeal. In some faery tale, son, I would grant you your request. You would be victorious, then would return here and I would bless you for your efforts, but that is a fancy, Linchmere. You will lead no Oriosan troops. I will never grant you that leave. In fact, I expressly forbid it. Now, go!”

The prince stalked from the room, disappearing behind the folds of the mask-curtain. Tatyana watched him leave, then turned back to Scrainwood. “This is your course, then, to balance on the edge of a knife until circumstances force you to choose one side or the other?”

“There is no other course open to me, and you know that. I cannot stand alone against Chytrine. If she threatens to come into Oriosa, then we shall be overrun from the south and east. If I ally with her, the same thing will happen from the other direction.” The king mounted the steps to his throne again and seated himself. “It is a sore position in which I am placed.”

“It is a dangerous game you play, but one I understand.” Tatyana’s eyes tightened. “If you ally with Chytrine, Okrannel will hate you.”

“Another burden. You have no nation, and what few troops you have raised are back in your homeland fighting beneath a Jeranese general. The hatred of your nation will sting me, but I will endure it.” He paused. “Have you something to offer me, or shall I bare my back so you may scourge me as you will?”

“I offer you, once again, Okrannel’s hand in friendship, Highness. I offer you a plan.”

“Yes, and that would be?”

“Okrannel and Oriosa are held in pity and contempt. The Okrans people are the human Vorquelves, yet we are regaining our homeland with the help of others. We will be under an obligation to show our strength and our gratitude. What I propose is simple, and requires nothing but staying on your present course.”

Scrainwood raised an eyebrow beneath his mask. “I am listening.”

“The further south Chytrine drives, the longer her lines of supply. The situation you have seen is true; a deft strike will cut her troops off and let them wither to the south. But her successful campaign will demand more and more troops, which will leave her fewer and fewer with which to defend Okrannel. Once my homeland is free, my warriors will come here to Oriosa. Together our troops will strike, with my Alexia at their head. Together our nations shall destroy the Aurolani host.”

“You suppose many things, Grand Duchess. There are many ifs before a then in your plan.”

The old woman shook her head. “No, no, this is not supposition at all. Alexia herself will guarantee it. When she undertook her dream raid in Okrannel, she dreamed well. She dreamed of a series of battles that she would lead, in Saporicia and Muroso. They all led to a grand battle in which Chytrine’s forces were crushed. She was exalted above all commanders, and glory was showered upon her and her nation.”