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appeared uncertain whether to be grateful or angry. He scowled at a minister
edging toward the door.
"If I were younger, I'd..."
"You'd get your ass killed. Haven't met a Nordmen yet who could butcher a
chicken without help. Let's get this settled civilly. We'll let the lady make
up her mind on her own."
Their glares promised trouble. There would soon be plots to eliminate the
foreigner who defended the foreign Queen.
"Why'd you bust in?" the Queen whispered.
"Friend of mine just arrived," he replied softly. "From Vodicka's camp. Wanted
you to know what he said. When I got trouble outside, I figured these old
buzzards were up to something."
"What was so important?"
"Vodicka's shaghun is dead, Vodicka has gone insane, and his army has been
decimated by sickness. H is men are deserting. My associate Kildragon has
placed a force west of them as an anvil against which I can hammer them. I'll
begin tightening the noose in the morning."
"You're pushing too hard. Killing yourself. You've got to rest sometime."
"You rest between wars," he muttered. Then, "We can't ease off. There're still
too many variables. And Shinsan's vultures are perched on the crags of the
Kapenrungs."
"You won't wait for your man Blackfang?"
"No. But he'll be here soon. I don't intend getting in a fight anyway, just to
maneuver Vodicka into a bad position."
"The numbers don't look good."
"Numbers aren't important. Still want to run away? To quit when we've got a
glimmer of hope?"
"I don't know. I wasn't made for this. Intrigue. War."
"I promise you, if it's within my power, that I won't go till I can leave you
with the quietest country in the Lesser Kingdoms. If I have to leave rebels
hanging like apples from every tree."
"But you're a mercenary. And have a family and home, 1 hear."
Did she sound just the least disappointed? "I have no home while the Greyfells
party retains any power. The appointment?"
"They'll never agree."
"Bet?" He turned to the Ministers. "Her Majesty wishes your confirmation of my
appointment as Marshal of Ravelin."
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Some turned red and sputtered. Lord Lindwedel croaked, "Never! No base-born
foreigner..."
"Then we'll hang you and appoint some new Ministers."
The door rattled as someone tried it. The Ministers perked up.
Ragnarson could force his will here, he knew, but how would he keep them from
reneging?
Haroun's would be the simplest solution. He would have them murdered.
"You wouldn't dare!"
Men smashed against the door.
"Try me. The charge is treason. I believe Her Majesty will support it."
Axes began splintering the door.
The Queen touched his arm. "Appearances will decide this. Back into the corner
like you're defending me."
She had chosen. He smiled, did as she suggested. She attached herself to his
left arm in the classic pose of damsel hanging on protector.
Lord Lindwedel surrendered. "All right, damn it. Have the documents prepared."
Bragi held his pose long enough for Gjerdrum and the Queen's troops to catch a
glimpse. Thus it was that, dishonestly, he won their loyalty.
iv) The challenge
There was snow on the ground, a sprinkling scarcely thicker than frost,
tainted ruby in the dawnlight. A harsh cold wind stirred skeletal trees.
Bragi, astride a shivering horse at wood's edge, glanced up the road that
snaked over the hill masking Vodicka's camp. With him were the irrepressible
Mocker and a dozen of his own and the Queen's men. Mocker blew into shaking
hands and bemoaned the impulse that had brought him into the field.
For a week Ragnarson had maneuvered his forces into position, hoping for a
fiat that would spare lives. He would need every man in the spring.
To the north, blocking the route to Volstokin, were Blackfang and Ahring with
the Trolledyngjans and Itaskians. Sir Andvbur, for the moment commanding the
Queen's Own and palace guard, held the routes eastward. In the south lay
Altenkirk with eleven hundred Wessons and Marena Dimura. The woods behind
Vodicka were held by Kildragon and Preshka.
Everyone had been in position since the day before. The men had been given a
night's rest and plenty to eat... This one he wouldn't hurry. It would be his
most crucial battle, one that, in its handling more than its winning, could
make him as Marshal of Kavelin.
"You'd better get going," he told Mocker.
The fat man kicked his new donkey into a walk. He had volunteered to find
Haroun. He would skirt the battlezone and, hopefully, would know the outcome
before passing Kildragon's last outpost. He also bore messages to Vodicka's
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family.
Ragnarson turned to another of his companions. "Bring her out."
Against his advice and over the protests of her supporters, the Queen had
insisted on joining him.
In minutes she was at his side, bundled in furs that concealed ill-fitting
chain mail. She bubbled.
Ragnarson nodded. "We begin." He urged his mount forward. She kept pace. His
party trailed by twos.
Ragnarson's heart hammered. His stomach flipped and knotted. Doubts plagued
him. Had he chosen the best course? Sure, it was the way to slay the rumors
about him not leading from the front, but... What if Vodicka refused his
challenge?
He leaned toward the Queen, said, "If you bring as much excitement and
stubbornness to ruling as you do to getting in a fight, you'll..."
Her thigh brushed his. He wasn't sure, but it seemed she'd guided her mount
the slightest bit closer to his. He remembered riding thigh by thigh with
Elana, with mortal dangers waiting to strike.
"You're a beautiful woman," he croaked, forcing the compliment. Then he
ameliorated his boldness with, "You shouldn't risk yourself like this. If
we're taken..."
There was red in her face when she looked his way. Had he angered her?
"Marshal," she said, "I'm a woman. Noble by birth, Queen in marriage to a man
long dead, and leader by circumstance. But a woman."
He thought he understood. And that was more frightening than anything that
might be waiting beyond the hill.
They crested that hill. "You're sure the messages went out?" He had asked her
to send commands to every Nordmen to post public pledges of fealty or face
banishment or death. News of today's events would pursue the messengers, would
convince or condemn.
"Yes. Slight exasperation.
He studied the encampment. Vodicka had restructuredit along Imperial lines,
throwing up ramparts and cutting trenches. Towers for archers were under
construction. It had taken two attacks for Vodicka to learn that he wasn't on
bivouac.
"Banners," Ragnarson growled over his shoulder. They had been noticed.
The Krief family ensign broke beside a white parlay flag. Ragnarson advanced
till they were just beyond the range of a good Itaskian bow. This would be the
point for one of Greyfells' rogues to materialize.
They waited. And waited. The nearest gate finally opened. Horsemen came forth.
"Here," Ragnarson told the Queen, "is where, if I were Haroun, you'd learn the
difference in our thinking. He'd make some innocuous signal and our bowmen
could cut them down. Haroun goes for the throat."
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Vodicka wasn't with the party.
"They look like they've spent a year besieged already," the Queen remarked.
She was old enough to remember the bitter sieges in her homeland.
Ragnarson signaled an interpreter. The common speech of Volstokin was akin to
Marena Dimura. The upper classes used a different dialect.
The party was a mixed bag including several senior officers of Volstokin's
army, a few of El Murid's advisors, Kaveliner turncoats, and a man with a bow
who looked Itaskian.
A Kaveliner recognized the Queen, babbled excitedly to his companions.
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