Queen of Fire

“They do, Highness,” Al Hestian confirmed. “They’re an uncommonly poor lot for Volarian soldiery, I must say. Few veterans among them, most little more than boys conscripted barely two months ago.”

 

 

“I believe there is a town several days’ march along our road, I assume many will hail from there.”

 

“Urvesk, Highness. A sizeable place from all reports. I was going to advise we bypass it, the garrison is unlikely to be numerous enough to threaten us and a siege would cost time and lives we can’t afford.”

 

She shook her head. “No. We will march there with all dispatch. Please make the army ready to move by dawn tomorrow. We’ve lingered here too long.”

 

She dismissed them and stood regarding the view as they trooped down the winding stairwell, though, as expected, one decided to linger. “You have words for me, Lord Antesh?” she asked without turning.

 

He moved to stand at a respectful distance, though his darkened visage told of a simmering anger. “I cannot command my people to follow that man, Highness,” he stated. “When they hear of this . . .”

 

“Lady Reva would have followed him,” Lyrna said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

 

“Lady Reva had a soul blessed by the Father himself. I do not, neither do my archers. When we lost her . . . we lost our heart.”

 

“Then you will no doubt rejoice to hear you have a chance to regain it.” She turned, meeting his gaze squarely. “I have sound intelligence from the Seventh Order that Lady Reva lives and is captive in Volar.”

 

She watched his face transform from dark anger to pale shock, soon followed by hope. “This . . . this has been confirmed?”

 

“Speak to Brother Lernial, he will provide assurance. Then I assume you will wish to share this joyous news with your people.”

 

“I . . . yes.” His head jerked in a bow and he backed away. “My thanks, Highness.”

 

She turned back to the view as his rapid footfalls echoed up the stairwell, stumbling occasionally in his haste. “They really think their god talks to her?” Murel wondered allowed.

 

“Who’s to say they are wrong.” Lyrna’s gaze tracked to the markings on the flat surface that topped this tower, the mass of meaningless symbols carved centuries before.

 

“Wisdom tells me,” she said, “that each tower in the temple was allocated a priest upon construction, one said to have been touched by the gods. It was their lifelong mission to carve whatever insight the gods had imparted to them into the tower, from the lowest step to the very top. A lifetime spent etching their visions into stone, forbidden any other task, never allowed to venture from their towers. Little wonder they were insane by the time they finished, their messages no more than the scrawl of gnarled and maddened hands. And when they were done . . .” She went to the edge of the platform, her slippered toes protruding into space as she raised her arms, the wind whipping her gown and hair. “They would fly and the gods would reach down and snatch them from the air.”

 

“Highness?”

 

She turned to see Iltis moving closer, reaching out a tentative hand to draw her back from the edge. She lowered her arms and waved him away with a small laugh. “Worry not, my lord. It’s not my time to fly, I still have so much to do.”

 

? ? ?

 

She had Al Hestian send the North Guard ahead to Urvesk with orders to make themselves as conspicuous as possible. The Nilsaelin cavalry were divided into companies and dispatched north and south with the mission of freeing all the slaves they could find, though Lyrna fully expected their talent for looting to be given free rein. They had been cautioned to spare the free populace where possible and send them east with a full appreciation of their queen’s intent. Accordingly, as they marched away from the temple and the dusty plain into the verdant hill country beyond, the horizon on either side was marked by tall columns of smoke rising from villas burned in the Nilsaelins’ wake. From their reports it seemed many in this region had been told not to flee since the invaders would soon be crushed by the Empress’s invincible forces.

 

By the fifth day many companies had returned, somewhat burdened by sundry valuables, but also trailing a collection of freed slaves, soon growing to more than a thousand over succeeding days. Lyrna made a point of personally greeting as many as possible, finding most to be young and prone to addressing her as “Honoured Mistress.” Their older brethren were apparently too steeped in lifelong fear to accept this new queen’s offer of freedom.

 

“Some of them wept when we burned their master’s house, Highness,” a baffled Nilsaelin captain told her. “A few even tried to fight us.”

 

She had Nortah take charge of their new recruits, with Wisdom’s assistance since the Lord Marshal spoke no Volarian. “It’ll take months to turn this lot into soldiers,” he told her as she toured his makeshift training camp. They had paused in a broad valley ten miles short of Urvesk, taking up residence in a plush villa the Nilsaelins had been thoughtful enough to spare for her comfort.

 

Anthony Ryan's books