“Zarrah!” Yrina called. “Hold back.”
Zarrah ignored her friend because she knew the fear this child was feeling. Knew the horror. And she remembered how she’d prayed to be delivered from it. “Let me help you.”
A form exploded from the brush. Not a child but a man.
A Maridrinian soldier.
“Die, you Valcottan bitch!” he screamed, then sliced at her with his sword.
Instinct took over.
Zarrah ducked under the blade, rolling across the ground and then back on her feet in a flash. Pulling loose her weapon, she held up a hand to stop Yrina and the others from attacking. “You should have run when you had the chance.”
“Better to die with your blood on my hands,” he hissed, eyes gleaming with hate.
But his hate was a paltry thing compared to hers.
She knocked the blade from his grip, then swung again, taking his legs out from under him.
The Maridrinian sprawled on the ground, but Zarrah kicked him in the ribs, flipping him over. “Pick up your weapon.”
He retrieved his sword, rising unsteadily. Then he attacked.
Zarrah’s staff was a blur of motion, blocking his swipe and then flying under his guard to slam against his arm, bone breaking. The Maridrinian screamed and dropped his weapon.
“Care to try again, or do you want to run?”
“So that your archers can shoot me in the back?” he demanded. “I heard you, Valcottan. There is no escape.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky.” She pressed forward, the Maridrinian stumbling out of reach. “Rats are good at scuttling through small, dark spaces.”
“You’re supposed to let us retreat,” he snarled. “Those are the rules. Those have always been the rules!”
Her anger turned to blistering rage, her vision red, because this murderer didn’t deserve escape. Didn’t deserve any mercy beyond what he’d shown her people, which was none. “The rules have changed.” Then she swung her staff with all her strength.
It struck his skull with a resounding crack. He dropped like a stone, but she struck him again because she wasn’t through. Would never be through delivering vengeance upon the Maridrinians who’d orphaned the children of her people.
Until she had revenge on the Maridrinian king who’d orphaned her.
Hours later, Zarrah trotted her horse into the stable yard of her garrison, the sound of the purple banners flapping from the minarets loud in her ears. A lifetime ago, when Nerastis had been a thriving city and under Valcottan control, the palace had been the winter residence of emperors and empresses, but now it was populated only by soldiers.
Cracked stone and boarded-up windows from prior attacks by Maridrina had gone unrepaired, the pale walls bore scorch marks and soot stains, and one of the towers stood in ruins. The interior was little better, the walls naked but for the pale shadows of where priceless artwork had once hung and the furniture either cheap or aged. Rooms that a hundred years ago had held parties and spectacles filled with the upper echelons of Valcottan society were now filled with rows of bunks and soldiers’ belongings, the massive chandelier that had once turned the dining room into a rainbow of color apparently at the bottom of the River Anriot, courtesy of a long-dead Maridrinian princeling.
The only consolation was that the Maridrinian palace on the north side of the river was in equal disrepair, neither side controlling the city, therefore neither side seeing much point in funding repairs.
“Take the heads down to the river and send them across,” she ordered. “Aim for their palace.”
“Disregard that order,” a familiar voice said, and Zarrah looked up to find Petra Anaphora, Empress of Valcotta, standing in the palace entrance.
Dropping her horse’s reins, Zarrah pressed her hand to her heart, lowering her head in deference. “Your Imperial Majesty. My apologies, I’d not been made aware of your arrival.”
“That’s because I wished it to be a surprise, General.” The Empress descended the steps, jeweled sandals making soft thuds on the stone, her silk garments fluttering on the breeze. Petra Anaphora retained the beauty she’d once been famed for, though now there were creases around her eyes, and her halo of hair was more silver than black. Courtesy of a militant dedication to training, her body was all lean, hard muscle, the stomach revealed by her short blouse as flat as Zarrah’s own.
She approached, her hands curving around Zarrah’s head as she kissed both her cheeks. “Beloved niece, we have been too long apart.”
A flood of warmth filled Zarrah’s veins, her aunt’s presence always a comfort. “To what do we owe the honor?”
“Necessity, I’m afraid.” Her aunt slid her arm through Zarrah’s, tugging her toward the entrance. “A change of strategy.” Her eyes flicked to the soldiers holding the bag of heads, Bermin standing next to them, hand pressed to his heart and expression unreadable. “Burn them.”
Zarrah blinked. “But that’s not—”
“What we do?” Her aunt gave a tight nod. “Trust me. No one wishes more than I to fling those murderous rats back across the Anriot to their fellows as a warning of what fate awaits those who attack Valcotta, but circumstance demands it.”
“What has changed?”
“The opportunity I predicted has finally been presented to us. But let us retreat to more comfortable quarters to discuss what must be done to capitalize upon it.”
They made their way to the royal apartments, ensconcing themselves on soft cushions while the servants her aunt traveled with presented them with wine and delicacies of a far higher caliber than was typically found within these walls.
Never one to waste her time on small talk, her aunt said, “Silas has bitten off more than he can chew with the bridge. As I anticipated, the Ithicanians are still fighting him at every turn, and will continue to do so. War is in their blood, even more than it is in ours. They won’t concede defeat.”
The events at Southwatch still caused a swell of sickness in Zarrah’s stomach, for she knew better than most what atrocities the Maridrinians were capable of. Already reports were filtering in of Ithicanian corpses dangling from their bridge, and she always forced herself to read the details. For while she’d not caused it, she’d also done nothing to prevent it. Yet she schooled herself to remain silent and listen to her aunt’s explanation of her motivations, because if Maridrina holding the bridge would see them made vulnerable to Valcottan blades, it was worth it.
It had to be.
“Silas is losing soldiers by the dozens,” her aunt continued. “Soon he’ll need more men in Ithicana or risk losing his hard-gained prize, and there is only one place he can source them.”
“Their garrison in Nerastis.”
Her aunt smiled. “Correct. And we will encourage this decision on his part by not giving him any reason to keep them here.”