She paused, expecting some upsurge of murmuring, some voices raised in discontent. Instead there was only silence, each and every face now rapt, those that had shunned her gaze seemingly unable to look away. Something stirs here, she realised. Something . . . useful.
“There are none here who have not suffered,” she spoke on. “There are none here who cannot lay claim to a murdered wife, husband, child, friend, or parent. Many of you have tasted the whip, as I have. Many of you have suffered the mauling of filthy hands, as I have. Many of you have burned, as I have.”
There was a growl building in the ranks now, a low rumble of stoked fury. She saw one woman in the middle of Captain Nortah’s company of freed slaves, slight and small but festooned with multiple daggers, her teeth bared in a burgeoning grimace of rage. “This land was named in honour of its unity,” Lyrna continued. “But only a fool would claim we have ever been truly united, always we have shed our own blood in senseless feud after senseless feud. As of now that ends. Our enemy came to these shores bringing slavery, torment, and death, but they also brought us a gift, one they’ll regret for an eternity. They forged us into the unity that has eluded us for so long. They made us a single blade of unbreakable steel aimed straight for their black heart and with you at my side I’ll see it bleed!”
The growl erupted into a fierce shout, faces distorted in hate and anger, fists, swords, and halberds raised, the tumult washing over her, intoxicating in its power . . . Power. You have to hate it as much as you love it.
She raised a hand and they fell quiet once more, though there remained the low hum of simmering heat. “I promise no easy victories,” she told them. “Our enemy is fierce and full of cunning. They will not die easily. So I can promise only three things: toil, blood and justice. None who follow me on this path should imagine there will be any other reward.”
It was the small woman with the daggers who began the chant, stabbing the air with a blade in each hand, head thrown back. “Toil, blood and justice!” It spread in an instant, the shout rising from one end of the army to the other. “Toil, blood and justice! Toil, blood and justice!”
“In five days we march for Varinshold!” Lyrna called as the chant continued, the pitch of its volume increasing yet further. She pointed towards the north. Never be afraid of a little theatre, the old schemer had said during one of the ceremonies where he handed out swords to ever-less-deserving recipients. Royalty is always a performance, daughter. The tumult doubled as she called again, her words lost in the rage-filled cheers. “TO VARINSHOLD!”
She stood for a few moments, arms spread wide in the centre of their adoring rage. Did you ever have this, Father? Did they ever love you?
The noise continued as she descended from the wagon, reaching for Vaelin’s hand again, but pausing at the sight of the Shield. As expected his smile was gone, replaced by a sombre frown making her wonder if he still intended to follow her anywhere.
? ? ?
“Varinshold lies over two hundred miles distant, Highness,” Count Marven told her. “And we have barely enough grain to sustain the horses for fifty. Our Cumbraelin friends were most efficient in denuding this land of supplies.”
“Better burnt than in the belly of our enemies,” Lady Reva pointed out from across the table.
They were arrayed around a large map table in Vaelin’s tent, all the principal captains of the army along with Lady Reva and the war chiefs from the Eorhil and Seordah. The Eorhil was a wiry rider somewhere past his fiftieth year by her reckoning. The Seordah was slightly younger, taller than most of his people, lean as a wolf with a hawk face. They seemed to understand every word spoken but said little themselves, and she noted how their gaze flitted constantly between her and Vaelin. Is it suspicion? she thought. Or just wonder?
Count Marven had spent the better part of an hour explaining their strategic situation. Never having had much use for the tedium of military history she was obliged to pick out the pertinent details from the morass of jargon. From what she could gather it seemed their position was not as favourable as a queen might expect after winning so great a victory.
“Quite so, my lady,” the count told Reva. “But it does leave us perilously short of supplies, with winter only two months away into the bargain.”
“Am I to understand, my lord,” Lyrna said. “We have a mighty army but no means to move it anywhere?”
The count ran a hand over his shaven head, the stitched scar on his cheek seeming to glow a little more red as he sighed his frustration and sought to formulate the correct response.
“Yes,” Vaelin told her from the opposite end of the table. “And it’s not just a matter of moving it. If we don’t find sufficient forage for the winter, this army could well starve.”
“Surely we have captured Volarian supplies,” Lyrna said.