Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“Prisoners?” Vaelin asked.

“The slave soldiers donʼt surrender, but we took a few cavalry and slavers. I gave them to the people we freed. Probably shouldʼve just hung them, but blood pays for blood.”

“Quite so, my lord,” Lyrna told him. “Please continue.”

“Been gathering men and training ʼem best I could since then. Word came two weeks ago telling of the Meldenean fleet sailing up the Cold Iron so I judged it time to move north.”

“You judged correctly,” Lyrna said. “However, you find us short of supplies.”

“Supplies Iʼve got, Highness. My lady wife has family connections on both sides of the Erinean. Seems some Alpiran merchants were willing to trade with us. The terms were hardly favourable and the South Tower treasury stands just about empty, but since the Emperor lifted the embargo I sʼpose they couldnʼt pass up a chance at profit.”

Lyrna saw Lord Verniers raise his head at that. He was a deliberately obscure presence in the army, keen to avoid conversation with any save herself and Vaelin, though she made it plain he was welcome at all meetings and free to record all words spoken. The Shield had made something of a fuss of him in the aftermath of the battle, proclaiming him “The scribe who killed a general!” with a hearty laugh echoed by his crew. Verniers, however, seemed to shun any rewards his heroism might offer, though he had persisted in requests for a private interview.

“Your Emperor seems better disposed to our Realm, my lord,” she told him.

The chronicler squirmed a little as the captains turned to regard him, voicing only a short response. “So it seems, Highness.”

“Do you think he knows of the Volariansʼ great scheme? Could that be the reason for this change of heart?”

“The Emperorʼs mind is never easily gauged, Highness. But anything that might injure the Volarian Empire is likely to please him greatly. They have been our enemy far longer than yours.”

“We should send an ambassador,” Vaelin said. “Forge an alliance, if possible.”

“All in good time, my lord,” Lyrna said, turning again to Al Bera. “Iʼll pen a letter for Lady Al Bera giving assurance that any debts incurred in purchasing more supplies will be settled in full at the close of hostilities, she is free to agree suitable terms of interest with any and all merchants. In the meantime, half her available supplies will be shipped to Alltor to succour the Cumbraelin people through the winter. The other half will come to us”—her finger traced across the map to a town on the Renfaelin coast—“at Warnsclave, where we rendezvous with our Meldenean allies in fifteen days. As for now, my lord, please get some rest.”

She spent the journey to Warnsclave travelling with a different contingent each day. One with Lady Revaʼs Cumbraelins, the next with a regiment of miners from the Reaches, the third with the South Guard. Every face displayed either awe, fascination or, in the case of Lord Nortahʼs Free Company, a fierce and unhesitant loyalty.

“The Departed have blessed you, my Queen!” one man called out to her as she drew up alongside Lord Nortah, the shout soon taken up by his fellow fighters.

“Silence in the ranks!” the company sergeant barked, an athletic young man with long hair and a sword strapped across his back in the manner of the Sixth Order.

“Apologies, Highness,” Lord Nortah offered as they set off. “Theyʼre not easy to control at the best of times. And itʼs not like I can flog any.”

“No, my lord,” Lyrna replied. “You certainly cannot.” She found it strange that they rode in silence for much of the morning; the boy she remembered as the son of her fatherʼs First Minister had rarely been quiet, a braggart and sometimes a bully, quick to taunt and even quicker to cry when his taunts were returned. She saw none of that boy in the bearded warrior at her side, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched his great cat bounding alongside.

“I intended to offer you restoration of your fatherʼs lands and titles,” she told him when the silence became trying. “However, Lord Vaelin advised you had no interest in such honours.”

“Never did my father much good, did they, Highness?” he replied, affably enough but with a slight edge to his tone.

“I was not privy to the Kingʼs decision in that matter,” she said. “I believe it to have been… regrettable.”

“I harbour no bitterness, Highness. Time has dimmed my memory of a man I recall I loved almost as much as I hated. In any case, without his death I would not have been set on the course that led me to my wife, my children and the home I hunger for. And the Faith teaches us to accept the gifts brought by fate.”

“You still hold to the Faith?”

“I left the Order, Highness, not the Faith. My brother may have lost his in the desert somewhere but mine still lingers on. Though my wife longs for me to abandon it in favour of the sun and the moon.” He gave a soft laugh and she could hear his homesickness in it. “The only thing we ever quarrel about, in truth.”

They rested at midday, Lyrna climbing down from Arrowʼs back and drawing up in alarm as a woman rushed from the ranks of the Free Company with a dagger in both hands. Iltisʼs sword came free of its scabbard in a blur but, rather than launching herself at Lyrna, the woman sank to her knees, head bowed with her twin daggers raised high.

“My Queen!” she said in a tremulous gasp. “I beg you to bless these blades so they might do your work.”

The rest of the freed fighters immediately dropped to their knees, all drawing weapons and holding them aloft. This was clearly a ceremony planned on the march, one she judged Lord Nortah knew nothing of from his weary and slightly disgusted expression.

Never be afraid of a little theatre. Lyrna took a breath and placed a kindly smile on her lips as she moved to the kneeling woman, recognising her as the slight figure who had been first to take up the cry at Alltor. “What is your name?” she asked her.

“F-Furelah, my Queen,” the woman stammered, not looking up.

Lyrna gently took hold of the womanʼs trembling hands. “Lower your blades, sister,” she told her. “Stand up, look at me.”

Furelah slowly looked up, eyes wide as they drank in the sight of her face, coming to her feet as Lyrna kept hold of her hands. “Who did you lose?” she asked her.

“M-my daughter,” the slight woman breathed, tears flowing from her eyes. “Born out of wedlock, shunned and called a bastard her whole life, but always so sweet. They d-dashed her brains out with a rock.” She sagged as the sobs took her, sinking to her knees. Lyrna pulled her close as she wept, her daggers still gripped tight.

“I cannot bless this womanʼs blades,” she told the fighters, many now weeping openly. “For she blesses me. You all do. I am your blade, and you are mine.” She raised the still-sobbing Furelah to her feet, leading her back to the companyʼs ranks. “Accordingly I hereby name you as the Realm Guardʼs Sixtieth Regiment of Foot, to be known hereafter as the Queenʼs Daggers.” They parted before her as she released Furelah, the woman instantly falling to her knees once more, her comrades all reaching out to touch tentative hands to Lyrnaʼs gown as she moved among them, fierce devotion on every face. I cannot become drunk on this, she thought, smiling and touching her hands to heads lowered in supplication. The lure of it is too great.

“Toil, blood and justice!” the cry began unbidden, a spontaneous shout from a faceless voice in the kneeling ranks, repeated over and over as they stabbed the air with their assorted weapons. “Toil! Blood! And justice!”